7 Steps to Midnight (16 page)

He drifted back into thought.

Did
seven steps to midnight
really mean anything? he wondered.

Seven, the magic number, the lucky number. Age seven—childhood. Double seven—puberty. Triple seven—physical maturity. Quadruple seven—mental maturity.

Anything there?

More likely the connection was to seven years’ bad luck and the seven-year itch.

Seventh heaven. Seven seas. The Seven Hills of Rome. Seven Wonders of the World. Seven days in the week. Seven colors in the spectrum. The seven virtues. The seven deadly sins. Seven come eleven.

Chris stirred and opened his eyes. His mind was a runaway again. Put on the brakes, he told himself.

He closed his eyes and tried to nap to still the thoughts. But his mind commenced a search of his work in the previous week to see if he could find a special seven in it…. Seven steps leading to a twelve?

***

“Here we are, sir.”

Chris started and opened his eyes. He had drifted off. How long? he wondered. Surely not more than ten or fifteen minutes. “You have the time?” he asked.

“Five minutes to seven,” the driver said.

“Thank you.” Chris paid him through the opening to the driver’s seat, tipping him fifteen percent.

He shivered as he got out of the cab and closed the door. Moving quickly to a theater door, he pulled it open and went inside. People were gathered in groups, conversing; some stood at the ticket windows.

Chris got into one of the lines and when he reached the window, gave his name.

“Tonight, sir?” asked the woman in the cage.

“Yes.” He was sure now that there’d be nothing. Well, at least the lobby was warm. He’d sit there for a while before moving on.

“Here we are, sir,” the woman said.

Chris looked down in surprise at the small envelope with the ticket protruding from it.
My God, it
is
here
, he thought. “Thank you,” he murmured and picked it up.

What was the purpose of
this
? he wondered as he moved toward the door an usher had pointed out. Something in the play? He didn’t even know what play it was. Was someone going to sit behind him, jab a hypodermic in his neck and ask about the project?

“Shit, I need a drink,” he told himself. He saw people going down some stairs and followed them. There was no bar in the lobby.

In the lower lobby, he saw a bar and crossed to it. A man was being served ahead of him and he waited until the man had left with a pair of drinks, then ordered a screwdriver.

When the drink was made, he paid for it. On impulse, he bought a chocolate bar as well.
Odd combination that
, his mind observed.
None of your business
, he answered it.

He carried the drink and chocolate bar to a small chair across the lower lobby and sat on it. He took a sip of the drink—not cold, not a single ice cube—then unwrapped the chocolate bar and took a bite.

He stared ahead blankly, wondering if it made any sense to try and analyze further. After all, it seemed as though he didn’t really have to do a thing but react. The major steps were being taken for him. Step by step, he was being led somewhere. Were there, in fact, seven steps he had to take to “midnight,” to fruition, the beginning of a new mental day?

That had a kind of satisfying logic to it. He’d accept it for now.

He finished the drink and chocolate bar in ten minutes, returned the empty glass to the bar, threw the paper wrapper into a waste can and went upstairs.

The usher led him to his seat and handed him a program. The seat was on the main floor, halfway to the stage, one in from the aisle seat. Not bad, he thought. He grunted. Assuming he was here to see the play, that is.

He looked around the theater after sitting down. Beautiful, he
thought. How old was it? It could have been built in the eighteenth century. History in its wood. Sheridan and Congreve sitting for rehearsals. Addison and Fielding watching performances of their plays. Remarkable, he thought.

He checked the program inside its illustrated cardboard folder.
The Little Minister
, he read, smiling. Barrie might have sat in this very seat, watching his beloved Maude Adams perform on the stage. Chris smiled. The theater had an atmosphere that was almost tangible.

Thank God the title of the play hadn’t turned out to be
Reality vs. Unreality
or
Veering’s Wager
. He wouldn’t really have been surprised but he preferred it as it was. Everything is not a mystery, he told himself again.

Well, now what? he wondered. He sighed and closed his eyes. Whatever happens happens, he decided.

He heard the rustle of a woman’s dress as she sat down beside him.

He wondered if he should open his eyes and look at her. He felt an aversion to the thought. So long as he kept his eyes closed, he could imagine anything. It was Grace Kelly, Eva Marie Saint, Tippi Hedren. It was Hitchcock’s penultimate blonde heroine sitting beside him, waiting to make contact and add a touch of spice to what had so far been more redoubtable than romantic.
Was
it his next contact? What if she were built like a weight lifter? That would end the stimulation for him posthaste.

The more he thought about it, the harder it was to open his eyes. He could visualize Jacqueline Bisset or Jane Seymour sitting there. He could also visualize Hermione Gingold.

“Oh, well,” he mumbled and, opening his eyes, looked to his right…

…into the eyes of the most exquisite female he had ever seen in his life—in personal experience, in films, in magazines, in paintings, anywhere. This was a face beyond belief. He actually felt his mouth falling open and quickly, embarrassedly, shut it, turning to the front again. This had to be a cruel coincidence, he thought. It was impossible that—

“Good evening, Mr. Barton,” she said.

Even her voice was perfect.

Oh, my God
, he thought. He felt himself go limp. My
God
. This was part of it? This
Venus
? His heartbeat quickened as he turned back to her. “Hello,” he said. He could scarcely hear the sound of his voice.

She was smiling now. She held out an ivory hand—
It does, it looks like ivory
, he thought, incredulous—and he took hold of it. Ivory was not this warm, however. He felt a shiver coming on and fought to contain it, releasing her hand.

“My name is Alexsandra with an
s
,” she said.

He stared at her, genuinely speechless. Alexsandra? Finally, he mumbled, “That’s—”

“Early Roman,” she said. “Not so common anymore.”

“No,” he said. He couldn’t help drawing in a shuddering breath.
Not too common
, he thought.
Dear God.

She wasn’t a Hitchcock blonde. Her hair was a dark chestnut, her eyes green, her skin the shade of alabaster, her red lips—
Jesus God
. Now the story was complete; the Mysterious Beauty had arrived.

“Am I… supposed to—” He couldn’t speak. “I mean… are you my—?”
Spit it out!
he shouted at his tongue. “Was I sent here to meet you?” he blurted.

Her smile, the twinkle in her eyes, absolutely captivated him. “That’s right,” she said.

He was about to ask more about her when his spoilsport Cotton Mather-like mind demanded that he ask, “The man in The Blue Swan…”

Her expression was suddenly grave. “Yes,” she said.

He drew in a quivering breath. “He’s dead?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Badly drugged, in hospital; but not dead.”

“Thank God,” he said, realizing how the incident had been weighing on him. He stared at her for several moments, then added, “Did he—say anything?”

“He regained consciousness for only a few moments,” she answered. “Long enough to say he didn’t know what had happened to you.”

“My God, he’d just been drugged, maybe poisoned, and he was thinking of
me
?” Chris looked astounded.

“You were his assignment,” she said.

He wasn’t sure it was enough of an explanation for him but clearly it was for her, she said it so matter-of-factly.

“What
did
happen to you?” she asked.

“I panicked and ran,” he said. “Lost track of where I was and got lost.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “But you managed to get back to the hotel.”

“With help,” he said.

“Help?”

He told her about Mr. Modi’s assistance. She only nodded, adding briefly, “Well, if he does call you tomorrow, best say you’re busy. I’m sure he’s a very nice man but you really can’t afford to discuss your situation any further with a stranger.”

“What
is
my situation?” he asked, regretting the slightly belligerent tone in his voice but unable to restrain it.

“Haven’t you been told anything?” she asked in surprise.

“I was told by a CIA man that what’s happening to me is not unique.”

“That’s right. You’re not the only scientist or mathematician to be rescued.”

“From
what
?” he demanded.

“Probable death,” she answered. “They can’t afford to have your replacement revealed by you.”

“But…” Chris looked confused and aggravated. “How can he be my replacement? He doesn’t even
look
like me.”

“That’s true in your case,” she said. “And we don’t know why. In every other case, the replacement was identical.”

Chris groaned. “This makes no sense,” he said. “They could have killed me first and then replaced me if that’s what they wanted to do.”

She nodded. “We know that. But they did what they did so they must have had a reason.”

“Why
me
?” he asked.

“You’re being modest,” she said. “You’re fully aware of how important you are to the project.”

He opened his mouth to ask her something, then closed it as another question superseded it. “Is there some kind of—reciprocal cooperation between our countries?”

“Of course,” she said.

He sighed heavily. “I’m confused,” he said.

“Of course you are.” She smiled and put her hand on his. “Just remember that the key to it is your work on the project.”

Somehow, to hear about the project again cast a pall over his meeting with this lovely woman. He wouldn’t have thought that possible a minute ago.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. He wasn’t very good at veiling his emotions.

“Oh…” He shrugged. “All this talk about the project—not to mention my possible death—has taken the… well, the romance out of our meeting.”

“Romance?” She looked as though she didn’t understand what he was saying. “There’s nothing remotely romantic about any of this, Mr. Barton.”

He sighed again. “I guess there isn’t.”

He noticed a ring on the finger of her left hand, still lying on his. “Interesting,” he said to change the subject.

“Early Roman,” she said, an odd tone in her voice. Chris looked at its crest—a lettered square with two winged angels supporting it.

He looked up into her eyes. “Does Veering have anything to do with all this?”

“Who?”

Oh, God. He felt like groaning. “Veering,” he said.

“I don’t know the name.”

“A CIA man told me that he did.”

She looked blank.

“Nelson?” he asked. “CIA?”

“You must understand,” she told him. “Whatever happened to you before you arrived in England, we know nothing about it. Except for the basic situation, of course.”

He started to reply when Alexsandra abruptly looked past him, her features tightening.

“What is it?” he asked.

She looked back at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I saw someone I knew.”

“Someone you aren’t crazy about, from the expression on your face,” he told her.

She smiled. “No, it was nothing.”

“Can we—?” He broke off as the theater lights began to dim. Oh, damn, he thought.

In the darkness, he felt her face draw close to his, smelled her perfume and the sweetness of her breath.

“We’ll talk about this during intermission,” she whispered.

“All right.” He nodded.

“In the meantime—”

“Yes?”

“Be prepared for anything,” she told him.

It was agony to sit beside her, watching the first act of the play. Well, not exactly watching, he thought. His eyes were facing the stage, but his concentration was on the seat to his right, on Alexsandra.

Was it possible she was as beautiful as he recalled? Already, doubts were creeping in. No woman could be that exquisite. And a
spy
as well? For God’s sake, where was the logic? This was Ian Fleming country, not Chris Barton’s.

He wanted to reach over and take her hand in his. Impossible, of course. Her tone had been critical when she’d told him there was nothing remotely romantic about all of this.

He closed his eyes. Why were they sitting here anyway? The contact had been made. Surely, the play was irrelevant now. Why didn’t they just leave and go somewhere to talk? Why wait for intermission?

Unless…

He felt a delicate chill on the nape of his neck. Had she lied to him?
Was
there someone watching them?

Was something bad about to happen again?

He twisted restlessly. It couldn’t be. Not again. There’d been too much. He couldn’t handle any more. He was suffering from overload.

Chris drew in a deep, tremulous breath and opened his eyes. He wanted to look at her again, verify her beauty, hell, her very presence. But Veering had done a job on him. He wasn’t able to look. What if he did and saw, instead of Alexsandra, an old lady with a shopping bag on her lap?

Modi was right. The tissue of reality seemed paper-thin right now. No assessment of reasonable percentages could account for all the things that had occurred to him since he had woken up in his office, planning to drive home and get some sleep. He might turn and see the seat completely empty and be faced with the probability that Alexsandra had been nothing more than a hallucination.

He had to know.

He turned his head. As he did, she turned hers and they exchanged a look. In the light from the stage, she looked more wonderful than ever.

She smiled at him. He hoped he smiled back but wasn’t sure he had the presence of mind.