One Night Stand Page 3

  Isabel looked around and grimaced at the state of its incomplete improvement, but to be fair, it was just some re-painting that needed to be done. She pointed this out and promised to get all of it done before she leaves.

  The agent was highly sceptical. She had heard it all before, but nevertheless, business was business. After discussing a few more details about the rent, access, and fees, they signed the property management agreement on the spot.

  ‘How soon can I show the place to potential tenants?’

  ‘Straight away. I’m renting it out furnished. But they can’t move in ‘til the end of the week as I’ve yet to remove my personal stuff,’ she said, then added, ‘and finish painting the apartment.’

  The property agent complimented her for being business-like and straightforward, then bade her good-bye. In typical haste, she was off and away armed with the signed contract and photographs of the apartment, taking care to only capture its best features.

  THE ADVERTISING FOR the two-bedroom art-deco apartment was ready to upload less than an hour after the agent returned to the office. It went live in cyberspace within seconds of her hitting the Enter key.

  Just then, Mr Indigo was trawling the Net for an apartment to rent, seeking a place for a minimum of three months and preferably fully furnished. His reassignment to San Francisco required him finding his feet on the ground quick-smart. The sooner he could leave the hotel and into his space, the better.

  While viewing the photos of the property online, he called the agent and asked when it would be available.

  ‘At the end of the week,’ she said. ‘Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Not necessary. I want it.’

  Surprised, the agent clarified, ‘You’ll sign for it sight unseen?’

  ‘I googled the location, and it’s suitable for me; that’s all I care about.’

  The agent was doubtful of the inquirer’s intention but was blown away when he emailed his details. She was mightily impressed with the prospective tenant. He signed his name Red Ngata-Rhodes, and for references, he supplied the name of his boss, Special Agent-in-Charge Louie Jamieson of the United States Secret Service.

  The property agent immediately phoned Isabel to deliver the good news, who was at that very moment in a beauty salon having her hair done.

  ‘I’ve found a tenant for you. He’s moving in just as you’re moving out. And he didn’t even want to check out the place beforehand, very easy-going.’

  ‘Wow, that’s quick.’

  She was very pleased indeed that she had one less thing to worry about and glad he didn’t want to check out her place. She had all her personal stuff around; she hated the thought of outsiders ogling at her photos and touching her things. But the best part was that she didn’t have to worry about anyone tripping over paint cans and the ladder.

  The property manager cheerfully said, ‘I forwarded a copy of his email to you, along with the signed rental agreement.’

  Isabel thanked her for her efficiency.

  As soon as the agent hung up, Isabel opened her Gmail account to have a look at this email. The electronic signature caught her eye.

  Red Ngata-Rhodes. What an unusual name. United States Secret Service. How interesting!

  An hour later, Isabel emerged from the beauty salon as a blonde. Gone was her long brown hair, replaced by a blonde pixie look. She felt care-free. Emboldened. Refreshed. And ready to tackle the Northern Summer. Nothing does anything to a girl’s spirit than a good haircut–well, in her case, a drastic hair change.

  She hurried to cross the street, skipping almost. The hardware store was going to close in less than half an hour. Feeling feisty and as though she could conquer the world, she decided to paint her apartment herself. She bought ladder, brushes, paints and everything else a reno-warrior could need.

  MEANWHILE, RED HAD been busy getting his feet on the ground. He had rented a car, found an apartment, and bought his essentials. Now he was rushing to the field office of the United States Secret Service on Montgomery Street. The meeting was to convene in about half an hour.

  The Electronic Crimes Task Force and the major fraud division of the Secret Service were in the middle of counter-terrorism offensive on home soil. They were trying to counter the outflow of money from American supporters to ISIS and other clandestine rebel groups. Incidences of fraud were ever on the increase, and nothing was exempt. If it could be duplicated, copied, forged or re-created, it would be out there on the market. It was up to men like Red to bring the fight to them.

  The United States Secret Service doesn’t only provide security to current and former national leaders and their families, politicians, presidential candidates, visiting heads of state, and foreign embassies. They are also engaged in the fight against financial crimes, ranging from the prevention of the counterfeiting of U.S. currency and U.S. Treasury securities to the investigation of major fraud. Anything that puts the United States’ economic and fiscal integrity at risk is their purview.

  RED’S STRIDES DIDN’T SLOW in thick foot traffic. He efficiently weaved in and out of people’s paths until he was in the building. He took the elevator to the twelfth floor, joining other agents who were also on their way up.

  They would be holed up in a secure conference room throughout the day and most of the night planning a master strategy with other field agents from allied agencies. His boss, Louie Jamieson, would be presiding.

  ISABEL ARRIVED AT HER apartment ready to roll. She changed into a plaid shirt tied at the waist. Completing her ensemble were an old pair of three-quarter length cotton pants, white canvas shoes with holes in the right places, and a bright yellow bandanna to protect her blonde hair from paint drips.

  She turned on the music, loudly. Then proceeded to paint the second bedroom indigo.

  She couldn’t get name Red Ngata-Rhodes out of her mind, and she knew why. Red Beach in New Zealand.

  What a coincidence.

  5: Cause for Pause

  IN HER HEALTHY OPINION OF HERSELF, Izzy thought that she had painted her apartment like a seasoned pro.

  When she was finished with the walls of the indigo room, she had thought it looked very masculine. Now it was on to the other details. She painted the ceiling white, as well as the borders around the huge windows common to art-deco dwellings.

  She took a step back to admire her effort. One couldn’t tell an amateur did it. Ever a perfectionist, she’d taken her time. A pro would have finished the job in half the time, but this was priceless. It gave her something to be proud of and, most of all, something to focus on before she headed for London. It had taken her three days to finish that one room, but it didn’t matter since there was just the dining area left to do. She thought that wouldn’t take too much time.

  Her brain worked in funny ways sometimes. When she was renovating a little over a year ago, she’d decided on the colour of her bedroom walls almost immediately, so the painters started there. Then, she’d instructed them to do the bathrooms, the living room, and the kitchen, in that order.

  She’d been undecided about the ‘other’ room, as she’d referred to it, and the dining area. She had put off making up her mind. By the time she did, the workmen had moved on to another job, hence the incomplete painting job on her apartment.

  For the dining area, she chose sage green and complemented it with a feature wall in Mediterranean orange. The window sashes and the ceiling she painted white.

  Her arms ached, and her stomach growled, as she often neglected to eat. A couple of times she had to rush to the bathroom to dry heave. She put this down to tiredness. It couldn’t have been the paint because she had chosen the non-toxic, water-based variety for her project.

  At any rate, it was just a matter of waiting for the paint to dry, which according to the label would be in six hours.

  In the meantime, she decided she would take a break and go out for a walk.

  Who knows how long before I see my city again?

  She took a luxurious bath and then dressed in a sleeveless floral red maxi. She slipped her feet into her increasingly favourite footwear, rhinestone-studded sandals from India. She grabbed a wide brim sunhat on the way out and a clutch bag just big enough to carry her coin purse, a mobile phone, and two credit cards. One of them was a Black American Express charge card. She’d been told growing up never to leave home without it. But when she was travelling, she’d discovered hardly any shops accepted it. The other one was a Visa.

  Nob Hill is one of the seven hills of San Francisco, an affluent neighbourhood and a safe place to explore on foot. Her first stop near there was the Fairmount Hotel, for a light lunch.

  U.S. SECRET SERVICE Special Agent Red Ngata-Rhodes had had a gutful of brainstorming. Being sequestered for four days in a roomful of guys with testosterone leaking from every pore wasn’t the ideal scenario. His feet were itching to go walkabout. However, absconding wasn’t an option available to him.

  He was the lynchpin that held this current operation together. Like everyone in the Secret Service, he longed to join the ranks of the presidential protection detail, which was what he joined for. And, like everyone, he had to earn it. In many cases, three years in the investigative branch of the Service was what it took.

  Meantime, it was his brains that attracted the Service to him, so despite three years of excellent service record, fresh out of Princeton, he was still in the control room. There were times when he felt more like a bureaucrat than an agent. The only things that remotely suggested he was an action man were his badge, and his Secret Service issued sidearm, a SIG Sauer P229. He also had an approved secondary sidearm holstered in his ankle, a Glock 26.

  Louie Jamieson could tell with one look at Red that he had reached his tipping point. Everything had been plotted and planned to within an inch of its life. Implementation of ‘Operation Snag Abdul’ was all that was required.

  With a nod, Louie gave him permission to do his own thing. This meant he was free to go.

  He smiled, gathered up his files, put them in a briefcase and snapped it shut. He shook hands with his fellow agents who were now making plans for a drink.

  ‘Wanna come with us?’ asked one of his stablemates from the Treasury Department.

  He shook his head vigorously.

  ‘Sorry guys, next time. I’ve had a gutful of all of you,’ he replied, smiling.

  ‘It’s not like you have a girlfriend, anyway?’ ribbed another.

  ‘Yeah, and I won’t find one hanging around you guys.’

  ‘You’re just tired of being a wingman.’

  Yup, wingman!

  This had always been the case when he went out with the boys. They used him as chick bait then forbade him to speak.

  ‘You’re a turn-off, man,’ they’d say to him. ‘You and your posh English accent.’

  ‘I don’t have an English accent,’ he would say defensively.

  ‘You’re right there. What you have is a slippery-sliding accent that’s American one minute, English the next and then bloody what do you call it, Dodo.’

  ‘Kiwi,’ he would say.

  ‘Does it matter? They’re both extinct.’

  ‘The Kiwi bird is not extinct, just endangered.’

  ‘Soon to be extinct,’ they’d insist.

  Being the youngest agent to have ever joined their ranks, fellow officers liked to rib him to death. He also surmised part of it was school envy. Not many agents graduated from prestigious universities as not many Ivy League graduates aspired to join the public service.

  But as years went on and he had proven himself, they’d accepted him as part of the Family, slight Kiwi accent and all.

  One of them put an arm around him and whispered, ‘Go find yourself a shag. This weekend might be your last chance. Once Operation Snag Abdul gets underway, you have to swear to celibacy.’

  ‘Get lost,’ he said with a laugh.

  He left the conference room and raced out of the building on Montgomery Street. The sun was high in the sky. He hailed a cab and asked to be driven to his hotel the long way around.

  He went up to his fifteenth-floor room and stored the briefcase in the combination safe. He showered and changed into his standard black turtleneck shirt, distressed denim jeans and preppie loafers. With him, it was always comfort over style.

  ‘What’s with the turtleneck?’ asked his many friends.

  ‘It goes with everything,’ he’d say. Plus, he didn’t have to worry about it going out of fashion.

  He was licensed to pack, so he holstered both his weapons, grabbed his wallet and the key to his rental car, and he was good to go.

  Women turned their heads as he catwalked down the length of the lobby while still drying his short dark hair with his hand. He smiled at a little girl, around four years of age, clutching her mother’s hand. She smiled back and sweetly blew a kiss at him. He laughed, earning approving smiles from several ladies waiting to be checked in.

  He felt his stomach growl. Starving, he went to the hotel’s bakeshop which specialised in French pastries and ordered two, plus a cappuccino, to go. Armed with these, he headed for the parking area and drove off, still unsure where he wanted to go.

  San Francisco was new to him. He liked the city, though so far, he’d seen so little of it; basically, just every which way from his hotel to Montgomery Street. He drove around aimlessly for a while. But then, why not Nob Hill, since this would be his subsequent address for the next three months?

  BEFORE HE KNEW IT, he saw the street sign ‘Nob Hill’. It was a charming enclave. As he neared the Fairmount Hotel, he saw the silhouette of a woman in red. His eyes followed her as much as driving a vehicle permitted.

  She stopped to gaze at a shop window and removed her sunhat, revealing pixie-short blonde hair. His eyes continued to follow her in the rear-view mirror. There was something about her that seemed familiar, but he was thinking of someone with long brunette hair. He soon realised it was the way she tilted her head.

  RED RETURNED TO HIS hotel room to crash after an afternoon playing tourist, albeit one who’d avoided the touristy locales. In the privacy of his hotel room, he watched a Biography Channel documentary featuring the assassination of John F. Kennedy. Secret Service agents have been known to be gluttons for punishment.

  When the show ended, he thought of packing. Tomorrow, he would be moving into his new residence–that art-deco apartment in Nob Hill. From his afternoon’s visit, he knew it was just his kind of place.

  He packed his holdall. It was fuller now than when he first arrived, having bought more essentials to get him started. He hadn’t been in one place longer than a year since his college days. He wanted to grow roots somewhere but conceded that for now, at least, it was unlikely with the profession he’d chosen.

  ISABEL RETURNED HOME after an afternoon spent walking, eating, walking and eating some more. She couldn’t help but feel nostalgic about her city now that her departure was so close.

  That evening, she decorated the indigo room with pieces she already owned. She dressed it with a golden candelabra here and a white wooden box there. Then, she hung a massive blown-up photograph of the sun setting over Red Beach. The picture showcased fiery red and bright yellow colours across the skies, contrasting with the blue of the water. It made her want to return to the place and to look for the man who owned a bach within this same vista.

  She shook her head. It had meant to be a one-night stand, she reminded herself.

  She left the room and started packing.

  ‘What was I thinking,’ she said to herself, ‘allowing such a short time to get everything done?’

  Nevertheless, it was too late to moan about it now. She boxed most of her clothes, shoes, and personal paraphernalia and asked Susie if she could store her things at her place. She wasn’t keen on the idea of hiring a garage when her best friend lived just four buildings away.

  ‘Sure, darling,’ Susie said. ‘I have an empty room.’

  This time, Isabel hired someone to move her stuff. Hauling boxes down the steps and carting them down the street was not her style, and especially not Susie’s.

  Ten huge boxes later she was done and ultra-exhausted.

  Ten, wherever did I get all this stuff from?

  Dinner was at Susie’s, food courtesy of a take-out. Hours later, Izzy bade her good-bye.

  ‘I better go,’ she said. ‘I still have to finish my packing.’

  They gave each other kisses on the cheeks. Susie’s last words to her were, ‘Don’t get into too many adventures.’

  She smiled and said she’d always lived a staid life.

  ‘Not compared to me,’ said Susie, who considered crossing the road an adventure.

  Once home, Isabel decided to wait until early the next day to finish her packing. Her flight wasn’t until the afternoon, there was still plenty of time.

  She lay in bed thinking of nothing, but moments later, bored out of her mind, she got up to pack her suitcase. At last, the only things remaining were toiletries, which she learned from all her travels she shouldn’t bother taking. She was tired of having her toothpaste confiscated at airports.

  Ever the obsessive, she went to her vanity chest drawer just to check what else she should take with her. A packet of feminine product gave her cause for pause. She was mortified because she should have had her period this week.

  Oh, no.

  She tempered the unthinkable possibility by saying to herself over and over, ‘I’ve been stressed. Stress can delay things.’

  Alas, it didn’t assuage her rising panic.

  6: Not Again!

  IZZY PACED IN HER APARTMENT, thinking the worst. What if she were pregnant?

  She turned up the music. Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber filled the rooms with sound so pure and moving. It accompanied her pacing, the seeming ballet of her life.