She checked the time and location—about forty-five minutes away—and then Vanka reviewed GSI’s profile on Alec Oliver. It wasn’t fascinating. He’d been one of a handful of Silicon Valley app-creators who took their companies public before they could legally drink in the United States. His notoriety had only grown. Politicians liked to use their subpoena power and demand Alec Oliver’s congressional testimony. Vegas clubs posted pictures to their social media of the same man, illuminated by neon signs, with women tucked under each arm. The billionaire was more cocky than handsome.
Vanka bit her bottom lip. Alec Oliver wasn’t their usual target and solidified much of Spiker’s concerns. He would have a fit, and she couldn’t ignore his weak-link worry too much longer without putting herself in jeopardy.
Another message arrived. A suitable car would await them at a nearby location. She studied the coordinates, which had to be almost within walking distance. Wait—was that the parking lot of a McDonald’s? Vanka smiled. That, at least, might pacify Spiker tonight.
Still, they didn’t have the most critical detail. What did Buck believe Alec Oliver owned that warranted their attention? Vanka had googled his name with dozens of keywords. She’d found nothing to indicate that he was interested in anything outside his social networking app, Monarch, and the Vegas bar scene. She couldn’t locate any involvement in or donations to the arts. Without help from GSI, there was nothing left to do except to ask Nan for assistance.
Vanka sent a quick message. What do you know about Alec Oliver?
Nan answered at once. Not sure who that is.
Not surprising. Nan wasn’t partial to anyone until they entered her research orbit.
Vanka asked, Can you tell me what GSI won’t?
A smiley emoji preceded Nan’s quick, Of course.
Knowing that Nan could dig up dirt on just about anything, Vanka rechecked GSI’s messages. It bothered her that they hadn’t indicated what Alec Oliver might have in his possession. The longer it took to find out, the more of an argument Spiker could make for his weak-link theory. She didn’t think he was correct, but if Buck were trying to smoke out a problem, she couldn’t imagine it had to do with their loyalty to GSI.
Vanka picked at her nail polish and stared at the screen. “Oh the hell with it.” She pinged headquarters. “Pray tell, what does this man have at his home?”
An analyst responded faster than expected.
It’s some kind of mask circa 400 BCE.
Vanka scowled. What kind of bloody intelligence was that?
An actual mask? Jewelry?
She reread the analyst’s response. That was quite a time in history to mention without any context. The world had been a messy place. But then again, wasn’t the world still a messy place? Yes, and it always would be, but that didn’t lessen the mask’s ancient significance. The Egyptian kingdom was falling. The Persian Empire was rising. There was Greece, the never-ending wars with Carthage—a new message from GSI arrived.
It’s called the Lacedaemonian Mask.
“The Spartans . . .” The preeminent military force of its time. Her fingers tapped against her lips. That was indeed a very messy, chaotic world. She couldn’t make the connection between a relatively niche interest in ancient warrior collectibles and a rich playboy who all but accidentally had made billions.
What if GSI had made a mistake? What if Buck had mistakenly confused Alec Oliver’s historical artifact with a prop from the movie 300? The idea was highly implausible. Yet, when she took into account the Jason Green-like mistakes that had surfaced, highly implausible was more like not likely. In their line of work, that distinction was larger than the Atlantic Ocean.
Vanka updated Nan and asked for prompt help. They had less than six hours until showtime, but Nan could do it. She spent nearly every waking moment with every crevice and corner of world history within arm’s reach.
The front door opened, and from Vanka’s vantage point in the window reading nook at the top of the stairs, she watched her partner come inside. Red-faced, shirtless, and sweaty, Spiker scowled as though he’d been wrestling the sun when their encrypted messages had come in. Even with the glower, he was a sight to behold.
“Have a nice run?” she called.
He grunted and lifted his phone as if to say, Yeah, until the messages arrived.
“You saw that it was black tie?”
“My favorite.” He stepped from the entryway. His cell phone clattered onto the dining room table. The kitchen faucet turned on and off before he returned to the base of the stairs, downing a glass of water.
Air-conditioning and a cool drink had reduced the redness of his face, but nothing had changed on his sun-kissed shoulders. “Have you changed your exercise routine?”
He paused, cocking his head, and a quizzical, swaggering smile toyed on his lips. “Are you hitting on me, princess?”
Vanka scoffed. “In your wildest dreams.”
Spiker climbed the stairs, and she placed a starched, off-white lace bookmark on the page she’d abandoned after GSI messaged and waited for the remnants of his racing breath to slow. He stopped on the small landing between the window nook and the top stair, then tipped his head back to finish the water.
His pulse still strummed strong enough that she could see it in his neck, and after he set the glass on the floor, he took a deep breath. The man was impossible to ignore, and now it was her breathing she needed to monitor. “I suppose you didn’t have a tuxedo packed in your duffel bag.”
He used the T-shirt in his hand to wipe off his face. “You supposed correctly.”
“I’ll make a call and have one delivered.”
“Thanks.” Spiker slung the T-shirt over his shoulder and hooked his thumb toward the bathroom. “Can I jump in first? Five minutes, and then it’s all yours.”
He flexed without meaning to, the sight reverberating across her senses like a primal awakening. Left dizzy and confused in its wake, she averted her eyes. “Fine.”
The bathroom door shut behind Spiker. Vanka pressed her palms to her hot face, and couldn’t ignore the wanton buzz still coursing beneath the surface of her skin. She couldn’t control the sensation, yet she didn’t want the growing intoxication to stop. Was there anything more terrifying than feeling this absolutely, impenetrably alive?
The silence cracked with the buzz of her phone and, mortified, she’d never been more grateful for a message from GSI. Vanka’s breath shook as she read their cover stories that had been assigned for the evening. They were to play the Fagans, a fictitious couple that she and Spiker played well. They knew the Fagans’ backstory better than one another’s pasts. She’d lean into her role as Em, Brian Fagan’s wife, and hide the real sparks she couldn’t explain.
Her breathing was even, her thoughts now cleared. Vanka returned to her phone. Spiker needed a tux. The search was quick; it took only a single phone call to find a contact that could pull through with her request. Accomplishing the menial task helped settle her mind. Tonight would be business as usual, whether she liked it or not.
Vanka knocked on the bathroom door. “A Giorgio Armani tux will arrive in an hour.”