He unfastened his seatbelt and waited until Vanka gave him a nod. At that moment, she was casual and not yet playing her part, and she blew him away again. Could he actually quit GSI and risk never seeing her again? Tonight could be the last time he stepped out with her on his arm. Their roles weren’t real. They played pretend. But while they worked, she was his as much as he was hers. That was why they were so damn good. When he quit, their game would end. “You ready, princess?”
A heavy pause and nod preceded the moment when she stepped into character. The real woman he wanted to keep by his side was temporarily gone. Vanka’s perfect, practiced expression said it was time to go. She rested her hand on the door handle. “As ready as I can be.”
Wasn’t that the truth? Spiker opened his door and traded spots with the valet. Vanka waited for him to round the front of the Maserati. She took his breath away.
“It’s more of a weathered aubergine.” She offered her arm.
He took it and pulled Vanka to his side. “Eggplants are purple. No matter the weather.”
Regardless of what shades of purple stone covered the exterior of Alec Oliver’s mansion, the interior was all one color: marbled white. The floors, walls, stairs, and even (at times) the ceiling gleamed with a modern shininess that got under Spiker’s skin.
All in all, the place fit squarely into his moneyed-class theory; the old-money criminal sects’ real estate and architecture choices were far more palatable than those made by new-money grifters. Whether Alec Oliver was a grifter or not wasn’t the point. Anyone who threw a few lines of code together and gamed the stock market was one in Spiker’s book.
He could pinpoint those born into wealth from those who accidentally shit out a gold-striking app no matter their location or list of crimes.
They stepped through an entryway, which allowed them to begin the night’s assignment: photograph and speak with as many targets as possible, including Oliver. Vanka’s effortless small talk made strangers believe they were old friends. Spiker played his role, glad-handing and backslapping, and noted every second glance Vanka garnered.
The foyer reached three stories high and curved until it opened in a large reception area. Spiker had his chin up and shoulders back. He disliked the assignment, but wasn’t faking his confident aura. He didn’t have to with Vanka by his side.
They reached a bottleneck where guests were subtlety vetted against an invitation list. A man in a black suit, shirt, and tie offered a champagne flute and a formal, “Welcome to Chateau de Oliver.”
Spiker noted the fake accent and thanked him as they took their drinks and continued on. He discreetly photographed every person they passed. The waitstaff, dressed in black, wasn’t exempt from scrutiny, nor were the stooges staged as security—both of those groups interested Spiker far more than the actual guest list.
“Do you know what I noticed?” He guided Vanka into a side room with oversized white leather loungers and white marble tables of matching height. In his expert opinion, it looked like crap. Whatever design effect they’d tried for had been lost on him. The more he studied the setup, the more the furniture reminded Spiker of the bench-and-table combinations bolted to the floor at airport gates.
She sipped from her glass and posted herself at his side. Their plan to arrive early worked. They photographed a majority of the guests as they walked by. “Hm, what’s that?”
“Everyone on Oliver’s payroll is dressed in black.”
The corners of her lips curled. “Does this have anything to do with your old-new money argument?”
“Yeah. Of course it does.” He smiled at a guest who waved as they passed as if they traveled in the same circles. “Old money doesn’t want you to see the help. New money wants you to know how many are employed.”
“More or less,” she agreed. “And neither care if their friends have decorated their homes with stolen art.”
He shrugged. “How many are friends, and how many are shareholders?”
“Too many.” She held the champagne flute to her lips and pretended to sip the bubbly. “Do you know what I noticed?”
“A thousand things to every single one that I did.”
That time she didn’t hide her smile. “I noticed that we haven’t yet seen our host.”
“Let’s fix that.” He took her elbow and led them farther into the house. “Photograph the hell out of everyone and hightail out of here.”
Music and voices grew louder as they explored. The marble halls and soaring ceilings amplified and distorted the sound. Spiker wasn’t sure if the event would have 150 attendees or 550.
They entered a large hall that had been set up for dancing. The floor remained empty despite the string quartet. Groups and couples milled at the edges like expensive wallflowers, making their job easy. He and Vanka worked the room. They bullshitted and bluffed their way through conversation after conversation. With every new chat, they shifted positions, photographing everyone from every angle. Modern technology had made this part of intel-gathering very dull.
Spiker touched Vanka’s elbow and whispered into her ear, “On your right, two o’clock.” His eyes closed and lingered long enough to feel his breath against her neck. Nothing felt like it had always felt before, and that awareness hit him harder than the best champagne.
A slight shift in her posture exposed more of her neck to his mouth. The impulse to touch his mouth to her skin set a fire inside his chest. Vanka pivoted and saved him from what he couldn’t explain.
Spiker adjusted by her side and listened as she enthralled a group of businesswomen with a cryptocurrency story gone wrong, while simultaneously siphoning personal details. Women were more complex marks than men. They didn’t give up their well-guarded personal information as quickly. There had been a time when he had mistakenly believed this had to do with Vanka’s appearance, and yeah, sure, looks often helped, but they didn’t change what he believed to be the truth. Whether or not a woman found Vanka attractive, that woman was always going to be more careful than a man drawn to another man.
Vanka adjusted her earring and signaled that there was nothing left to learn from this group. Spiker interrupted the conversation with an apology and stole his wife away. They moved with fluid ease, slipping closer to their host. Spiker wanted to get a read on the guy and understand what motivated Buck to focus on him. It couldn’t be as simple as baiting Robin Hood.
They moved closer to Alec Oliver. Spiker studied him as Vanka engaged a new couple, shifting their small talk so he could continue photographing the room. The job was monotonous. Vanka made conversations effortless. She was his favorite chameleon, and when she locked her gaze onto his, she was his favorite person.
If he quit, he’d lose her. The fact hammered in his chest and dulled otherwise noteworthy conversations, where stock tips amounted to insider trading, dark money decisions were meant to evade financial oversight, and health advice equated to a chitchat about embargoed FDA decisions. What Spiker heard could have triggered an SEC all-hands-on-deck alert. But it simply went in one ear and out the other.
Vanka touched his wrist. Now was the perfect moment to approach Alec Oliver. With only a passing glance, they agreed to make their move. Spiker had to focus, and without much choice, he took Vanka’s hand. Locking his fingers together with hers was his best shot at curbing his mind’s distractions.