Endgame Novella #2 (10 page)

“Do you have a suggestion?”

“Do what you do best,” she says. “What I raised you to do.”

They both know what that means.

He raises his glass. “Consider it done.”

Here is what everyone knows about Serena Porter, his roommate's mother: She is the first female CEO of Intellex, the world's third largest tech company. She's famous for her efficient management style and ability to turn million-dollar acquisitions into billion-dollar stock surges; she's infamous for her ability to juggle work and family, the leadership of a Fortune 500 company with the nurturing of a husband and two children. (Personally, Maccabee finds this rather less impressive and substantially less interesting than the billions of dollars in profit.) She's written two books about her time-management strategies and parenting advice and is about to launch both a magazine and lifestyle reality show about working mothers.

Here is what Maccabee knows, from prowling through his roommate's emails and from paying attention: Serena Porter shipped her two kids off to boarding school as soon as they were old enough to read. The daughter is in rehab and the son, Maccabee's roommate, is a semi-illiterate, fully alcoholic meathead who's been expelled from schools in four different countries. The husband is having ongoing affairs with both the former nanny and Serena's current secretary; he and Serena live in separate wings of the Porter estate and see each other only for photo ops.

Here is what Maccabee can tell about Serena as soon as he spots her across the hotel bar, sipping halfheartedly at her single malt Scotch: She's lonely.

This will be a piece of cake.

Maccabee and Jason are polite strangers. They rarely speak, never interfere in each other's business. But Maccabee has a tap on Jason's phone and knows exactly where and when the boy plans to meet his mother. He knows Jason's schedule inside and out, and knows that after hockey practice and before dinner he will stop back in the room to slurp a shot of vodka. Maccabee dissolves a handful of valium in the bottle of Belvedere, and then waits.

Soon Jason is passed out and drooling on their floor—he's woken up
that way plenty of times before, and will think nothing of it.

Maccabee slips into his favorite charcoal-gray suit and slips a pale blue silk handkerchief into his pocket. He slicks back his thick, wavy hair and grins at himself in the mirror.

Irresistible.

He finds a place at the hotel bar, sipping ginger ale from a crystal tumbler—he can't afford to cloud his head with alcohol, but the soda looks enough like whiskey to pass. He makes idle small talk with the bartender, admires the mahogany bar and its array of top-shelf liquors, pretends to be engaged by important business on his tablet. And all the while, he watches her.

Serena Porter sips her Scotch, checks her watch, checks her phone, stares into space for a few moments as if forcing herself to be still, sips her drink again, then gives in, checks her watch, and on and on. Her expression never changes, but Maccabee is an expert student of body language. He can see it in her tight grip on the glass, the tremble of her finger on the phone, the firm set of her lips: She knows her son isn't coming.

She half expected it.

Maccabee bides his time, waiting for the perfect moment. After she's accepted that the evening is a lost cause—before she gives up on the night and retreats to her room for more lonely hours in front of a computer screen. In between, there's a sweet spot, when she will long for him without even knowing he exists.

He waits for it.

A sip of Scotch, she checks her watch, and then—she puts her phone away. This is defeat.

Maccabee makes his move.

“Send the lady at the end of the bar a glass of the 55-year-old Macallan, on me,” he tells the bartender. Priced at $600 a glass in Serena's home currency, the drink will show he means business. First-class business. “Tell her it's better than the swill she's drinking.”

He watches as his command is carried out, sees Serena's thoughts
flicker across her face as clearly as if they were spelled out for him in cartoon bubbles. She should not engage; she should go back to the room, answer her emails, leave a stern voice mail for her son, go to sleep.

She picks up the glass of Scotch and slides into the seat beside him.

“What makes you so sure I'm drinking swill?” she says.

He smiles, though not too broadly. A woman like Serena will want a bit of a challenge. “Everything is swill, compared to this. Trust me.”

“You have me confused with another kind of woman,” she says.

“You don't trust people?”

“Certainly not strangers.”

“Certainly not anyone, I'm guessing.”

That earns him a cool smile of reappraisal. She won't want a pretty face with an empty head; that's not her type. Even for an ill-conceived one-night rendezvous, she's the kind to want an equal. He can lower himself just enough to make it appear he is one.

She sips the Macallan. And, though she tries to hold it in, a small sigh of pleasure escapes her lips.

“A gentleman never says
I told you so
,” he says.

She turns to face him, boldly meeting his gaze for the first time. She looks good for her age—good for any age. Her long, black hair falls in soft, refined waves. It reminds him of pictures he's seen of his mother, before he was born and she let herself gray. “You, on the other hand . . .”

He laughs. “I did tell you so.”

She nods to the bartender, orders a second glass of the Macallan. “And put it on my tab. His too.”

“
Ja,
Frau Porter.”

“I can afford my own drinks,” Serena tells Maccabee.

“And mine too, apparently. So much the better. I like a woman who will keep me in the style to which I've grown accustomed.”

“Ah, I'm keeping you, am I?”

“Would you throw a poor stray like me back on the street?” He bats
his eyelashes mockingly.

“Are you flirting with me, young man? You must be young enough to be my—”

“Son?” he suggests.

She snorts. “I was going to say younger brother. How old do you think I am, anyway?”

“I'm not as dumb as I look, and I'm certainly not going to answer that. How old do you think
I
am?”

She appraises him. “Old enough to have very good taste in watches, Scotch, and women. Too young for me.”

“And yet.” He smiles.

“And yet.”

They continue on in this vein, tension simmering between them, shallow cleverness pinging back and forth, until he sees the loosening of her expression, knows she's ready to go deeper.

He asks what's brought her to this part of the world, and how it is she's sitting alone in a bar, drinking her sorrows away. “Surely no one would be so foolish as to stand you up.”

“What is it about a woman drinking alone that's so difficult for people to believe in?” she says. “Do I need an excuse to be here? Do I need to be waiting for someone?”

“You don't need anything, I suspect.”

“Exactly.” Then she sighs. “I'm waiting for my son.”

“He's late?”

“He's drunk,” she says flatly. “Probably passed out in some girl's dorm room.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Me too.”

“Enough about me,” she says. “Too much about me. Tell me about you.”

In his 16 years, Maccabee has invented so many life stories, he's nearly lost track of the real one. He tells her he's an artist—he knows she cares little for art. He exploded onto the scene in his early twenties,
just out of art school, he tells her, and is now in Europe to be feted at the upcoming Art Basel. His pieces, he implies, sell for millions and are housed in museums all over the world. He's been on the road for several months and is looking forward to getting back to his studio in Jordan. He longs for his homeland when he's away: the red rock desert, the sweeping open spaces, the scent of garlic and thyme wafting on the air, sizzling dishes of mansaf, kubbeh, and wara aynab spread on his mother's woven tablecloth. He tells her of how his sculptures are inspired by the stone city of Petra, its ancient fortresses carved into rock, as if they grew from the mountains themselves.

The lies come effortlessly, especially that last.

Petra is the only place that has ever felt like home.

Maccabee was born in Warsaw, Poland, as was his mother, and his mother's mother. But Petra is the Nabataeans' ancestral home. Tourists may flock to its unearthed temples and archaeological digs, but only Maccabee and his people know of its miles of caves, deep beneath the earth. It was here, thousands of years ago, that the Nabataeans mined gold for their gods. It was here, through centuries of dutiful labor, that they earned their place in Endgame, earned their chance at salvation. And it was here that, three years ago, Maccabee knelt on barren ground and spoke the ancient Nabataean oath that would seal his destiny. His mother may have secured him the role as Player through manipulation and blackmail, but in that sacred place there was only truth. Maccabee swore to do battle for his line, and mingled his blood with Petra's ancient soil. A part of him will always live in that darkness beneath the Rose City, and it's the part of him that always yearns to go home.

“You have people there waiting for you?” she asks. “Missing you?”

“No wife, if that's what you're wondering,” he says. “No girlfriend either.”

“Family?” she says.

“No one of note.”

“How sad,” she says, and sounds like she means it.

Maccabee knows a vulnerability when he sees it. He nods. “I never knew my father,” he says. “And my mother . . . she's dead.” He feels disloyal saying the words, but this is simply a part like any other. Ekaterina would want him to play it to the hilt.

“I'm sorry,” Serena says. “Was she a good mother?”

He lets a careful note of regret slip into his voice. “I wish I could say yes.”

“So do I,” she says, and sighs softly. “But it's harder than it looks.”

He puts his hand over hers. They lean toward each other, and for a moment he can feel it, the current running between them wild and dangerous. She feels it too; she must.

Then she stiffens and pulls her hand away.

“I've let this go on longer than I should, Maccabee. You should get home. You'll miss your curfew.”

He doesn't let his eyes widen. He doesn't let his jaws tighten. He doesn't even let his heartbeat rise. He allows himself no somatic signs of shock.

It takes all the effort he has.

She shakes her head, laughing harshly. “Did you really think I wouldn't have my people investigate every student at my son's school?
Especially
his roommate. Maccabee Adlai, born in Poland—excellent description of Jordan, by the way, that was an especially nice touch—father unknown, mother investment banker. Very much alive. Unremarkable academic record, impressively clean disciplinary one, at least compared to my son. Hobbies include swimming laps and breaking girls' hearts. Do I have it about right?”

He relaxes, just a millimeter. She doesn't know quite as much as she thinks she does, at least. But she knows enough to be a problem for his mission.

His mind spins.

He hears his mother's voice.

Find her vulnerability.

Use it.

“Just about,” he admits. “So if you know who I really am, what are we doing here?”

“You first,” she says.

He's flying blind. But he has excellent instincts. He can turn this around. Get back in control. “I'm a bit of a fan,” he says, and has enough control over his somatic responses to force a blush. “I'm intending to go into business, and your leadership of Intellex has been truly inspiring, especially your—”

“That's crap,” she says sharply. “Try again.”

She's giving him a second chance; he senses he won't get a third.

“I felt sorry for you,” he says. The words pop out without thinking. Her eye twitches, and he knows he's struck gold.

His people have always been good at that.

“
You
felt sorry for
me
,” she says.

He nods.

She looks like she's considering exactly how swiftly and how flat to crush him beneath her heel.

“Funny,” she says, without any humor in her voice. “Because here I was feeling sorry for you.”

“You're right: Jason's wasted,” Maccabee says, ignoring that. “He's always wasted, but I thought he'd keep it together for you. When he didn't, I thought about you sitting here by yourself waiting for him, and . . .” He shrugged. “I figured you could use some company.”

“So you decided to pretend you were a decade older and hit on me?” Serena shook her head. “I think you're the one who wanted some company, Maccabee. I think it's parent visitation week and your parents aren't here. I think you're too tough to admit that bothers you.”

“So you thought you'd indulge the poor motherless child?”

“It passed the time,” she says.

“Time's up,” he tells her, and stands.

She puts her hand over his.

Yes.

“Stay,” she says.

“Why?”

“I thought maybe . . .” She hesitates and, for the first time that night, looks uncertain of herself. “Will you tell me about my son?”

They talk long into the night. Maccabee tells her about her son, answering all her questions with the truth. What Jason drinks, who he sleeps with, how much he pays the geek down the hall to do his homework, where he actually goes (Ibiza beaches, Thai discos, Amsterdam brothels) when he claims to be visiting colleges. Maccabee owes nothing to the roommate, and besides, he likes this about Serena, how desperately she wants to know, how honestly she judges her own ignorance.

“I should know all of this already,” she says, more than once. “What kind of mother doesn't know?”