Face, The
Authors: Angela Hunt
ANGELA HUNT
“Prolific novelist Hunt knows how to hold a reader’s interest, and her latest yarn is no exception.…Hunt packs the maximum amount of drama into her story, and the pages turn quickly. The present-tense narration lends urgency as the perspective switches among various characters. Readers may decide to take the stairs after finishing this thriller.”
—
Publishers Weekly
on
The Elevator
“Hunt skillfully builds tension and keeps the plot well paced and not overly melodramatic.”
—
Library Journal
on
The Elevator
“Hunt’s writing is filled with exciting twists that could have been pulled straight from the headlines. The three women caught in an elevator reflect emotions and dilemmas that we all face.”
—
Romantic Times BOOKreviews
on
The Elevator
“In
The Elevator,
Ms. Hunt creates the perfect set-up to keep you turning pages long after the rest of the house has fallen asleep.
The Elevator
also serves as a cautionary tale to those who would remain trapped in their old lives and opinions rather than reach up for freedom and life. Loved it.”
—Lisa Samson, award-winning author
ANGELA HUNT
A TIME TO MEND
THE ELEVATOR
the face
Let us leave the beautiful women
to men with no imagination.
—Marcel Proust
It is the common wonder of all men,
How among so many millions of faces,
There should be none alike.
—Sir Thomas Browne
Sarah
T
he microcamera homes in on a poster of a long-necked blonde with wide eyes, a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a rounded chin—the requisite parts of a face, all of which I am lacking. The model’s smile blurs as Hightower whirls around.
Though I’m sitting over six hundred miles away, when the image on my monitor settles into focus I’m seeing exactly what our officer is seeing: a shiny-wet London street. A stationery shop. A passing taxicab. Nothing to quicken the pulse…yet.
“Spock, are you reading me?” Hightower asks.
“Copy that, you’re five by five,” I assure him.
Hightower pans the rendezvous point from left to right. The surveillance camera, hidden in the frame of his eyeglasses, performs remarkably well, given the overcast conditions. “No sign of ’im.”
I notice something odd on the monitor and lean toward the microphone at my workstation. “Hold that position, Hightower.”
Dr. Mewton leans over me, her hip bumping my shoulder. She points to a small box attached to a streetlamp. “What do you make of it, Sarah?”
I click on the object and magnify the image. “Looks like a traffic cam.”
“Any way to be sure it’s legit?”
At his workstation, Judson lifts his head. “The address?”
“New Bond Street,” I tell him. “The closest intersection is with Conduit.”
The text-to-speech engine of Judson’s computer repeats the address as he types in the address. “Sorry,” he says, slipping headphones onto his ears. A moment later he pulls the headset free. “That traffic cam is confirmed. One of many in the Mayfair district.”
Mewton moves closer. “What about that man across the street?”
I’m about to check him out when Hightower sneezes and the image on my monitor bobbles.
“Bless you,” a baritone voice says in my headset.
Mewton glances at me. “Is that part of the protocol?”
I shrug as Hightower turns. A short man in a raincoat stands behind him, his face round and wet beneath a thin moustache.
“Our contact doesn’t look like much of a threat,” Dr. Mewton says. “He looks about as dangerous as a bookkeeper.”
“Refresh my memory—” I glance over my shoulder “—but wasn’t it a bookkeeper who brought down Al Capone?”
“You’ve been watching
The Untouchables,
” Judson says, grinning. “A Costner classic.”
Dr. Mewton crosses her arms and focuses on the monitor, silently reminding us that we are in the middle of a surveillance op. I click my mouse and snap a photo of the man, then pull the image out of the frame and activate the facial recognition program. Hundreds of faces flash in the margin as the computer searches for a match.
My fingers freeze on the keyboard when the short man pulls a gun from his jacket and points it at our officer’s face.
Behind me, Dr. Mewton groans as the muzzle looms large in the monitor. “What the—?”
“Excuse me—” the contact blinks rapidly beneath wire-rimmed glasses “—b-but does the bus to St. Paul’s stop here?”
“You want the number eleven,” Hightower replies, giving his half of the verbal recognition exchange. His hand appears in the frame and firmly pushes the weapon to the side. “And have you lost your mind? Put that away.”
“I…I was nervous.”
“I’m not the one you should be worried about.” Hightower waits until his contact puts the gun back in his pocket, then he gestures to the right. “Would you like to get out of the rain?”
“
Cómo no,
a good idea.”
Dr. Mewton and I watch in silence as Hightower walks toward the stationery shop. The scene blurs as he surveils the street in a quick glance, then his hand appears in the frame. “There.” He points to a door beneath an awning.
“What’s happening?” Judson calls.
“Santiago is a bit jumpy,” Dr. Mewton answers. “We might have to use a cutout in the future.”
“I’m sure Hightower will agree,” I say. “Let’s find him someone nice and calm.”
The facial recognition program beeps, presenting us with a name and photograph. Our contact, known to Hightower as Santiago, is Oscar Espinosa, a Spanish national. His driver’s license lists a Valencia address.
“Nice work,” Dr. Mewton says, her voice dry. “The Spanish department of motor vehicles?”
I shrug. “Seemed logical.”
Dr. M reads the information to Judson, who enters it into his computer. A moment later he informs us that Oscar Espinosa is a clerk in the accounting department of Saluda Industries.
Dr. Mewton exhales in a rush. “What do you know…the man
is
a bookkeeper.”
“Now all we need is Eliot Ness to put those thugs away.” Judson lifts his head. “Are they entering a building?”
Dr. Mewton answers for me. “Looks like a passageway.”
None of us speak as Hightower opens the unmarked door and steps inside. The area beyond is dark, so we see nothing until the camera adjusts.
Beside me, Dr. Mewton shifts her weight. “Sarah?”
“I noticed that.” I jot a note. “The aperture adjustment is too slow.”
“Look,” our bookkeeper says, more talkative now that he’s off the street. “Nobody at Saluda takes me seriously, but I know what is happening in that place. I can get you names, dates, shipping manifests, whatever you want, but you must make it worth my while. I am not risking my life for nothing.”
Hightower holds up a reassuring hand. “Haven’t I promised we’d take care of you?”
The smaller man snorts. “I would rather take care of myself. And that is what I will do, as soon as payment is made.”
“And you provide the information we need.”
“
Claro,
of course.”
The image on the monitor rises and falls as Hightower nods. “You’ll contact me in the usual way?”
“Yes, but next time we meet in España. Give me a week or two.”
“Next time, leave the gun at home.”
“You do not know these people. I will carry my gun until I know my family and I have nothing to worry about.”
“Fine. But pull a weapon on me again and I won’t be so understanding.”
Espinosa takes a deep breath and fastens the top button of his raincoat. “Will you leave first?”
“You go. I’ll wait and exit through the stationery shop.”
The small man bobs his head again, then opens the door and steps into a rectangle of light. Hightower turns, revealing a shadowed hallway, a glass entry to the right, and another doorway in the distance. He steps forward and focuses on a plastered wall. “Sister Luke, did you get that?”
Dr. Mewton taps the microphone near her chin. “We did. Your contact is Oscar Espinosa, a clerk in the Saluda accounting office. He ought to be able to get whatever we need for the DEA.”
“His record’s clean?”
“As far as we can tell.”
“Good. Don’t want to be wasting time with a trigger-happy janitor.” The scene on the monitor tumbles and goes dark as Hightower removes his glasses. Our connection isn’t broken, however, because his voice continues to buzz in my headset. “Hey, Spock.”
I stiffen when he calls my code name. “Yes?”
“The Candyman working this gig with you?”
I glance at Judson, whose sightless eyes are fixed on some vacant point between my desk and the wall. “He’s sitting about five feet away.”
“Tell him the Yankees stink. Better yet, I’ll tell him myself if I find myself at your place for a tummy tuck.”
“I heard that,” Judson growls into his mic. “And you’d better hope I’m not the angel on your shoulder the next time you have a hot date.”
Hightower laughs. “Later, kids. It’s been fun.”
When he powers down his transmitter, I pull off my headset. As an employee of the CIA, I ought to be used to this sort of operation, but I always shiver in the unsettling silence of a broken connection.