The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) (9 page)

“Ines Callandries.” Eisenhower indicated a severe looking woman in the outer ring on the digi-board. “She is known to Rosenthal and will be able to make introductions. However,” he held up a finger, warning us not to become too excited by this news, “Ms. Callandries is little more than a background fixture in these individual’s lives. Do not expect her to do your job for you. She is available to facilitate your integration into society, nothing more.”

By lunchtime, Historian Eisenhower seemed satisfied that we had a solid foundation where the people of the time were concerned. He called Olivia’s name and she immediately came to life.

“I believe today’s will be a working lunch, Olivia,” Eisenhower told her. “Would you please be so kind as to serve the meal you prepared?”

“Oui, monsieur,” she replied dutifully and disappeared into the kitchen area.

When she returned, Olivia carried trays with mini ham and Brie baguettes, roasted beet and goat cheese salads served atop endive wedges, and cups of strawberries in heavy whipping cream for dessert. While we dined on the decadent foods common in Paris during our target time, Historian Eisenhower pushed onward.

The screen in the front of the room switched from a collage of faces to a collage of places. Rosenthal’s picture was still in the middle, but the surrounding images were of locations, accompanied by addresses: Stein’s salon at 27 rue de Fleurus, Shakespeare and Company on rue de l’Odeon, and various cafés in Montparnasse. The latter were the haunts that Rosenthal and his set were known to visit for drinks and lively discussions on everything from their crafts to social issues of the day. The historian cited the significance of each place in turn, highlighting when we’d be most likely to find the asset there.

“Can you tell us where Rosenthal will be on Thursday evening?” Gaige asked. “Do we have a schedule for him that day? I see Friday and other sporadic dates in our spec sheets, but is there anything on the 26
th
of March? I think we should attempt contact as soon as possible, are you cool with that, Stass?”

He was asking because we normally spent a day acclimating to the period and new location. Since we’d been to Paris before, we didn’t need the full twenty-four hour adjustment period.

“That sounds good to me,” I replied with a shrug. “We should aim for Thursday night.”

Eisenhower closed his eyes, attempting to recall the information from memory. Apparently it wasn’t coming to him, because his eyes popped open with a look of annoyance.

“Bob!” he shouted.

A round object zoomed through the air from the doorway at the front of the room.

“How many I be of assistance, sir?” Bob-the-drone asked in a mechanical voice. As he spoke, the lights on one side of his round body came to life and the words appeared in text on his display screen.

“Please fetch me a book that gives us information on Andre Rosenthal’s whereabouts on March 26, 1925,” Eisenhower commanded.

“Yes, sir. I shall return momentarily.”

The drone’s internal database held the location of every book in the library, among other things. He was programmed to respond to voice commands such as the one Eisenhower had just given him.

Bob whizzed to the back of the classroom, then hovered in place while the bookshelf door slid open. Three minutes later, Bob returned with the diary of Rosenthal’s part-time love interest, Carmen D’Angelo, clutched in his metal graspers. After delivering the book to the lectern, the graspers retracted and Bob hovered to one side while awaiting further instruction.

The historian flipped to the table of contents, slid an index finger down the column of words until he found what he was looking for and turned to the appropriate page. After reading for a minute, Eisenhower snapped the book closed and held it up in the air for the drone to take.

“Bob, return this to the shelf, please,” he commanded.

“Yes, sir,” the drone replied, disappearing to do the historian’s bidding.

“The answer to your question is quite fortuitous,” Eisenhower said to us. “
The Great Gatsby
was published in early March 1925. Fitzgerald returned to Paris shortly before you will be arriving to celebrate the release with his friends and colleagues. It just so happens that Gertrude Stein is hosting a party in his honor on March 26
th
. It is themed and will be held at an American-style speakeasy as a nod to the book’s setting. From what I gather, the event is not a private one, so you will not need an invitation.”

“I do love a good book release party,” Gaige said with a grin.

“I’m so glad,” the historian replied drolly. “Hopefully you will enjoy reading the novel between now and then just as much.”

“Maybe we should stick with Friday,” my partner grumbled.

With a look that silenced Gaige, the historian continued on with the lecture. I made a note on my task list to download
Gatsby
.

After two more hours of tapping away on the beam keyboard, my feet were asleep and my fingertips ached. Thankfully, Eisenhower paused to summon the drone for a second time—I needed the reprieve. Leaning back in my chair, I stretched my legs and watched as he commanded his electronic minions.

“Bob, please fetch Sybil, Charice, Jesma, Claud, Brian, and Jonathon. Olivia, please prepare them for the wardrobing portion of today’s session.”

The names Eisenhower had listed were other droids. Apparently, the whole gang was coming by for a visit.

“We have one more area to cover,” Eisenhower continued, speaking again to Gaige and me. “Then we shall take a brief dinner break before the exam. While we wait, let’s go over your plan for integration.”

His gaze fell on me, and I took that as my cue.

“Yes, sir. Since we are advancing the timeline, we will make an appearance at Fitzgerald’s release party on Thursday night. Hopefully, this will get them all used to our presence in the background. I think we should wait and analyze the situation before we decide whether or not to make the initial contact with Rosenthal that night. Since others in his circle are more open to meeting outsiders, it might be best to become acquainted with those individuals first,” I explained, adjusting in my chair to a more comfortable position. “I think we have a better shot at gaining Rosenthal’s trust if we don’t direct our attention at him, initially.”

“From there, we will secure an invite to one of the parties that Stein holds every Saturday,” Gaige chimed in. “If it happens organically at the book party, great. If not, we can always have one procured through the customs station. Either way, we will approach Rosenthal directly at Stein’s. The goal is to casually befriend him. Depending on which of us he seems more taken with, the other will continue with infiltrating his circle. The more we’re seen out and about with these people, the more Rosenthal will let his guard down. If all goes according to plan, we will eventually learn the location information we need from both the writer and his friends over time. Then wham, bam, copy it, ma’am.”

Eisenhower took several uncomfortable moments to weigh our proposal. If he vetoed the strategy, we’d be screwed. I honestly couldn’t think of another way to broach this run. Time and patience were going to be key.

“Not bad,” the historian finally said. “Be prepared, though, Stassi—Gaige is more likely to be accepted by the writing crowd. There’s a lot of machismo there, particularly from Hemingway.”

With Eisenhower’s help, we refined our plan and developed our cover story. We were going to be siblings from Baltimore with too much time and too much money—just another pair of socialites fascinated with the cultural crowd. The artists back then were always looking for benefactors, so it stood to reason a couple of young shipping heirs would be welcomed among them.

“Excusez-moi, s’il vous plait,” Olivia said, peeking her head out from the back room. “Nous sommes pets si vous l’etes.”

“Gaige, Stassi, is there anything else we need to go over” Eisenhower asked. Gaige and I both shook our heads, and the historian looked back to Olivia. “We are ready, as well.”

The lights dimmed even further, and quiet jazz music began playing through unseen speakers. A large spotlight appeared, following Olivia as she glided the length of the room. She’d swapped her polka-dot dress for a pink one with two rows of buttons down the front and a lace collar. A black bell-shaped hat with a white flower covered her finger waves.

“This style is called a cloche,” Eisenhower informed us, using his laser finger beam to indicate the hat. While she continued walking, he explained the role milliners played in twentieth century fashion.

Apparently, I’d have an entire wardrobe of headwear.

Olivia turned at the end of the room, sashayed back the way she’d come. Jonathon came next, decked out in a dapper suit. Playing emcee, Eisenhower described the droid’s vest, pants, shoes, and tie, pointing out small details that were specific to the 1920s.

Gaige leaned over and whispered in my ear excitedly, “Are we seriously watching a droid fashion show? This is awesome.”

While we normally covered the clothes of the time period during these classes, a demonstration like this one had never before been included. The highly amusing spectacle was better than listening to Eisenhower drone on about pictures of clothing, so I wasn’t complaining.

Next came Jesma in a blue velvet cape with a poufy collar that Eisenhower told us was typically worn to premiere cultural events, such as the opera. On her return trip down the makeshift catwalk, Jesma swept the cape back behind her shoulders to reveal an asymmetrical dress with one full sleeve and one bare shoulder. The satiny material was gathered above one hip, a large flower holding it in place, and fringe hung from the sleeve and bottom layer of the dress.

Smiling wistfully as the droids continued to showcase the beautiful clothing from centuries past, excitement made me forget my weariness. Normally I wasn’t all that interested in clothes and fashion, but something about the elegance of the twenties style appealed to me. To my surprise, I found myself looking forward to wearing the beautiful outfits.

As promised, after the fashion show ended, Olivia returned with more French specialties for dinner. While Gaige and I ate, Eisenhower answered the rest of our concerns and added some final tips.

Once our plates were cleared away, he tapped several keys on the control box and sent exams over to our Qubes. There were a hundred and fifty questions, including some on basic French phrases we should know, even though we’d be posing as Americans. I finished in a little over two hours, scoring a ninety percent. Gaige, being a knowledge sponge, scored a ninety-eight.

“Who’s the suck up now?” I joked when he shoved his Qube under my nose and pointed to his grade.

“Too bad we didn’t bet on the results,” he replied.

“I know better than that.”

“At least you know something,” he teased.

“You are
both
to be commended,” Eisenhower announced. “However, you also both need a lot of work in the language department. You are lucky that all of the expatriates speak English, as do many of the other players. Since you are posing as Americans, your limited French capabilities will be expected.

“Despite this, you should still wear a Rosetta at all times on this run. This will allow you to understand what those around you are saying when not speaking to you directly. It is often helpful to know what people say when they think you cannot comprehend them.”

At the height of the nano-neuro craze, similar tech was actually implanted in the brain, but the long-term side effects were, predictably, pretty horrific. Though I didn’t quite understand the science involved, the Rosetta’s translation outputs were actually heard in the head of the wearer, like creepy little schizophrenic voices; it had definitely taken some getting used to.

After fourteen hours of nonstop cramming, my head felt as though it might explode from of the information that had been stuffed inside. Dazed, I began gathering my things.

Before we left, as always, Eisenhower ended with the historians’ motto: Change not the past, lest we lose our present and destroy the future for all.

THE STAFF AT
the work camp was, in a word, disaffected. They showed little more than apathy towards the orphaned children in their charge, with one exception: the dorm matron. She wasn’t physically affectionate—no hugs before bed, no kisses for skinned knees—but she was kind and human enough to comfort a little girl who longed for her family. She used to tell me that my birth parents were among the stars. I took her words literally, and each night before bed I would look out the window and pick one star to be my mother and one to be my father.

Even though I knew better now, old habits died hard.

Standing on the back patio of my bungalow, I gazed up at the sea of diamonds strewn across the blue velvet sky. The bright, twinkling specks were so close to one another, they could’ve been wrapped in a lover’s embrace. I chose two, brought my locket to my lips and made the same whispered promise I had every night for the past fifteen years.

“I’ll find you,” I told them.

I entered the bungalow through the back and found Molly sitting on the living room sofa. She wore a loose-fitting, long-sleeved gray cotton shirt. A quilt covered her long legs and hid the worst of her burns. Dark brown and bright blue strands of hair were loose around her face and tousled. Dilated pupils shone from eyes shadowed by dark circles, evidence that her medication-induced slumber hadn’t been very restful. But the wide grin on her lips was so dazzling it nearly blinded me to her exhaustion.

“You aren’t usually this happy to see me,” I joked.

Color crept into her ivory cheeks. “Oh, hey, Stass, you’re home,” she said too loudly. “What’s in the bag?”

I’d taken a detour to the canteen on the way home to restock Molly’s chocolate supply.

“Goodies,” I replied suspiciously. “Why are you yelling at me?”

“Goodies for me?” Molly asked hopefully, her voice much quieter now. “You shouldn’t have.”

“They’re purely medicinal.”

“What about me?” a male voice called from another room. “Do I get goodies, too?”

My partner strolled out of Molly’s bedroom, a pink cardigan draped over one arm. He held up the sweater for Molly’s inspection. “This one okay?”

She nodded. “Perfect. Thanks.”

I set the bag of chocolate on the coffee table and concentrated on looking anywhere but at my two friends as Gaige helped Molly into the cardigan. That was when I noticed the digi-screen. Six rectangular film covers all with a different image but the same title sat on virtual shelves.

“Really? You’re going to watch the movie instead of reading the book? You are such a cheater,” I said to Gaige with mock sternness.

He eased down on the sofa next to Molly.

“I’m a visual learner, Stass. I’ll retain more knowledge by watching the movie,” Gaige replied.

“In a third of the time,” I said dryly. “How convenient.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Gaige said, feigning confusion.

“Watch with us,” Molly said, batting her long lashes. “You can even pick which version.”

I was torn. It was late. I was exhausted and the thought of reading an entire book by morning was daunting. Still, I’d been looking forward to a little alone time to mentally psych myself up for the mission ahead.

Molly launched in to a detailed explanation of the different versions of
Gatsby
, listing off pros and cons of each. The oldest was a silent film from 1926, which Gaige vetoed before I could do the same. The most recent was from 2338 and, according to my roommate, was critically acclaimed for its use of a gender-ambiguous cast.

“Might be fun to see if we can guess which characters are played by women and which are played by men,” I suggested halfheartedly.

“And, last but not least, we have the 2013
Gatsby
,” Molly continued talking right over me. She went on to describe the beautiful clothes and opulent sets with so much enthusiasm that I didn’t have to ask which version she wanted to watch.

“Let’s go with that one,” I said when she was finished.

“You sure?” Molly asked. “Like I said, it’s totally up to you.”

I smiled. “I’m sure. Far be it for me to deny an invalid her wish. Here, make yourself useful.” I tossed the remote to Gaige.

“It has that one guy from that boat movie you like,” Molly added hopefully. “Oh! And the guy who played Bugman.”

“You’re the one who liked that boat movie,” I reminded my roommate. “Remember? I thought it was silly since you knew the whole time how it was going to end.”

Rolling his eyes at our banter, Gaige used the universal remote to select the 2013 version of
Gatsby
, dim the living room lights, and, judging by the sweat beads forming on my skin, raise the temperature in the bungalow. I was about to make a snarky comment when Molly shuddered violently. She pulled the cardigan tighter around her thin shoulders.

“Could you turn up the heat another degree or two?” I asked instead, knowing Molly was too proud and too stubborn to make the request.

Gaige did as instructed, and then peeled off his pullover to compensate for the warmer climate.

A haunting melody filled the air as the movie began to play.

The three of us chatted easily about the storyline, clothes, and setting of the film. Molly, who’d apparently seen the other versions, kept up a running commentary on how this adaptation differed from the others.

“I’m so jealous,” Molly declared wistfully. On screen, champagne fountains flowed and elegant men and women danced at Jay Gatsby’s magnificent home.

“Why?” I asked. “I thought you told Cyrus you were done with this life.”

“I know, I know. Getting burned at the stake for being a witch sort of puts a damper on things. It’s just that…I love being a runner. You guys get to go live for over a month in that,” she replied, gesturing at the screen. “That’s going to be so much fun. I know I said I’m done with it, but I really wish I could go with you. I want to experience everything possible, I don’t want to be a boring island rat.”

“Have you talked to Cyrus again?” Gaige asked carefully.

“He stopped by earlier. He’s refusing to accept my resignation until I’m fully recovered,” Molly told us.

“I think that’s great advice,” I said sagely.

Molly shrugged as a chill ran through her, though this time I had a feeling it was a memory that made her shiver.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I really don’t know what to do. Yesterday I was convinced that running was my past. Now, I don’t know. I think maybe I was just upset. And I don’t feel like I’m knocking on death’s door anymore, so I guess that could be part of it.”

“What happened must have been really scary,” Gaige said.

The haunted expression still lingered in her big blue eyes. She’d been through a nightmarish ordeal, one that would have landed most any other runner on mental health leave. Suddenly, I felt very selfish for taking the Paris mission, when my roommate so obviously needed moral support.

“I’m sure Cyrus wouldn’t mind if we pushed the run back a couple of days,” I began.

“No.” Molly shook her head decisively. “Totally unnecessary. Come on, Stassi. Who do you think you’re talking to? I’ll be fine. I
am
fine.” With the declaration, she sat up straighter and tucked her gauze wrapped hands beneath the quilt to hide them from view.

Yesterday, when she’d come bursting through the door during the meeting, I’d been terrified. The thought of losing Molly was too much. She meant too much to me. Physically, at least, she was on the mend, I noted. In a couple of days, the burns would start to fade and, thanks to the syndicate’s top-notch doctors, she wouldn’t have any scars to serve as constant reminders of the ordeal. It was the emotional scarring that worried me. How long would those wounds take to heal?

As I studied her defiant expression, I couldn’t help but wonder if Molly was putting on a show so I wouldn’t worry about her.

“I’m fine,” Molly insisted, when I didn’t avert my gaze. “Besides, you have a lead to follow up on. You shouldn’t put that off.”

“I’ve waited fifteen years,” I replied, brushing off her statement. “Another few days won’t hurt.”

“No,” Molly repeated firmly. “Look, I have my mom and dad if I need anything. And Tiger. He’s offered to stay with me while you’re gone, just until I’m totally back on my feet.”

When the screen faded on the heartbreaking tale of lost love, we called it a night. Gaige offered to help Molly to her bed and, to my surprise, she accepted. I retreated to my own sanctuary for some much needed sleep.

With the doors to the patio open, the screen pulled shut to keep out pesky island critters, a cool breeze swept through my room. Bypassing my usual nightly routine, I collapsed into bed exhausted. For a long moment, I lay snuggled under the light comforter and simply listened to the island’s soundtrack. Ocean waves crashed gently on the shore, insects sang chirpy mating songs to one another, wind rustled leaves at a slow leisurely pace.

I closed my eyes and succumbed to fatigue.