To the Death

The offer of free help almost tipped the balance with this hotel manager. But not quite. He had one more question. “Do you need to live in the hotel?” he asked.

“Oh, no. I’ll go back to my aunt’s house. I have a small car.”

“Okay,” said Jim, who was surprised she had not mentioned money. “I’ll pay you four hundred bucks a week. I have to deduct taxes off the top, but you keep whatever tips you get. When do you want to start?”

“How about tomorrow?” she said.

“That’ll be fine. I’ll need your Social Security, a look at your passport, and references if you have any. If you don’t, give me a couple of numbers I can call.”

Shakira told him that was not a problem, and returned to the car for the documents. Fausi was asleep, as well he might have been after the long drive from New York. She retrieved the passport and SS card and reached into her bag for the correct references, all of which had been beautifully forged by the same man who did her passport in the depths of the Syrian embassy in London’s Belgrave Square.

She selected two that pertained to her skills behind a bar. She had others for her work as a housekeeper in a country hotel; others for her efforts as a maid; a couple for her prowess as a waitress; and three more for secretarial jobs, not one of which she had ever held.

The two she chose for Jim Caborn were from the Mighty Quinn Bar in London’s Neal Street, Covent Garden. It was written on letterhead and assured the reader that Miss Martin was truthful, honest, hardworking, and always punctual. The other was from the Hotel Rembrandt, in Buckingham Gate, where Miss Martin had managed the downstairs bar, and again it testified to her reliability.

It was all plenty good enough for Jim, who made careful notes on a blue file index card and gave everything back to Shakira. “See you tomorrow,” he said. “You can work the 4 P.M. ’til eleven o’clock shift. That’s when you’ll learn the most.”

Shakira thanked him. They shook hands. And Jim watched her admiringly as she walked out. He was pleased with his new recruit, and was blissfully unaware that he had just hired the most dangerous woman in the United States.

Outside, she paused to assess her surroundings. The Estuary Hotel had stone white walls with mock Tudor beams, and it stood on a corner of the main street, which ran down to an area on the banks of the Rappahannock and then swerved around to the right.

Shakira guessed that from the top floor of the hotel there would be a view right across the wide river, as indeed there was from the parking lot of the supermarket that was situated on the opposite side of the main street.

Brockhurst had been here for a long time, and developers had taken care to protect its original character. There were many newish buildings, deliberately constructed to reflect the early twentieth century. There was the usual number of real estate agents and boutique gift shops. This little town attracted visitors all through the warm months. And the only place in town to stay was the Estuary, which had twelve rooms with baths in the main building and an outside annex with a dozen more.

Shakira walked around to the back of the hotel. There was a parking area in the rear, big enough for a large delivery truck to unload supplies. The street that ran along the side of the hotel was narrow and lonely. There were two small stores, one selling hardware, the other children’s clothes.

More certain of her bearings now, she walked back to the car and woke Fausi, who was asleep again. She climbed into the backseat. “Get moving,” she said. “I’ve just been hired, but I’m not living here. I start tomorrow afternoon.”

“Beautiful,” replied Fausi. “Now I’ll take you to your new home.” He turned the car north, and they drove back up Route 17 for a couple of exits and then swung down a tree-lined road to a new apartment block, cleverly set back into surrounding woodland.

The sign at the entrance said CHESAPEAKE HEIGHTS, which was interesting since the land in this part of the Virginia peninsula, which lies between the Rappahannock and York rivers, was almost geometrically flat.

It was 6:30 now, and the light was just beginning to fade. Shakira signed her lease, paid the money, and moved into the top-floor apartment. Fausi went off to buy her some groceries, just regular stuff: bread, milk, butter, preserves, cold cuts, eggs, fruit juice, rice, a few spices, cheese, Danish pastries, apples, grapes, peaches, and coffee. He delivered them in a couple of big boxes, one at a time.

“Will you need me tonight?” he asked, conscious of his 24-hour duties as Shakira’s driver, bodyguard, and personal assistant.

“No,” she replied. “But I’d like to make a tour of the area tomorrow morning. How about 10:30?”

“No problem,” he said. “I’d better get moving.”