Chapter 4

“How do you know my name,” repeated Agnes.

The floodlights blinded her. She shielded her eyes with both her hands.

Grant smirked, “Promise not to run away if I cut the lights…”

She stood frozen, exposed, like a doe caught by a lion. He went to this car and clicked the lights off. Pitch black for a split second, then the city lights shone for Agnes. Her eyes made out the black Mustang, and the figure coming towards her. He looked lethal, she thought, moved like a panther in the night, hunting.

“Tell me, how do you know me,” Agnes put her hands in front of her.

Grant laughed out loud.

“Agnes, you are not very good at covering your tracks. Anybody could easily follow you.”

Grant leaned on the front bumper of his beautiful car and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Agnes really wanted to run away, but not because she thought he would hurt her. She was actually not getting a creeper vibe. But the state of her… she looked like a college girl who had eaten the whole dessert buffet, had forgotten to shower, and took her last final a week ago. Fabulous. She didn’t want anybody to see her this way. Her converse was dirty, the soles were breaking off, and her belly pudge was just peeking out from her jeans! Kill me now, she thought.

“Ok, so why find me, what is your deal, did I offend you in some way I am unaware of? I haven’t hit anybody lately.”

She saw his eyes look her up and down.

“Agnes, I know what happened to you.”

He smoothed his hair.

“I saw you months ago, driving around with that...man… and I kept seeing you in the same town, changing motels, and I knew there was something off. You were working a hostage, I could see it, but then I realized, you couldn’t see it.

She crossed her arms in front of her.

“He had told me I would be working as his production assistant; he was a music engineer.”

He tried to sound kind, but it came out harshly.

“I’m so sorry, no woman working in production looks… well, like this.” He motioned his chin towards her.

Agnes was boiling with rage. It is one thing for her to know that, yes, and I’ve been through hell, but it is quite another when the possible James Bond casually tells you that Shrek is more attractive than you.

“I’m done,” Agnes muttered, and started to walk towards her car. Grant slowly stood up, following her.

“I know he conned you, and now you have nothing to show for it.”

Agnes kept walking but slowed down just a little bit.

Grant caught up to her but stated behind her.

“He lied to you, stole your money, and left you like this… wrecked.”

The way he said that last word, “wrecked”, sent chills through her bones. She was so scared to face him. He would see, he would see right through her.

“Agnes,” Grant softened his voice, and looked at her shoes. Damn, he thought, this girl has survived the Devil’s grip.

“I truly want to help you.”

She turned around. Tears full of pain just rolled down her cheeks.

“Why? Why do you want to help me? No one else believes me, not even the cops… I’m dead, not even dead, I am a ghost, no money, no job, no way to ever make people understand how this happened to me…”

Agnes was starting to lose it, but she kept it together, wiped away her tears, took a deep breath, and controlled her cracking voice.

“I got this, ok? I’m good. I’ll just drive back to.. to…”

Agnes looked at her car, took a mental inventory of her belongings, and she knew she had no place to go.

Grant wanted to do something to comfort her, touch her arm, but he couldn’t. This girl, somehow, had appeared over and over again in his life, driving around with a crazy Australian man he knew had been using her, but he had no way of interfering. In Grant’s line of work, invisibility was of the essence. But something made him follow them. He tailed them through every motel, diner, and gas station they went to. And Grant quickly realized, this girl had the makings of becoming a spy.

“Agnes, you need to trust me.”

“Why, why me, just get away from me you creep, I don’t know you, and I don’t need anyone!” Agnes turned and ran to her car. She dug in her pockets to find her keys but realized she had left them in the passenger seat. Grant was right behind her, his scent of vanilla and cigarettes invaded her nostrils, and his right hand landed on her right shoulder.

“Please, stop running.”

She broke. She put her body against the door and cried. Grant backed away from her All her life, Agnes had been prey to insincere men, nasty women, and lies. She had attracted the worst possible demons, places, and fantasies since she had left home, and gone to New York to study art. Here, it seems, the city wanted to do everything in its power to darken her, pursuing her weaknesses, and feeding off her insecurity. Agnes did not know how to take care of herself, did not know how to stand up for herself, and obviously, this made her the perfect target for the hunters and killers in the city. Moving to Los Angeles did not make it better, it only created an illusion of newness. A deeper fantasy she fell into. Prime time target for men like the Australian.

Agnes was at her rock, black fungus bottom. Flashes of her life passed through her brain, her mother scolding her for not studying and eating all of the ice cream, back in Puerto Rico where she was raised. Her brother and her rollerblading in the summer through the up and down hilly streets of their neighborhood, drenched in sweat, happy. The happiest times were with her brother, on adventures, wishing they could go farther, do more, run faster, just feeling free. This was who she had been. Fearless, despite all of this muck she found herself in.

Could she do this again, give herself over to someone, trust someone, again? What would a friend tell her… but she had no friends, no one to talk to. She was all alone.

She stopped crying. Grant stood behind her, waiting for her to finish. He checked his wristwatch, then cleared his throat.

“So, I have a proposition for you. An opportunity.”

Agnes had definitely heard this one before. As she wiped her face, and turned around, she laughed.

“Of course, you do!”, her sarcasm impressed him. She tried to fix her hair, but the effort was futile. He made such a serious, seductive, beautiful face… the definition of spy sexy.

“I want to train you as an undercover operative for an international organization that… makes things happen.”

Agnes stared at him, eyes wide open. She did not respond. The first car to pass by since they had been there made such a thunderous zoom, Grant’s jacket lapel fluttered.

“I am not joking Agnes, why would I make this up.”

Agnes crossed her arms in front of her. Grant was perplexed.

“By Jove, I am making a serious proposition. This chance will never come again, I can assure you of that.”

He stepped back, a bit peeved she didn’t believe him. How dare she be so incredulous… of course. He remembered the day when he was recruited himself.

Grant had vanished from his home the day he was sought after. The last time he saw his mother, or his home, again. He replayed the last words she had said to him,

“Be brave.” “Be brave.”

Grant was not sure how she had known, but that was exactly what he needed to hear.

He looked around; the large, frosty breakfast room was painted a warm color. He took one more sip of his coffee, savoring that slightly burnt after taste, thanks to the old butler who always let the hot water and the ground coffee steep too long. He pushed his chair out, had stood up and turned in one swift move.

“All right then,” he had said aloud.

He walked through the great hall, reached the front door, and turned around one last time.

Out in the London city streets, he knew exactly whom he wanted to stay with. Esther had a flat in front of Red Lion square. Usually, on a Wednesday afternoon, he could find her there, taking her pre-diner and post workout nap, if she did not have a fete or a charity event to go to. The sky was almost ready to burst, grey and blue. A chilly July day, though usually it should have been warmer, sunnier. He walked through Princeton Street, almost giddy at the thought of her. Esther.

He had been taken with her the moment they locked eyes at the party his roommate took him to, two years ago now, and then, a week after that, they locked eyes at the latest post-midnight fetish club. She was sitting in a corner booth, black velvet open dress with a high slit, no tights, her dark hair streaming down both shoulders. Next to her, a woman with a pixie blonde cut in a white satin strapless dress nibbled at her ear. They played with each other’s hair, almost kissed, but not quite. A man sat in front of them, trying to get Esther to join him in one of the rooms. But, she resisted, although kept him around for the attention. Grant caught her attention; their eyes were like magnets. A shot of red light pierced right above them from the ceiling. It started then. Afterwards, he followed her to more obscure, high-end body bars and pleasure lounges. Sometimes, they were called the “Club”, or the “Members Only” lounge. Only daughter of the most prestigious rabbi in London, her mother died when she was three, so the world was her oyster, with no one to watch her come and go. Grant was obsessed with her. He had no interest in the law, whatsoever, and he did not care if he finished his career at Oxford to begin a barrister one. But, unlike him, she knew deep down, she would settle with a nice Jewish boy in her own social stratosphere.

But he fell for her. Hard. To the point of proposing marriage to her. This was what he wanted to do, as he walked to apartment. They had never had a coffee or taken a walk together to Westminster Cathedral. But all this in good time, thought Grant. He had so many interested girls, this one would surely want to be the head fan girl. He could see her meeting his family, and impressing them with her wit and beauty, not to mention her birth. Grant wanted to meet her father, and maybe be inspired to be a part of the family business: real estate.

He reached the apartment building. It was almost ugly looking, but in that very expensive, modern way. Green marble floors, dusty grey brickwork. There was only one loft per floor,15 stories to it. Grant had never actually been to her place in the daytime. Nocturnal visits and impasses were the normal exchange for her.

He rang her loft, 15. Top floor.

It was beginning to drizzle a bit, and he wasn’t wearing a raincoat. Surely, she would let him up in no time.

There was no response.

He buzzed again. Another ring would do the trick, Grant said to himself. She must be waking up from her nap.

The intercom came on. “Yes?” It was Esther, a husky, but confident mid-pitch voice, with a nasal timber to the way her words ended.

“Esther, it’s me, let me up.”

Esther paused. Intercom paused as well. Then, back on.

“Who is it?”

Grant laughed out loud.

“Esther, it’s me, Grant.”

The intercom went blank. Rain started to come down harder, now with thunder. Fat drops fell from the tips of his hair unto his forehead. He hit the buzzer three times in a row.

Nothing.

Grant began to breath heavily. His hands were shaking. From the cold, he told himself.

How can she not let me up? Is she drunk? Is she all right, is there someone else there?

He let his thumb linger on the buzzer, for a good thirty seconds. Non-stop buzz.

Finally, Esther’s voice came through.

“Please stop. Please leave... I’m sorry.”

And that was it. Pouring, ice cold rain hit his ears, his back was soaking wet, and his feet were frozen to the ground. It seemed to Grant his heart had stopped beating. The world around him had turned hazy. He stopped breathing. Grant had never been rejected before.

His ears started to ring, and his eyes half closed. His right hand went to his heart as he stumbled backward, almost bumping into a light post. The rain truly mocked him, falling harder on him as his heart broke. First in small pieces, then in larger ones, floating around his chest cavity, then perhaps falling into his intestines. He took a deep breath, after having had no oxygen for a minute or so, and breathed through his mouth, cupping his hands to his lips. He could barely make out the street he was on. The rain looked like a grey and white wall, keeping him from anything warm. He wandered off into the rain, beginning to become a part of the wall. He felt nothing, cared nothing, and wanted nothing anymore.

That night, ending up in one dark, desolate pub on Rupert Street, who should he meet, but Ezra Salman.