Page 25 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Twenty-One

Rebecca Levi is in her early sixties with curly hair floating just above her shoulders. Her brown eyes sparkle with intelligence warmed by kindness.

I recognize her robin’s egg blue pantsuit as Carolina Herrera. A gold watch sparkles on her wrist. A string of pearls circles her neck.

She's smiling at me like we were introduced by a mutual girlfriend rather than Temperance Johnson—whose occupation at this point is unknown. Though I suspect once a spy, always a spy.

We are both seated in high-backed chairs, Temperance the tip of our triangle on a padded bench.

"I appreciate you taking the time to come and meet me," Ms. Levi says.

"To be fair, I didn't know I was meeting you." I give her a smile— sorry, but I ’ m not going to kiss your ass .

Ms. Levi's own smile widens as if she appreciates the honesty. I had a feeling that's what she would want. She may enjoy men groveling but not women. Especially not women she is going to ask for help.

Whatever she wants from me is dangerous and illegal and we both know it.

The woman who greeted us reappears. "Can I offer you something to drink?"

"I'll have a caffè, Martina,” Ms. Levi says. She looks to me.

"The same, thank you."

Temperance stands. "Let me help you," he offers. Martina nods her agreement. They leave us.

Rebecca Levi’s full focus falls on me. "I appreciate your trusting Temperance enough to come tonight."

"He seems to have a lot of faith in you," I say, ignoring the implication that I have faith in him.

"Yes, well." She cocks her head to the side, humor lighting her gaze. "He's a smart man." She winks and I can't help but let out a short laugh.

"Ms. Levi?—"

"Call me Rebecca."

"Rebecca, why am I here?" More not beating around the bush. More not bullshitting. There are no men here we need to make sure don't feel threatened by our directness.

"From what I understand, you and President Grand have a tense relationship."

"Tense." I huff a laugh. "We have a mutual destruction pact." Though, at this point, I doubt I could hurt him. My story would be just another scream in the cacophony.

"So you're hoping for a change in the administration?”

"I'd pray for it if I believed in a God who answered such requests."

"I'd like you to help me win." It feels like I just stepped on a landmine and moving could get me blown up. So I don't. "Grand has allies working on his behalf—disinformation is a powerful thing."

"Yes," I agree. "But I'm not sure how I can help with that."

"Truth is—" She opens her hands, gesturing to the sides. Truth is something we can't define.

My smile is brittle. I know she's right and I hate it. Truth is supposed to be ultimate. But reality refuses to play by the rules of evidence.

"Perception has more power." I shrug as if that's a truth I don't mind. It's certainly one I've managed to use to my advantage.

"Grand is in trouble—if he doesn't win, he faces indictments on several fronts, including the emoluments clause and treason.

" I stay very still on my unexploded landmine.

She smiles, soft and kind, like she can see it.

Like she wants to help me off without either of us losing a limb. "You don't look surprised by that."

"I follow the news. The accusations of election interference from Russia have been widely reported.” I blink away the images that try to spring forward—the blood and brains of Vladimir Petrov spattered all over my bedroom.

"And I understand there are accusations that Grand is profiting from his position through his businesses.” Temperance returns with three little cups brimming with crème-topped espressos on a tray.

“As you said, facts are not the problem. Belief is.”

Rebecca takes one of the drinks and offers it to me.

“Facts matter in a court of law—a place Grand can end up if he loses the election, one he will surely avoid if he wins.” She sips her espresso before continuing.

The crèma lines her lips for a brief moment before she licks it off.

“He and his allies are working hard to insure that Grand wins this election. And that he won't have to surrender power when his next term expires. If we don’t stop him now, we may not get another chance.”

A pit opens in my stomach. I know the man has ambitions of dictatorship—no one working so closely with the Kremlin is going to feel constrained by democratic rules.

People who believe in a government of, by, and for the people don’t claim it can’t survive without a strongman.

But hearing it said out loud always makes me feel sick.

"Do you honestly think that’s possible?" I ask.

"Nothing is impossible." Rebecca smiles at me like that's a good thing. Temperance puts the tray aside and settles back onto his bench. He watches us over the rim of his cup, his silent observation making my skin itch.

I meet his gaze. "What do you think?" I ask.

"I agree with Rebecca. As you know, Grand has been systematically replacing civil servants with loyalists. Many states are changing their election rules at his request. He's a threat to our democracy. And always has been."

Another silence stretches. Wind whispers through the trees and brings the scents of rosemary, lavender, and sun-baked earth up to the veranda.

“Let me ask you a question," I say. They both nod.

"Are either of you officially involved with the US government at this time?” I turn to Rebecca.

"From what I know of you, you're a private citizen—a very wealthy and influential woman with political ambitions, but you currently hold no political office.

Right?" She nods, a subtle smile slipping across her lips as if I'm a student who's proving to be brighter than she’d originally hoped.

"And Temperance, you were recently relieved, shall we say, of your position. "

"That's right," he agrees, one leg casually crossed over the other as if this isn't a conversation about treason.

"So…seems like you don't have any official roles here."

"We need your help." Rebecca skips over my point.

"I'm not going to be able to influence anyone you need influenced.

I'm a woman—so you know his side isn't going to respect anything I say. Grand would gladly see me dead. My power over elections is nonexistent. I’m not even secure in my role as a government agent. My current handler tried to kill me?—”

Temperance interrupts. “She just wanted to scare you.”

Rage ignites, flourishes, flushes my skin. I glare at Temperance. He appears totally unfazed by my wrath.

"You underestimate yourself, Angela," Rebecca says, her voice calm. "You have ties with English and Jordanian royalty."

I let out a surprised laugh. "Even if I do, which I'm not saying I do. But even if I did, what good would that do?"

They both stare at me. Waiting for their pupil to pick up on whatever it is they are laying down. "What?" I ask, fear starting to tickle up my spine. They wait. "I'm not going to guess." I put my espresso cup down on a side table next to my chair. "You're going to have to spell it out."

“How much do you know about Omar bin Rami’s family?” Temperance asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing. I mean, I know he’s from the royal family of Jordan but not much else. I try not to Google people I…” My voice trails off because my no-Google rule seems suddenly stupid. Painfully stupid and naive.

“Omar’s father is the king,” Temperance says, his voice dropping into a tone I recognize.

Professor Temperance has entered the group chat.

“His mother is American. A former fashion model who has become a powerful advocate for human rights. They are very progressive for the region. The king and queen of Jordan are powerful allies whose values align with ours. Enough.”

Enough.

“His brother,” Temperance continues, “Crown Prince Elias bin Rami, is the next in line to the throne. And does not share the rest of his family’s values. A devout Muslim, he is a true believer--”

Rebecca interrupts him. “He’s a zealot.”

Temperance tips his head to the side. She’s not wrong, but he wouldn’t use that word. Even here, in this intimate conversation. Always so careful…

“The king of Jordan is sick,” Temperance continues. “Terminal cancer. They are keeping it quiet, but we are sure of our sources.”

“And the queen of England won’t live much longer either,” Rebecca says. “She is in her late eighties—and in poor health. She hasn’t been seen in public since the episode you witnessed. Her son, Prince Edmund, is morally bankrupt. He admires dictators and hates women.”

The media coverage of his divorce swirl through my mind. I was a kid when it happened but remember the scandal. It was a huge story—dominating the magazines in the checkout line for more than a year.

Divorce in the royal family would have been bad enough, but accusations of abuse leveled against the prince brought the media frenzy to a fever pitch. Then the tragic boating accident…that some said wasn’t an accident at all, but rather a way to silence Helena.

Victoria lost her mother and had to grieve with the eyes of the world on her. Sympathy wells in my chest, the heartache of my own loss echoing behind my breast bone.

“I see,” I say. “Two of the United States’s closest allies are about to experience leadership changes.

Positions now held by monarchs aligned with your.

..vision…” I make eye contact with Rebecca.

She nods, encouraging me to go on. “ …will be replaced by two men who would support Grand’s aspirations of authoritarianism. ”

“Exactly.” Rebecca’s smile is sad. She’s proud her student grasped the concept but regrets the lesson learned.

“I still don’t understand how I can help,” I say.

“You have connections with the two people who would take those roles if something happened to the next in line,” Temperance explains.

“Excuse me?” I raise my brows at him. Are you suggesting those two men are not going to survive long enough to wear the crown?

"You're going to receive an invitation," Temperance says. I take in a slow steady breath. "From Princess Victoria. To join her at Balmoral Castle in Scotland for a hunt. Omar will be there. A larger party will join you, but you’ll have two nights alone with them.” I clench my jaw to keep the scream inside me from slipping out. “We’d very much like you to attend.”

I wait a beat, turning around his words inside my head, trying to build them into a message I can understand. "So you want me to go to a party at a castle."

Temperance nods. Rebecca watches me.

"And what do you want me to do there?”

Temperance leans forward, and I get the sense that he's about to push me off the landmine, forcing its explosion. "Listen, learn. And, if the opportunity presents itself, give this to the princess.” He reaches inside his suit jacket and pulls out the compass, it’s bronze cover catching the low light.

“She’ll know what to do with it.” Temperance doesn’t offer me the compass, he just lets it sit in his palm, a silent screaming participant in our conversation.

"Are they even that powerful?" I ask. "I mean, the royal family of England. Aren’t they just figureheads? How involved are they in…"

"The royal family," Temperance says, "are briefed on intelligence matters and are very attached to the stability of their nation and its allies."

"Grand is erratic and easy to manipulate," Rebecca says. "He wants to be a dictator. Democracy around the globe would be threatened if the United States fell to authoritarianism. The princess is particularly concerned about the impact of such a regime on women’s rights.”

"Reginald Grand is a very real threat to the security of the United States and the world at large,” Temperance says, his voice a low rasp. He believes what he's saying. Or he's doing one hell of a job acting.

"I don't know that I can help," I say, trying to wriggle out of the request.

"We just want you to speak with the princess, give her the compass,” Rebecca says. There is a wrinkle of concern between her brows, and etched around her eyes. "You're already in danger. If Grand dismantles our democracy, you’re likely to end up on the list of people he won’t let survive."

"Think about that ambulance ride the other night," Temperance says.

"You said they were not trying to kill me, just scare me."

"This time," Temperance says.