Adventures at the Palacio

Eighteen months in Estoril and Deeva still felt out of place. Working at the Palacio Hotel, she fit it about as well as a kitten living in an aquarium. She spoke just enough Portuguese to get by and even then she feared her Australian accent stuck out in all the worst ways. It was ungainly, awkward. Not the elegant, aristocratic elocution of the wealthy British tourists who spent holidays there, gambling and drinking away their trust funds without a care.

As usual, she found herself nearly late for work, distracted by the breathtaking view at the hotel’s terrace. She gazed out at the glorious sun as it bathed the vast garden with an otherworldly shade of gold. It was hypnotizing enough to make her forget the troubles that brought her to Portugal. The sudden death of her mother, the breakup of her marriage, her monetary woes. All of that washed away as she lost herself in the glow of a stunning sunrise. All seemed perfect in the world.

A stern British accent from behind snapped her back to reality. “Ah, here you are, Deeva!”

She turned, face red with embarrassment, finding the rock-hard scowl of her boss. “I had a feeling you’d be running a little behind schedule today.”

“I’m sorry, Chef. I was on my way to the kitchen — “

He stopped her. “Actually, I’m here to tell you that won’t be necessary.”

“Oh, am I getting a day off?”

“Well… not exactly.” His face softened. Deeva braced for bad news. “I’m sorry. But we had to have layoffs on the kitchen staff, and, as the least experienced member of the staff…”

She choked back tears. “I understand.”

They shared an uneasy smile and a handshake. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. With your culinary skills, you’ll have no trouble finding work — all those amazing things you do with those knives!”

“Thanks, all those years of working at my parents steakhouse.”

After sharing goodbyes, she headed home, her life’s picture falling more and more out of focus with every step.

***

Seconds after getting home, her cell phone’s ringtone jarred her back to life. Maybe Chef Bannister had changed his mind. She fished the phone from her purse and brought it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Yes, hello, Deeva.”

Deeva tried to hide her disappointment and probably failed. “Oh, yes. Hi, Tomas.”

Tomas was the landlord of the home she lived at. It had been owned by her parents as a vacation home, but financial drama after the move forced Deeva to sell it, then remain as a renter. This worked out fine as long as she was employed at the Palacio hotel. But with that job gone, the landlord’s call was just more bad news.

“I was letting you know that I will be raising the rent next month.”

Silence. Deeva didn’t know what to say.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes, sorry, I am. Um… how much of an increase is it?”

He told her and the phone nearly slipped from Deeva’s hand. She did her best to choke the sense of panic from her voice. “Yes, very good. Talk soon!” She hung up before getting a reply, then squatted on the floor, collapsing in tears.

***

Hour later, she decided it was time to rummage through her closet, looking for something she could sell for quick money. Her mother had left lots of boxes that she never bothered to go through, probably just pictures. The few she had opened contained an endless grouping of photo after photo, most of which only provoked unhappy memories.

She recalled a strained relationship, too many arguments, not enough warmth. At times, her mother felt more like an older sister, resentful of the attention her baby sister got, and almost never there when she needed a mother’s hug or kind words. This was why she couldn’t bear to see any more photos.

But in the desperate hour, she needed to try anything. As much as she didn’t want to scrape up horrible memories, she had no choice. Besides, she’d already reached rock bottom. She couldn’t fall any further.

The first unopened box was, as expected, full of more photos. Mother at the beach, mother at the casino, mother shopping. The only surprise was the sight of another man, a handsome fellow maybe thirty or forty.

The next batch contained more of the same, including more shots of the mystery man. She could tell her mother was widowed in those pics, so it didn’t worry her that the pair seemed romantically involved. But she was curious just the same.

After three or four boxes full of pictures, she stumbled across a box that featured three things: A container, shaped like a soap dish, Shaking it suggested it was a pile of bills, perhaps enough to pay her rent.

She gasped as if jabbed in the belly. Deeva was tempted to attribute it to divine intervention, but a letter at the bottom of the box seemed likely to offer a better explanation.

Dearest Deeva,

I will probably be dead once you have read this and it saddens me to say that these may be the final words you will have heard from your mother.

Assuming this is to be the case, the reasons for my death may be a mystery to you. But I can assure you that all will become clear in due time. To begin, I apologize deeply for having lied to you. I am indeed your mother and the man you believe to be your father, God rest his soul, is indeed your father. Nearly everything beyond that is a lie.

I have spent virtually my entire adult life working for an agency that deals in matters best left unsaid. The handsome man you see pictured with me in the casino is a man named BOND. The two of us had a torrid love affair that was brief, but intense. I did my best to assist him and afterwards was contacted by the agency I later worked for. They somehow discovered what I did for him and offered me a career working for them. From this point on, I can offer no further details about the nature of my work. Doing so would put your life at risk — unless you choose to accept the offer you’ll find later.

The money you’ve doubtlessly found by now is yours if you choose to accept your assignment. If you don’t, you must get rid of it immediately and cease reading this at once. I must warn you. The container that holds 20 thousand in US dollars has been wired in such a way that once opened, your whereabouts will be immediately known to the agency. You will then have twenty-four hours to comply or you will be killed. I repeat: if you don’t wish to go through with this, stop reading right away.

Deeva’s hands shook, but she didn’t stop reading. She couldn’t.

If you would like to accept it, all that is needed is for you to deliver the Black Moleskine Notebook at the bottom of the book to the address listed at the bottom of this letter. You will wait for contact from an American named Bill. This individual will instruct you from there.

I must warn you, this is highly dangerous work. My life is currently in danger and will very likely end soon, because I underestimated that danger. Do not make the same mistake, my darling.

One last note: You may be wondering how this woman you knew to be terrified of gun violence came to be involved in international espionage. The simple answer is that while my fear of guns was very real, my fear of violence was not. I worked for the agency for eleven years and never once used a gun. Instead I used a unique form of martial arts crafted by a man at the agency when he noticed my childhood work as an acrobat.

I say all this to say that I forged my own in the agency, just as you must forge your own. You must use your talents regardless of how seemingly unsuited they are to the world of espionage. Good luck, my sweet.

Always,

Your mother

P.S. Your code name is COLD. You must never forget this.

Deeva re-read the letter several more times, wondering if the whole thing was just a fevered dream. But it was very real and very overwhelming. She took a look inside the notebook. The first words read: For COLD and nobody else.

She rose to her feet, knowing she had no choice but to be strong. She stuffed the letter in her pocket, then raced to her car, notebook under her arm.

***

The address was instantly familiar. It was the Palacio Hotel, the place she had just been fired from. With the notebook still tucked under her arm, she jabbed her hands in her pockets to hide their shake and walked inside.

She waited at a table, pretending to be there for service, but didn’t see any men around, let alone any that identified himself as Bill or anything else. Five minutes, then ten. Nothing.

A waitress approached her, handed her a bill. “Hello, there. I believe this is yours, ma’am.”

“No, no,” she answered. “I didn’t order anything —“

The waitress said. “You are mistaken, ma’am. This is the bill you have been waiting for.”

Deeva looked at the bill. There was nothing written on it except an arrow pointing upward — at the waitress. The woman’s American accent suddenly made sense. This was the ‘bill’ she was expecting.

“Follow me,” the waitress said.

Deeva went with her into an empty elevator. As soon as the doors closed, the waitress spoke in double-time. “You will go up to room 333 on the seventh floor and you will deliver the notebook, from there you will return to the lobby and leave. Is that understood?”

“Um… I work here and there is no room 333. The rooms only go up to 330.”

“Take my word for it. There will be a 333 for you.”

Puzzled, Deeva nodded.

“Good luck.” The waitress got off at the third floor. Once at the seventh, Deeva stepped out and took cautious steps to 333, then knocked at the door. It didn’t take long for the door to open. A dour-faced man grabbed the notebook from her without a word, then slammed the door.

She scampered back to the elevator, clicking the button multiple times before it finally got there. A room service tray — cluttered with silverware — took up half the space, but when the door started to close, she breathed a sigh of relief.

But she wasn’t safe just yet. Someone had stopped the door from closing, got in after her. She turned and saw the dour-faced man. Once the door had closed, he reached into his breast pocket, his face sharp as a dagger.

As soon as she felt the cold of his postal against her neck, she reached for a knife from the tray, reaching behind and slicing at the hand. The man screamed, then aimed a punch at her face. She countered with a swing from the knife, bringing the knife to his neck while positioning herself behind him.

With her free hand, she pushed ‘lock doors’ on the elevator panel. “I don’t know who you are or why you want to kill me but right now you’re going to tell me how to get out of here without attracting attention. Okay?”

“Yes,” he said, his Portuguese accent thick. “You will get off on the first floor, then take the fire escape down.”

She scooped his gun off the floor, aimed it at his head. “Thank you.” She then opened the door and did as he’d instructed. Racing down the fire escape, she had no idea what had just happened, but she knew whatever it was, there was no turning back from it.