The Chemist

She’d had Barnaby to save her. Who was going to save the dumb kid they’d recruited after her? The newcomer would be brilliant, just as she had been, but he or she would be blind to the most important element. Forget serving your country, forget saving innocent lives, forget the state-of-the-art facilities and the groundbreaking science, and the unlimited budget. Forget the seven-figure salary. How about not being murdered? No doubt the person now holding her old position had no idea that his or her survival was even in question.

She wished she had a way to warn that individual. Even if she couldn’t spend all the time Barnaby had devoted to helping her. Even if it could be only one conversation: This is how they reward people like us. Get ready.

But that wasn’t an option.

The morning was spent on more preparations. She checked into the Brayscott, a small boutique hotel, under the name Casey Wilson. The ID she used wasn’t much more convincing than Taylor Golding’s, but two of the phone lines were ringing as she registered, and the busy desk clerk wasn’t paying close attention. There were rooms available this early, the clerk told her, but Casey would have to pay for an extra day, as check-in did not begin till three. Casey agreed to this stipulation without complaint. The clerk seemed relieved. She smiled at Casey, really looking at her for the first time. Casey controlled her flinch. It didn’t matter if this girl remembered Casey’s face; Casey would make herself memorable enough in the next half hour.

Casey used androgynous names on purpose. It was one of the strategies she’d gleaned from the case files Barnaby had fed her, something the real spies did, but it was also common sense, something the fiction writers had figured out as well. The logic was that if people were searching this hotel for a woman, they would start with the clearly female names in the register, like Jennifer and Cathy. It might take them another round to get to the Caseys and the Terrys and the Drews. Any time she could buy for herself was good. An extra minute might save her life.

Casey shook her head at the eager bellman who stepped toward her offering his services and wheeled her single piece of luggage behind her to the elevator. She kept her face turned away from the camera over the control panel. Once inside the room, she opened the bag and removed a large briefcase and a zipper-top black tote. Other than these two things, her suitcase was empty.

She took off the blazer that made her thin gray sweater and plain black pants look professional and hung it up. The sweater was pinned in the back to make it formfitting. She removed the pins and let the sweater bag around her, changing her into someone a little smaller, maybe a bit younger. She removed her lipstick and rubbed off most of her eye makeup, then checked the effect in the large mirror over the dresser. Younger, vulnerable; the baggy sweater suggested that she was hiding in it. She thought it would do.

If she’d been going to see a female hotel manager, she would have played it slightly differently, perhaps tried to add some fake bruises with blue and black eye shadow, but the name on the card at the desk downstairs was William Green, and she didn’t think she would need to put in the extra time.

It wasn’t a perfect plan, and that bothered her. She would have liked to have another week just to review all the possible repercussions. But it was the best option she could set in motion with the time she’d had. It was probably overly elaborate, but it was too late to rethink it now.

She called the desk and asked for Mr. Green. She was connected quickly.

“This is William Green – how can I help you?”

The voice was hearty and overly warm. She immediately had the mental image of a walrus of a man, bushy mustache included.

“Um, yes, I hope I’m not bothering you…”

“No, of course not, Ms. Wilson. I’m here to help in any way I can.”

“I do need help, but it might sound a little odd… It’s hard to explain.”

“Don’t worry, miss, I’m sure I can be of assistance.” He sounded extremely confident. It made her wonder what kinds of odd requests he had fielded before.

“Oh, dear,” she dithered. “This might be easier in person?” She made it into a question.

“Of course, Ms. Wilson. Fortunately, I will be available in fifteen minutes. My office is on the first floor, just around the corner from the front desk. Will that suit?”

Fluttery and relieved: “Yes, thank you so much.”

She put the bags in the closet and carefully counted out the bills she needed from the stash in the large briefcase. She slipped this into her pockets, then waited thirteen minutes. She took the stairs to avoid the elevator cameras.

As Mr. Green ushered her into his windowless office, she was amused to see that her mental image had not been that far off. No mustache – no hair at all except for the barest hint of white eyebrows – but in all other ways very walrus-y.

It wasn’t hard to play frightened, and halfway into her tale of her abusive ex-boyfriend who’d stolen the family heirlooms, she knew she had him. He bristled in a very male way, looking as if he wanted to rant about the sort of monsters who hit little women, but he mostly held his peace aside from several Tut-tut, we’ll take good care of you, you’re safe here kinds of assurances. He probably would have helped her without the generous tip she gave him, but it certainly didn’t hurt. He swore to tell only the members of the staff who were part of her plan, and she thanked him warmly. He wished her well and offered to bring the police in, if that would help. Casey confessed with great sadness how ineffective the police and the restraining orders had been for her in the past. She implied that she could handle this alone as long as she had the help of a big, strong man like Mr. Green. He was flattered, and he hurried out to get everything ready.