The Planck Factor

George must have heard the despair in my voice. He leaned toward me. In a calm and deliberate tone, he said, “He chose to do what he did. He may have done it for you, but you didn’t force him.”

I shrugged my acquiescence. Sure. That’s what I’ll tell myself.

“How do you know Selby’s the key?”

George started to speak, but nothing came out. “Sorry. Need to . . . .”

“Yes, I get it!” I snapped. “Need to know only. Gee, where have I heard that before?”

George stared at me, eyes intent with something approaching fear. My arms and neck broke out in gooseflesh.

“Believe me,” he murmured. “You’re better off not knowing the possibilities.”

I inhaled sharply, suddenly aware that I’d been holding my breath.

“Shouldn’t I at least know who your operative is?” I asked. “So I can contact him.”

“The operative will contact you,” George said. His look told me this was a non-negotiable point. “You can pool your notes and get a sense of what these folks are really up to.”

“Do you think they’ll get suspicious and check me for a wire?” I asked.

“Ah.” George held up a finger. “You’re wearing jeans. This should fit.”

He produced a leather belt that was something less than Gucci, but could pass for high quality.

“There’s a tracking device and transmitter here.” He showed me the unremarkable gray rectangle hidden behind the buckle. “All you do is pretend to adjust your belt and hit this tiny micro-switch.” He pointed at a small protuberance in the metal. “Want to practice?”

I spent the next ten minutes, repeatedly adjusting the belt in a way that would hopefully look innocuous. The first couple of times seemed awkward, but with repetition, the move became easier.

Meanwhile, George tested out the receiver from upstairs. “Loud and clear!” he announced, each time we ran the test.

“Okay,” he said, upon his return. He looked almost proud of me. “You’re good. You’ll be fine.”

“I guess I’d make a pretty good spy, huh?”

George drew close and gave me a mock conspiratorial look. “They’re called agents, Mrs. Lambert.” He smiled to underscore the joke.

I knew the line. Walter Matthau said it in Charade, a movie about a widow who blunders into a situation involving stolen money and a pack of rogues who are convinced she has it. Matthau played a fake U.S. intelligence agent who claims he needs her help.

For the first time in I don’t know how long, I laughed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Jessica

The plan was for me to return to Liz’s apartment by cab. As George and his nameless twin busied themselves preparing to leave, Liz drew me aside, out of their earshot.

“Don’t worry. I have your back, too,” she murmured

.

“What do you mean?” I whispered, checking my belt buckle reflexively to make sure I hadn’t left the hidden listening device on.

“I’ll keep the security detail in the wings. Just in case.”

Just in case what? From what I’d seen of Cotter and his sidekick Billy, I wasn’t overly impressed. Cotter seemed capable enough, but Billy? I sincerely hoped the Feds would come through in an emergency, because I didn’t want to rely on the Abbott and Costello of security guard teams.

“Could you do me favor?” I asked Liz, digging the note from my pocket. “If anything happens to me, please give this to Mom and Dad.”