Chapter 29
Wednesday 10:49 a.m.
Not someone. Several people.
Their footsteps are quiet, but the old laminate floor creaks as they cross the few feet of the entry hallway and start heading upstairs. I peek over the railing and see several hands holding the banister, moving fast.
Sudden chills pass through my body. Oh, this can’t be good.
I let go and pull my hand close to my chest, clenching it into a fist, then slowly start climbing back up, trying to stay very quiet.
Back on the third floor, I quickly walk to my apartment door, but then I turn around. I don’t hear them anymore. I listen for a moment longer, but there is nothing.
I breathe out, relaxing my shoulders. I’m so uptight that I’m seeing danger in everything.
I’m just taking a step back toward the stairs again when, suddenly, a hand grabs mine and yanks me sideways into an apartment.
Sam’s apartment.
Sam pushes the door closed and leans me against it.
“Shhh!” He bends down close to me, pressing a finger against my lips before I manage to say anything. Then he slowly moves his finger from my lips and reaches for the key stuck in the door, silently locking us in.
“What are you d—”
“Quiet!” he whispers, his face alert, eyes wide open.
He’s still tightly holding my hand, and I’m frowning as I look up at him until—I hear something. Something outside, in the corridor.
I turn my head sideways, listening harder.
The men are on the third floor. They are just outside of Sam’s flat!
I stop breathing.
The old wooden floor creaks softly as the men silently walk down the hall.
And then—a loud crash!
Oh, my God, they broke into my flat!
The door of my apartment bangs on the inside wall.
I hear the floor creaking under the heavy steps, cupboards and drawers being opened, the thud of stuff being thrown on the floor.
What are they doing in there?
A moment later, someone walks out into the hall and says, “She’s not here. But we found her laptop.”
“Give it to me,” I hear another man’s voice in the corridor. “You two, stay here. If she comes back, take her. Do not harm her! We need her alive.”
I hear footsteps heading back to my apartment.
The others seem to be heading to the stairs. “Let’s go back to the car,” the man continues. “We need to get this to headquarters. We need to check if there . . .” He continues talking, but he’s already climbing down the stairs and his voice is too quiet for me to hear.
As the door of my apartment closes, all is silent.
Sam and I are not moving. I’m still looking sideways, leaning on the door. Sam’s hand is still holding mine; the other one resting on the key at the lock. His face is just a few inches away from me and I can feel his breath on the skin of my neck.
Despite everything that has just happened, all I can think of is him—and me, pinned against the door and ridiculously turned on.
I don’t want to move.
I don’t want to break this moment.
Sam is not moving either, his breathing heavy, his eyes on my neck, gazing at the wild pulse in my veins.
Then his hand moves away from the key and he props his palm on the door above me, hovering over me in a way that almost makes me feel trapped.
And this drives me simply insane.
My knees become weak and I heave for another breath, the excitement making an enormous pressure on my chest. Then slowly, very slowly, I turn my head back to him.
My breathing gets shallow, my chest rising irregularly, almost uncontrollably. And we keep looking at each other, neither of us moving, gazes tangled in an enchanted thread impossible to break.
And I do the only thing I can do right now, because resisting just became impossible.
I lean in for a kiss.
Then Sam locks his breath, and I stop just before my lips touch his.
He straightens up, pushes himself away from the door, and takes a half step back. “We need to get out of here.” He takes my hand and walks to his living room.
I follow—broken, rejected, and aroused to my limits.
He brings me to the couch and then lets go of my hand, disappearing into the kitchen. But instead of sitting down, I keep standing, perplexed by everything that has just happened.
I should be afraid right now. Some men have just broken into my house and stolen my laptop and are apparently still trying to capture me.
The findings about the Crazy Gro cells are alarming. The cells grow in blood, and Frank says they don’t look like Thermus at all. And David had an accident and is in hospital struggling for his life.
All of this should make me feel anxious. And afraid.
But it doesn’t.
What I actually feel right now—is embarrassment.
And sadness too. Because Sam so obviously, so clearly, and so painfully rejected me. Again.
Right now, I would like to leave, drop onto my bed, bury my face into the pillows and stay there crying until I fall asleep. But I can’t. There are two strange men in my apartment, and I’m sure they would not let me cry in peace.
So I stay here, feeling defeated and vulnerable.
I look around and slowly take in my surroundings.
There is almost no furniture in his place, only one bare mattress with no bedcover next to a wall. A large red punching bag hangs on a metal chain in a corner. Shades are down on all of the windows and below them are several heavy boxes that I saw when he moved in. They are still unopened.
On the other side of the room stands a large desk with ten computer screens all lined up in a shield, facing a large leather office chair. All the screens display black-and-white images.
Aren’t those . . . ?
Just as I’m about to focus more closely, Sam comes out of the kitchen carrying two bottles. Then he sees me looking at the screens. He takes a few steps back and presses a button.
All the screens go dark.
He stops next to me and hands me one of the bottles. I take it automatically.
“You’re allowed to sit down, you know.” He smiles and nods to the couch.
I’m still not a hundred percent here, still not completely on the ground. I keep trying to connect the dots, make sense out of all this.
I slowly sit down next to him and take a sip. It’s cold and refreshing.
I look at the bottle.
Pomegranate.
I take few more deep gulps, all of a sudden realizing I’m parched. Half of the bottle is gone in no time. I hold the bottle, my gaze unfocused, and look through the pink juice.
“This one is my—”
“Favorite. I know.”
I look at him. “How . . . ?”
Sam looks at the floor, his Coke Zero hanging loosely between his knees, the bottleneck hooked between two of his fingers.
He brings the bottle to his lips and takes a few sips. And in this most bizarre moment, I am enchanted watching him drink his Coke, the top of the bottle lightly pressing against his lips, small waves of the fizzy brownish liquid disappearing behind his mouth.
It would have been the best Coke ad ever.
Then he leans his elbows on his knees, bottle hanging down again, as I try to gather my thoughts.
“It’s . . . it’s complicated, Jane.”
I take a deep breath. Then I look at him and say, more firmly than I thought I could muster, “I have a PhD in microbiology. I’m sure I can keep up.”
He looks at me and smiles a vague smile. “Yes, I’m sure you could. But I can’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. Listen, those people who came”—he points with his thumb backward—“do you know what they want?”
“No. No idea.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Don’t you think it might have to do with your confidential project?”
I lift my eyebrows. “What do you know about my confidential project?”
“As I said, it’s complicated.”
I look at the floor, my eyes searching for some imaginary patterns.
It can’t be linked to the Crazy Gro project. Nobody knows about it. It has to be something else. It has to!
“Whatever it is,” he says, his voice unusually calm, “I don’t think they will leave you alone.”
I look at him, my heartbeat spiking again. Then, all of a sudden, it dawns on me that if he hadn’t pulled me into his apartment—if I had stayed in the hallway—they would have taken me away. They would have done something to me.
And I shiver once, involuntarily and hard.
“Hey,” he says, gently touching my shoulder. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
“Yes,” I whisper. Then I look at him. “How did you know they were coming?”
He takes another sip and then points to the screens with the bottle neck. “Video surveillance.”
I look at the black screens for a few moments, then back at him. “Video surveillance?”
“Yep,” he says and takes another sip.
“Why . . . ?”
“So I can see who’s coming.”
“Why?”
“For moments like this.”
“But you are a . . . a photographer. Right?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead he stands up and sits on the leather chair, then brings the first screen in front of him back to life.
“You’re not answering my question,” I press.
He still doesn’t respond. He’s typing something: white words on a black screen. It looks like an old DOS system window but I’m sure it’s something else.
“We need to disappear for a while,” he says quietly.
“What?” I jump from my seat. “No way! I need to go to the institute. Frank is waiting for me there and we need to figure out—”
“The institute is probably the worst place you could be right now, Jane.”
“No! Francesco is in danger!” I dig into the pockets of my trousers, trying to find my cell phone. “I need to call him. I need to—”
“No!” Sam is suddenly next to me. “You can’t. They’ll know where you’re calling from, Jane. They’ll know you’re here.” He takes a deep breath and slowly puts his hands on my shoulders. “You can’t go to the institute or anywhere else they might expect you. We need to disappear, leaving no trace. All right?”
“But . . .” I look at the floor in despair, shaking my head. “I can’t leave. I don’t have any clothes. I—I don’t have anything!”
“Don’t worry, Jane. I’ll organize everything you need.” He lets me go and walks back to the computer screens.
He’ll organize everything . . . what? “Aren’t you overdoing it a bit?”
“Maybe.” He looks back at me and we are silent for a moment. “If I am,” he says calmly, “then there’s no harm done. You’re just taking a small vacation.”
“And if you’re not overreacting?” I ask.
“Then I’m saving your life,” he says and turns back to the computer.