Chapter 33
I open my eyes slowly, hearing the low hum of the plane flying at forty thousand feet.
It is dark in the plane cabin. Two small reading lights, one to the right of me and one to the front, are faintly illuminating the persons underneath.
My head is resting on Sam’s chest, and I smile to myself at my innocent physical contact. I don’t move, pretending to still be asleep.
“Did you have a good rest?” he asks in a low voice, and I feel the deep vibration of his chest against my ear. He must have felt me stirring.
“Yes . . .” I lift my head and smile.
“Good.” He smiles warmly. “We have two hours to go. You can still have a snooze if you want . . .” And he lifts up his shoulder to show me I can go back.
I smile and take him up on his offer, leaning back on his chest muscles, though I don’t feel like sleeping anymore. I look through the window to the thin streak of dawn appearing on the horizon.
And then—reality comes tumbling in and I remember everything that happened yesterday.
And I remember Frank, being dragged away.
I press my teeth together and close my eyes again.
He needs to be okay. He has to be okay.
I deliberately breathe in and out, slowly, to calm myself. Sam puts his hand on mine but doesn’t say anything. He lets me digest this in my own way.
After a few minutes, I feel a bit calmer. I need to think about something else. Anything else.
I open my eyes again, looking at Sam’s large hands resting on his lap. Several veins are clearly visible, even in this dim light, as they cross over tendons and bones.
“So, you do martial arts?” I ask, remembering the punching bag I saw in his apartment.
“Yes, I do kickboxing.”
“Wow . . . I shouldn’t mess with you, should I?”
He mumbles something that sounds like already did, but it doesn’t make any sense to me.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Never mind. It’s irrelevant.”
I doubt this, but I don’t voice it.
We are silent for a few minutes. I know he’s not going to answer any of the questions I’m really interested in, but I still want to hear him talk.
“So are we staying in Barcelona?” I ask.
“No. We’re driving to La Rioja. We’re gonna visit a friend of mine. He—Eduardo—was a multiple champion of kickboxing, actually. I used to train with him many years ago. He’s my age, but he was always much better than me.” I can tell that he’s smiling, even though I can’t see his face. “He was a great teacher to learn from, too.”
“Impressive. So . . . um, how old is he?” I ask, trying to make the question seem nonchalant.
He chuckles and says, “I’m thirty-three, Jane.”
I have to smile. He figured me out. “Then we don’t have such a big age difference as I thought.”
“Ah, so you’ve been thinking about our age difference?” His voice rumbles against my ear.
Oh, God . . .
I close my eyes.
You don’t even want to know what else has been playing in my mind.
I don’t answer him. Anything I say would only make it worse. Instead, I just enjoy. Enjoy feeling his warmth on my cheek, listening to his heartbeat, moving with his breathing. I wish I could stay like this forever. This is such an innocent touch, but yet—so close.
“How come you don’t have any real furniture in your apartment?” I ask.
“I, um, like it empty. Also, I change projects every few months, so there’s no point in binding myself to one place too much.”
Ah, so you’re one of those guys, huh? “How long do you normally stay on a project?”
“It depends on the client.”
“And what kind of clients are we talking about?”
“Well, just people who want something photograph—”
I lift my head to look at him, raising my eyebrows as I whisper, “False passports, instant plane tickets, surveillance cameras? You’re not really a photographer, are you?”
He looks at me but doesn’t answer, his eyes dark in the dim light.
“What are you, Sam?” I ask quietly.
He swallows, then opens his mouth, but—no words come out. Then he looks down.
I put my hand over his, gripping an armrest. “Sam?”
He looks at me, and for the first time since I’ve met him, I see fear in his eyes.
He’s afraid.
Sam is actually afraid.
What can he possibly be afraid of?
“What, Sam?”
“I . . .” But he doesn’t finish; his mouth is open and silent.
“Sam!” My voice remains quiet but urgent. My heart is beginning to race. I don’t know what I was expecting to hear, but his silence is giving me real alarm signals right now.
“I collect data,” he blurts out.
I frown. “Data? What kind of data?”
“Anything, really. Anything suspicious. I take photos, I do surveillance, collect all the data that might be related to any suspicious activity. And then I . . .” He coughs once into his fist. “I send the information to my superiors.”
“Oh!” I say, straightening in my seat. “Okay, so like an FBI agent, or something like that?”
He looks away. “Yeah. Something like that. Only it’s not exactly a government agency.”
Hmm—I guess that makes sense. “So have you been following the research at the institute? My research?” I quickly look around and then lean in more closely. “Was that your job?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“And when were you assigned to this?”
“A few months back.”
A few months back? Could it be that he knew about me before we met? My heart rate shifts into a higher gear.
“Dr. Rosenberg was leading the project at the time,” he continues.
Oh . . . I lower my gaze. Of course. I came into the picture only when I joined the project myself, two weeks ago. I try to distract myself from these thoughts and focus on something different. Something important. “Did Dr. Rosenberg know what kind of bacteria she was really working on?”
“We don’t know. We assume not.”
“And who is we?”
Just as he’s about to answer, all the lights in the cabin turn on and I need to squint to get used to the brightness again.
Sam straightens in his seat, then says, “Let’s talk about it later, okay?”