The Good Liar. Laura Caldwell
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members of the Trust knew each other only by their aliases, and they’d been strictly trained to look no further. But even before he was a board member of the Trust, he knew Elena Mistow’s real name. Everyone did. Because Elena Mistow was royalty. Her father had founded the entire organization.
Now, he and the woman called Elena sat at an outdoor café in Santa Terese, a charming area set on a hillside in Old Rio. He tried not to be impressed by Elena. She was younger than he, after all, and his subordinate. But there was her lineage. And her beauty.
Elena was all business. “What do we know about Luiz Gustavo de Jardim? Will he show himself anytime soon?”
“Gustavo will appear in public in the next six months. He has to. He’s talking about running for office again, and he needs to thwart rumors that he’s already dead.”
“Wouldn’t that be convenient?”
They both laughed. Nothing was ever easy or convenient with the Trust. They were silent for a minute, sipping coffee that tasted nutty and somewhat ashy. To the many on the street, they probably looked like a couple enjoying a break from the day.
“He’ll pull the same stunt he always does,” Roger continued. “He’ll make his kids and wife surround him.”
“The bastard uses them as human shields,” Elena said bitterly, which amazed Roger. She still cared about who got hurt.
“It works for him,” Roger said. “He’s a small man. His wife is the same height. By now one of his sons will probably be taller.”
“Audacious,” she murmured. “And evil.”
“We might have to take out the shields.”
They exchanged a long look.
Roger broke the stare first, taking another sip of his coffee and gazing at passersby.
“We’ve never done that,” Elena said. “We’ve sworn not to.”
“It’s impossible to infiltrate Gustavo’s inner circle…so other measures have to be taken to eliminate him. And times are changing. You know that as well as I.”
“No collateral damage. That’s always been our rule.”
“Everything changes. Don’t hold on too tight. Just hold on to our mission. Taking out Gustavo, no matter what the cost, advances our end, and that’s still pure.”
Elena Mistow peered up at the gray-blue sky. She seemed to study something in the atmosphere. A minute passed, then another. “Jesus,” Elena said.
Roger stayed silent. He sensed the searching of her mind, the processing, the emotion. He hoped she would draw the conclusion he’d already made.
Finally, she nodded. “So we take out the shields as a last resort.”
Roger permitted himself the faintest of smiles before he raised his cup and took another sip.
2
One week later
Oakbrook, Illinois
I looked out my kitchen window. The Saturday afternoon sun was lighting the empty swing set and the bare winter ground. Another endless Saturday lay before me. I could remember, in a distant way, a time when my weekends were packed with activity and bursting with possibility.
I picked up the phone and called Liza’s cell phone. “It’s your sad, pathetic friend Kate,” I said when she answered.
“Don’t call yourself sad,” said Liza.
“Can I still call myself pathetic?”
“Absolutely.”
I laughed. Talking to Liza was about the only thing that got me laughing anymore.
“Are you back?” I asked.
“I was back, and I left again.”
“Where were you last week?”
“Montreal. And I got something for you.”
Liza Kingsley was always finding gifts for me on her travels. In Tokyo, she bought me a handbag in taupe-colored silk. I carried it for years until the lining began to shred. When Liza was in Budapest, she sent back a handwoven rug swirled with gold and celadon green. She was always going to London and bringing me packets of sweets from Harrods and, once, a cocktail dress in a chocolate brown, which she said would complement my eyes.
She was that kind of a friend. A great friend. Her friendship went beyond thoughtful gifts and a shared history. It was her phone calls and her visits and her cheerleading and her love that had propped me up and sustained me since Scott left.
And now this souvenir from Montreal.
“Tell me,” I said.
“I found you a man.”
I coughed. “What?”
“He’s amazing,” Liza said.
“I’m not ready to date.”
“Kate, it’s been ten months since he left. It’s time to dip your toe in the waters.” A pause. “And look, you’re not going to date. You’d just go on a date.”
Wind forced one of the swings into the air. A second later, it listed to a halt. “I don’t think so.”
“His name is Michael Waller.” She paused. “And he’s French.” Now she had a little goad in her voice.
“Don’t kid.”
“It’s true. Well, he’s American, but he’s of French descent, and he speaks the language fluently.”
“You’re taunting me.” Liza knew that French men, or at least men who could speak French, were my downfall. It was a trait uniquely embarrassing, because everyone I knew hated French men. Such men were thought pompous. Affected. Liza and I had grown up in Evanston, Illinois, but I’d spent six months after high school in a small town outside Paris, where I fell in love with a boy named Jacques. It was tragic. It was ridiculous. But I was hooked on the accent and the hooded eyes and the utter disdain French men carried for everyone, including themselves.
“It’s true,” Liza said again. “Of course, it’s just one of the six languages he knows.”
“Stop.” I turned away from the window and leaned against the stainless steel fridge.
“All true.”
“How old is he?”
She cleared her throat. “He’s a little older than you.”
“Spill it, Liza.”
“Michael is a very young fifty-five.”
“That’s seventeen years older than me!”
“I know, I know, but I wouldn’t recommend him if I didn’t think he was the perfect rebound man. Remember, this is just for fun.”
“But seventeen years?”
“Hey, Scott was our age, and that didn’t make a damn bit of difference, did it?”
I squeezed my eyes closed. It stung, yet Liza was absolutely right. The only thing that had made a difference was that I couldn’t have a child. Oh, I could get pregnant with a little medical assistance—and I did three times, in fact—but such pregnancies always ended in miscarriages. My body rejected the babies, and in return, Scott rejected me. Having a family was the most important thing in the world to him, even more important than his wife. And he was fiercely opposed to adoption. He wanted a baby who was his, he’d said over and over. Strangely, I didn’t think I even wanted children anymore. The quest had sucked me dry, left me with little maternal desire. So Michael’s age didn’t matter in that respect.
“You there?” Liza said.
“Unfortunately.