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grateful that Fionna's manager, at least, was cooperating willingly
with Intelligence. It would make things far easier in the long run. She
could save what was left of her energy for making security
arrangements. Mr. Ringwall would probably be pleased at the cost
savings. The room tariff was remarkably expensive, even by London
standards.
Preston, the security man, was still shooting daggers her way. Her
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very presence was an affront to him. Well, if he could scare away
bogeys, she wouldn't be here!
Her legs felt heavy and tired as she followed Fionna toward the lift
alcove. She watched the singer saunter with ease, as if she had not
been up all night, had not spent nine hours cramped in a plane. Of
course, one of the two of them had been in a First Class couch, with
attendants to rub her feet, while the other had been stuffed into a
lightly-padded sardine can with two other people. Her old school
chum, Elizabeth thought with amusement. Who'd have thought it?
She was not the only person watching Fionna make her grand way
through the lobby. Suddenly, one of the odd characters appeared at
Elizabeth's elbow. He gave her an engaging grin.
"One weird lookin' mama, ma'am," he said. Elizabeth gave him a
weakly polite smile, and continued walking. Fionna vanished around
one of the faux marble pillars flanking the far end of the lobby.
Elizabeth hurried to catch up.
"How long you think she takes on painting up every morning, huh?"
the character persisted, striding alongside her. "Every little line like
that takes time."
"Look," Elizabeth said, spinning on her heel. She gave him the full
headmistress's voice, starting low and threatening to rise to the
painted plaster ceiling. "If you do not leave me alone I'll summon
hotel security, and have you thrown out of here." She glanced toward
the desk, where the young woman was already helping someone else
to check in.
"Oh, you don't want to do that, Liz," he said, shaking his head,
stepping up so he was level with her. "Make things rougher for you
and me."
Liz? Elizabeth stared. "How do you know my name?"
The man put out his hand. "Beauray Boudreau, ma'am. Call me Boo-
Boo. I'm supposed to be working with you. Didn't they tell you?"
"You?" she asked. The man had very intense blue eyes that beamed
with sincerity and savvy. His sharp cheekbones and nose outlined a
mouth that was thin-lipped but quick to smile. His wrists and neck
were whipcord thin, and they disappeared into a disreputable, ragged
hunting jacket that might once have been khaki. His jeans were untidy
and threadbare, and he wore sneakers without any socks. His blond
hair was very short, but the severe cut didn't lend him an iota of
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respectability. "You're with the FBI?"
"Yes'm," he said.
"Oh! Well, yes," Elizabeth said to this apparition, trying to collect her
thoughts. "They did tell me there'd be someone working with me, but
they didn't say what I mean, who."
Boudreau laughed heartily. "Don't blame you none for being skittish.
You're new around here. I know a lot of visitors think all of us
Americans must be gangsters or hillbillies, but we're more than we
seem. We're kinda used to it. Oh, by the way," he reached into one of
the dozens of pockets that made up nearly held together the body of
the hunting jacket. He presented her with a manila envelope that had
been folded twice to fit in a pocket. "Here's your dossier. They said
you'd be wantin' that first off."
"Thank you," Elizabeth said, examining it surreptitiously to make
certain there were no insects clinging to it. She glanced quickly back
toward the reception desk to see if there was any reaction to her and
her odd escort. No one was paying any attention. New Orleans must
see people like Boudreau slope in and out every day. She started to
open the envelope flap, keeping the edge close to herself so Boudreau
couldn't see in.
"Some mighty interestin' readin' in there," he continued,
conversationally. "I'll just look forward to chewin' it over with you,
when you've had a chance to clean up."
Elizabeth noticed the adhesive strip had already been broken. She
stared at him, outraged. Putting a finger in her pie without
permission! "How dare you read my briefing before I do! I'll tell you
what I think is appropriate for you to know."
"Ah." Boudreau tipped his head back and half-lidded his eyes so they
glinted with blue fire. He no longer looked like an innocent street
lunatic. He looked like a fully aware and possibly dangerous street
lunatic. "I'm so sorry, ma'am. I thought we was supposed to be sharin'
information. I'll just be sure to remember that for gettin' you around
the city and all, tellin' you only what you need to know."
Elizabeth was instantly contrite, and wary. She didn't need to have
his meaning spelled out for her. Cooperation. Hands across the water.
Special relationship between Great Britain and the United States of
America. She was in a strange city, and she needed this strange man
to help her complete her mission. He knew it, and she knew it. She
took a long breath. Time to start over.
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"I am so sorry," she said. "I am not thinking. I'm exhausted, and it's
been a trying day. HQ threw me in at the deep end. I was assigned to
this only just before the flight left."
"And it's wrong of me to be so inhospitable," Boudreau said, bowing
low so that the frayed end of his sleeve brushed her shoes. "We'll get
your bag up to your room. You have a chance to wash up, and then
we'll tell each other things."
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