I had ties with Hezbollah, Hamas, and even Al-Qaeda. With a bit of luck, my cover might still hold up to casual scrutiny. The guards, who had clearly known too much about Russia’s secret pact with Iran, exchanged grins.
I was in fucking awe. That psychic bitch wasn’t in my head anymore … she was in the general’s! Apparently, she had taken over his brain. If she could read my memories so well, then she’d surely do the same to the general.
He wouldn’t know everything about this conspiracy. But he’d have to know something: names, dates, locations … enough for the Israelis to perhaps save their country from obliteration. Hell, I bet she could even send an encrypted e-mail from the general’s office straight to some intelligence facility in Israel. The Israeli could get me out of the country with ease – even with an armed escort, if she so chose. When the smoke cleared, and the general was no longer useful, she could leave him to face charges of treason and with no recollection of what had happened.
“Come,” the general winked. “You’re to be my honored guest for the evening. I’m looking forward to your detailed assessment of our security.”
“I’d be honored,” I replied in the local dialect, careful to put a Russian twang into my response. “And then you could tell me where I screwed up, no?”
THE SEVEN DEADLY STYLISTS
Rita Kolansky strolled toward a busy intersection, stopped, and waited for the traffic light to change. The tall runway model’s long, stylishly-dyed red hair was lightly blown about by a soft summer breeze under a clear sunny sky. Still beautiful enough to turn heads, her lovely azure eyes glanced down at the Cartier watch on her left wrist. As the light changed, Rita’s red Prada heels made hardly a sound as she gracefully strolled along the crosswalk. The model almost felt like she was on display in the raspberry-hued summer dress, which she had actually modeled five years ago. Its silk reminded her of better, younger days when she was in high demand and updated her wardrobe on a monthly basis.
But time had stolen her modeling spark.
In the lifespan of runway models, Rita was in the “out-to-pasture” age of thirty-seven. And no amount of surgery could delay the inevitable signs of aging – either on her face or on her soul. The flow of modeling jobs had been reduced to a trickle and her lavish lifestyle was fading away. On top of that, she was too independent and short-tempered to marry a wealthy man and “retire” comfortably. Thus, Rita came here at the guidance of a colleague who once needed “special assistance” with her post-modeling lifestyle as well.
Rita paused outside of Perfection’s Edge and regarded the renovated two-story brick-and-mortar building. Once a bank, it went under during the savings and loan debacle of the early 1990’s. Soon after, the building’s ground level was turned into an overpriced hair salon. Located just outside of Boston’s business district, Rita heard that it attracted a lot of the white-collar corporate types. While the building looked harmless enough, something about it irked her. When told about this place, Rita was promised that the owners could revive her modeling career … for a price. The idea of paying a “price” amused Rita, seeing as she felt that she had nothing left to lose.
And with that sad realization, her hesitation went away.
Rita opened the door and allowed it to close behind her as she looked around. While the establishment looked plain on the outside, it was elegant within. The floors and ceilings were of a dark green marble. Mirrors were strategically placed, as were abstract portraits. The model recognized some of the paintings from various promotional appearances at the homes of rich clothing designers and realized that these were original works … and they weren’t cheap. Rita figured that the owner(s) sank more money into interior design than the building was worth.
The stylists were all dressed in loose-fitting crimson uniforms and were very busy, too. All fourteen stylist chairs were filled, with ten more customers patiently waiting their turn. Some read the salon’s trendy stash of current magazines. Others watched the news from a large, flat-screen TV in a corner of the room. Most of the gender-mixed clientele were professionally-dressed and upper-middle class. Unless a haircut required a second mortgage, Rita figured that Perfection’s Edge had to be more than just an upscale beauty salon.
“May I help you?” A cute young stylist asked, as she deftly manipulated her female customer’s drying black hair.
“Yes,” Rita replied as she pulled a black card from her purse and handed it over. The stylist’s middle-aged customer saw nothing but a blank black card. The stylist, however, saw the word “Vanity” upon it in fancy gold lettering – as did Rita.
“He’s in the basement,” the stylist said as she nodded toward a closed door that read EMPLOYEES ONLY.
“Thanks,” Rita nervously replied said as she went through the door and down a flight of well-lit stairs. The stairs descended three continuous stories, without any landings. Halfway down, the fluorescent lighting had dimmed enough for her to notice. She felt as if she were heading into a subway tunnel. At the bottom, Rita found herself in a long, narrow basement lined with brick walls and white linoleum floor tiles. More florescent ceiling lights illuminated the room. Along the far left side were seven furnished and occupied desks, each against the wall. Beyond the desks was a plain-looking exit door.
Each desk had a guest chair positioned next to it.
The first desk was occupied by an older, plain-faced Asian woman in her apparent mid-50’s. Expensively-dressed and adorned in fancy jewelry, she reclined in a plain chair and was listening to her messages. In her right hand was a sleek cell phone. In her left was a pair of gold coins, which she deftly maneuvered between her manicured fingers. She noticed Rita and gave her a polite nod.
As the model passed her by, she noticed a fancy nameplate on the woman’s desk that simply read “Greed.” Rita paused for a moment, opened her mouth to ask about the nameplate, but then thought better of it. If these people want to go by aliases, Rita thought, that’s none of my business.
She moved onward.
At the second desk, Rita passed a fat, unkempt man surfing through fantasy football sites on his PC as he absent-mindedly waved off some flies. Apparently, his work area was such a food-cluttered pigsty that it attracted a menagerie of ants, roaches, maggots, and flies. His sweat-stained white shirt strained to keep his enormous gut from pouring over his gray, food-stained slacks. The stench he emitted was ten times worse than anything she’d ever smelled in her life. His nameplate read “Sloth.” As she passed, he grinned at her with yellowed teeth.
Rita involuntarily cringed.
The third desk’s nameplate read “Envy” and was occupied by what appeared to be a bratty-looking teenage girl with metal braces and too much makeup. Dressed in a black skirt, black turtleneck, and matching boots, Envy regarded Rita with a strange smile before she went back to perusing a stack of manila file folders.
Wrath, a thin man of modest height, a balding head, and deeply reddened face, was in the middle of an argument. Rita noticed that his gray trousers, plain white shirt, and black suspenders were all designer quality. He was shouting in Italian and completely ignored her as she passed. Oddly enough, a wave of anger flashed through her as she moved past him.
Lust was a well-toned Latino with a bad comb-over who leaned back in his chair and regarded her with a horny smile. Four of his front teeth were gold. She pegged him to be a bit south of forty, with penetrating black eyes. His purple zoot suit reminded her of a stereotypical pimp costume (but without the “pimp hat”). Rita noticed that he was surfing porn sites on his computer as she
