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“Don’t cry, mystery girl,” he said. “I’m a lawyer, I know all about confidentiality. You’ll tell all when you’re able to. I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”
He kissed her cheek, tasting her tears.
She watched him go, and wiped her tearstained cheeks with the pad of her thumb.
Some people made their lives needlessly complicated. She wasn’t one of those people. What she did in secret was for a good cause, and her being careful to keep it secret was of the utmost importance. Innocent lives depended on her discretion.
She had to make a choice. Her secret life, or Jason.
The way her heart felt torn at this moment, she knew that she wanted the latter.
She had never known anyone to leave the organization. There were only two reasons the organization allowed anyone to leave it. One was death.
She sat down in front of the computer and entered her password. Earlier, she’d logged on to the organization’s Web site. There were two messages waiting for her. One was from their leader, the highest-ranking woman in the United States government.
Congratulations on your last assignment. Your present charge is very important to the people of South Africa. We are certain that those who seek her would never think that she’s been spirited away to a tiny hamlet in Sonoma Valley, but we encourage you to be extremely careful. We’re working very hard to expedite her safe passage to her final destination. With respect…
Then the leader had signed her personal signature.
Sara smiled as she exited the message. If anyone ever suspected that the woman closer to the president than his own wife was head of a secret organization of women who aided foreign nationals, her career would be over. Yet another reason for her to be discreet.
She quickly read the other message. It was from another sister in the organization, a physicist who lived in Tucson, Arizona. She’d met her a few months ago at their annual convention in New York City where they’d become fast friends.
Hi, Sara, the message read.
If you haven’t already heard, Dr. M’boto insisted on returning to her homeland and was killed as she stepped off the plane. I’m heartsick about it. She believed that the only way to prevent nuclear proliferation in her country was to sacrifice herself, the one scientist in the grip of the government who could make it happen for them. When they killed her, their hopes died as well.
Sara, of course, had heard about Dr. Victoria M’boto’s assassination. And she knew Dr. Katharine Matthews-Grant had done everything in her power to convince Dr. M’boto to remain in Tucson and under the protection of the organization. Sara dreaded the day when she lost one of her charges. She wrote a very sympathetic note to Kate, telling her how sorry she was that Dr. M’boto had seen no other way out of her dilemma.
After she’d replied to Kate’s message she sat at the desk, thinking about her recruitment and initiation into the organization nearly six years ago.
But then her mind went to Billy, her husband of only two years, who had been killed in a car crash while returning from a business trip to Philadelphia. He specialized in entertainment law and represented some of the country’s highest-paid athletes.
At the time Sara was assistant creative director at a large advertising agency. She rarely left work before 7:00 p.m. and that evening when she got home she went straight into the tub for a relaxing soak. It was a Thursday, and she wasn’t expecting Billy back until Friday evening. She planned to cook dinner for him as a welcome-home surprise.
She was the one who got a surprise when, after she came out of the bath and slipped into a plush robe, someone rang the doorbell.
Cautious by nature, she peered through the peephole before calling, “Yes? Who is it?”
“Mrs. Minton?” came a deep male voice.
“Yeah!”
“Mrs. Sara Minton, wife of William Minton?”
Nobody called Billy William. He used to say that that was his father’s name.
Still cautious, she answered, with the emphasis on the junior, “William, Jr.”
“Yes, William, Jr., Mrs. Minton. I’m Detective Aaron Green of NYPD. We’ve been informed by the Pennsylvania Highway Patrol that your husband was involved in a serious car accident.”
Sara quickly opened the door and swung it wide. “What?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
The two police officers stood there, not moving an inch, perhaps waiting until she invited them in. But she had no intention of inviting them in. To invite them in would be acknowledging that they were there on deadly serious business.
“Was he hurt? Is he in the hospital in Philadelphia? He went there on a business trip.” The questions were spilling out of her, fast and furious. She didn’t wait for them to reply. “What hospital? Do you have the name of the doctor I need to speak with?”
“Mrs. Minton,” Detective Green ventured softly. He was a slim man with dark hair and soulful brown eyes that were fairly dripping with sympathy. She didn’t like the look in his eyes.
She looked at his partner instead. She was a brown-eyed blonde who was about the same height as her partner: five-ten. She looked straight into Sara’s eyes with a kind, intense expression that seemed to be pleading with Sara not to lose it. Be strong, sister, it said.
That was when Sara knew they weren’t there to tell her Billy had been injured. They were there to tell her that he was dead. There was no hope in either of their expressions.
She stepped back from the door. Still barefoot, she looked down at her feet and somehow they seemed to be very far away. Afterward, she would realize that she was having a mental episode in which her mind was seeing things in a distorted way.
Panic had seized her brain.
She stumbled backward, her hands clutching the wall for support. Detective Green caught her before she fell. The woman police officer, whose name Sara would later learn was Carla Farrell, acted in concert with her partner. She shut the door, and together they helped Sara to the couch, where they made her sit down. Carla then went into the kitchen, grabbed some paper towels, folded them over several times, and held them under the tap. By the time she returned to the living room, Detective Green had convinced Sara to lie down with her feet raised above her heart. Carla Farrell placed the cool towels on Sara’s forehead, and sat on the floor next to her.
“Just lie there for a few minutes until you come to yourself again, honey,” she said.
Sara concentrated on breathing. For a moment, she had felt as if she was going to lose consciousness. The wooziness had passed but she still felt weak and nauseous.
“Is he dead?” she asked, her voice cracking.
“I’m sorry,” Detective Green said. With downcast eyes, he continued, his tone filled with compassion. “They told us that the driver of the car that hit him fell asleep at the wheel. Witnesses said that by the time they got to your husband, he was already gone.”
“And the driver of the car that hit him?”
“He died from his injuries a few minutes after they got him to the hospital.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say.
They would not leave her side until her friend Frannie Anise rushed over to stay the night. Frannie, a free spirit from Northern California, the thing they found out they had in common within two minutes of meeting each other upon Sara’s arrival in New York City, worked at the United Nations as a tour guide.
Frannie was with her round-the-clock until her parents arrived from Glen Ellen.
Sara seemed to float through the day of the funeral. Her head felt light as if she was on something even though she had declined the tranquilizers her doctor had offered to prescribe for her.
Her parents stayed for two weeks, doting on her. When they prepared to leave, they begged her to go home with them for a while. Sara, however, felt that if she didn’t soon get back into her regular routine, she would lose her mind.
That was a mistake.
Without Billy, her life had lost its flavor.
Sara thought that she had permanently built up her self-esteem when she had been a bullied teenager. She had become a diehard optimist who didn’t allow anyone to bring her down. Life’s challenges didn’t faze her in the least.
But two months after Billy’s death, she was sitting at the breakfast table on Sunday morning, the day she and Billy always spent together, and for the first time in her life she had suicidal thoughts. She looked at the knife in her hand, a bread knife, and wondered just how deeply she would have to cut her wrist in order to bleed out swiftly enough so that no one would be able to save her. She’d read somewhere that people who attempted suicide by slitting their wrists rarely cut deeply enough to reach that vital artery deep down past all the insignificant veins. Slitting your wrist was often messy, but it wasn’t a good way to off yourself.
She found herself wishing she’d allowed her doctor to prescribe those tranquilizers. Pills were probably much more efficient. As she sat there turning the knife over and over, the blade flashing, she caught her reflection in it and saw how desperate she looked, dark circles under her eyes, dry, cracked lips. Utterly hopeless.
She placed the point of the knife against her wrist, deciding that she was simply going to test herself, see if she had the guts to do it. Pressing down a little harder, she felt a little pain but she hadn’t even broken the skin. She pressed harder and this time the tip broke her skin and blood immediately began to pour slowly from the tiny hole.
She actually smiled happily.
She pressed down a bit harder, a hopeful expression on her face.
Then, someone loudly knocked on her door.
She ignored it and went back to the task at hand.
They knocked even harder, then Frannie’s voice yelled, “Sara! I know you’re in there. Open the door! Open this damn door or I’ll break it down!”
Sara laughed at her threat. Frannie Anise was five-three and must have weighed a hundred and five pounds, tops!
She got up and went to the door. “Go away, Frannie, I’m busy!”
“Busy moping around that apartment. Open up. I’m getting you out for some fresh air.”
“It’s August. There is no fresh air in the city in August. Just heat, and a lot of cranky New Yorkers complaining about it.”
“It’s hot as hell in this hallway. The least you can do, after I’ve come all this way, is to invite me in for a cold drink.”
“I’m not dressed for company.”
“Who cares? If you really want to be alone, I’ll drink and run.”
Sara was silent for several minutes.
“I’m really hurt that you won’t even open the door,” Frannie said. “I thought I was your best friend.”
“You are my best friend, but I need to be alone. A best friend would understand that.”
“I haven’t seen you in nearly a month. You won’t answer my phone calls or my e-mails. What am I supposed to think? Unless I can look into your face, I’m not going to leave here. You know me. You know I mean it.”
“Yeah, you’re as pigheaded as they come.”
“I’ll get you for that pig remark. And I’m Jewish. We’re not known for giving up.”
“You’re only half Jewish!”
“Yeah, but the other half is African-American. You know we don’t give up!”
Sara peered down at her bleeding wrist.
She opened the door and fell into Frannie’s arms.
Chapter 2
Frannie made Sara shower and dress, after which they got in a cab and went across town to an apartment building on Amsterdam Avenue. On the cab ride, Frannie didn’t say a word about the thick bandage covering Sara’s wrist, for which Sara was grateful.
She’d told Frannie that she’d cut herself while trying to split a breakfast bagel.
The building was quite old but well maintained. It had a redbrick facade and a dark green awning over the entrance. Sara guessed that Frannie must have been a frequent visitor because the elderly gentleman at the desk in the lobby waved them past without first inquiring after their reason for being there.
As they waited for the elevator, Frannie said, “I’ve been wanting to introduce you to this group of women for a long time but, the fact is, you haven’t needed them until now.”
“What do you mean?” Sara asked.
“You’ll see,” said Frannie with a mysterious smile. “One more thing, try not to stare at them. Some of them are very well known. I’m counting on your discretion.”
“Ooh,” intoned Sara. “What is this, a secret society or something?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s simply a group of women who want to change the world by helping other women. We’re hoping that you’ll consider joining us.”
“What if I don’t want to join?”
“After you hear what we’re about, you will,” Frannie said with confidence.
“I’m not big on joining clubs,” Sara said as a warning. “I was wooed by four sororities when I was in college and managed to avoid signing up with any of them.”
“This is nothing like a sorority,” Frannie told her.
“It’s a charitable organization?”
“Of a sort,” Frannie said.
A couple of minutes later, Frannie was knocking on the door of the penthouse.
“Wow,” said Sara. “Are you sure all the funds you collect go to unfortunate women? Or does the person who lives here get kickbacks?”
Frannie laughed. “All of your questions will be answered soon.”
“You’re not a secret organization of call girls, are you?”
“If I weren’t so glad to hear you cracking jokes, I’d bop you upside the head for that,” Frannie said, laughing.
Sara was about to respond to Frannie’s threat of violence when the door was opened by the Honorable Secretary of State, Eunice Strathmore. Sara had to mentally command herself to close her mouth because it was suddenly hanging open in surprise.
“Francesca!” the secretary of state cried, obviously delighted to see Frannie.
The two women warmly embraced.
A gentleman in full butler regalia closed the door and stood aside as if awaiting further instructions.
“Ladies, we’re lunching in the next room. The food is buffet style, but Avery is mixing the drinks. What will you have?” said the secretary of state.
“A mimosa,” Frannie said at once.
