Free Anonymous Sources by Mary Louise Kelly Page B

go quiet now anyway. No more calls.
    He was flying tomorrow. He had paid for the ticket with a shiny new credit card. He would check the one suitcase, to avert suspicion. This was his last day in England. In his new passport picture he was smiling. Friendly, wholesome looking.
    He must not lose his nerve now. There was only one way to proceed: follow the plan. They had worked so hard. And now they were waiting for him.

    
15
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    S unday morning I slept late.
    I decided I’d earned it, after three front-page stories this week. I dozed until midmorning and then I took a long jog.
    Cambridge looked the same as when I’d studied here eight years ago. Not surprising. Eight-hundred-year-old institutions aren’t prone to sudden change. I ran along the river, down the Backs, the prettiest part of the university. Then out across Jesus Green and a few loops around Midsummer Common. I must have done five or six miles, farther than I’d run in months. But it was such perfect weather and it felt so good to be moving that I kept going, past the boathouses, back across Parker’s Piece.
    My adrenaline finally gave out near the front gates of Emmanuel. I slowed from a jog to a walk to a limp. A blister was flowering on my right heel. By the time I turned the corner outside my hotel, my face was tomato red and I was soaked in sweat.
    That’s when I bumped into Lucien Sly.
    He was coming down the sidewalk straight toward me, balancing two coffees on a little cardboard tray, when I almost collided with him.
    â€œAha. Hello again. We seem to be making a habit of this, don’t we?”
    â€œHi. Hi there.” I backed up a step. Then I ran my hand over my damp ponytail, tried to unstick my running shorts from my thighs, and wondered whether I’d brushed my teeth this morning.
    â€œEnjoyed your story today. I pulled it up online. Pity you couldn’t work me in.”
    â€œYes. That was indeed quite a loss for the readers of America.”
    He threw his head back and laughed. He was big. Maybe six feet two, six feet three. About the same height Thom Carlyle had been. Petronella liked her men tall.
    He was wearing what looked like expensive Italian loafers with old jeans and a frayed white polo shirt. His dark curly hair flopped over his eyes. Lucien had full red lips, olive skin, hooded eyes. For a British aristocrat, he didn’t look particularly British. I wondered if the Sly family tree had some Italian blood. The only giveaway was his crooked teeth. What is it the British have against orthodontists? A Cartier Tank watch gleamed on his wrist. He looked like a total toff. I liked him.
    â€œHow much longer are you staying?” he asked.
    â€œFlying home tomorrow.”
    â€œWell, if you get bored tonight, a few of us are heading out to the Eagle.” Cambridge’s most famous pub. “You should come.”
    â€œUmm. Not really my scene. And I’m sure Petronella would be just delighted to see me.”
    â€œShe’s driving down to London tonight. Then heading over to Boston for a few days, as I’m sure you know. Anyway, tonight will befun. And I would so hate for you to be lonely on your last night in England.”
    I stared at him. Unbelievable. He was blatantly hitting on me. This from a man whom I’d only ever met because he constantly turned up in bed with Petronella Black.
    I was still staring, trying to think of a suitably chilling response, when he touched my shoulder and started walking away. “Do come. It’ll be good fun. Oh, and, Alex? Great shorts.”
    I smiled. I couldn’t help it. Lucien Sly might be an upper-class arse, but he was charming.
    Mind you, there was no way I was going tonight.
    BACK IN MY ROOM I stood under the shower for a while. Then I toweled dry, ordered tea and tomato soup from room service, and called Hyde.
    He was mildly complimentary about my story. Said it was getting some play on the