Page 11 of A Spy is Born
Temperance sits back in his chair, his broad shoulders eclipsing it. He's assessing me—I’ve seen it a thousand times. The way a man sits there and looks at me.Am I right for the role?But that doesn't really make sense here. He must be wondering if I'm guilty or dangerous.
Temperance shifts slightly, his shirt moving with him. It's crisp and white—someone ironed it this morning. Was it him or a girlfriend…or a boyfriend?
“You’re special,” Temperance says, and my eyebrows raise.
“Special?” I ask, the word curling around my tongue.
“I'd like to work with you,” he says, leaning forward.
“Are you a director?” I ask, confused.
“No. I work for the government.” He says it quietly, almost like it's a secret.
“The government,” I mimic back. I’m a parrot on its perch, articulate yet senseless. Temperance nods, a small, quiet admission.
An air of secrecy floats around us. My gaze drops to where Archie lays curled up on my lap. There's blood under the nail of my pointer finger.They took the Oscar and put it in an evidence bag.
“What do you want me to do for you?” I ask, staring at my nails, those long talons of mine, painted a sweet violet to match my character. They are all rimmed with blood.
“You have access,” Temperance tells me, “and you can act.” He pauses so long that I look up. He holds my gaze. There are specks of green and gold in the brown depths of his eyes. “And you can kill.” A shudder passes over me, but I don't break eye contact.
“I’m not a killer,” I say, the defense sounding weak and strange. Why? I hadn’t made it believable yet. But I would. I'm an actor.
Temperance sits back, licking his full lips, and gives me that slow, secretive nod. “You killed in self-defense here.”
“Yes, of course it was self-defense. You think I planned this?”
He shakes his head. “No.” His voice is so deep, so brassy.He should be an actor.“But I think you could do it again under different circumstances.”
A harsh laugh escapes me. “Do it again? You want me to kill someone for you? I'm not an assassin. I just play one in the movies.” I quirk my lip into an ironic smile and raise my brows—trying to make this into a joke instead of a sick proposition.
“You're an actor. You're beautiful, and you have unique skills and access. I need people like you. Your country needs you.”
The laugh that comes out this time is almost hysterical. “Oh really, Uncle Sam?” I say. Archie pops his head up and looks across the table at Temperance. The small dog cocks his head, and the big man smiles at him.
“Cute puppy.”
I shake my head. “I want a lawyer.” For some reason that comes out shaky, like I'm some scared woman who needs protection. And I guess I do—from this man across from me and the system that empowers men like Jack Axelrod.
Temperance shifts again. He has the smooth, assured grace of a predator: fearless, capable, and deadly. “I work with a number of people in your field,” he tells me, his voice a deep resonance that touches something in my chest and vibrates there. “Your celebrity status and skills have great potential to enhance the safety of this country. We've worked with Hollywood for a long time.”
“Are you serious?” I ask, suddenly realizing this conversation isn't some joke or dream.
“Hollywood assets have a great history.” One side of his mouth twitches up. “We couldn't have won World War II without them. The assets who've worked with us are heroes.”
I'm speechless, shocked by his admission and invitation.
“We make all this go away”—he tilts his head slightly toward the mess in the living room—“and you continue your life.” He shrugs slightly. “Just helping me out every now and then.”
I stare at him for a beat. “How do you make this go away? How do you disappear a famous man’s death?” Temperance gives me a smile, a clandestine knowledge lurking behind it.
“You don’t need to worry about that. The less you know about it the better, really. You came here. You had drinks. Ate a nice dinner. Talked about the movie. And went home. And tomorrow on set you'll find out that he died. A tragic loss.” Temperance leans back in his chair, assessing me again.Am I right for the role?“I’m sure you can act that part, can't you?”
My head is nodding almost without my permission. The consequences of this evening had barely begun to penetrate, and now the idea that there could be none…
I can almost taste it on my tongue—the freedom this man is offering—but it has a metallic tang to it. The metal oil lingers in the air, as if with this freedom comes a set of chains.
“What do I have to do for you?” I ask. He gives another one of those slight shrugs. “I’m not an assassin,” I tell him.
