After strolling leisurely along the ocean-side avenue the couple in white turns west into the city, followed closely by The Handler and Medic.
The new arrivals walk a few blocks to a large public square with thick twisting trees and an ornate, permanent kiosk selling snacks. The couple turn left into a three-storey white and gray building as Medic and The Handler take a seat on a park bench opposite, underneath one of the square’s voluminous trees.
The man and woman from the yacht can be seen lingering in the narrow entrance, their small luggage sitting beside them as they check into the hotel.
“I wonder what Prassa means,” says Medic, reading the name running down the front of the building.
“Probably means poncey,” comments The Handler cynically, wearing a quirky smirk on her face. “Hopefully we’ll get to see for ourselves.”
Medic nods and he leans back on the bench, hands clasped behind his head. A cool breeze blows over them and down the street as he watches the couple in the hotel through the predominantly glass facade.
After spending a long time chatting at the front desk the pair finally pick up their sparse luggage and head up through the glass-covered stairwell to the third floor. Disappearing briefly behind a concrete wall, they re-appear again in the adjoining room’s balcony window as they draw back the curtains and peer outside.
“Won’t they think it’s weird that we’re sitting outside their hotel?” asks Medic as he angles his face to avoid their direct line of sight.
“What’s weird about a couple of tourists chilling outside their hotel?” responds The Handler, gazing up at the balcony with a broad smile and waving at the woman in white who is cheerfully waving back.
“Yeah, but, we aren’t staying here,” points out Medic.
“Except that they don’t know that,” she replies with a casual smile.
“Good point,” he says with a slow nod. “So what’s the plan now?”
“Now we make friends and convince them to take us to Thailand.”
“When you say convince, you mean…”
“The eye thing, yeah. But this time there’s two people so you’re gonna need to get involved, put some of that training to use.”
Medic shifts uncomfortably on the bench. “You sure I’m ready? I’m pretty damned nervous about this.”
“Just remember to have a fallback in case it doesn’t take and you’ll be fine,” she reassures him. “Plausible deniability is your friend.”
“Right, yeah, okay,” is all Medic can get out through his growing apprehension.
They sit on the bench for about an hour, going over their stories and Medic’s fallback. At one point a stray dog wanders over and The Handler encourages Medic to try to put it to sleep. The animal seems to relax in response to Medic’s droopy-eyed attempts but it’s not until The Handler gets involved that the canine lies down in the middle of the sidewalk and dozes off.
Before Medic has a chance to repeat his unease they spot the man and woman heading back down the stairwell. The Handler and Medic scurry into the park and conceal themselves casually behind a large tree.
Medic gets a better view of the couple as they emerge onto the street and head back in the direction from which they’d come earlier. The woman is now wearing a floral dress and subdued pastel slippers. The man sports a pair of navy shorts with a slightly lighter shirt and a pair of white runners on his sockless feet. Her golden hair hangs halfway down her back when it’s not being tossed around by the breeze. His balding head, ringed by trimmed gray hair, is unaffected by the wind. They’re both tanned, relaxed, and happy.
The Handler and Medic follow the couple to what they assume is another hotel. They pause at the entrance to the Chave D’Ouro to evaluate the situation. Seeing their targets disappear up a flight of stairs, The Handler decides that this is the perfect opportunity.
Medic’s palms are sweating and his heart is thumping in his chest as they enter the premises and take the same stairs to the second floor eatery. The establishment is a mix of modern steel and glass elements, African motifs, and bright paintings of the archipelago. On one end the restaurant is completely open, only a wrought iron railing separates the room from the outdoors.
The couple are sitting at a small table at the railing, alternating between looking at the menu and the street scene below.
The Handler discretely requests that the host seat them near the target table. The host obliges and leads them to an empty table next to the couple. As they approach, The Handler raises her hand in greeting and smiles at them. They do likewise.
“If I didn’t know better I’d think you were following us,” says The Handler with a playful smile.
“I could say the same thing,” says the man with a similarly mischievous smile in an accent that sounds Texan. The woman joins in silently with an elegant smile and upraised eyebrows, cradling her head in her hands in a pose that suggests boredom.
Up close Medic sees age; fit, moneyed, pampered age. There are whispers of crow’s feet and lines around their mouths, not severe but visible. Her hazel eyes are bright, vibrant, and confidant; his blue eyes exude the same characteristics. Their teeth look professionally maintained, hair looks expensively treated. Definitely retired, and probably well-to-do, concludes Medic.
Medic and The Handler are seated at their table and presented with the menus. Almost as soon as the waiter leaves, the man turns around and says, “Name’s Victor. This is my wife Alessandra.”
The Handler spins around and introduces their party. “Hi, I’m Handy and this is Hans.”
“And no, before you ask,” she continues, “we do not have matching engraved bathrobes. We decided to stop at the facecloths.” At this she breaks out into laughter.
This is Medic’s cue. He stands up and shakily makes his way over to Alessandra, hand outstretched. She slaps it away, stands up, and leans in to peck him on the cheek. Mildly shocked, he does his best to reciprocate before she pulls back. Sitting back down, her smile becomes surprisingly amorous.
“Uh, hi. I’m M–“
He catches himself and quickly decides that the double “m” would just have to come across as some weird speech impediment.
“Hans.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Hans. I’m Alessandra. But I think you already knew that.”
Her voice is a little raspy, the accent very generically North American.
“I did,” replies Medic, stuck for words.
After what feels like an excruciating eon, he finally conjures up a topic for conversation. “So how long are you staying on the island?”
He knows he’s already blown it. As a matter of fact, it seems like Alessandra’s trying to use the eye thing on him and he’s feeling a little exposed. He’ll have to hope that The Handler lives up to her alias.
“We’re not sure. We’ll hang around here for a while, I suppose,” she replies, staring deeply into his eyes. “How about you and your … wife?”
Ah, wait a minute, thinks Medic – this is basically the same as the training that he’d done on Lukas’ ship. He already knows how to counter it. Maybe he could even use it to his advantage.
Taking a deep breath he drops his shoulders, lets his head tilt, and relaxes his stance. He can feel a smile effortlessly lift itself on his face.
“We’re partners,” he replies, reminding himself to give up as little information as possible. After all, that’s what The Handler would do.
“That’s very progressive of you,” she says with those same upraised eyebrows.
“Oh yes,” he says, increasing his smile, “we’re very modern.”
Alessandra settles back into her chair with an intrigued smile just as her husband turns back. “Get a room you too!” he says, laughing. Medic is surprised to see that Victor doesn’t seem upset in the slightest. Looking back to Alessandra, he sees that her curiosity is still very much aroused. Looking over to The Handler, he sees that she’s wearing a wide grin and giving him two thumbs up.
This, thinks Medic, is definitely not according to plan. However, it looks like they might actually be able to pull this caper off.