“Is he always like this?” she asked.
“No. He’s usually more relaxed.”
“What could be wrong?”
“Best not to ask.”
Pearson looked over his shoulder and frowned.
“Is there a problem, ladies?” he asked.
“No, sir,” Chrissy stated.
In the chilly London night air, they walked the red carpet to the entrance of the embassy. At the doors thrown wide open, a man in black tie stood at the podium with military guards in full dress uniform at either side of the door. “Invitation, please,” the man requested.
“Chrissy,” Pearson said, leaving her to internally wince. Apparently, the drive hadn’t given him time to cool down from whatever was bothering him.
Chrissy pulled the invitation from her clutch and handed it to the man, who looked at Mr. Pearson and then both women with a frown.
“Is there a problem?” Pearson asked in a low, warning tone.
The man’s eye twitched as he handed back the invitation. “Of course not,” he gritted out, obviously thinking better of challenging Pearson.
Inside, tall windows filtered in the sun’s last light, tables of food filling the space before them. People gathered in small groups on the floor or along the right-hand wall.
“Ladies,” Pearson said, peering into the crowd. “I see someone I need to speak with. Help yourselves to refreshments.” He hurried off into the crowd.
“He’s intense,” Jessica said.
“Yes. That’s one way to put it.”
“But, why are we here?”
“Mostly we keep track of who he speaks to and when. He generally doesn’t rush off like this.”
“And why does he want this information?”
“Pearson keeps files on who and when he meets people. He’s got an app on his phone that gives him the information in his ear bud so he can greet them by name and say something personal.”
“Into winning friends and influencing people?”
“I just chalk it up to his obsessive nature. For the money he pays me, and you, he can ask anything he likes, as long as it's legal.”
“And how are we supposed to keep track of the people he talks to?”
Chrissy pulled her phone out of the bodice of her dress. “On this proprietary app that Pearson had made. When we’re close enough it will pick up names and record them. Later, I’ll comb through the internet to get pictures to match the name.”
“That sounds very spy-ish,” Jessica observed, wrinkling her nose. “And I tell you, that Marta in the New York office doesn’t respond to cronuts very well. I can’t get anything out of her.”
“Marta's job is the same as ours—keep our mouths shut. Look, a year and we’re out, with fatter bank accounts if we’re smart about it.”
“You really think a man who pays you a million a year to help him sneak around is going to let you walk away?” Jessica’s reproving tone surprised Chrissy.
“Where is this coming from?” Chrissy queried. “I seem to remember you being fully on board with me taking this job.”
“That was before I worked in the office in New York with that weird woman. Chrissy, something isn’t right about Pearson and his whole setup. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s not run like a normal business at all. And five minutes in Pearson’s apartment confirmed it. I don’t like the way he treats you.”
“I’m sorry you don’t like the job. All you need to do is cover for me for my father’s surgery, and you can quit. But I just have to get home.”