woman got up and stood next to me again, hands behind her head.
“I warned you not to trust her,” I said.
“ Silencio ,” said Carlos.
They made her strip down to her bra and panties and then searched her clothes, where they discovered the prototype chip.
“I told you she was the thief,” I said. “I’m on your side, really.”
She glared at me. Jorge and Carlos ignored my comment and proceeded to discuss things in Spanish. The gist of what I could understand was that Carlos wanted to call the police, and Jorge wanted to talk to management first.
Police was good—I would eventually get away. Management could be better, or worse. There weren’t a lot of prosecutions for corporate espionage, because the companies involved didn’t want the stockholders to know how vulnerable they were. Sometimes management would pay a “security consulting fee” to a thief as an incentive to stay away and keep his mouth shut. And sometimes management decided that more permanent shutting up was necessary.
My Spanish wasn’t good enough to determine which way the decision went, but Jorge pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Carlos became the subject of some rather heated scolding when it turned out he didn’t have his handcuffs with him.
Finally, Jorge cuffed my left wrist to the woman’s right wrist. Paying no attention to my requests that I be allowed to go to the bathroom, Jorge and Carlos then took us in the elevators down to the third basement level and shoved us into an empty storage room. The metal door clanged shut, and keys jingled as the lock clicked.
I smiled. In sixty seconds, Jorge and Carlos wouldn’t remember who I was. When they came back for the woman, I would tell them some story about how I ended up here by mistake—although my state of undress might be kind of tough to explain.
First, though, I had to get out of the handcuffs, and my lockpicks were gone along with my pants.
“What’s your name?” I asked the woman.
Her hazel eyes looked at me coldly. “Why should I tell you?”
“No reason, I guess. But can I borrow one of these?” I reached up to her hair, and before she could object I pulled out a bobby pin. An auburn braid flopped down beside her cheek.
“Ow,” she said. “You pulled some hair.”
“Sorry.” With practiced ease, I bent the bobby pin at its curve until it snapped in two. Then I held my handcuffed wrist up so I could access the keyhole. The police generally don’t spread this information around, but handcuffs are about the easiest locks in the world to pick. Once I get a bit of wire in the keyhole, it takes less than a second to pop the lock.
Except there was no keyhole. I blinked and twisted my arm around to look at the handcuffs from the other side. Where the keyhole should have been, there was only smooth metal.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said.
“I make no joke,” she said.
I shook my head. “That means ‘I don’t believe it.’ These handcuffs have no keyholes.”
“Oh,” she said. She pulled her handcuff closer, dragging my arm along with it. “Is magnetic lock. Only opens with special key.”
Obviously I needed to subscribe to Cat Burglar Monthly or Handcuffs Illustrated to keep up to date on the latest developments. In any case, this complicated things. I tried to visualize myself explaining my situation to Jorge or Carlos: “I was looking for the bathroom, and I accidentally lost my clothes and ended up here in this storage room, where this strange woman somehow unlocked one of her handcuffs and put it on me.” No way that was going to work. And if management decided to put us in permanent storage, I wouldn’t have another chance to escape. I wondered if my corpse would be forgotten.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s find a way out of here. I need a bathroom.” As long as she didn’t have the prototype, I didn’t have a problem with helping her escape.
“Yelena,” she said.
“What?”
“My name.”
“Oh, right. Pleased to
“I warned you not to trust her,” I said.
“ Silencio ,” said Carlos.
They made her strip down to her bra and panties and then searched her clothes, where they discovered the prototype chip.
“I told you she was the thief,” I said. “I’m on your side, really.”
She glared at me. Jorge and Carlos ignored my comment and proceeded to discuss things in Spanish. The gist of what I could understand was that Carlos wanted to call the police, and Jorge wanted to talk to management first.
Police was good—I would eventually get away. Management could be better, or worse. There weren’t a lot of prosecutions for corporate espionage, because the companies involved didn’t want the stockholders to know how vulnerable they were. Sometimes management would pay a “security consulting fee” to a thief as an incentive to stay away and keep his mouth shut. And sometimes management decided that more permanent shutting up was necessary.
My Spanish wasn’t good enough to determine which way the decision went, but Jorge pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Carlos became the subject of some rather heated scolding when it turned out he didn’t have his handcuffs with him.
Finally, Jorge cuffed my left wrist to the woman’s right wrist. Paying no attention to my requests that I be allowed to go to the bathroom, Jorge and Carlos then took us in the elevators down to the third basement level and shoved us into an empty storage room. The metal door clanged shut, and keys jingled as the lock clicked.
I smiled. In sixty seconds, Jorge and Carlos wouldn’t remember who I was. When they came back for the woman, I would tell them some story about how I ended up here by mistake—although my state of undress might be kind of tough to explain.
First, though, I had to get out of the handcuffs, and my lockpicks were gone along with my pants.
“What’s your name?” I asked the woman.
Her hazel eyes looked at me coldly. “Why should I tell you?”
“No reason, I guess. But can I borrow one of these?” I reached up to her hair, and before she could object I pulled out a bobby pin. An auburn braid flopped down beside her cheek.
“Ow,” she said. “You pulled some hair.”
“Sorry.” With practiced ease, I bent the bobby pin at its curve until it snapped in two. Then I held my handcuffed wrist up so I could access the keyhole. The police generally don’t spread this information around, but handcuffs are about the easiest locks in the world to pick. Once I get a bit of wire in the keyhole, it takes less than a second to pop the lock.
Except there was no keyhole. I blinked and twisted my arm around to look at the handcuffs from the other side. Where the keyhole should have been, there was only smooth metal.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said.
“I make no joke,” she said.
I shook my head. “That means ‘I don’t believe it.’ These handcuffs have no keyholes.”
“Oh,” she said. She pulled her handcuff closer, dragging my arm along with it. “Is magnetic lock. Only opens with special key.”
Obviously I needed to subscribe to Cat Burglar Monthly or Handcuffs Illustrated to keep up to date on the latest developments. In any case, this complicated things. I tried to visualize myself explaining my situation to Jorge or Carlos: “I was looking for the bathroom, and I accidentally lost my clothes and ended up here in this storage room, where this strange woman somehow unlocked one of her handcuffs and put it on me.” No way that was going to work. And if management decided to put us in permanent storage, I wouldn’t have another chance to escape. I wondered if my corpse would be forgotten.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s find a way out of here. I need a bathroom.” As long as she didn’t have the prototype, I didn’t have a problem with helping her escape.
“Yelena,” she said.
“What?”
“My name.”
“Oh, right. Pleased to
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