Dean came out of the building and Carla had intended to follow him, but notice the PI had taken a route away from Dean, across the street to the main entrance. An unnatural route, to avoid being seen by Dean, thought Carla. She followed the man into the building.
He went up to Dean’s flat, fumbled with a lock pick, furtively looked around and entered. As he was closing the door, Carla ran silently along the short carpeted passage and barged in, sending the man sprawling. He landed face down in the room. She grabbed his wrists, pulled his arms up behind him and placed her left foot on the small of his back. He was pinned down and helpless.
“Don’t look at me!” She commanded. His right cheek was pressed to the floor; she stood to his right, behind his field of vision.
He began to struggle. She sounded like a young girl, he thought. “I should be able to get away from her.” Carla applied more weight to the pit of his back and raised his arms forcibly to the point where he cried out in pain and lay still.
“Every time you move, your arms will be forced higher. Your muscles will tear and your shoulders will be dislocated. It will be months before you can use them, so do as you’re told.
“Please-. ease off-. lower my arms. I’ll do what you want.”
Stepping off his back, she dragged him over to the door, and kicked it shut.
“Who lives in this flat?” she questioned, hoping to confuse his assumption that she might actually know Dean.
“Dean Wilson” He replied, in a pained tone.
“Who are you? Why are you here?”
“I am a PI, Dave Brubaker, working for his neurotic wife. She believes he is having an affair while he is working away. I have seen no evidence of that. I’ve told his wife, but she ordered me to break in and look around. Are you his girlfriend?” the man asked hopefully.
“What gives you that idea?”
“It just occurred to me that he leads me away from the flat and you sneak in. He comes back, and that is why I never see him with a woman. You creep out again when he is at work, knowing no one is watching. I suppose he met you at Global Agents.” Dave said, trying to direct her reply, so he could find out more about her.
“What do you know about them?” Carla queried, her curiosity piqued.
“I know you lot are nutcases, want-to-be spies. I mean, who ever heard of a dyslexic spy?” he scoffed.
“We can’t be so bad, we fooled you. Anyway, how do you know Dean is dyslexic?”
“His wife told me, that’s why he is always changing jobs. Everyone uses computers these days and he can’t read the screen. It’s something to do with the signal, and how the brain perceives it. He can usually read printouts, particularly if they are not on white paper. Still, I would have thought you’d know that?”
“Not a subject people include on their list of things to talk about when having an affair, I suppose,” retorted Carla unhelpfully.
Things were falling into place now. Americans are known for their weird conventions, acting out Star Trek characters, Sherlock Holmes and so on. Why not spies and James Bond characters? Carla mulled over her next move.
Dean must not know she had been there. Brubaker would not want to be discovered either but, if she let him leave the flat first he would find out who she was. Alternatively, she could whack him unconscious, then poke around the flat and leave. However, she had no desire to harm this unfortunate man; he was only doing his job.
She flipped the back of his jacket up over his head, so he could not see her. With his neck tie, she tied his hands together behind his back and his feet together with his shoe laces.
“I am not supposed to be here either Mr. Brubaker. I suggest you do exactly as I say and you will be able to leave, unharmed. I am not in any relationship with Dean Wilson. My interest is purely professional and is no concern of yours. All you need to know is you will end up dead on this carpet if you attempt to look at me, or in a ditch somewhere, if you try to find me.
“When I leave, you should easily get free and go about your business. Do you understand what I just said?”
“Perfectly!” he replied, muffled under the jacket.
Carla quickly searched the room, keeping one eye on Brubaker. In a drawer, there were printouts of the screen data and a writing pad. All the paper had a pink tint.
Dean led a Spartan life, no pictures or anything that hinted at his identity, even his computer was password protected. A real spy would display a normal lifestyle, to reinforce his false identity and cover, as a person with nothing to hide. A glance in the bedroom revealed an organized wardrobe, bordering on OCD.
“I am leaving now Mr. Brubaker. Replace the door seal on your way out, or Dean will know someone has been in.” After wiping down with a tissue anything she might have touched, she quietly closed the flat door behind her.
Brubaker struggled for a moment. He broke free and raced off after her, which proved a foolish move. As he rounded the corner to the lift, he was felled by a blow to the chin.
Carla heard the hurried opening of the flat door and realized she had less time to escape than anticipated. After punching him out, she went up several floors and waited to see him leave the building.
During her taxi ride back to the bungalow, she wondered if the Pharmaceuticals mission was worth the bother; no one wanted to steal the damn data.