Ghostly Writer
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The New Job - 7
🕑 Added 2025-02-25 16:00:08 +0000 UTCIt’s a little tricky walking into a high security law firm with a mask of their boss lady’s face and some lovely matching gloves. I had to spend a few moments furrowing Amaira’s lovely brow before an idea came to me on just how I’d sneak Gagliardi’s face and fingers into work.
The case I brought in on my first day has a few document pouches in it. While they’re not concealed, they’re also not obvious. Before leaving Amaira’s apartment I folded up the gloves and popped them in one pouch, while the mask slipped easily into another.
While I knew I’d have to put the case through an X-ray machine, I also knew it wouldn’t be detected without an actual search. Our masks easily pass by your average TSA agent.
All I’m left with is avoiding a physical search of the case, and to get around that, I rely on good old-fashioned feminine wiles: ‘accidentally’ dropping my phone as I reach for the tray to put it in. Bending over a little more than necessary to pick it up. Pushing out my chest to enhance my cleavage. Putting one foot in front of the other to ensure my butt’s nice and firm.
With all that going on, I manage to distract the guard handling the metal detector and the guy on X-ray duty. By the time I straighten up, flash a dazzling smile at both of them and stride away, they’ve already forgotten I had a case with me.
“So far, so good,” I whisper to myself, and by extension, to my new handler.
“Easy with the cleavage,” she mutters. “We’re trying to keep a low profile.”
“Yes, mother,” I whisper back, restraining from rolling my eyes in Amaira’s face. She’s clearly less fun than the guy from yesterday. After I sit down alone in my office, I open the drawer with the mirror in it and stick out my tongue for the benefit of my concealed lapel camera.
I pick up my phone, pretending to make a call, then speak to my handler instead. “Okay, so what’s the play.”
“You know the objective,” she says in my ear. “We trust your judgment on how to execute.”
“Really? That’d be a first. You’ve got me wired for sound and vision, and god knows what that case is scanning for, but you’re okay with me just winging it?”
“The objective’s clear. Find out who’s impersonating Gagliardi. How you do that is up to you.”
“Then why the Gagliardi mask? Once I find out who she really is, aren’t we done?”
My handler sighs. Not the first time in my career.
“We need to know what’s really happening here. Once you figure out who Gagliardi is, which we assume will mean you incapacitate her, you can take her place.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Why change the plan? Being the translator is what I trained for. I haven’t trained to replace the boss, as fun as that might be.”
“There’s clearly something deeper going on, and we want to know about it. While Ms Chopra would get into some meetings, clearly, Ms Gagliardi is going to have all access. You’ll be able to figure out more, faster.”
She has a point. Annoyingly. I want to grill her further, ask her if my exfiltration has changed, what I might be looking for if I get to be Gagliardi, but I realize she’s winging it almost as much as me.
“Okay,” I say finally. “Let me think about it. Don’t bug me for a bit.”
My handler’s mic clicks off, although I know she’s still listening. I stare at the walls of ‘my’ office and wonder exactly what my next move will be.
Whoever is impersonating Ms Gagliardi - assuming there even is a Ms Gagliardi, which isn’t a given - is wearing, at the very least, a mask and skin-toned gloves. I know that, and have my own copies, so that’s a start. Depending on the gender of the person beneath though, it’s possible ‘she’ is wearing a complete skinsuit. If that is the case, things might be more complex, because I can’t just strip it off and wear it myself. Every skinsuit is unique, for obvious reasons; measurements are nano-precise and tailored to every part of the wearer’s body. The mask I’ve been supplied with will work, because it will have been designed to match up with Amaira’s face. That leaves a few issues, though.
One, Gagliardi’s body shape doesn’t match Amaira’s. They aren’t a million miles apart, but they aren’t that close either. I can probably fake it for a short time with the right clothes, but it won’t work longer term.
Two, I have barely heard Gagliardi speak. While I’ve got a hell of an ear for an accent and can mimic most people pretty quickly, I’ll need to study to get up to speed.
And according to my work calendar, I have about thirty minutes before I’m dragged into the first meeting of the day, which Gagliardi is not attending. I’m not supposed to see her later today either, plus I’m sure getting an appointment will be a chore - both because of her assistant Carmella’s uptight attitude and, well, she’s a busy woman.
No way I can figure out who’s under Gagliardi’s mask without her being knocked out or tied up. No way I can make that happen without getting her alone. No way to get her alone, at least not today, and there is a time limit to all this. The delightful Ms Chopra has been very understanding about us borrowing her life, but she’s going to want it back before too long. An all-expenses trip to the Bahamas can’t go on forever.
All of this means I somehow have to get Gagliardi alone, without waiting for a meeting with her. Even “running into her” in the restroom won’t happen because we’re not even on the same floor. Likelihood is she has a private bathroom anyway.
My email pings, with the tone that tells me it’s directed solely to me. My inbox is already overflowing from internal email lists - they really like email here - so getting something just for me is unusual.
Subject line: Holiday party. Sender: Carmella, Ms Gagliardi’s assistant.
And right then, I realize how I’ll get Gagliardi alone.
I pick up the phone and dial randomly for cover, then speak to my concealed mic. “We need to talk about fabrication.”
///
After a brief chat with my invisible partner, they have their orders, and I know what I’ve got to do before they can even start work.
First, I reply to Carmella’s ‘holiday party’ email, which is about dietary requirements and travel arrangements. I could care less, as assuming I don’t fuck things up for her, Amaira will be attending, not me - but I still answer in the same way I think Amaira would. No dietary issues and yes, I’d love a ride home at the end of the night.
Then I pick up the phone and dial Carmela’s extension. She answers on the second ring, but immediately asks me to hold, a quick reminder of where I stand in the pecking order. After listening to muzak for at least a minute, she comes back.
“Hi Amaira. How’s day two going?”
“Good, I think - they haven’t figured out I’m a fraud yet,” I say with a quick laugh. “I actually wanted to talk about the email, well, about the party anyway. I’ve had… some bad experiences at holiday parties in the past, so I find it’s a good idea in a new place to ask about them from someone who’s been there.”
“Oh dear, what kind of bad experiences?”
“Uh, well, the kind I hate to put in emails, if you get my drift.”
“Say no more. You want to chat? I can meet you in the 10th floor break room.”
“Actually I’d prefer my office, if that’s okay?”
“Sure. I’ll bring the snacks.”
I hang up and breathe out. That wasn’t so hard. It’s the next step that might be a little trickier.
///
My office door opens and Carmella puts her head around it. “Is now still okay?”
“Yes, come in,” I say, hitting ‘Enter’ on my keyboard extra hard, as if I’ve just finished my most difficult email of the day. She steps inside and closes the door, anticipating my wishes, then takes the seat opposite me, tossing a couple of bags of chips on my desk. She wasn’t kidding about snacks, bless her.
“Sounds like you’ve got some tea to spill,” she says, looking salacious. For a split second I consider acting offended, as if my invented story contains some serious trauma, but why spoil the mood.
“Oh, I’ve got more tea than the East India Company,” I say with a casual laugh. “You wouldn’t believe it. I just feel like it’s better to be safe than sorry, you know?”
“Totally agreed,” she says, nodding.
“I mean - I’m the new girl here too,” I add, giving her my best ‘little old me’ look, as I push out my chair and stand up to stretch, like I’m very conscientious about office ergonomics. Casually I walk to the wall near her, place my palm, turn my shoulder into it. “I’m probably just being paranoid.”
She laughs, leaning forward to pick up a bag of chips. “You know what they say! You’re only paranoid because - ”
Her words become a soft, gurgling moan as she hits the desk. My blow was well aimed, and more than a little lucky, considering she went down in one hit. “Step one,” I mutter.
It’s possible - even likely - that I’m being watched, but I haven’t exactly got much choice. If security descends on me it’ll be a dirty fight to get out, and my cover will be gone. This is what happens when I’m forced to improvise, though.
I slide my chair out and slowly lower Carmella to the floor, sizing her up. Literally. She’s about my size, a little shorter perhaps. Her feet look a similar size, too. It’s only now I really look at her outfit: business chic, just as the day before, with heels, hose, skirt and a jacket over a blouse. My kind of ensemble.
Grabbing my phone, I take a number of photos of her outfit from various angles, then roll her onto her side with a grunt, threading her arm out of her jacket. The blouse is kinda school marm-ish, if I’m being honest, but I’ve got no time to judge. I open one fiddly cuff and roll up her sleeve, all the way to the elbow.
And what do we have here.
I lean close, looming over her like I’m intent on seduction. I stare at her arm. Specifically, at the elbow. One side - the side furthest from me - is the wrong color. It’s a very subtle difference, easily concealable if you know what you’re doing… but maybe she doesn’t.
I look even closer, practically putting my nose on her skin. Which is when I see it. A line that’s visible - barely - around her arm.
“You have to be fucking kidding me,” I murmur.
Using my fake nails - always a bonus when working as a respectable woman - I pick at the line, like I might pick at the end of a roll of tape. One fingernail catches, digs in. And we’re off. Her forearm starts to peel away at my insistent scratching, detaching around the circumference of her arm.
I work quickly, knowing what I’m looking for now. I’ve worn these myself. When I’ve gone all the way around, I grab the edges and pull downwards. Her arm collapses in on itself, changing from human flesh to fake skin sleeve in a second. I keep pulling, letting the long glove fold over itself, turning inside out, until her entire hand is pulled away.
I’m holding Carmella’s fake arm, while looking at her real arm. The difference is pretty obvious. Apart from the skin tone, Carmella has long, carefully manicured nails. Whoever this person is also takes care of her nails, but they’re a lot shorter, unpainted and practical.
“Okay,” I tell myself. “This just got a lot weirder.”
My eyes move to Carmella’s face, and specifically her throat. If she’s wearing the same type of suit as me…. I look for where I expect the hidden zipper to be, pressing at her chest, feeling for the subcutaneous bump. Nothing.
Okay, Option 2. I peer down at her jawline, searching for another seam. I rub along the edge, and feel makeup smearing under my own fake fingertips. Now we’re getting somewhere.
I admit it, I can feel my pulse accelerating as I move my fingers into position, getting ready to dig in. I’m about to unmask someone else. It’s almost as good as unmasking myself.
I pull, rip and tear. With a soft sucking sound, her face begins to fold in on itself. The attractive assistant to Ms Gagliardi is now a half-discarded mask as her features crumple and I pull the mask, with attached wig, entirely away.
“Hello gorgeous,” I say, mostly addressing the mask that’s in my hand, but also the woman that’s lying in front of me, unmasked. Despite the remnants of the adhesive used to keep the mask in place, she’s pretty cute; dark hair, button nose, wide eyes. I’ve never seen her before in my life, and I know a lot of people in my line of work.
I check the rest of her, discovering quickly that her disguise only encompasses the mask and the gloves. That means she needed fingerprints, and obviously Carmella’s face - but either her body was a good match, or she wasn’t worried anyone would notice the difference. It all depends on whether this was a quick job, or a long-term infiltration.
I could wake her up and ask, but then that would spoil my plan.
Well, my new plan. I didn’t knock her out expecting to find she was wearing a mask. I was taking reference shots, so my current employers could create a mask of her face and supply me with some clothing.
But hell, she just gave me a freebie.
“Sorry Carmella,” I mutter as I begin to strip her down to her undies. “Looks like you’ll be spending the rest of the workday tied up.”
As I remove her shoes, then start to work on her skirt, I wonder what else this place has in store for me. This job has had far too many surprises. And there’s one big question I keep asking myself; is anyone here actually who they seem to be?
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Alice Summers
The plot thickens!
