He had no past except the one that she had invented for him, but it was a past he liked, and it portended a future that excited him. He could document a past for himself with ease, one that would be without blemish, designed to withstand scrutiny. He didn’t even mind starting from scratch, so to speak. He had only the black suit he was wearing and the cash he’d had on him when last he had seen her. He possessed certain strengths and talents, however, and would surely make rapid progress.
As the sky caught flame across the west and purpled in the east, he returned to the car that he had stolen that afternoon. He drove to the head of the peninsula, and then a short distance south on Coast Highway, finally turning inland, abandoning the vehicle on a side street that he had selected earlier.
This was such a rich world, with so many prospects for a man of his good looks, charm, sharpness of mind, and determination. With all due respect for her extraordinary powers of imagination, the woman’s world was a thin soup compared to the thick stew of this reality. Her mistake had been to craft a narrative in which he had become aware of her true nature in the imagined world that they had both left behind; he had then realized the existential danger that he faced—and the opportunity.
In the ruby and sapphire twilight, as he walked to the nearby high-end supper club that he had scoped out earlier, he cautioned himself not to underestimate the spunky Ms. Blair. Her imagination was such that she could hear the song of the bird when it was still but a yolk in an egg. Sooner or later, she might wonder if she had opened a door for him by imagining her entire quest for Ashley Bell onto her computers in this world. Once that thought rooted in her, she would be forever on the watch for him and, if she recognized him, dogged in pursuit. He would need to change his appearance, lose the current haircut for starters; the homage to Adolf was a childish touch, anyway.
When he built a power base—when, not if—and when the time came to move boldly and publicly against his enemies, which were the same in this world as in the previous one, he would start by burning the books. Those of lovely Bibi would be in the first pyre. She would appreciate the irony. She had created him with a hatred for books and bookish people, and she would reap the consequences of that hatred. Just as her books would be among the first set ablaze, she would be on the first train to the first death camp.
Overlooking Newport Harbor, the supper club was elegant in the extreme, luxurious, sensuous, decorated in shades of blue and gray, with black and silver accents. Large windows offered views of yachts at anchor and smaller boats cruising the twilight as dock lamps and house glow began to glimmer romantically across the darkening water.
The bar was large and well attended, clearly a gathering place for the well-to-do, especially singles of all conditions—divorced, widowed, never married, and single for the night only—hoping to hook up with those just a step below or above their station. He ordered a martini, pretending not to notice the women who were interested in him even as he surreptitiously cataloged and evaluated the qualities of each.
The quickest way to acquire a fortune, a network of valuable social contacts, and a respectable position in society would be to marry a woman who already possessed those things. In the other world, Bibi imagined him a cult leader, then a young high-tech billionaire. But with money and position, he would more quickly achieve his goals through politics, whether he was the golden-boy candidate himself or the manipulator of such a one; he didn’t care which.
The woman would need to be beautiful but not too sexy. Not flashy. Elegant. Stylish. Cultured. Ideally, she would be several years older than he was and not quite as attractive, so that she would be flattered by—and grateful for—his interest in her. He spotted her across from him at the horseshoe bar. A cool blonde who might have been forty, forty-two. A single exquisite diamond pendant and a forefinger ring of the highest caliber were all she needed to declare her unmarried status and the depth of her wealth.
Their eyes met a few times. When the barstool next to hers became available, she looked boldly at him and, with a coquettish glance, indicated the empty seat. Carrying his martini, he moved with self-assurance to her side. Her name was Elizabeth Barret Radcliffe, but friends called her Beth.