Dying Breath (Cobra Book 2)

by Blake Banner

She stuck out her lip again and gave a small, elegant shrug. “I don’t know.” She saw the skepticism on my face and added, “He hasn’t been in touch.”

  “Will you tell me if he does?”

  She considered her cognac for a while, tipping the balloon this way and that. Her brows contracted slightly and she spoke to the glass. “I’m having trouble seeing how that would benefit me.” She raised her eyes to meet mine. “What you’re paying me for this information is what this man might spend on dinner. I’m sorry, I like you, for some reason I can’t quite explain, but you are not in the same league.”

  I allowed a smile to touch the side of my face. “You don’t know what league I’m in.”

  She giggled at her cognac, then threw back her head and gave a surprisingly delicate, feminine laugh. When she’d finished she tilted her head on one side and smiled. There was a hint of genuine compassion in it.

  “Oh, please,” she said, then gestured at me with her open left hand. “Nice suit, well cut, but off the peg, not bespoke. The shoes, two hundred dollars? Two fifty tops. You’re staying at the Hyatt, a nice hotel, but it’s not the Casa Diamond Suites. You drive a Mercedes. Nice car, but it’s not a Ferrari, a Bentley or an Aston Martin. So you are good at what you do, you make money from it, but you are not big league. Not even fringes of.” She shrugged. “Sorry.”

  I was still smiling. “Take it easy, you’ll hurt my feelings.”

  “You’re a soldier. You don’t have feelings.”

  “So what would it take for you to tell me when you next hear from Chen?”

  She thought for a long time, like she was wrestling in some internal conflict. Finally she frowned again and narrowed her eyes at me. “Why are you so interested in him, really?”

  “I told you. I’m writing a book.”

  She sighed, gave a humorless smile and shook her head at her drink.

  “When I lived in London with…with my sugar daddy. I met a lot of artists. He moved in a very artsy circle. And you know one of the first things I noticed?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Artists talk all the time about images, colors and textures. Musicians talk all the time about sound, texture and rhythm. Poets and philosophers talk all the time about concepts, and especially meaning.” She paused to look at me. I knew what she was going to say and I was struggling for an answer. She said it: “And writers are obsessed with words. You? You’re blunt, direct, hungry for information, but you don’t give a damn about words. I don’t know what you are, but I know for sure you’re not a writer.”

  I laughed. “What about journalists, what are they obsessed with?”

  She wagged a finger at me. “Good try. But I’ll tell you what journalists are obsessed with: quoting. They are always quoting politicians, celebrities, statistics. They are always showing off their knowledge, showing off how much they know about this man, that woman and the other company or organization. In all the time we have been together you have not quoted a single thing. In fact, all you have done is bribe me, try to seduce me and subtly threaten me. You, Mr. Patinkin, if that is your name, are a soldier.”

  “That is no secret. I already told you that.”

  She shook her head. “No, you said you were a soldier. I say you still are a soldier. I’ll tell you what it would take for me to tell you if Dr. Stuart Chen gets in touch with me again.”

  “What?”

  “I want to know why you want him, and why you’re after him.”

  I raised my hand and called the waiter. When he came over I asked for the bill and told him to call me a cab. Rachida looked a little surprised, watched the waiter leave and shifted her gaze to me.

  “Unilateral decision? Do I get a say?”

  “No. We go back to the hotel. I give you your money, and we are done here.”

  “Have I offended you by calling you a soldier? I didn’t think journalists were that sensitive.”

  I shrugged. “I just don’t believe you have any more to tell me. You have carefully shifted the conversation from answering my questions to asking questions of your own. That tells me you have nothing left.”

  “Wow. That’s cold.”

  I chuckled. “This from the woman whose personal relationships are predicated on who provides the most in terms of power and money.”

  “Come on, Guy!” She sat swirling her cognac a moment, without looking at me. “You read people as well as I do, and you know that’s a front.” She glanced at me. “A protective shield. I just don’t want to hand over a man who has been good to me to some hired gun who’s going to shoot him just to get his hands on some formula.”

  “You read too many spy novels.”

  The waiter arrived with the bill. I paid by card and left a fifty-dirham tip, then stood. Rachida looked like she was annoyed, but trying to hide it. The waiter brought her coat and helped her on with it, and as we went down the stairs she said, “I have to admit,” and there was ice in her words, “This has never happened to me before. I doubt I’ll ever forget this date.”

  “I’m flattered. I’m glad I wasn’t like all the rest. But I told you, Rachida. I was a soldier, now I am doing investigative journalism, using a set of skills few other people have. You don’t want to believe me, that’s your problem, not mine.”

  We stepped out into the night. The moon had slipped below the horizon, leaving the once silver ocean black and deadly. There was a Grand Taxi waiting, a Mercedes-Benz W126, its white paint tinted amber by the lamps outside the restaurant entrance. I opened the door, she climbed in and I went around the other side to get in next to her.

  To the driver I said, “Hyatt Regency.” He grunted something and took off. To Rachida I said, “I think you ran out of information. I don’t believe you know any more than you already told me.”

  “All right, Guy, you made your point. I won’t argue.” She was quiet a moment, watching me as orange light and shadows slid over her face, and the Moroccan streets slipped past outside. Suddenly she said, “So who were you with, the Marines? The SEALs?”

  Some guys in the Regiment keep it a secret. Some guys get “lent out” to friendly governments and others do a bit of moonlighting, so it pays to keep their identity quiet. We never advertise who we are, we never wear tattoos with “Who Dares Wins” woven around a dagger. That would be stupid. But neither have I ever felt the need to keep my years with the SAS a secret. I don’t tell everybody I meet, but I don’t hide it, either.

  “I was with the British Special Air Service for eight years.”

  Her mouth formed a silent “O” and she nodded once slowly, like everything made sense now. I frowned.

  “That mean something to you?”

  “No, not really. Just, while I was in London, you read a lot about them in the press, you heard about them on TV… You know, they’re kind of legendary over there. It’s a tough gig, I know that. It sort of explains…”

  She trailed off and gestured at me with her open hand.

  “Yeah? Well, like all legends, a lot of it is exaggerated and overstated, but a lot of it also falls well short of the truth.”

  “I can imagine. So what happened? Why’d you leave. You’re young.”

  “It’s a long story.” I smiled at her. Her eyes looked huge in the close darkness of the cab. “And I don’t need a psychoanalyst, especially one with no training.”

  Her smile held a trace of sadness. It might have been genuine. “That was uncalled for.” I didn’t answer. “And besides, are you sure it’s true? Maybe that’s exactly what you need.” She gave a giggle that was kind of naughty. “I mean, I’m sure you have no trouble getting it up, but you look to me like a man who could use a cuddle and a talk.”

  I shook my head.

  “Come on, Rachida. Don’t play games with me. Five grand for a night’s work isn’t bad, even by your standards. I’ll pay you what I owe you, then we each go our own way.”

  She looked away, watched the almost empty streets drift by in the night. After a minute she said, “I gu
ess I deserve that.”

  I didn’t answer. We turned off the Avenue de l’Armée Royale and pulled into the hotel forecourt where a young man in a uniform came down to open the door for Rachida. I paid the driver and he drove away, muttering something in French that involved my mother, a camel and a number of other animals. Maybe I should have tipped him more.

  I climbed the stairs with my wallet still in hand, and Rachida linked her arm through mine. I said, “I think there’s an ATM in the lobby.” She turned to me and there was a little bit of ice and a little bit of rage in her eyes.

  “Do you mind,” she said, “not paying me off in the lobby, like a common whore? I haven’t serviced you sexually, and in fact all you have done is take me out to dinner and pick my brains. I don’t think there is any need to insult me and humiliate me publicly.”

  “Sure.” We crossed the lobby to the elevators, where we stepped in and I punched the button for my floor. Then I turned to face her. It was hard to get past how stunning she was to look at.

  “You came on pretty strong at the start of the evening, Rachida. You went out of your way to underscore that this was all about money. Now suddenly you’re changing your tune. What’s going on?”

  She didn’t answer. The elevator eased to a stop and she followed me to my door. I opened it and she went in. I followed and closed the door behind me. I didn’t look at her. I went to the safe in my wardrobe, opened it and pulled out five thousand dollars. When I turned to give it to her, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me. I held up the money.

  “Five grand, as agreed. I don’t believe you have anything else to give me. I hope this won’t be a problem.”

  “It won’t be a problem, Guy. Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what, exactly, Rachida? You don’t want the money now?”

  “You know what I mean. We were having a nice time, getting to know each other, enjoying a drink. Then suddenly you couldn’t get away fast enough. We were having fun, laughing, flirting a little… Then you’re all uptight, paying the bill, get a cab, on your feet. What happened?”

  “What are you doing, Rachida? You wanted to keep this on a business footing.”

  “Do you have to be so…” She waved her hands at me. “…cold and distant and unfriendly?”

  “Cold and distant? You want us to be best friends now? What the hell has got into you?”

  She shrugged. “I guess I’m not used to rejection.”

  I laughed, put the money in an envelope and handed it to her. She stared at it a moment before taking it.

  “You’re a very attractive woman, Rachida. You’re intelligent and skilled too. You don’t need my validation. You made a damn sight more money tonight than I did. And that’s how we measure success, right?”

  “Is it? I suppose so.” She still wouldn’t look at me. I said, “You want a nightcap?”

  Now she looked up. “Sure. As long as I’m not keeping you from something more important.”

  I gave a private laugh and poured her a cognac. As I handed that to her I said, “If it’s any consolation, I am not rejecting you. You must know already I find you very attractive. In fact…” I turned back to the bar and poured myself a whisky. “In a sense,” I went on, “it’s you who are rejecting me.” She looked surprised and I shrugged. “You said it yourself. I can’t afford you. And besides, apart from a couple of adolescent experiments, I don’t pay for my women. It’s a matter of self-respect.”

  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “You said you weren’t used to rejection. I’m not rejecting you.”

  She looked away. Then her eyes travelled around the room. She said, “Have you got some music here? We could listen to some music.”

  She leaned back, stretched across the bed and grabbed the remote control from the bedside table. I stood sipping and watched her lie back against the pillows and scroll through the channels on the TV till she found some jazz.

  She watched me back for a while, in silence, then said, “I’m getting a headache, turn down the lights, will you?”

  I went and turned them down, then leaned against the wall. “What are you doing?” I asked again.

  “Why do I have to be doing something? I told you I don’t like rejection. Can’t I just react like a normal woman? Can’t I just be Rachida, reacting to an attractive man?” Her voice was suddenly slightly slurred. “Do you know how attractive you are?”

  “No.”

  “Well you are.”

  She swung her legs off the bed and she was like a sinuous silver snake. Then she moved around the bed until she was standing in front of me, an inch away, and I could smell the expensive cognac on her breath. Her black eyes were huge, her lips were full and I could feel the warmth of her body. I wanted badly to hold her.

  “I told you,” she whispered, “three or four times a year, I need a man. This is one of those times. Help me to get this dress off, will you?”

  I knew it was a really bad idea. But then, I told myself, some of the best ideas are. And besides, life is too damn short.

  Chapter Twelve

  At four AM she rose from the bed, like a dark snake, with the silver light of the nighttime city touching her breasts and her legs in the shadows. I watched her move to the window and sit, coiled in the chair, and stare out at the night. At six she rose from the chair, a tall, slender Afro silhouette against a red sky, where the sun was burning night from the heavens. I watched her cross to the bathroom, and I heard the hiss of the shower.

  I swung out of bed and poked my head around the door. I could see her dark, misted form through the glass of the cubicle, arched under the stream of water. I went to her bedside table and rifled through her purse till I found her driver’s license. Her name was Rachida Ait. I picked up my phone, photographed it, sent the pictures to the brigadier along with a list of four names: Padraig O’Hanlon, Hans Grinder, Ruud van Dreiver and Michelle des Jardins. Then I leaned against the windowsill where I could see the open bathroom door and called him. He answered immediately.

  “Yes. Who is this woman, and who are these names?”

  “Have your backroom boys got anything for me?”

  “I gather you are not alone.”

  “I agree.”

  “But you can talk right now, I imagine, or you wouldn’t have called.”

  “This would be a more productive way to move forward.”

  “Me asking and you answering monosyllabically?”

  “Yup.”

  “Are you under duress or being threatened?”

  I smiled. “No, not really.”

  “You’re not giving me a lot to go on, Harry. Did you pick up this woman last night?”

  “Yes, he came with a recommendation, but I was surprised at how communicative he was.”

  “OK, one thing at a time. Recommendation from whom?”

  “OK, I see that, sure. You said you were going to talk to some guy for me, remember?”

  “In the police?”

  “Hell, you’re the editor! First person singular and a preposition. Try that for size.”

  “Am…in. Amin?”

  “Yup. You’re quick. That’s good.”

  “And he recommended this woman?”

  “In a manner of speaking. But I’m telling you, Ed, I need more background. Right now I am in a blind alley, the desert location is looking like a dead end and I am on the brink of jacking in the whole project.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “No, not at all, but get this. This is what I need you to focus on, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “The guy in the picture…”

  “The woman in the photographs you sent me?”

  “Precisely, that guy has intimate, personal knowledge of the subject. He did a PhD or something.”

  “Are you telling me she lived with Heilong Li?”

  “On and off, several times.”

  “Who is she?”

  “That’s what I’d like to
know, Ed.”

  “Why do you keep calling me Ed?”

  I growled, “Because it’s your job!”

  “Oh. I see, yes. I’ll run her through face recognition and a couple of databases, see if she pops up anywhere. What about these names? Who are they?”

  The hiss of the water in the bathroom died away. I said quickly, “From the European Union’s External Action Service, allegedly.”

  “Oh, that’s interesting. Has she been able to provide you with anything else?”

  “Like hell. The account is dry. Which, you know, makes me wonder. And Ed, I am going to need you to pull your finger out and help me out here. It’s been an expensive few days for me, pal, and I need some results.”

  “I’ll have some photographs for you this morning, and I am having a meeting with Colonel Harris and our analysts at ten. I told you to relax and be a playboy for a few hours.”

  “I did.” I glanced at Rachida, who had stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. I smiled at her and said absently, “It was fun. I have to go. And, Ed, get that damned contract sorted for me, will you? I’m hemorrhaging money here. Make it happen, pal.”

  I hung up without waiting for an answer. She dropped the towel and started pulling on her panties. I said, “What are your plans?”

  “Plans?” She held her dress by the sleeves and stepped into it, then shrugged the sleeves over her shoulders. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You’re going home?”

  She stood in front of the mirror, running her fingers through her wild curls. “Of course.” She glance at me and grinned. “It was fun, Guy, but I have to get back to my life.”

  “What about Dr. Chen and Ling Wei?” She made a question with her face, took her lipstick from her bag and started doing her face. I said, “Will you let me know when they get in touch?”

  She sighed and pushed her lips in and out. Then started applying pale blue shadow to her eyelids. “I don’t know, Guy. I’ll think about it and let you know.”

  “Don’t call me, I’ll call you?”

  She put her makeup away in her purse and came around the bed to where I was still leaning naked against the windowsill. She gave me a kiss on the mouth and whispered in my ear, “Another life, another world, maybe…”