by Steven Brust
“Well, shit.”
“Yeah. His mother was one of their operatives for, like, thirty years. Recruitment and Training manager, like William. She passed away in March of 2011 from pneumonia and heart failure, aged eighty-six.”
“That,” said Donovan, “provides another missing piece. He got his sorcery from Mommy, and then she died, and he suddenly needed more. That’s why he placed the called to Lawton-Smythe, who then made the first call to Blum. How’d you learn all of this?”
“Got some names, then I called Mr. Becker.”
“Again? Damn, girl.”
“Now I’m trying to figure out where Whittier works. He’s got two different offices in two different buildings in Manhattan, and I have no idea how to predict which one he’ll be at.”
Donovan frowned. “Well, it’s a safe bet that Nagorski does. How would he know?”
“Maybe he doesn’t,” said Susan. “Maybe he plans to take him at his home.”
“Does he have kids?”
“No.”
Donovan grunted. “Maybe, then.”
“That’s where he tried before,” said Marci.
Donovan almost spilled his coffee. “What?”
Marci nodded. “He took a shot a couple of months ago. Broke into the guy’s house in Connecticut, shot at him from point-blank range, and ran off into the night.”
“How do you know that?”
Marci looked smug. “Detective work, Detective. Once I knew where he worked and where he lived, I started doing newspaper searches. The previous attack was written up, and the attacker fit Nagorski’s general description. Close enough that I’m convinced, at least. Hey, you’re the one who called it.”
“Did the newspapers describe how he missed at point-blank range?”
“They just said he missed. I figured the point-blank range because, well, that seems to be how Nagorski does everything.”
“How did Nagorski get away?”
“I don’t know. He drove, or ran, or some combination. It’s a big, wide area, and it took them a while to get the search organized. He just got past them.”
“Well, damn. That probably means he won’t try it there again.”
“Probably,” said Susan. “So, Marci, we need you to figure out where Whittier is. Can you track him?”
“No,” she said. “But why don’t we just call him?”
Donovan stared at her. “Um. Yeah. Think you can find a phone number?”
“I could find a corporate number, but I don’t know how I’d get through to him. People at that level have buffers.”
“I suppose,” said Susan, “your Jedi mind tricks won’t work over the phone.”
“Uh yeah, no.”
“Try to reach him,” said Donovan.
Marci made several phone calls, then finally turned and told them what they already knew: “Either they’re lying to me, or he’s out of the office this week.”
“Well then,” said Donovan, “there are four places he might be. We deliver four messages. If we can convince him to get somewhere safe—no, wait a minute. What the fuck are we thinking?”
“Trying to save his life?” said Susan.
“Yeah. Why? I don’t give a shit about this asshole’s life. That isn’t our job. Our job is to catch the guy trying to kill him.”
“Jesus, Don,” said Susan. “That’s cold.”
Donovan shrugged. “It’s our job. And, seriously, do either of you think the world wouldn’t be a better place if that guy got blown away?”
Marci shuddered. “I don’t want to be the one to start making those decisions.”
“We’re not. I mean, we do want to save his life. But not by sacrificing our mission. We have a job. I propose we do it. Does anyone object?”
Marci opened her mouth, then closed it.
“Go ahead,” said Donovan. “What is it?”
“My boyfriend doesn’t know what I do,” she said. “But he knows it’s important to me.”
“What’s your point?”
“When I was leaving, he started to ask if I was doing good. If I was on the right side. But he stopped, because he was afraid I’d be insulted if he asked.”
“You afraid you’re not?”
“I don’t know. Letting someone die—”
“The plan isn’t to let him die.”
“I know that. But we can save him.”
“This time. What if we don’t get the guy who’s trying to kill him? Will we be able to save him next time?”
Marci looked down. “Maybe not,” she said.
Donovan looked around. “Susan? Look, I’m being straight with you. I don’t like this prick, and I won’t shed a tear if he goes down. But I think the best thing we can do for him is to do our job, all right?”
After a moment they nodded—Susan firmly, Marci with more hesitation.
“All right, then,” said Donovan. “Let’s be about it.”
“So,” said Hippie Chick. “Where are we going?”
“Marci?”
“He has a condo near Central Park, and the house in Connecticut.”
“If we were told the truth, and he isn’t in, that probably means he’s gone to Connecticut,” said Susan.
“We should confirm it,” said Marci.
Donovan nodded. “How are you with clairvoyance?”
“Not great,” she said. “What are you thinking?”
“We know what he drives?”
“Um … yeah, a BMW.”
“Then see if there’s a BMW parked outside the Connecticut house.”
Marci nodded and closed her eyes. Her fingers twitched spasmodically. Donovan got up and opened a window. Marci started shaking her head, as if to say she couldn’t get it; then she opened her eyes and said, “Yes. He’s in Connecticut.”
“Then,” said Donovan, “that’s where we’re going, too.”
* * *
When I couldn’t wait any longer, I checked out of the hotel. I put my suitcase in the car, though part of me wanted to just leave it—to make a dramatic gesture about the finality of the day. But if all went well, and I did what I meant to, I’d be really annoyed about not having any clean underwear tomorrow.
The thought made me laugh a little. I set the GPS and headed out. I’d never driven a car that nice—it was quiet and smooth and fun. Joan would have liked a car like this. She’d probably never have let me drive it. Shit.
By the time I was out of the city, I was nearly there.
* * *
“Your timing, Mr. Becker, is either excellent or terrible. We were just setting out.”
“All of you? To where?”
“Bus to the PATH station, train to Connecticut.”
“Then you’ve found him?”
“We believe we’ve found his target. We’re hoping to trap him.”
“Stay where you are. I’ll have a rental delivered to you. I can have it there in … ten minutes.”
“If it’s urgent, we could slipwalk.”
“For a place an hour’s drive away? With all of you there? Oversight would have our ears.”
“I suppose. Uh, Mr. Becker? What’s going on?”
“Is Ms. Sullivan there?”
She bent over Donovan’s shoulder. “Right here, Mr. Becker.”
“Ms. Sullivan, we have reason to believe that the people behind these killings have Shveta Tyaga working with them.”
When Marci didn’t answer at once, Donovan looked at her. His eyes were a little wide.
“Okay, Mr. Becker,” said Donovan. “I think maybe you’d better fill us in.”
“Yes,” said Becker. “Would you care to begin, Ms. Sullivan?”
Marci nodded. “She’s a rogue sorcerer. She’s—very good. They’ve been looking for her for years. She’s one of the examples they use when giving us training for I and E. That’s why I know about her.”
“Why am I just now hearing about her, Mr. Becker?”
“We have never before had reason to think she was on this co
ntinent.”
“Ah yes. Secrecy and compartmentalization. How’s that been working out for us lately?”
“Very, very badly, Mr. Longfellow. But as much as I agree with you, we don’t have time for that conversation. I’ve ordered the rental.”
“So,” said Donovan, “this call was just by way of warning?”
“Yes. That’s all I can do at this point. And we don’t know she’s there; I’ve just learned of the possibility.”
“But if she is, we won’t have any fun, is that about it?”
“Yes.”
“Can you get us any help?”
“Text me the address you’re heading toward, and I will have someone ready with an emergency transport, and there will be medical teams standing by in our infirmary.”
“What about some hitters or something? You know, so we don’t need the medical teams?”
“Apparently,” said Becker, “our European team, our South American team, our Asian team, and our African team are all involved in other cases.”
“Are. They. Really.”
“Yes,” said Becker.
“At exactly this moment.”
“Yes.”
“And you just learned this.”
“Yes.”
Donovan nodded. “Compartmentalization,” he said. “Got it. Of course, the good news is, she can’t be everywhere at once.”
“Yes.”
“Any contractors, or just spare sorcerers we can find to back us up?”
“I’m checking on that, Mr. Becker. So far, there’s no one available outside of the kiddie pool, and Mr. Faucheux says none of the trainees are ready.”
“Perfect.”
“I’m trying to bring someone in, but he’s overseas, and I don’t know if he’ll arrive in time.”
“All right.”
“Of course, Mr. Longfellow, you have the right to call off the operation.”
“Yeah.” He turned around, got the sense of his team, and said, “We’ll go ahead with it.”
“Then may I suggest you hurry. The car should be there.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Becker. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
He disconnected, and turned to look at his team. He said, very long and low, “Fuck.”
15
MR. NAGORSKI, I PRESUME
I never actually went into the Little Thai Kitchen.
I reached Darien hours early, so I spent some time driving aimlessly around. I went back to the restaurant and there was a parking spot directly in front of it (no parking meters; I love small towns), so I pulled up there. I got out and walked around. Nothing I saw exactly registered, though I have a vague memory that the term “picturesque” was in my mind. I can also tell you nothing about who I saw on the street; for all I know, I could have walked right past Whittier without being aware of it. When I had that thought, I realized that it was possible he was around, and might recognize me, and that would wreck everything, so I went back to the car. I was still hours early. I stood in front of the Little Thai Kitchen, and was just deciding to go inside and get something to drink when I noticed an exceptionally tall woman was approaching on the street. Her hair was done up closely, and the silver choker had quite a remarkable effect against her skin. She walked right up to me. Behind her were the two—well, shit, I have to say thugs. They were both more than 6’5” and I wouldn’t care to guess their weight, but they weren’t small. The white one had a buzz cut and a tiny gold hoop in his nose, the black one was bald and also had a gold hoop, but his was in an ear, and they were wearing fatigues, for god’s sake. They had jackets on, and I couldn’t tell you about guns, but I at least saw one big fucking knife in a belt.
“Shveta?” I said.
She nodded. “Nicholas?”
“Nick.”
“A pleasure, Nick. You’re early.”
She spoke flawless American English. I had to wonder how many other languages she spoke flawlessly, but I didn’t ask. “So are you. Uh—” I looked at the bruisers.
“Yes,” she nodded. “Evan and Dwayne, meet Nick. Nick, Evan and Dwayne.”
We exchanged nods. They didn’t offer to shake hands and neither did I; those guys scared the shit out of me. I was trying to figure out a way to ask what they were doing here when Shveta said, “I heard from Charlie. He thinks we might face more opposition than he’d first thought, and suggested I take precautions.”
The “precautions” had their arms folded, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they were deliberately playing up the tough-guy act. But there was no chance I was going to ask; the failure condition for that move didn’t bear thinking about.
I managed to say, “All right. Should we go?”
She nodded. I unlocked the car with a click of the key fob, and started to get in. “No,” she said. “Let me drive.”
I looked at her and waited.
“I’ve done this before, Nick. It might be that you’re a little nervous.”
I should have been offended, or at least irritated, but I wasn’t. I said, “Yeah, maybe,” and tossed her the keys. She caught them, and I walked around to the passenger door. The scary guys got in the back.
“Nice car,” she said as she pulled away from the curb.
“Yeah. So, what’s the plan?”
“Go in. Kill or disable everyone we see. Kill Whittier. Leave.”
“Okay. I like this plan. When I met him before, he was protected. Do you know what sort of protections he has now?”
“He shouldn’t have any; his protections should have vanished with what Charles euphemistically called your previous mission. In case we’re wrong, or we’re surprised by a sorcerer, I know that one of the artifacts Charlie gave you will strip magical defenses from anyone in the room. And the other, of course, will kill someone in an especially gruesome way. And if all else fails, I can also strip his defenses, if I’m not busy.”
“All right.”
“Scared?”
“A little. Not too much, I think.”
She nodded.
“We’re early,” I said.
“I know. But I swung past his place an hour ago and he was out. We’ll be able to see if his car is in the driveway.”
“All right.”
It was a very short drive. At some point, I heard an odd click behind me, and it took me longer than it should have to identify it as the sound a semi-auto makes when you jack a round into the chamber.
“That’s his car,” she said as she drove by. “He’s home.” My mouth was suddenly very dry. She pulled ahead a little and parked the car.
* * *
Traffic sucked even more than usual, so it took us almost an hour and a half to reach Darien. The conversation on the way was about Shveta Tyaga. Marci explained that she wasn’t scared of her, exactly. It’s just that she had a reputation, that was all. “She’s not superhuman,” Marci said. “She’s very good. Better than me, in a fair fight. But her reputation comes as much from how hard it’s been to find her as how good she is.”
“Well,” said Donovan. “All those in favor of having a fair fight, say ‘aye.’ … Okay, good. Seems like we agree about that. If there is any trouble, Marci, you see if you can get rid of any static spells like blocks, all right? Then Susan puts her down. Seem like a plan, everyone?”
“It’s a good plan,” said Susan, “as long as the other side cooperates with it.”
“Just what I was thinking,” said Marci. “I’m not saying no; I’m saying we can’t be sure we’ll be able to pull that off.”
“Okay.”
“What about you?” said Marci.
“Hell, I don’t know. I’m going to, ah, try to stay alive?”
It was late afternoon, and the shadows of the trees seemed to stretch to the horizon, or would have if Donovan could have seen the horizon for the trees. They pulled up to the house in their rental Toyota Highlander and stopped on the 5 Mile River Road just short of the driveway.
“I expected a guard of some sort,” said Donova
n.
Susan, in the passenger seat, shrugged.
“What now?” said Marci.
“I suggest we walk up to the front door and ring the bell. Any objections?” There were none.
They got out and started walking toward the house.
“Security for the rich,” said Donovan, “is the result of a really weird combination of how rich they are and how rich they see themselves as, which often have nothing in common. Except, of course, that they all have a hell of a lot more money than the rest of us.”
No replies came to this profundity; Donovan shrugged and walked up to the front door.
“The Senator’s house was bigger,” said Marci.
“Don’t be judgmental,” said Susan. “Whittier mostly lives in the condo; this is just a sort of a retreat.”
Marci snickered a little.
The guy who answered the doorbell could have been a butler, if butlers generally stood around 6’3”, weighed somewhat north of 240 pounds, worked with weights, and carried a semi-auto concealed under a flannel shirt and a backup piece in an ankle holster.
“How do you do,” said Donovan. “We’re here to see Mr. Paul Whittier. My name is Donovan Longfellow, and I’m with the Spanish Foundation. Would you mind asking Mr. Whittier if he’d like to see us? Oh, and tell him we’re here to save his life. We’ll wait here.”
Donovan gave him his best smile. The man nodded to him and closed the door.
He opened it again about five minutes later and said, “My name is Mark. Paul will see you now.”
Paul, Donovan thought. He calls his employer by his first name. That means something. I wish I knew what, and if it mattered right now.
They came in past an entryway with a closet where Mark offered to take their coats and they declined. The ceilings were twelve feet high. The next room had a projection screen. The seating was a sectional sofa with reclining pieces and glass side tables. There was a bar in the corner, and a credenza in back. The carpet was heavy wool shag and Donovan would have bet his next paycheck it was Persian. He’d have bet the one after that that Whittier didn’t know the difference, but had just bought the most expensive one on principle. There was a bit of abstract art on the wall that looked like originals done by people who got paid a lot of money to paint things to look like they’re worth a lot of money. Donovan felt like if he looked up “nouveau riche” in a dictionary he’d see this guy’s picture.