The Zoo Job

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  “Oh, thank you, Amalia. That was the best laugh I’ve had all year.”

  That wasn’t making her feel better. “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” Michael’s face finally lost the laugh and grew more stern. “Amalia, in my life I have met dozens of people from Médecins Sans Frontières, and they have come in quite the dazzling array of shapes and sizes. They all have bizarre, ridiculous stories to tell that sadly I cannot share due to the sanctity of the confessional. But believe me when I tell you that I have seen women of far more appeal, aesthetic and otherwise, than Dr. Onslow who have gone into medicine—specifically of the type that we practice here, to wit, by the seat of our trousers.” He smiled. “Besides which, why would anyone actually try to decipher our filing system, much less fix it, unless they were sincere in their desire to aid us, yes?”

  Amalia admitted that he had a point. “But what about that Smith fellow?”

  Michael nodded. “Now, he concerns me. I’m sure he believes his motives to be as pure as those of Dr. Onslow, but I doubt we will come through his visit unscathed.”

  “The Americans have never had our best interests at heart.”

  Before she could continue her tirade, Michael’s phone buzzed. He picked it up. “Yes?”

  Through the receiver, Amalia could hear the tinny voice of Catia at the front desk. “Reverend, two SUVs have just pulled up in front of the clinic. They have government plates.”

  Amalia winced. “Probably more medical shipments they want to ‘confiscate.’ You should never have taken those damned animals! This is going to bite us on the—”

  Putting his glasses back on, Michael stood up and stared at Amalia, finishing her sentence. “—on the ass. So you keep saying. And yet, you have not been able to answer the question of how we would have paid for the adrenaline and penicillin.”

  Amalia fumed. Their need for those medicines was dire, and the money from the zoo had solved that problem, not just for the moment, but for the next half year at least.

  The pair of them walked past the now well-organized files to the front of the clinic. Amalia had to grudgingly admit that she liked seeing the wire-frame boxes atop the cabinets empty for a change.

  Holding up her hand to block the midday sun from her eyes, she saw Aloysius Mbenga climb out of one of the two black Escalades that were now parked in front of the clinic.

  Michael stepped forward. “Minister, I would like to thank you for the insulin—but there would be little point in doing so, so I will not. My gratitude was not your goal, yes?”

  Mbenga regarded Michael, hands on hips. “The goal was achieved, in fact, but there were complications. Ones that trace back to this very clinic.”

  “What are you talking about?” Michael sounded as confused as Amalia felt.

  “You recently added a doctor to your staff.”

  “No, I did not.”

  Amalia tensed. Lying to someone as powerful as Mbenga was not the wisest course of action.

  But then, neither was engaging in a legally dodgy animal transaction while living under a corrupt regime that had a fondness for blackmail.

  Then Michael kept talking. “I have, however, accepted the services of a volunteer, who will be here until the inoculations next week are completed.”

  “Yes, a Dr. Bernadine Onslow.” Mbenga regarded Michael carefully, but Michael gave away no surprise that Mbenga knew the new doctor’s name. “It’s actually her handler who concerns us.”

  “What about him?” Michael asked.

  “For starters, his name is not John Smith.”

  Feeling ridiculously vindicated, Amalia said, “I knew that wasn’t his name! It just had to be fake!”

  “How do you know this?” Michael asked, as if that mattered.

  “Because I’ve met him before. Shortly after he stole our shipment, he started doing rather sloppy surveillance of my home, and my chief of security was able to get a picture of him—though he was, sadly, unable to capture him. His real name is Eliot Spencer, and he used to work for a—a former business associate of mine.”

  Amalia couldn’t help but ask, “So he doesn’t work for the CIA?”

  Mbenga’s gap-toothed smile chose that moment to show up, and Amalia involuntarily shuddered. “Oh, it’s possible he’s been in the American government’s employ—the man is a rather talented thug—but he’s not one of their agents, no.”

  Michael was nodding. “Which means that Dr. Onslow—”

  “Is likely not who she appears to be. I’m afraid I must take her into custody—if for no other reason than to help locate Spencer. He and I have some unfinished business.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said a familiar, yet not familiar voice.

  Turning around, Amalia saw Dr. Onslow walking out of the clinic—but she was talking differently now.

  “’Bout bloody time you wankers figured it out.” Onslow now sounded like she came straight from the streets of north London. She walked right up to a rather shocked Mbenga and held out a hand. “My name’s Annie Kroy. And I believe we’ve some business to discuss, you and I.”

  TWO AND A HALF HOURS AGO

  “Excellent,” Aloysius Mbenga said to the woman on the other end of the phone call. “Wear the red dress, please. I find that to be the most aesthetically pleasing one.” He did not add that he also found it the easiest one to remove. Last time, she wore a blue dress undoing the clasps of which caused him to waste ten minutes; by the time he was done, he was barely still in the mood.

  And since he was, in essence, performing for two, getting out of the mood would be problematic. Tereza got cranky when Mbenga didn’t perform to her standards.

  But the red dress just slid right off. Much easier.

  Once he closed the connection, he walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. Eventually, he would need to put in an appearance at the office—he tried to show up at least once a week so the commoners saw how incredibly hard he was working as minister of finance. Of course, that office included an empty desk with a computer that wasn’t even plugged in, and a drinks cabinet very much like the one in here. He took the occasional meeting in the room, and allowed his picture to be taken while pretending to work at the nonfunctioning computer, but most of his actual business was done here at the house.

  Just then, Ahmad, his chief of security, walked into the living room. That wasn’t entirely accurate—Ahmad didn’t “walk” anywhere. He always seemed to be marching, and you could tell that when he stopped marching, he had to force himself not to salute. But then, that military training was why Mbenga had hired him in the first place.

  The security chief was wearing a black T-shirt and cargo pants, and he pulled a smartphone out of one of the latter’s many pockets.

  “Minister, I believe I saw someone trespassing on the premises.” He held the phone’s display toward Mbenga, who leaned forward to see a picture of a vaguely familiar-looking person. “My men are tracking him down now. Neto says that it’s the same one who took the shipment from the clinic.”

  Mbenga’s eyes widened. “And he came here?”

  Ahmad nodded.

  “Very well. I would very much like to speak to him about why he stole our merchandise—and how he disabled the Escalade.” He took a sip of his drink. Towing the Escalade had been expensive. Not that Mbenga couldn’t afford it, but it was the principle of the thing.

  Something about that man’s face was bothering him, though.

  “Is there something else, sir?”

  That was why Mbenga paid Ahmad so well—he was observant, to the point where he could tell that something was annoying Mbenga. “I’m not sure. May I see that picture again?”

  “Of course.”

  Again, Mbenga stared at the picture of a white man with long brown hair, and—

 
That was it! “Spencer!”

  Ahmad frowned. “Who?”

  “It was before your time.” Mbenga put his drink down and pointed to the door. “Get out there—put all your men on this.”

  “Sir, five of our men are out there already. He surprised Neto and his men before. This time—”

  “Just trust me, you will need everyone. I don’t know what that bastard’s doing here, but I want him alive and in front of me in five minutes.”

  Nodding, Ahmad said, “Yes, sir!”

  As the security chief exited, Mbenga put his head in his hands. First Interpol shut down all his weapons pipelines, then the shipment got ambushed by none other than Eliot Spencer.

  THREE HOURS AGO

  “You want me to do bad surveillance?” Eliot asked incredulously.

  “Yes. Otherwise, they won’t be able to see you.”

  “I don’t want them to—”

  “Normally,” Sophie explained patiently, “you don’t, but this time you need to be identified. I’d rather do it in such a way that makes Mbenga think he has the upper hand. Make him think he’s forcing me to change my timetable. Besides, the two of you have a history, and—”

  “It’s not just me and Mbenga who have a history.”

  Sophie was unable to stop the huge smile that broke out on her face. This was the other shoe she’d been waiting for.

  Eliot frowned. “Why are you smiling?”

  “Because I suspected from the moment you first told the story of what happened when you came here with Moreau that there was more to it than you were saying. You provided excessive detail right up until the end when you were talking about Mbenga’s wife. And then you were gone last night for—”

  Holding up a hand, Eliot said, “All right, all right, I did more than just put a finger to her head.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Sophie tried not to sound too self-satisfied. “And what happened when you visited her last night?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Eliot muttered.

  Sophie was actually surprised at that answer. He wasn’t usually so transparent. “Eliot, muttering ‘doesn’t matter’ is as good as admitting that—”

  “Nothing happened last night,” Eliot snapped. “Yes, I visited Tereza, but—” He closed his eyes, then opened them.

  LAST NIGHT

  Eliot had very little trouble getting past Mbenga’s security. It wasn’t anywhere near as good as it had been nine years ago—but then, Mbenga’s own life was more secure now. He was a member of the government, after all, and he was in good with the dictator.

  Eliot spent about an hour observing the security routine, and determining the patrol patterns and how best to get past them without hurting anyone. He could’ve done it in a quarter of the time with hurting them, but that would just put Mbenga’s people on alert. Plus, it would make it harder to get out.

  Once he’d figured out the route of least resistance, he worked his way to the window that he expected was still Tereza’s bedroom.

  It was. She was just as beautiful.

  She lay on her four-poster bed—the same one she’d had eight years earlier—dressed in only a diaphanous nightgown, sipping a glass of an amber liquid that was probably brandy. Her long dark hair was short now, cut close to the scalp, but this served to accentuate her lovely, angular face, particularly the cheekbones. The nightgown also did a good job of showing off her athletic body, though Eliot noticed that she was less toned than she had been the last time he saw her. It seemed as if she no longer exercised, though she was still quite slender.

  Opposite the bed was a wide-screen TV. Eight years ago, it had been a large television, not this high-def LCD. Given her taste for on-screen sexual acts, it didn’t surprise Eliot that she’d upgraded.

  Eliot couldn’t see the screen from this vantage point—which he considered a blessing—but since he’d already seen that Mbenga was in a meeting in the living room, he knew that it had to be an old recording.

  He tapped lightly on the window.

  Tereza turned, looked up, frightened, but upon recognizing Eliot, she softened. Getting up from the bed, she walked to the window and opened it. The coolness of the mansion’s central air-conditioning wafted across his face, drying the sweat that was a constant reminder that he was in Malani.

  Then Tereza put a hand on her hip and said, “You know, when I heard that a single person took down Neto’s team and disabled their car, I had a feeling you were back.”

  Eliot smiled warmly. “Nice to be recognized.”

  “Indeed. When Neto came back with the tow truck, he tried to convince Ahmad that it was a team of mercenaries that took them down, but he soon admitted the truth.” She cupped his cheek with her right hand, the left one still holding the brandy. “It is very good to see you again, Eliot. I’ve missed those—those evil hands of yours.”

  Wincing, Eliot said, “Listen, Tereza—”

  “You can’t stay, though. In fact, I really need to get dressed—Aloysius and I are going to some manner of function as soon as his meeting ends. There’ll be media present, so I must go as well, much as I loathe doing so.”

  Eliot frowned. “Since when?”

  She shook her head. “Ah, Eliot, my sweet Eliot—do you imagine that I have hair this short for aesthetics? It is the result of chemotherapy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Eliot said with genuine feeling. “I had no idea.”

  Tereza chuckled. “No reason why you should. Aloysius has gone to great lengths to keep my illness a secret. The cancer is currently in remission, but it has already come back twice. I’m afraid that if you wait another eight years to see me, it will likely be to visit my grave.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Eliot said gently.

  “You’re kind to say so, but I’ve long since made peace with God. I will die with no regrets.” Then she kissed her finger, and placed that finger on Eliot’s lips. Her skin was smooth and warm. “Well, perhaps one or two regrets.”

  “Listen, I’m not workin’ for Moreau anymore.”

  “Given that he’s languishing in a San Lorenzo prison, I should think not. Yes, I do keep track of things, even now.”

  Eliot nodded, unsurprised. “Actually, it was my team that put Moreau there. We take down bad guys—and your husband may be next.”

  “And you wish to know where my loyalty lies?”

  “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Ah, Eliot.” Tereza shook her head and walked away from the window, sipping the brandy. “I’m afraid the time for such considerations is long past.” She turned back around. “I will not help you in any attempt to harm my husband. But I won’t hinder you either. I told you that I’ve made peace with God, and that includes my turning a blind eye to everything Aloysius has done. I will go to hell for that, but so shall he for committing those acts in the first place. But if you’re here to hasten his punishment for that in this life rather than waiting for the next, who am I to stop you? Besides, I am not without resources of my own, should something happen to Aloysius. You need not worry overmuch about me.”

  “Okay,” Eliot said neutrally. He’d been hoping that she’d help—be the inside person on whatever grift Sophie wound up pulling—but he’d been expecting the opposite. Her staying out of it would have to do. “I gotta go.”

  “I know.” She walked back to the window, bent over, and leaned over the sill.

  Her kiss was at once softer and more intense than it had been eight years ago.

  “Good luck,” she whispered, then closed the window, slicing away the precious air-conditioning, leaving him once again trapped in the sauna that was Malani.

  Based on his observations, Eliot only had another two minutes before the patrol pattern would shift to one that would make it a lot harder for him to leave. So he spent a minute and a half ju
st watching Tereza change into the formal wear for the event that evening.

  She knew he was still there, too, which made Eliot feel a bit less guilty about watching her dress.

  He was going to miss her.

  THREE HOURS AGO

  “And then I left to come pick you up on the docks. When I say it doesn’t matter? That means it doesn’t matter. Period.”

  Eliot stared at Sophie, almost daring her to respond.

  He should have known better, because of course Sophie did respond. “But it does matter, Eliot—it matters to you.”

  “It doesn’t matter to the plan, and that’s what’s important.” He stood up pacing around the hotel room. “So you want me to watch Mbenga’s house, but do it so they see me?”

  “Exactly,” Sophie said. “Mbenga needs to know you’re back in order to make this work.”

  “Fine. I’ll manage it, somehow.” He sighed. “’s like asking Hardison to hack with one hand tied behind his back. Or Parker not to use her lock picks to pick a lock.” He stared at Sophie. “Or you to do only half a grift.”

  Sophie raised her eyebrows. “I do it all the time. How do you think I convinced the reverend that I was a doctor with a secret agenda? Just do part of the job.”

  “Fine, I’ll figure it out.”

  “Good.” Sophie got to her feet and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry about Tereza. She’s one you really care about, isn’t she?”

  Eliot shook his head. “How can you read other people so well, and completely misread me?”

  Frowning, Sophie asked, “What do you mean?”

  Looking right into her eyes, Eliot said, “I care about all of them.”

  TWO AND A HALF HOURS AGO

  For the third time in the last twenty minutes, Eliot deliberately passed up an opportunity to hide from the patrols, keeping his face out for an extra half second.

  Unlike the other two times, though, there was a specific reaction. The guard Eliot allowed to see him yelled, “¡Aí está ele!”

  Two other guards responded to the call, and all three of them gave chase as Eliot ran past the hedges that stood alongside the mansion. The idea was to make them think he was heading for the driveway before he cut through the hedges and jumped the wall.