by Chris Mooney
"Brighten up my day," Misha said.
"Go secure," Bouchard said. Beep, and the encryption technology engaged.
"Give me the code, Ray."
On the drive to the airport, Raymond had felt it, the opportunity to trap Misha and his boss, Alexi, and take them out of the way. What Raymond needed now was some time to think over the possibilities and flesh them out with Cole. He would have to stall Misha.
"The decryption code is Lucky Charms," Bouchard said.
"Lucky Charms? What the fuck is that?"
"The name of a breakfast cereal."
"Hold on," Misha said.
Over the phone came the sound of footsteps clicking across a hard floor, and Misha talking in Russian, his voice audible but far away.
Raymond looked through the front windshield and watched the sprinkling of people wander through the parking lot and thought about the woman, Renee Kaufmann, who had so far proved to be elusive. How long would she stay hidden? John Riley's wake was tomorrow. Would she dare show up? Grief could be overpowering. Make it easy for me.
Misha was back on the line: "The code don't work."
"Try Count Chocula."
"Count what?"
"Count Chocula. C-H-O-C-U-L-A. Apparently Randy Scott was a big fan of breakfast cereals," Raymond said, his smile widening.
Another pause, and then Misha's voice burst back on the line, agitated as he said, "The suit's still locked up."
"My suggestion is to go through all the breakfast cereals."
"Alexi wants the code. Tonight."
"I gave you what Conway told me."
"Conway saw the video?"
"He saw it all," Bouchard said, his eyes cutting sideways to the surveillance pictures that had been left next to Conway's bed.
"It rattled him, and he gave me the decryption code."
Misha's throat clicked when he swallowed.
"This is starting to feel like a bad hand job," he said.
"I can't conjure Randy Scott up from the dead. You killed him, remember?"
"Let me tell you a story, Big Ray. Last night I'm at Alexi's place, he's entertaining some very important people, he's got these fucking high-class broads all over the place, they're dressed to the nines and got their tits hanging out, they're taking guys upstairs two at a time, doing girl-on-girl, two-on-two, tag teams, orgies. They're on their knees and blowing these guys under the table while we're eating, it's like something out of that flick Caligula."
"Misha " "Now Alexi, he wants to know the status on the suit, so I tell him. You know what this guy does? He gets up and overturns the fucking table, I'm talking one of these solid oak jobs that seats like twenty-four people. Food's going everywhere, Alexi's screaming at me, he's picking up this rare china off the floor, this stuff that costs half a grand for a single plate, and this crazy son of a bitch starts throwing it against the wall. Broads are fleeing the place in terror.
You getting the full picture?"
"Yeah, Alexi threw a temper tantrum."
"He ordered me to remove one of your testicles as a down payment for your cooperation."
Raymond felt a drop of sweat run down his armpit.
"And that's just for starters," Misha said.
"You know that story about the guy who meets the hot-looking broad at the bar, takes her home, and then wakes up in a bath full of ice with a kidney missing? Alexi's big into the organ donation program."
"And how's that going to solve our problem?"
"Our problem? No, your problem. You think because you got some fancy fucking degree you can try to fist us by holding onto the decryption key? You know who you're fucking with here?"
"You should try living up to your end of the bargain."
"The fuck you talking about?"
"Lenny Rombardo."
"Who?"
"The detective from the Austin police. Our liaison. He went into the hospital to question Conway and now he's missing."
"So why you telling me this shit?"
"Where is he, Misha?"
"How the fuck do I know? Ray, if I was you, I'd get to a doctor quick and get your brain pan checked out because you're starting to have some serious fucking delusions. I don't know this guy Rombardo, I don't want to know him, I don't care if he's banging my mother's corpse. You know what you need? A little incentive to get your priorities in order."
"Goddammit, Misha, will you listen " Screams exploded over the line.
Startled, Raymond nearly dropped the phone. The screaming continued, then came a man crying for it to stop. It was the voice of Major Dixon.
Misha was back on the line, his breath gasping against the receiver.
"I just clipped off Major Dick's pinkie toe with a pair of garden shears. Imagine how you're going to sound when I remove both your kidneys," Misha said and hung up.
In the parking lot below, Pasha Romanov removed her headphones and held them in her hands for a moment. She sat in the back of the surveillance van, the only one left from Delburn Systems. The inside of the van was dark and warm, and her ears were ringing with a high-pitched whine. A wired energy, the fight-or-flight adrenaline high she experienced when sparring, filled her legs.
Raymond's not that far away, a voice said. His flight doesn't leave for another half hour. You can hook it over to his rental. Imagine the look of surprise on his face when he sees you.
Or the look on his face when she had Raymond on his knees, his hand clasped in one of hers. She would bend it forward, threatening to snap his wrist, the pain causing him to confess all of it. He would beg for it to stop, keep begging.
One swift kick and she could kill him without breaking a sweat.
She practically had a confession; the bug she had planted in Stephen's Palm Pilot had picked up Raymond talking to Misha. Pasha only wished she could have heard what Misha had said in return. Raymond's phone wasn't bugged, and they were talking over an encrypted line. She had only heard Raymond, but what she had heard was enough.
Killing Raymond. The thought wrapped around her like a warm blanket.
Do it.
Pasha did not get up. She remained seated and watched her thumbs trace the rubbery edges of the headphones.
Raymond had the suit. And he had Dixon, who was, at the moment, still alive and hidden somewhere in Boston along with the nightmare from her childhood, Misha.
She thought about Raymond again and wondered how long he would beg for his life.
If you kill Raymond, you'll sentence Dixon to death.
Yes. If Raymond was killed, Misha would have free rein and what then?
Dixon would be dismembered piece by piece. The fact that Dix was still alive was amazing. Misha did not do well when things did not go his way. Somehow, Raymond had managed to control the animal. How long would that last?
Not long. Misha was a head case He once had a meltdown at a mob-owned restaurant when the cook failed to cook his steak tips the right way.
The cook ended up needing facial reconstructive surgery.
Time was running out. She had to go to Boston and find Dixon. Quick.
And she had to be there to protect Stephen.
The sharp bite of betrayal still stinging her skin, she started working the computer keys to take the recorded conversation and burn it onto a blank compact disc. While she waited for the copy, she checked out her appearance in the rearview mirror.
Her hair was still the same length but dyed black; the contacts gave her eyes a chemical green color. A prosthetic ear now covered the ear stump. CIA prosthetics were amazing; they weren't like the peel-away faces from those amusing Mission Impossible movies, but they came close.
The computer beeped. The CD tray slid open and offered up the shiny silver disk. Pasha grabbed it, got behind the wheel, and started the van. The Levi jeans and the plain gray sweatshirt and hiking boots she wore were comfortable but lacked the refined elegance of Armani. Boston would be cold; that meant the opportunity to wear additional layers, combining different outfits and
looks. More chances to disguise herself.
Pasha pulled out of the parking space. The van had been recently painted black to cover the Delburn logo. The Texas license plate matched the driver's license she had created. In the event she was pulled over for speeding, everything would match and check out. She had several different IDs at her disposal.
Pasha had maintained a separate safe house apartment here in Austin in the event an operation had been compromised. Inside the house was a cache of untraceable weapons and some rather interesting gadgets, along with encrypted laptop computers, a fax machine, and computers with secured lines into the CIA computers. The printing equipment could manufacture licenses, passports, anything one needed for a new life.
The money she had stockpiled could allow her to stay hidden for months and, if necessary, a couple of years as long as she lived frugally. She couldn't use the credit cards that would alert Raymond but she had more than enough cash to set up a base in Boston and live well.
As she drove out of the airport, Pasha wondered if Raymond would discover that the only van left at Delburn was now in fact missing.
Probably not. Raymond had his hands full at the moment. He was in deep with Misha, that much Pasha knew, but for what? What did the Russian have on him? That thought kept her mind busy until she was well on the highway, heading north on the road to discovery. Pasha slid the disc into the CD player, fast forwarding to the part where Raymond talked to Misha. She thought of Misha, imagining how the animal's face would transform itself when she made him feed his own prick into a meat grinder.
It's the second Saturday in December, sunny and surprisingly warm.
Con-way sits alone in a chair on the rooftop of the Delta Chi fraternity house. It's a little after eleven in the morning. He drinks coffee that's spiked with Jack Daniels.
Cars are parked in the front of the house, along the side, and in the parking lot behind him. Finals are officially over. Last night, everyone celebrated the eve of their release. This morning, everyone is going home for Christmas break. Downstairs, he watches Pete Bartlow carrying a duffel bag full of clothes to his parent's sleek black Mercedes. He tosses the bag into the trunk, looks up and happens to see Conway and waves good-bye. Con-way waves back. For the next three hours he watches everyone else leave for break. By the time two o'clock rolls around the fraternity house is dead. He is no longer drinking coffee but Jack straight on ice.
Conway opens the door to his room and turns on his stereo, a cheap plastic model by Sound Design that he bought at Goodwill for fifteen bucks. The radio works but the tape deck eats tapes. Some song by Aerosmith is on. He plops down on the couch and leans back, propping his head on a pillow. He balances the drink on his stomach and looks around the room.
The walls are decorated with the free video posters he takes home after his shift. He doesn't own any pictures. The couch he sits on was rescued from the trash, and the mattress was free, the sheets and pillow and extra set were given to him by one of the fraternity brothers. On the floor by the cheap metal desk is a stack of nine library books. A lot of Stephen King. If you wanted to forget your current surroundings and be transported into a world where you would be entertained and scared shitless, then Stephen King was your man. As Con-way sips his drink, he thinks about which book he should read on Christmas day. This has become an annual tradition for him. He buys a bottle of Crown Royal, picks a book and spends the day drinking and reading. Last year it was the remarkable novel Sophie's Choice, and the year before that, John Fowles's excellent novel, The Magus. This year it's going to be John Irving's The World According to Garp. Then there's King to get him through the rest of winter break.
Conway stares at the Irving book. How would The World According to Steve Conway read? Lots of blank pages. No pictures.
His room door slams open and in walks John Riley.
"I've been looking all over for you. Where the fuck you been hiding?"
He has the kind of expansive smile and deep, steady voice that makes you believe in the power of his words a natural salesman in the making.
"I've been here all day," Conway said.
"You still haven't told me what you're doing for break."
"Working."
"No shit." Like Conway, John Riley is putting himself through college.
School breaks and holidays are not vacations; they are opportunities to earn money.
"What I'm asking is what are you doing for work?"
"Bartendingat The Cliffs."
"Are you flicking serious?"
"I'm serious."
"That bar draws on a good night two people. And that's including the bartender who, I may add, is a dick. That ain't going to cover the bills."
"I'm looking for something to do during the day."
"You find anything yet?"
"I'm looking into a few things."
"You like painting?"
"I'm more into doodling."
"I mean can you paint walls, shithead."
"I like money."
"I'm painting full-time, about ten hours a day, more if I want it. I'm talking some really good coin, time-and-a-half, too. If it goes well, the guy will hire us for the summer."
"Us?"
"That's what I'm saying. We leave tonight."
"What?"
"You can stay with us. I already cleared it with my mom. The apartment's small, you "II have to sleep on the couch, but she's cool with that."
"I appreciate the offer but " "Don't start in with this shit. What are you going to do, stay here and what, spend all your free time thinking?
You think more than Einstein and you're not half as smart."
Conway shook his head, laughing.
"Seriously, you need the money, and the guy I'm working for needs a body. I already told him you'd do it."
John " "Look, this will be a good time. My buddy from home works over in Marblehead at this bar. He'll hook us up with drinks, and these girls I know, they'll be home on break from Emerson. Emerson broads are so notoriously horny, my brother. They're known to fuck guys as ugly and as desperate as you."
"Wow. How can I pass that up?"
"That's what I'm saying. You in or what?"
Conway looks at the stack of books and thinks about the four weeks stretched in front of him. He's eighteen and this will be his first Christmas spent with a real family. Real food too, not that canned crap they served each year at St. Anthony's.
"Okay. I'm in."
"Good," Riley said.
"Just one rule. Don't be spanking your meat puppet in the bathroom.
You don't want my mom to catch you. She'll make you say the rosary and like forty Hail Mary's or something."
"Doesn't the door lock?"
"That's what I thought until two years ago. Brother, she hasn't looked the same at me since. Come on, I'll help you pack."
Conway woke up with a start. The new James Lee Burke hardcover was opened across his lap. He was on the plane, on a direct flight to Boston. He must have dozed off.
The stewardess was suddenly right next to him.
"Can I get you something, sir?" she asked in a bubbly voice.
"Coffee would be great."
Conway sat in the corner seat, next to the window, far away from the other handful of first-class passengers. He had never flown first class before. The leather seats were more comfortable than coach, wider, the leg room generous. He wondered if this was Bouchard's gift to him, an act of kindness to show that Bouchard understood that losing John Riley equaled the loss of a brother.
The stewardess came by with a china cup of coffee and placed it on the tray with two creamers and a small container of sugar. Con way opened one of the creamers and poured it into the cup, watching it swirl inside the black liquid, and in his mind saw a black cloud as thick as ink twisting its way through John Riley's veins, the combination of rat poison and cocaine swallowing blood and tissue, tearing into his heart like a rabid animal.
Did Riley try to fight it? Did he cry out
for help? Or was it too late? Had he already crossed that threshold, his body growing still, unable to function, his mind surrendering to the fact that it was too late? What had John Riley's last moments been like?
Bouchard's words from yesterday: "I'm not going to lie to you, Steve. It was an awful way to go.
Conway saw John Riley convulsing on the floor. Saw John Riley crying out in pain, crying out for help. John Riley, his friend, was dying.
Dead.
Because of me.
And now Dixon was held captive, surrounded by jackals feeding off his pain, alone with the knowledge that no one was coming to rescue him.
I won't let you down, Dix. I promise.
Then a voice added, If Angel Eyes thinks you know the code, he'll kill Dixon. Do you know the code, Steve?
Since that night he had met Pasha at Delburn, Conway had thought about Randy's last words: mittens and cat food. What did it mean? Conway had tried to re-create those final moments inside the lab; but the memory was hazy, full of black holes. He kept turning the words over and over in his mind, racking his brain for a solution.
Twenty minutes later and he still had no idea what the words meant.
Don't force it, Steve. It will come.
It had better come soon. Dixon's life was on the line. If Conway could figure out the decryption code, then maybe he could use it as a bargaining chip to save Dixon.
The plane touched down at Logan airport. Outside the window and framed against the hard blue sky of a clear November morning were the skyscrapers of downtown Boston. Conway had come home, and Angel Eyes was somewhere out there, waiting.
Booker was late. Conway sat down in a bank of seats located in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the runway. He draped his arms across the tops of the chairs and waited, back in Boston for the first time in over five years.
The thing about Boston was that nobody seemed to smile. In fact, they all looked pissed. Well-dressed people bustled about the crowded airport, everyone in a rush as they talked on their cell phones, others walking with their heads down, frowning or locked in deep thought, every face having that particular hard, serious gaze, what Conway called "The fuck do you want?" look. Boston was the opposite of Vail or even Austin, where life moved at a much slower pace. People you didn't know would stop to say hi, maybe even ask you how your day was and engage in idle conversation while you were waiting for a bus, all of it done with a smile. Maybe it wasn't sincere, but at least it was cordial.