by Jeff Abbott
“Don’t you have these bars to keep you out of trouble?”
“I’m not in trouble. A guy who saved my family during our relief-work days, he got killed. The police aren’t doing much. I have a lead but I don’t want the bad guys to know my real name if I get too close to them. Because of your godson.”
It’s awful to use your child as a trump card. “Sam Chevalier,” August repeated.
“The talented yet not exactly noble Mr. Chevalier holds dual citizenship with Canada and the United States but travels on a Canadian passport. I used that name as a cover on a few jobs in Hungary and Czech Republic. He’s ex–Canadian Army, muscle and enforcer for smuggling rings. I need him to have a credit history and passport and charge cards, and pocket litter active over the past two years. I’ll wire you the money to fund the charge cards. The person connected to this already knows me as Sam, I can’t suddenly use a different first name.”
“That Mila friend of yours, she could arrange you a new name, couldn’t she?” August knew of Mila, but he had no detailed knowledge of the Round Table. He only had suspicions.
“First, don’t sound jealous, and second, that would be illegal, August.” I pretended to be shocked at the thought.
“And you as ex-CIA using a CIA-sponsored identity isn’t? Totally illegal. I could lose my job.”
“There’s no risk. Just file me as an informant, then, using the identity. Or consider me a freelance contractor you hired. Whatever is less paperwork.”
“Like I would commit any of this to paper. This is a bad idea, Sam.”
“It’s Mr. Chevalier to you, sir.”
“Sam, honestly. I can’t. You’re not a contractor.”
“Pay me a penny and I am.”
He went silent and I waited for him to decide. “I don’t know, Sam.”
“Okay, listen. If I get any interesting intelligence out of this—I mean, come on, they killed a guy with an overseas security background and I think his history had something to do with his death”—(I really have no shame about small lies)—“then I’ll give you all I learn.”
“And then I have to rinse and clean the product so it looks legit.” Product equals information in August-speak. The information has to come from a credible source. That was not necessarily someone who was thrown out of Special Projects and who asked to borrow a retired ID.
“It’s just sitting there, no one’s using it. No one will know.”
He said nothing and I pounced, like a salesman knowing the yes is on the prospect’s lips.
“Look, August, you simply say you reassigned the Chevalier cover to someone who’s still undercover. Encrypt the file, reclassify it. My name doesn’t have to come anywhere near it. Then when I’m done, you delete the reassignment notation, as it was a misfile, an accident. Please. They killed this guy in cold blood; he was just trying to do the right thing. Let me get enough to give the police an anonymous tip. They won’t know how to find me, and Sam Chevalier won’t exist. If I get caught, I’ll fall on the grenade. Say I hacked the system using an old password, I reactivated the identity, you had nothing to do with it.”
“This really matters to you.”
“It does.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it. I’ll have a passport, driver’s license, credit cards, and bank accounts updated for you. I’ll have the Oliver Twists”—this was Special Projects’ team of very young, very capable, and very deniable hackers—“create a financial history for you. You’ll have them tonight.”
“I’m in Miami. Please open the accounts there. Thank you, August.”
“I miss you, man,” he said. Like I mentioned, I don’t have a lot of friends. August had filled the role my brother Danny had in my life after Danny’s murder—though no one could ever replace Danny—but our time working together was past. August had his life; I had mine. He had a brilliant career; I had this. Running bars and trying to settle scores for those who couldn’t. I’d not been able to take the credit for bringing down the people who’d framed me and driven me out of the CIA, but August helped me destroy them and he was the one who looked like the golden boy to the agency.
And I was fine with that. As long as he did what I wanted him to do.
“I miss you, too,” I said. “When this is done, come to Miami and have a drink. It’s the worst bar yet.”
He laughed. “You mean it’s not all elegant joints like your place in Manhattan?”
“Sadly, no.” I thanked him again and said my good-byes. Then I wired the money to a Special Projects account at a bank in Virginia so he could fund the accounts. That was a problematic paper trail, but I’d worry about erasing it later.
August was better than his word. That afternoon, I was behind the bar watching the World’s Worst Bartender—a nominal employee who had actually arrived for his shift, and was managing to pour wine badly for Paige, splashing half of it on the napkin—when a young man came in and walked up to me with a package. He wore a suit and he looked tired. “Sam?”
“Yes?” I said. “That’s me.” Paige said nothing. The World’s Worst struggled to get the cork back in the bottle.
The courier handed me the package. “From your friend in a special place.”
“That was fast.”
“I flew down at your friend’s request. If you could first inspect and see that all is well?”
“Come with me for a minute.” We went upstairs and I opened the package. Passport. Three credit cards. Bank accounts, including one close by at a small regional bank. A Florida driver’s license with a false address. The two photo IDs used old CIA pictures of me. I’d only been out of the agency for several months. I didn’t look very different, although I had been a very different—more trusting, naïve—man when the pictures were taken.
“Perfect. Thank you.”
“Then I’m done.”
“Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you. I have a flight waiting for me at the airport to take me back to your friend. Oh, and this.” He pulled a teddy bear from the bag. “Mr. Holdwine said you would deliver this to a certain individual.”
I smiled. “Tell Mr. Holdwine I am very grateful to him.” The courier nodded and left.
I studied my face on the passport. Sam Chevalier. I played a part when I played him, and he wasn’t a particularly nice guy. I thought of Galo and his intense stare, of the dark-haired woman and the fire in her eyes. I thought of Steve, dead in the street. I thought of the two men who’d been sent to kill him.
Going back into the game was like putting on an old coat, one that felt familiar and yet you’re not sure it will still quite fit.
I went back downstairs and Paige said, “Does this have something to do with our project?” The World’s Worst had gone outside, where there were a couple more customers.
“Yes. Can’t say more right now. I need to go clothes shopping.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Because I need to look a little seedy. A little down on my luck.” Sam Chevalier did not wear Armani.
“Standing in this dump, you’re halfway there.”
“My clothes don’t exactly suit where I need to go.”
“There’s a resale shop a few streets over.”
“You want to go shopping with me? We can leave him in charge for an hour.” I nodded toward the World’s Worst, who’d reappeared in the doorway.
“All right.”
Paige and I went and bought the clothes, the second step of camouflage, of being seen as someone new. When the ever-tasteful Paige held up a shirt or a pair of pants and said, “Ew,” I’d buy it. When we got back, I went upstairs. I used the new credit cards to make my flight reservations for the next day. They worked fine.
I went into the bathroom and washed my face and looked at myself in the mirror. I could feel the Sam Capra I’d promised myself I’d be take a little step back, into the shadows. Someone else moved into the light. A new me, a pretend me. I was Sam Chevalier again.
16<
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THE NEXT MORNING, I flew from Miami to San Juan, Puerto Rico. My new driver’s license evoked no suspicion from the TSA agent. I wasn’t bringing a gun with me so there was no extra paperwork. I did not take my fancy, loaded-with-spy-apps phone—if it were examined, I couldn’t explain it. I took a regular phone. I looked, um, sharp: a tropical-weight suit, slightly worn, the cuffs close to being frayed. A loud purple tie, not fully knotted at the throat, a yellow shirt that was a little too close to canary-bright. There was a lot of gel in my dark-blond hair. I never put gel in my hair. But it wasn’t my hair anymore. It was Sam Chevalier’s.
The flight took off and I closed my eyes and the burnt man danced up from the darkness.
“You live your legend. You are that person. You react, think, act as that person. It’s not acting. It’s a brain transplant. You get a new brain in your body.”
“I know.”
“Don’t sound impatient with me, Sam.”
“Every few months,” I said, “my family moved. To a new country. I was continually the new kid. I could reinvent myself however I wanted. I could be the brainy, quiet kid in Senegal. I could be the loud, athletic kid in Thailand. I could be the loner in Haiti, I could be gregarious in Belarus.”
“You’re not special. Don’t be overconfident,” the burnt man said.
“I’m not overconfident. I’m motivated.”
“Because bad guys killed your brother? Motivation would be going to Afghanistan and killing them yourself. That’s motivation. Not just signing up for the CIA and taking on this.”
I stared at him. He was crazy. His words made my skin itch.
He glanced down at a file. “So, Oscar nominee, your legend is that of Sam Chevalier.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sam Chevalier is a life invented, first in Langley, then on the streets of Prague or Moscow or Jakarta or Dubai, wherever he needs to go.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me who you are.”
I recited. “Born in New York to a Québécois father and an American mother, raised mostly in Albany and Montreal, joined the Canadian Army, was turned out of that army a couple of years later.”
“Don’t give me shit I could read in an obituary! Tell me who he is.”
I lowered my voice. “My parents were professional, but drunks. They’re assholes.”
“Why don’t you have a more Canadian accent?”
“I went to school in Albany, my mom’s hometown. They split up a lot but never divorced. We were the family that never quite jelled.”
“And why did you go into the Canadian Army instead of the American Army?”
“I thought it less dangerous. Less likely to be sent to the middle of a war. I don’t like danger when I’m not paid enough for it.”
“And then?”
“I smuggled. Contraband, not drugs, black-market goods.” I steadied my gaze. “I’m a practical guy. The Army didn’t approve but they didn’t bring charges. They just showed me the door. I had the goods on my superiors, you see. They were involved.”
“It doesn’t sound like I should cross you, Mr. Chevalier.” His voice was mocking.
“I take care of myself first.” And I had a weak little grin, the kind I’d never have on my own face, and I flashed it at him.
“And that…” said the burnt man, “is the difference in these two Sams.”
“Something to drink, sir?” the flight attendant asked.
“No thank you, sweetheart,” I said, which is not what Sam Capra would have said. The flight attendant moved on and I stared out the window. I hadn’t used the ID in two years. Sam Chevalier had been out of sight. That could be a problem, but I didn’t have another option. I reminded myself of every detail of his past jobs, felt myself settling into his skin, then blanked my mind, like an actor taking to the stage who needs to react and portray the character as though it’s a soul he’s always inhabited.
When I landed in San Juan, the day was warm and sunny, the sky a faultless blue. I rented a car and drove to the Gran Fortuna. I felt uneasy. I had no backup, and no plan beyond redeeming the chip and seeing what happened. I’d packed for a stay, and I’d reserved a room at the resort. It was a beautiful hotel, with views along the edge of Old San Juan. I could see two massive cruise ships docked. I valet-parked and went inside and checked into my room. I stayed in my cut-rate suit, checked the hair gel, and slipped the casino chip into my pocket.
I headed back down to the lobby. A tour group milled, from the Northeast, judging by the thick stew of New York and Boston accents that I heard. They spilled into the hotel casino and I followed them. The casino was smaller than I expected, fitted into one side of the hotel’s first floor. More slot machines than anything else, but gaming tables offering blackjack, poker, roulette. I walked through the casino, assessing the security presence, eying the cameras, the guards, the exits, wondering what would happen when I tried to redeem the chip. What would be handed to me? Money? An offer to transfer funds to an account? Then why not put the value on the chip? Would I be handed an object? And how had Steve gotten this chip? That was a question that nagged.
I headed toward the casino cage.
Then I glanced past a group of tourists and I saw them. Cordelia. Her brother Galo. Sitting at a table near the bar, beyond the casino area, heads close together, talking. Cori looked unhappy, but then I realized I’d never seen her look happy. I moved so they couldn’t see me. They spoke, she shook her head, he got up. He didn’t go to the bar or approach a server, he headed toward the hotel’s front entrance, pulling out a phone. I saw she had a small carry-on bag by her feet.
Why were they here, and together? They must have known about the chip. But I cautioned myself not to jump to conclusions.
I faced a split-second choice: Approach her now, try to redeem the chip, or follow them. She was alone, no Galo, and I didn’t know when I could talk to her again. I chose her.
I went and sat across from Cori. I thought she was going to jump out of her skin as I smiled at her.
“Hi, Cori.” I used the nickname I had no right to know about.
“Sam?” She took in my hair, my cheap suit that didn’t stack up to the Armani she’d last seen me in, my bright-purple tie, and the clashing shirt. “What are you doing here?” She glanced toward the front of the hotel, where Galo had gone with his phone. “You need to leave.”
“I need to stay,” I said. “Your brother Galo sent a man named Ricky to search Steve’s house.”
She went as pale as milk. “I don’t think so—how do you know?”
“Because I got there before he did. Then I followed him back to a nightclub in Miami Beach. Galo was there.”
She looked stunned.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“Please go.”
“Did your brother have Steve killed?”
She looked horrified. “Galo didn’t—he wouldn’t. Please. Go.”
I made my voice gentle. “Do you think I’m stopping or giving up? I don’t.”
Her mouth worked. Her eyes went past my shoulder. “Go. Leave. Now.”
“I’m going to find out why Steve died,” I said. “And you’re going to tell me.”
“I don’t know.” Cori’s mouth turned into a smile and she leaned forward and kissed me. On the mouth, with more heat than Justine had. I was too surprised to move. I felt her fingers explore my gelled hair, her thumb caressed my ear; the kiss got more real. Then she leaned close and whispered, “Play along. I’m saving your life.”
17
CORI.” A VOICE behind me. Male, surprised, a little annoyed.
She leaned back and smiled over my shoulder. “Ha-ha, well, I have another surprise.”
Another, I thought? Cori continued: “I asked my boyfriend here for the weekend.”
I turned and saw Galo behind me. He was a big guy up close, solid throughout, broad-shouldered. He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look angry. More like confused.
“You must be
Galo,” I said. I stood and offered him my hand and thought, Maybe he saw me kissing a French girl two nights ago, across a darkened club; does he remember my face? The club was dark; we were a few tables away from his.
“Hi,” I said. “Sam Chevalier.” I said the last name carefully, and a bit loudly, so Cori would know it. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
He shook my hand, a bit wary. “I can’t say the same. I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” he said to Cori.
“We’ve all been keeping secrets, Galo.” Her tone was edgy, nervous.
Now he risked a smile, as if he didn’t have a choice. I got up from the seat he’d occupied and sat on the arm of her chair, gestured at the leather seat. He sat down, taking my measure. “How long have you two been an item?”
“Not long,” she said. I let her take the lead; a lie was better coming from a sister than a stranger. “A few weeks.”
It’s one stress to be undercover, it’s entirely another to be making up such a story as you go along, and it’s blood-freezing to let someone else be writing your fiction for you. The burnt man would have had a tantrum at me losing control of the situation. I’m saving your life, she’d said, so she knew the terrain better than me. I kept my mouth shut.
“And what do you do, Sam?” he asked me. The smile was still on his face, but he wasn’t amused. The protective brother, I thought.
I had to answer before Cori said He owns a bar. The worlds of Capra and Chevalier must not come together. “I do freelance security work.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Mostly in Miami it means that I’m an extra bodyguard, local, when needed.”
“Like for celebrities?”
“Sure, sometimes.”
“Like who?”
I named a boy band that had toured through Miami recently, a young actress who was dating a Miami Heat player. I shrugged like it was no big deal.
Galo studied me. “So, how did you two meet?”
“This feels like an interrogation,” Cori said. “Rather than a ‘Hi, nice to meet you.’”