Inside Man

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Zima pulled the silencer out. “It’s finished.” He tossed it onto the bed, too, then turned back to the window, to stare pensively through the dirty glass while he ordered his thoughts. He required peace to think things through properly at this end of a cycle. At the other end, of course, he didn’t think at all. He was a raging, mindless machine. Only, that phase had passed. Afterwards, his thoughts were always sluggish for a few days, sometimes weeks. The Kobra never gave him complex work straight after a peak phase.

  This simple assignment, though, had become complicated.

  However, the rules were straight forward. The rules were always straightforward and clear. This assignment was straight forward. Kill the blonde CIA officer. Public didn’t matter. Witnesses didn’t matter—although they should be cleaned up. It didn’t even have to appear to be an act of terror, although the fear factor terrorist strikes sent shuddering through a country was always a bonus.

  No, all he had to do was kill the little girl. Clean and simple.

  He’d had Marie and Reno stalk her for three days, to figure out her routines, which was when they had learned the delicious irony—she was protecting someone else.

  Empathy was not one of Zima’s strengths, although he understood how it worked in others. He’d recognized immediately that the man she protected would provide useful leverage to bring her out into the open. His death would have the American authorities looking for his enemies, not hers—a nice cut-out.

  Only, it had gone wrong. A priest…a priest had taken Zima out!

  He had to fix this before he was required to report in, because he could not bear to disappoint the Kobra as he would if he was forced to report failure.

  No, he would not let it come to that. He could not.

  The woman curled her hand around Zima’s arm, her fingers stroking. She looked up at him. She was the epitome of French beauty, with her coiffed brown hair, flawless skin and high cheekbones. It was the look in her eyes which destroyed the illusion. They were muddy with desire.

  “You’re tired,” she crooned. “You should rest. Come and lie down, and I’ll massage your shoulders. Come.” Her Russian was thickly accented, but passable, and her intentions more than clear.

  Reno rolled his eyes, his gaze upon the broken-down Makarov.

  Zima shrugged off Marie’s grasping hand. “Not now.” He looked over her shoulder. “Is that yours, on the floor?”

  Her mouth pressed into another moue of disappointment. She turned and looked. “Is what mine?”

  “The tissue with the lipstick.”

  She shrugged. “It must have fallen off the dresser.”

  “Put it in the bin,” Zima said curtly.

  “What?” She seemed puzzled, as if she wanted to laugh, but wasn’t sure she should.

  “Rubbish goes in the bin. That is the rule. Pick it up.”

  “It’s just a tissue…” she began.

  Zima grabbed her neck and walked her over to the corner where the tissue laid. When he bent her over to pick it up, she screamed and writhed, until he loosened his hold on her neck.

  Her fingers trembled as she picked up the tissue. She flinched as she reached to drop it into the beaten and scratched garbage pail by the dresser.

  Zima let her go.

  She seemed to be happy to stay on the floor. He stepped over her.

  Reno watched, his mouth open, the broken-down skeleton of the Makarov in his hand.

  “If we do not follow the rules, we are animals,” Zima told him.

  “Absolutely, I agree,” Reno said quickly and went back to work.

  It took an hour of careful monitoring for Agata to be certain the Hôtel Des Bains was not being monitored.

  “Explain again why we can’t reach out to Harry?” Warren demanded, behind her.

  Agata leaned back against the brick wall lining the alley they lingered in. No sunlight reached them here. The snow was still thick against the wall and had turned to slush beneath her boots. “On September 11, 2001, a woman called Greer Epstein stepped out of her office to have a cigarette break. Thirty seconds later, her office in the South Tower of the twin towers was hit by the second plane.” She turned her head toward Warren, to make sure he got the point. “She never took breaks before noon. Not ever, not until that day.”

  “That’s just lucky coincidence,” he growled.

  “It was a break in habit. Wanna know how many people die in house fires because they want to head back into the blaze to save one last possession?”

  Warren scowled. “Too many, I guess.”

  “Even one is too many,” Agata said, “although the number is a lot higher than that.” She rested her head against the wall. “The Des Bains is completely random, a break in habit. Neither you nor I have ever been here. We have no association with the place. On the other hand, heading back to the apartment is the expected thing. They’ll watch the apartment.”

  “Even I know enough to figure the apartment is out,” Warren said. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat and leaned back against the wall as she was. “Why is Harry out, though?”

  “Because I’m not certain Harry could help me. Us.” Agata rolled her head to the side. “The phone call I make from the hotel will give me information to figure things out from there.”

  “You think you know what has happened, anyway, don’t you?”

  Agata blew out her breath again. “I hope it’s not what I think, but to quote whoever the fuck it was, I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “Star Wars,” Warren said instantly. “A geek like you doesn’t know that?”

  She couldn’t quite scrape up a smile. Instead, she stood and unbuttoned the fur vest and held it out to him. “Give me your coat and hat and glasses.”

  “You’re going to leave me out here to freeze?”

  “I’ll be five minutes, max. Any longer, and you should assume something has happened. Go back to the apartment—not to walk in the front door, though.” She bent and gathered her hair over the top of her head and twisted it into a tight rope. “Wait for Harry to leave, follow him, and pull him into a dark corner somewhere and talk to him there. See if he can get you back to the States on a military transport, under diplomatic immunity—he’ll figure something out. He’s not absolutely terrible at his job.” She coiled her hair on the top of her head, and dropped Warren’s cap over the top of it, and pulled it down tight.

  “Your assessment of his capabilities fills me with confidence that he can get me out of Europe.”

  “I don’t think he can,” Agata said truthfully. She put on his coat and glasses and wound the scarf so it covered the lower part of her face. “He doesn’t understand what he’s up against.”

  “This thing you only think might be happening?” Warren asked.

  “Which is why I will make a call, maybe two, so I know it is happening.” She rolled the over-long sleeves up so her hands were visible. “Are you going to be here when I get back, Warren?”

  Warren crossed his arms and rubbed his upper arms through his sweater. “Where else would I go?”

  “You’re the rebellious type.” She shrugged. “I’m just asking.”

  “I’m like Harry,” Warren said. “I have no idea what is going on. I’ve been braced for two years for someone to come at me to get at my father, or his political allies. Instead, your enemy rocked up.”

  “Braced for two years? I thought your security detail was just Daddy keeping hold of your leash?”

  Warren pinched the skin over his nose. Sighed. “Yeah, well, I read the proposal brief, too.”

  Agata laughed. It wasn’t a merry sound. “I may end up killing you myself, Warren. Don’t move. Five minutes. If I’m not back, you fucking run like hell. Got it?”

  “Got it. Don’t get dead, Kelsey.”

  She met his gaze, startled. “That’s what I’m working on.” She turned and strolled out onto the street, and jaywalked across the road between cars, stepping over the ribbons of black slush building between the l
anes and in the gutters.

  The lobby of the Hôtel Des Bains had three doors onto the street, and a fourth corridor which connected it with the concert hall foyer, next door. There were two sets of elevators, across from each other, which gave six possible entrances to the foyer itself. It was a lot of traffic to monitor and not miss something small.

  The tourists in the coach which had pulled up outside the west entrance were collecting their cases and heading into the hotel. Kelsey mingled with them and followed the tide through the revolving door and into the foyer. She removed the sunglasses, but not her hat, and she kept her chin down.

  The concierge phone was beside the first bank of elevators, and the tourists going up to their rooms were a stream between the phone and the desk.

  Agata picked up the phone. When it was answered, she said, “Outside line, please.”

  The monotone buzz of a live line replaced the desk clerk. Agata punched out the numbers quickly. It was ten a.m. in Washington. The day was just getting started over there.

  “Santiago,” he said shortly.

  “It’s Kelsey, sir. Open line, not secure. Have you heard?”

  “By god, yes,” Santiago growled. “Is Warren safe?”

  “For now. Don’t know who to trust, sir. I need to come in and bring him with me.”

  Silence.

  “Your work isn’t sanctioned, Kelsey. Remember? I loaned you out. You’re not under my jurisdiction right now.”

  “Sir, this isn’t to do with my work.”

  “Fix it yourself, Kelsey!” Santiago barked. “And try not to create any international crises while you’re at it. Don’t call me again.”

  The phone clicked and resumed the outside line buzz.

  Agata rested her head against the wall beside the phone, her heart thumping. Santiago had made it clear when he loaned her out to the security detail that the lines of authority surrounding Warren and his detail were unclear. Only, this wasn’t about Warren—at least, she didn’t think it was about Warren.

  Time was ticking on. She straightened. She had one last way to find out for sure. She hadn’t wanted to use it unless she had no other choice.

  She dialed again and listened to the familiar double-ring tone of a United States phone.

  “Hello?”

  Agata lightened her voice. “Mom? It’s Agnes!”

  “Agnes…sweetheart,” Dima said, the rough burr of her voice clear over the line. “Why aren’t you in school?”

  “Oh, someone threw a party. Only it was boring so Kevin and I skipped out.”

  “Kevin is with you? That’s good.” Relief sounded in Dima’s voice. “I heard about the party, by the way. Lots of us got invitations. Basil sent them.”

  Basil…St. Basil…Russia. Also basilisk…snake…cobra…Kobra.

  Agata’s gut tightened. “Got to go, mom! Lots of stuff to do!”

  “Of course, sweetheart. Write when you’re settled, hmmm?”

  “‘kay. Bye!”

  She dropped the phone back on the base, whirled and hurried out of the hotel, pushing the sunglasses back into place. No one paid her a shred of attention, yet her spine tried to curl up and hide, anyway.

  Warren was still pacing the alley when she reached it. He strode up to her as she stripped off the cap and coat and accessories and held them back out to him. “So?” he demanded.

  “We’re in shit up to our chins, Warren,” she said grimly.

  He pinched the skin between his eyes. “You’ve got a straw, right?”

  [8]

  Garrett Park, Maryland. A few hours later.

  As soon as she slid through the back door, Dima sensed someone was in her house. It was dark and still in the kitchen, yet she knew. The air seemed thicker, or perhaps it was the Dane’s Irish Setter—Socrates—yipping and snapping at the cage wire. Socrates’ cage was right up against the dividing fence between their properties.

  Dima took off her coat, making her movements natural. She eased her backup out of its clip on the back of her jeans, and tucked her sweater under it and out of the way.

  “That red setter will wake up the neighborhood,” Scott said, from the pitch-black living room.

  Dima relaxed. She moved through to the living room without hesitation despite the lack of light. She no longer rammed her hip into the corner of the peninsula. It had only taken her four bruises to learn to step around it. “Socrates likes to chase cars. The cage frustrates her.” She took off her coat and dropped it over the corner of the sectional. “How long have you been here?”

  “Since Agata went off the air. That was her, in Paris, right? The temple shooting?”

  I know where everyone is.

  “Temple shooting?” Dima said, flexing her voice up to make it a question. “I’m out of the loop right now. I can’t turn the TV on.”

  Scott sat on the flat bench by the front door, where everyone parked their rears to put on their boots or take them off. The light from the street lamp, two houses up from here, shone directly into her living room when she had the curtains drawn back. In the light, she saw Scott’s head tilt. “You’re lying to me?” He sounded surprised.

  Dima took her hair clip out and shook out her hair, to hide any reaction she might give to his question. Scott was too good at assessing faces and body language, even with her standing in the dark. She put the clip on top of her coat.

  “The pearls are a nice touch,” Scott said.

  “A memorial service for those who died at the Hamilton,” Dima replied. “Why are you here, Scott? You’re supposed to be screening returning Marines at Andrews.”

  Scott got to his feet. “Tell me Agata used her one time number. Tell me she reached out.”

  Dima shook her head. “I’m not even officially back on duty until next week—”

  “Bullshit,” Scott said, his tone savage. “Santiago’s daughter nearly died. If that wasn’t enough motive for him to give you carte blanche, then the man is a monster. You would have convinced him to make it all off-book, so the Kobra isn’t tipped off. It’s why you’re still tiptoeing around your house in the dark. I can help, Dima. Let me help.”

  Dima held herself still. This was the reason she had picked Scott for the team, over Santiago’s objections. He was as good at extended strategizing and anticipation as anyone Dima had ever worked with.

  Reluctantly, she shook her head. “No.”

  “You know I’m not your mole!” Scott kept his voice down, although the power of his entreaty moved him forward another few steps. “You know why I have to help. Why I want the Kobra.”

  She did understand. His German legend, which he had lived so well and deeply, was engraved upon his heart in blood. “You don’t know it was the Kobra who ordered her execution,” Dima told him gently. “No one knows for sure.”

  “I know,” Scott breathed. “So do you. We both have our reasons. You’re going deep, Dima. I know the signs. You’re about to launch and you will need help. There aren’t too many people you can trust around here. Not anymore.”

  Dima shook her head regretfully. “I’m sorry.”

  Scott’s breath paused. Then he let it out with a deep bellowing sound. “Why not?” he demanded. Even in the dark, his eyes seemed to glow with the intensity of his question.

  Dima braced herself. “Because of the prescriptions.”

  He grew still.

  “Percocet, mostly,” Dima added. “Oxycodone or hydrocodone, when you can’t get anything else.”

  Scott didn’t move. Tension thrummed in him.

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Dima added. “It’s that I can’t afford to trust you. You know how it works. A weakness, any weakness, can be used as leverage. I’m already bleeding data from at least one point, which means I must assume the Kobra knows everything I do, and I know about the pills.” She made herself shut up. Scott would figure out the rest. He had probably already figured it out months ago, when the pills had started.

  “They can’t use it against me if you
know about it,” Scott said, his voice hoarse.

  Dima shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  Scott scrubbed at his temples with his fingers, frustration making his movements hard and rough. “They hand them out like candy, you know.”

  “They?”

  “When I got back from Berlin. When they were putting me back together again and doing their level best to convince me there were better times ahead. Dozens of pills in little paper cups, all the colors of the rainbow. I was told to take them. I didn’t know what I was swallowing. I did what I was told. That was my mistake.” His tone was bitter. “I didn’t figure it out at first. I talked about headaches and not being able to sleep because of the pain…it didn’t occur to me that not taking them was causing the pain. They handed me bottles of the shit, every time I asked…” He halted, his chest rising and falling. “I used to watch the alcoholics slide into the church beside my house for their nightly meetings and think of them as poor, weak fools. I figured I’d never be that stupid.”

  Dima nodded. She had guessed most of it already, although Scott wouldn’t appreciate knowing he had been so transparent. “You need to get off them, Scott. You have to dry out. You know that.”

  He hung his head. “I’m a fucking addict…” he breathed. The pain in his voice was awful to hear.

  “Yes,” Dima said softly. “And now you know you are, you can do something about it. There are programs, meetings, councilors…”

  She didn’t need to see his face to recognize he had grimaced in distaste. She could tell by the way he shifted his head. “Goddam it,” he breathed. “No one’s perfect, Dima.”

  “We do the best we can. That’s all I’m asking of you.”

  “And how many nights do you wake in a cold sweat?” Scott asked, his voice harsh. “Tell me you don’t still dream about Colchester, about Tom Dallas, and I’ll call you a liar, too.”

  Dima’s heart fluttered. Mention of Dallas always made it flutter. She took in a calming breath, making it slow so Scott wouldn’t notice it.

  “Colchester was bad,” she admitted, with a neutral tone. “We’ve all been through bad before—”