by Michael Crow
“Oh, your thinking’s stuck with drug deals, and—” she starts.
“Never change the plan. Never. There’s no fuckin’ difference between a multimillion-dollar coke or smack buy and this, except maybe weight, or political shit. A buy’s a buy. Anywhere, anytime. The rule holds. Fuck! Can’t you comprehend that, Allison?”
“Westley wants to do it.”
“So fuck him. You’re in charge, right? Or was that bullshit? If you are in charge, tell Westley we stick to plan. Tell him to tell the generals no changes in schedule. Otherwise, this thing’s aborted.”
“You don’t have any say in that, Terry.” Icy. She’s not liking this one bit.
“What? You think I’m frontin’? Dig it: I tell Sonny what I just told you. Sonny goes postal. He knows how we play. And he makes sure his Mister Kim stays right here in his ’hood. Vlad’s a no-go. Guaran-fuckin’-teed.” I am frontin’, big. I don’t have a choice, though. I only hope Allison’s not conscious of the fact that Sonny wouldn’t dare to tell Kim not to go, wouldn’t presume to even suggest any such thing.
“You had better stand down, Terry. I don’t respond well to threats.” Harder voice. Now she’s wrapped two turns too tight.
“No threat. Just truth. What? Can’t take it? I’ll lay it out again, large: sellers try changing, they got serious reasons. Gotta cover their asses, or wanna be fucking yours. Maybe you’re willing to take it up your sweet butt, but you really down with jeopardizing your package, your entire op?”
“Do you want to make some kind of intelligent point, Mister Prentice? Offer some advice from your vast experience—which right about now is coming across as real overrated, just a lot of narc-type jive?”
“Okay. Plain and simple. You tell Westley—or you go through that back channel you claimed you have with Langley and get Langley to tell him—absolute negative on any change. You or Langley tell Westley to turn bitch, suck the generals’ cocks if that’s what it takes to make them stick to schedule. Or don’t you have the stones for that?”
“Wow! Terry sounds quite nonnegotiable, doesn’t he?” Nadya says. I sense rather than see Rob slip into the lounge from his communications center. I turn a little so my back’s to a wall and all three of them are in my sight zone. Escalation’s seeming like a possibility here. You never know, with Company people.
“Everything’s negotiable at some level,” Allison says. She paces before the window, stops, stares out at the view for what feels like too long. I know she’s hating everything I’ve said, especially my last line. I hope she’s pro enough to get beyond it, see the real point.
“Allison?” Nadya says softly.
“Goddammit,” she says, not turning. “Goddamn! Right, then. All right. I’m telling Westley we stick to plan.”
“But Westley said—” Rob starts.
“Don’t you dare, Rob!” Allison spins and snaps. “Don’t even think of going there. The decision’s mine. I’ve taken it. Clear?”
“As crystal, love,” Nadya says. “No worries. Right, Terry?”
“I’m on board. Totally. We’ll make it happen, the whole deal,” I say. Then I shrug slightly, let my arm muscles go down a notch from combat-ready level, but keep my mind cold, focused. Bad sign, this bullshit about change. Even worse, how high the tension torqued up over it.
Nadya must feel it, too. She moves to damp things down. “Well, that’s that, then, I suppose. I’m famished. How about you, Terry? Yes, of course you are. Allison, may Terry and I be excused for lunch, please?”
Allison makes a small smile. It’s costing her, that’s plain, but she does it. Then she nods assent.
“Now that was brilliant!” Nadya says. We’re in one of the Lotte’s restaurants—there’s fourteen, count ’em, she picked the Korean one—and chowing on some kind of tasty seafood dumplings.
“What?”
“Well, from the audience’s view. Picture as we set our scene: attractive, ambitious young woman entrepreneur in conference about the largest deal of her career with one of her slightly older assistants. He’s businesslike, quite attractive in his nicely tailored suit. And suddenly he’s shouting like a gangster rapper. ‘Smoke yuh ass, bitch! Goin’ postal, holy ghostal!’” She giggles.
“You think I was acting?”
“Oh, the contrast was amazing. Perfectly played.”
“And the content?”
“Would’ve been quite staggering,” she says, “if I wasn’t in complete agreement. Have been since the moment Allison mentioned her brief communication with Westley this morning. I’d said my little piece before you arrived. She wasn’t having any. Thought it best to let you go it alone.”
“So you understand something’s wrong here?”
“Well, of course! But absolutely not surprised. It’s the nature of these things, I suppose. There are always a few bumps, a bit of rough road, on any op. It would be a bit boring, otherwise, don’t you think?”
I laugh. Little Nadya’s tough enough. I ask her if she thinks Allison will stick with the plan or cave for Westley.
“Stick. She has to now. Matter of pride, all that rubbish. You made it impossible for her to back down. But of course you know that.”
“I know nothing’s ever sure, that’s what I know. What do you think the generals are up to? They’re your boys.”
“Nothing terribly sinister, I’m thinking. I doubt they have—what was that colorful expression you used?—oh yes, ‘the stones’ to try any radical actions with a serious personage such as Mister Kim. Additionally, they’re very interested in repeat business. They’re probably testing their leverage. And they do like to bark orders just to see which way people will jump, and how fast. A military thing, I imagine.”
“Not running scared, then? Not feeling heat from somewhere?”
“Anything’s possible. But it’s unlikely in this case. They have, after all, very brutally expelled the local mafia from their sphere of interests. I can’t imagine anyone else who might be in a position to threaten them.”
“Not big guys in Moscow? Government or mob?”
“If either were fully aware of what Bolgy and Tchitch have been up to, I think the stroke would have been applied well before now.”
Far from hard intel, but somehow I feel eased by what she says. Nadya, light and sassy as she acts, is probably the most professional member of this team. Certainly the brightest.
“Darling,” I say, “I know the timing’s awkward, but when all this is over…if I come back…will you marry me? Be the mother of my child?”
“Oh, Terry! This is so sort of…bad World War Two film. But you don’t look a bit like David Niven in an RAF uniform, your accent’s deplorable. Worse, you’ve used that exact line before. You’re gifted, but your repertoire is, well, limited.”
“Even in the love scenes?”
“We won’t speak of those. It simply isn’t done,” she says, so fake prim she makes herself chuckle. “And how’s a girl to know, when her experience is so limited?”
“Easy enough to broaden it, if the girl was inclined to.”
“You tease! You flirt! Offering what you can’t deliver.”
“I can’t?”
“Time, darling. We have so little now. But when all this is over…if you come back…”
I’m a sucker for mocking from the Nadyas of the world, and this one knows it, keeps it up awhile, temporarily driving away any lingering bad vibes from the scene in the suite. Whether for my benefit or her own isn’t clear and doesn’t matter.
Eventually she segues gracefully into tales of Vlad, strictly travelogue, nothing mission-related. Says I’ll feel depressed there at first, but not to worry; everybody always finds Russian cities depressing. With reason, as I’ll see. Something not easily defined, a mix of decay and new money spent tastelessly and wastefully. Exudes a very Third World feeling.
“How Third World, you’re wondering?” she says. “Well, it’s rather late in the season, but if you have an urge to walk barefoot on the sa
nds of lovely Sportivnaya Beach, do not!”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Absolutely infested with larvae of intestinal worms, so tiny they burrow in through the pores of your skin. Ah, but once they reach your gut, they grow and grow. Half a meter or more!”
“Right. That gives me the picture. Third World.”
After we’ve eaten, she links her arm through mine, walks me out between the sailor-suited boys at the doors.
“I know what’s part of the hospitality package at Mister Kim’s,” she says, not mockingly but certainly mock-serious only. “Don’t you dare touch one of those dirty shamless sluts, Terry. It would break my fragile heart if you proved untrue.”
She’s laughing as I get into the car, still parked at that blocking angle to the curb, though the limo somehow managed to get away. And so am I. If Nadya’s got a heart, it’s probably at least part stone. But her mind, yeah, her mind is one I could love madly, truly. In fact, I already do, dammit.
I try emptying my mind on the long drive back to Kim’s. Manage to jettison a couple of doubts, a file of suspicions, a few desires and memories and some other junk that’s been piling up there lately. Don’t pay any attention to the traffic snarl, the snaking crowds of pedestrians downtown, the massive waves of apartment buildings that flow up the valleys between hills. Soon I’m in a calm, clear zone, the kind I frequently seek but don’t reach as often as I’d like. I’m barely aware when the car stops. I look out. It’s a moment or two before I realize we’ve reached Kim’s place.
Guess that’s why Sonny’s able to blindside me soon as I go in through the staff entrance.
“Why you people trying to mess with Mistah Kim, huh?” he barks, gripping my left bicep. “What shit you people pulling?”
“Let go of me, Mister Park. Right now, please,” I say. “Do that, and I will answer any questions I have answers for.”
“You better have answers, Mistah Prentice, or people goin’ down pretty soon,” Sonny says. But he releases my arm. “Mistah Kim, he’s very disturbed. That Westley, he call him here, say we gotta go Vlad right away. Don’t know why, Mistah Kim don’t tell me, just say get ready, we going tomorrow morning.”
Oh fuck, I’m thinking. Allison caved. But I take too long for Sonny.
“What’s this hurry-up shit? Bad, bad. Better stick to plan. Always better, stick to plan. Answer, Mistah Prentice.”
“I don’t know anything about Westley calling here.”
“You better know something. ’Cause it gets worse. Short time after Westley phone, that Miss Allison call. She say to Mistah Kim she talk to Westley, plan stays same-same. Mistah Kim, he don’t like any of this. Wants to know how come you people say one thing, then say another. Not the way Mistah Kim like to do business. Not the way I like, either. Bad, bad. Some kinda troubles for sure.”
“Listen, Sonny, it’s a misunderstanding.” I give him a slanted description of the scene with Allison, casting it as Westley hearing from the Russians they’d like to push up the meeting a couple of days, then asking Allison if that would be possible. She decides it is not possible. She decides we stay on the original schedule. And she’s in charge.
“That woman in charge? Not Westley?” Sonny’s voice is heavily doubtful. “First I hear about that. Here’s Mistah Kim’s message. You get that Westley to tell him what’s going on. And you get that fuckin’ woman up here to explain everything pretty quick. Better be good. Or Mistah Kim, he say he don’t go nowhere with you people. Nowhere. Never.”
twenty-three
I PHONE IN THE MESSAGE TO NADYA, NOT ALLISON. I figure I’ve already pushed that one within an eyelash of kill-the-messenger mode; any more from me might be seen as active coconspiracy, provoke a strong, wrong reaction. “Oh dear. Very messy,” Nadya says, not bothering to ask why I picked her. She knows why. She’ll pass it on.
All I can do, meantime, is wait.
That gets spooky, fast. I expect some faint buzz, some hint of random static, at least that almost imperceptible tightening of the air you somehow sense before a big thunderstorm.
But there’s nothing. Kim’s place feels as tranquil as a Zen monastery. I sit there in the staff lounge for a long time. Don’t see Sonny, don’t see any Lees or Parks or Lees, don’t hear any phones ringing, any doors slamming, any Lincolns pulling into the drive, or pulling away.
I begin to believe everyone’s vanished, that I’m the only live body in the place.
I go into the staff kitchen, make myself a pot of coffee, take it back to the lounge, sip on the first cup while I check out the DVD library. A couple of shelves of martial-arts thrillers from the Far East’s Hollywood—Hong Kong. Not up for that, even though they always have a large laugh factor, fighters soaring impossibly through the air courtesy of special effects. Tucked away behind one set of discs, I find a porno cache, Thai-made. Definitely not in the mood for watching exquisite Thai girls, maybe fourteen years old, maybe a lot younger, pretending to enjoy humiliating sex acts with grown men, probably dogs and other animals, too. Even thinking about what’s on those DVDs makes me feel disgusted, angry.
Zero interest in the CD racks. And there aren’t any books in sight.
I go up one level. Nobody in the pool, nobody using the exercise machines. Feels like nobody ever does, maybe never has. The place doesn’t want me.
So I go down to my room, unholster the Wilson and the XD, remove the Korth from my special briefcase. Unload, check chambers, start carefully wiping down the Wilson with a silicon cloth. And stop abruptly; my tools are already free of dust, oily fingerprints, any blemishes at all. As clean as if they’d just come from the box. Reload, reholster, shut the Korth away. Kick off my shoes, lie down on the bed, hands clasped behind my head. Tense, then relax every muscle group I’ve got, starting with my feet and working up to my neck.
When I’m loose enough, I decide to try eyelid movies. Usually a pleasant enough way of filling empty time, especially if I begin with something sweet and recent. Like that night with Nadya, her eyes on mine as we made love. Cue up the mental tape, start. But something’s off, it won’t track. Damn. Nothing but gray horizontal bands, not even scrolling but jerking fast from bottom to top. No sound, either. Just an aroma, some mix of wild honeysuckle and musk. Or the idea of such a scent; you cannot really ever recall smells, reexperience them the way you sometimes do touches and sights and voices.
Voices especially. Now, those you can frequently hear almost as clearly as if they’d been digitally recorded in your brain, even without a visual. I let go as much as I can, wait to see what voices might come.
That starts random, fractured, does a quick devolve to disorienting, then nightmarish.
“Any bored troubles just hanging out with nothing to do, they say, ‘Hey, there’s always Luther. Let’s go see him. He likes it.’”
“Wake up every morning, nothin’ but a blank facing you. Dead hours. Lot’s of ’em.”
“Pink mist! No head no more, Serb pig.”
“You’re a lying son of a bitch, Luther. You’re going on a job.”
“No one available I trust not to dump or waste the package if there’s an incident.”
Each distinct, the real thing in tone, timbre, pitch. Then here comes some devil’s chorus, everybody trying to shout everybody else down, demanding to tell of the terrible, soul-sickening things Luther Ewing’s seen and done: Light the fuckers up! I piss on your grave, little brother. C’mon, rock the fuckin’ casbah. No son of mine who goes merc can expect to be welcome in my house. Gunny numbah ten, Luther numbah one.
Orchestra starts roaring up out the background, no melody, raw noise: AKs sounding like corn popping extraloud in the microwave, timpani boom of my .45 as I cap someone, high laughter of a little kid dashing across the street, the heartbreaking, soggy slap of a bullet sprawling the kid into a blood pool, crack of the Serb sniper’s Dragunov that did it. Huge crescendo of RPG explosions, fast sort of snip-snip-snip of M4s doing three-round bursts into flesh, a man’s girly screa
m squelched to a gargle as a piano-wire garotte tightens around his neck, the flat pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop of my MP5 on full auto, hosing a dozen kneeling, wailing Iraqi soldiers. AK corn-popping mixes with snare-drum reply from M16s. Howls and shouts, some hoarse and urgent, some agonized. Screams, wails, a thousand screams at once. And then a smell, a real smell, sickening-sweet blood mixed with burnt powder and hot grease.
Lying there, my whole being twists with regret and shame and horror at what I was, things I did. My stomach revolts, sharp pains stab up and down my chest, the overpowering sour burn as I swallow my own vomit before it can spew.
All at once I’m sitting up, drenched in something, eyes stinging and blurred. Barrel of the Wilson’s pointing at a figure of a man silhouetted by a door frame. Pull or not? Don’t know.
“Mistah Prentice? Hey, Mistah Prentice. You don’t wanna point that this way. Man, you looking sick as hell, Mistah Prentice.” It’s Sonny. Aw shit. Where the fuck have I been? How long was I there? I lower my pistol.
“That’s good, very good, Mistah Prentice. You need a doctor maybe?” Sonny says. I swipe at my face, hand comes away wet and salty. Shirt front’s wet, sticking to my chest.
“Nah, not sick. Not sick.”
“You sure, Mistah Prentice? Maybe I better get doctor, just check.”
“Think I dozed off.”
“Hunh.” Sonny moves near to the bed, watches as I holster the Wilson. Then he lays the back of one big hand against my forehead for an instant. “No fever. Demon sleep, I think.”
“Say what?”
“Me, once in a while, same-same. Take a little nap, all kind of hell hit my brain. Demon shit. Wake up sweaty, shaky.”
“How real is it, when it happens to you?”
Sonny grunts. “Too damn real. That’s the problem. Realer than real. Demon shit. Gotta be. ’Cause nothing worse than real stuff.”