Choke Point

by Jay MacLarty

  “Really?” She raised an eyebrow, inviting a response, then saw she wasn’t going to get one and pressed harder. “You’re not seeing anyone?”

  He suddenly realized where she was heading—an excursion into Caitlin Wells territory—a journey he had no intention of taking. “Nope.”

  “So what happened between you and Caitlin?”

  He gave a little shrug, as if the reasons were too obscure to quantify. “You’ll have to ask her.”

  “I did.” She leaned forward, curious and friendly, like a dog sniffing out a new treat. “Now I’m asking you.”

  Caitlin Wells was not a subject he cared to discuss, least of all with one of her friends, but he couldn’t resist the bait. “What did she say?”

  She drew a finger across her lips, like closing a zipper. “I want to hear your side.”

  “There is no side.” It came out harsher than intended, and he quickly dialed back the emotion, a little surprised that it still bothered him after ten months. “Things happen.”

  “Like what?”

  Like he wanted children and she didn’t. Like she cared more about the House of Rynerson, than making one of her own. Like…hell, he couldn’t even remember all the reasons, and didn’t want to. “Little things, nothing special.”

  “Oh, right, little things.” She smiled, a knowing, heavy lidded look. “Like she’ll always put you second to my father?”

  And that, another issue he wasn’t about to discuss. “Like who cares? It’s over.”

  “Okay, okay.” She held up her hands, palms out, as if to physically push the issue away. “I get the picture. You don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Sorry.” She swiveled toward the window just as the plane hit rotation. “I forgot, the male species doesn’t like to talk about feelings.”

  “Okay, smartass, what about you? Have you been dating?”

  “I’ve got a man,” she answered, not taking her eyes off the receding runway. “And I miss him already.”

  He knew, of course, who she was talking about—Tony Jr.—but suspected she was also avoiding a sensitive issue. “TJ doesn’t count.”

  She swiveled around, trying but failing to look offended. “Of course he counts.”

  “You know what I mean, Kyra.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Touché. “Okay, let’s talk about TJ. How is he? Where is he? What’s his latest trick?”

  She smiled at the thought of her son; a smile not conveyed solely by the curve of her lips, but by her entire being, which seemed to glow with affection. “He’s great. He’s with Tony’s mother, and he’s just starting to talk in sentences.”

  “Wow, that’s impressive. Watching his progress must be a neat experience.”

  “More than you could imagine. You should get yourself one, Leonidovich.”

  He nodded and forced a smile. Unfortunately, though he couldn’t imagine anything better, he had reached that stage in life when a man must face the possibility that love and family might never happen.

  Exactly ninety minutes later the Gulf 5 rolled to a stop at the end of a remote taxiway at Ronald Reagan Airport. Simon peered out at the Wells Fargo armored truck, at the four uniformed and well-armed guards standing post at each fender, and wondered what he was picking up that demanded so much security. “You know what this is about?”

  Kyra shook her head. “Mother just said there would be someone here with a package. I was too upset about my father to ask questions.”

  Simon grabbed his security case, which he now had a feeling wouldn’t be large enough, and stood up. “This shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

  As he stepped onto the tarmac, one of the guards unlocked and opened the truck’s interlocking rear doors. “This way, sir.”

  Except for a slight, pinched-faced man sitting in a bolted down chair just inside the door, the interior of the truck appeared to be empty. “Mr. Leonidovich?”

  Simon stared up at the man, who looked decidedly out of place with his red bow tie, dark business suit, and round wire-frame spectacles. “That’s me.”

  “I’m George Hulburt, Assistant Director of Antiquities for the Smithsonian.” He paused, clearly wanting Simon to take note of his importance. “May I see your identification, please?”

  Simon handed over his passport and driver’s license, plus a business card. The man carefully inspected all three, then returned the first two, keeping the business card. “Please step inside.”

  Simon grabbed the steel handrail and pulled himself up into the interior, which was cool and well lit. The walls were lined with lockers of various sizes, the fronts covered in steel mesh. Not until the doors closed, did Hulburt finally stand and extend his hand. “I believe you’ve done work for us in the past, Mr. Leonidovich.”

  “Many times,” Simon answered. “The Smithsonian is one of my best customers.”

  “Though I have no idea what this is all about, I want you to know that I strenuously disapprove.”

  “Is that so?” Simon responded, trying to hide his confusion.

  “This exquisite treasure is the property of the Smithsonian Institution, and by extension, the citizens of the United States. It should not—” He hammered the word. “—under any circumstances, be removed from this country.”

  Simon still had no idea what the man was talking about, or why he felt compelled to share his opinion. “Mr. Hulburt, with all due respect, I suggest you take that up with the person who authorized the transfer.”

  The little man puffed out his chest, the look of a banty rooster just spoiling for a fight. “Don’t you think that I wouldn’t. That’s exactly what I’d like to do.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  The man’s eyes widened behind his thick glasses, almost as if he were unable to blink. “I’m hardly in a position to question the President.”

  Simon almost asked, President of what? then realized if you worked for the Smithsonian, there was only one president. “Mr. Hulburt, if it makes you feel any better, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I was told when and where, nothing more. Until this moment, I had no idea who authorized this consignment, or what I was to pick up. I can only assume from the size of this truck, that whatever this ‘exquisite treasure’ is, it’s not going to fit in my security case.”

  Hulburt’s autocratic outrage dissolved like quicksand beneath his tiny feet. “Oh…I’m sorry…I assumed…I’m so sorry. Please accept my apology. I should not have spoken so…it was not my place to—”

  “Apology accepted.”

  But Hulburt realized he had overstepped his position, that such imprudent remarks could return to bite his bureaucratic ass, and was not quite ready to let it go. “I would very much appreciate…you understand…if you would consider my remarks as confidential.”

  “Of course.”

  Clearly wanting to put the conversation behind him, Hulburt glanced down at Simon’s security case. “Yes, that will do nicely. No problem at all.” He smiled obsequiously. “May I ask…you understand…the deterrents?”

  Though it was not the kind of information Simon would normally provide, the client did in fact, have a legal right to know. “It’s got all the typical bells and whistles. The shell is reinforced with titanium mesh and lined with aramid fiber. Both waterproof and fireproof, of course, and loaded with antitheft deterrents.” He pulled his key ring and showed the man his electronic controller, designed to look like a car-door remote. “With this, I’m able to control all functions: homing transmitter, antitheft siren, dye bomb, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “Dye bomb?”

  “Small bomb, big boom. Lots of glow-in-the-dark pink dye.”

  “Oh, I see.” Hulburt tapped a finger against his pursed lips, thinking about it. “It might be best if you disabled the bomb. I’m not sure our receptacle is airtight. Any leakage of dye into the—”

  “I understand. No problem.”

  “Excellent.” Hulbu
rt pulled a key from his pocket, opened one of the lockers, and extracted a black molded case, about the size and shape of a pregnant Frisbee. Except for a golden sunburst, the logo of the Smithsonian, the outer cover was unmarked, providing no clue to its contents. “The case is made of high-impact titanium, and coated with silica fiber.”

  Judging from the size and shape of the case, Simon suspected it contained some kind of necklace or pendant. “Silica. Isn’t that what the tiles on the space shuttle are made of?”

  “Exactly. Fireproof up to twelve hundred degrees Fahrenheit.” Hulburt smiled with obvious pride and placed his fingers on the twist latch. “Want to see it?”

  Simon almost laughed—that was like asking a teenage boy if he wanted to grab a peek into the girls’ locker room—but he suspected Billie hadn’t told him for a reason. “No, thanks. It’s really none of my business.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Macau

  Friday, 29 June 00:12:15 GMT +0800

  Before opening his eyes, Simon could feel the change in air pressure and knew the pilot had put the plane into a long, slow descent. He reached down, found the seat’s power button, and pushed it forward, bringing the lounger to an upright position. The bulkhead lights had been dimmed, casting a soft yellow glow over the cabin. “Are we there yet?”

  Kyra looked up from her book: Women Who Run With the Wolves—Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype, a testes-twisting title if ever one existed. “Good morning.” Despite the long flight she looked fresh and pressed and ready to go, and was now wearing a pair of lightweight tan slacks and a sleeveless emerald-green blouse. She somehow managed to look both casual and chic.

  He took a deep breath, struggling to clear the valerian from his brain. “That pill really worked.”

  “And it’s all natural.”

  He looked out the window, into a sea of darkness, not a twinkle of light above or below. “What do you mean, morning?”

  “Friday morning to be exact.” She glanced at her watch, a customized petite-sized Omega Flightmaster. “Just a little after midnight.”

  “What happened to Thursday?”

  She splayed her fingers into the air. “Poof.”

  “I’m getting to old to be poofing away the days.”

  “Old!” She gave a little snort. “You’re not old. Besides, you’ll gain it back on the way home.”

  “Right,” though he had a bad feeling that that wouldn’t be anytime soon. “Where are we?”

  “About two hundred miles out. We should be on the ground in about thirty minutes.”

  He released his seat belt and pushed himself out of the chair. “Just time enough for a quick shower.”

  Mr. Gao Wu, a representative of the SAR—which governed the province under China’s one-country, two-systems mandate—scrambled onto the plane the moment the stairs hit the tarmac. A slight man, extremely formal in manner, he handed Kyra a business card, made a shallow bow, and then with the condescending aloofness typical of bureaucrats everywhere, managed to express his government’s deep concern without the slightest hint of sympathy. “These things do not happen in my country.” The unspoken “unlike yours” seemed to echo through the cabin.

  Kyra smiled without warmth, and handed the man her passport. “Apparently they do.”

  “Some minor incidence of street crime,” Wu admitted, “but Chinese citizens are not allowed the ownership of firearms. The penalties are most severe—” He bobbed his head, as if to endorse the wisdom of this policy. “—and such crimes most rare.”

  Though Simon wanted to defend his country, when it came to guns, America was indefensible. Any idiot could own one, and most of them did. In the land of equal justice and political correctness, every psychopath, gangbanger, and junkie had their constitutional right to bear arms, forcing the general population into a hopeless arms race—it was simply a matter of self-defense. “Have you apprehended the person responsible?”

  “Not to this moment,” Wu answered. “But I have been assured by the commissioner of police that this occurrence is only a matter of time.”

  “Excellent,” Simon said, as if he actually believed Wu’s straight-out-of-the-movies answer. “If there’s a problem, I’m sure the FBI would be happy to help with your investigation. Mr. Rynerson is a very important person in our country.”

  Wu’s face tightened, as if someone had just rammed a hot poker up his ass. “I assure you, sir, this help will not be necessary.”

  Simon nodded, quite certain that was exactly the message Mr. Gao Wu had been sent to deliver. “That’s good to hear.”

  Mission accomplished, Wu stamped their passports and welcomed them to Macau, as if they were tourists on holiday.

  “Thank you,” Kyra said, stuffing the passport into her shoulder bag. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Wu, but I would like to get to the hospital.”

  “Of course,” Wu answered, backing toward the door. He made another shallow bow, repeated his concern for “the great taipan,” then disappeared into the darkness.

  Five minutes later they were on their way to the Conde São Januário Central Hospital, their limousine bracketed between two black Land Rovers, each containing a driver and three security guards. Kyra reached over and pressed a button on the door panel, lowering the privacy window. “Excuse me, do either of you gentlemen speak English?”

  The man riding shotgun, a stocky fellow with high cheekbones and Mongolian features, glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?”

  “What’s with all the security? Has something happened?”

  “Couldn’t tell you, ma’am. You’d have to ask Mrs. Rynerson about that.”

  “Thank you.” She closed the window and leaned back into the corner. “Should have guessed.”

  Simon tried to read her expression, but could barely make out her face in the car’s dark interior. “After what happened to your father, you can’t blame her for worrying.”

  She expelled a frustrated sigh. “She knows how I hate their fishbowl lifestyle.”

  “Get used to it.”

  “Why should I?” she demanded, her voice suddenly sharp. “It’s not my life. I didn’t choose it. It’s not what I want.”

  “Kyra, with all due respect, it’s about time you pulled that pretty head of yours out of your hinder.”

  She leaned forward, her green eyes flashing in the soft glow of the streetlights. “Just what the hell do you mean by that?”

  “You’re heir to the kingdom. You may not have chosen it, you may not like it, but that’s the way it is. So live with it, learn to enjoy it, or retire to some nunnery in the French Alps. Either way, it’s time you decide who you want to be, and stop blaming others for who you are.

  “You don’t understand what it’s like being the daughter of—”

  “And don’t,” he interrupted, “give me that I-don’t-understand bullshit. Yes, you had a terrible experience. Yes, it happened because of your father’s wealth. And yes, you lost your husband. But that’s all in the past—get over it! There are way too many people who go to bed hungry every night. There are babies born every minute with physical and mental handicaps. There are—”

  “Okay, okay.” She held up a hand, as if to ward off a blow. “I get the picture.”

  But these were things he should have said long ago, and he wasn’t about to be put off. “It’s time for you to see things for what they are, Kyra. You’ve got a wonderful little boy, healthy and bright. You’ve got parents who love you, and who, ironically enough, because of what happened to you, are back together. You’re so pretty you make a man’s eyes hurt. You’re funny and smart and—”

  “Stop it! Please! I understand. I get it. I’m an ungrateful bitch. I need to…” The sentence died in her mouth. “Pretty? What’s this about pretty, Leonidovich?”

  Uh-oh, that wasn’t the response he expected. He gave her a look of admonishment, trying to avoid the minefield. “Come on, Kyra, stop fishing for compliments. You know damn well—�
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  “I am not fishing for compliments. I’m…I’m curious, that’s all. I haven’t had a date since Tony died. I have no idea how men look at me. And if you remember, you’re the only man who’s seen me naked in the past two years.”

  Now there was a memory, about as asexual as one could get, and he realized her interest had nothing to do with him. He was her safety net—the man who had pulled her out of El Pato prison—but he was certainly not her vision of a knight in shining armor. “Well of course I think you’re pretty.” He kept his tone impersonal. “You should be dating.” And then, to be absolutely sure he had eviscerated all possible misunderstanding, he added a final knife thrust. “There are plenty of guys out there who would leap at the opportunity.”

  “Great, that’s nice to hear.” She expelled a deep breath and slumped back into the corner. “That’s what I like about you, Leonidovich, you always tell the truth.”

  Right, so why did he feel like such a dishonest jerk?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Hospitalar Centro Conde São Januário de Macau

  Friday, 29 June 01:42:12 GMT +0800

  Robbie levered himself out from behind the wheel, squeezed between the seats, and duck-walked his way into the van’s makeshift kitchen, which was nothing more than an ice chest, a one-burner propane stove, a box of assorted snacks, and twelve liters of water. “Ya wanna drab of tea?”

  Mawl shook his head. It was bad enough being cooped up in a muggy VW Transporter for eight hours without having to piss in a plastic bottle. Especially in front of Jocko, who still had the gusty stream of a young stallion. Mawl glanced back and forth between the side mirrors, checking the parking lot for any activity before flipping on the wipers. One swipe only, not wanting to do anything that might draw attention to their vehicle. Bloody rain, it never stopped.

  Robbie refilled his travel mug—his fourth double cup in the last hour—and returned to his seat. “This is bollocks. We’ll never be gettin’ to him here. Not with all this security.”