by Reece Hirsch
“That’s your country.”
“Yours too, comrade.”
The town car drove out of the center of the city and into a more industrial district, then passed through the chain-link gates of an airfield.
The town car drove directly onto the tarmac and stopped before a small private jet that gleamed under the airport lights. Still, Sam’s escorts wasted no movements, suggesting that they were not as safe as Alex indicated. As soon as the car came to a stop, Sam was hustled outside and across the tarmac.
As they covered the short distance to the plane, Alex and Anatoly were still looking in every direction, as if they were expecting company at any moment.
When they climbed the steps of the airstair and Sam was about to enter the jet, he paused in the doorway. “What if I don’t go inside?” Sam asked Alex, who stood close behind him and could have simply forced him aboard.
Alex shrugged. “Is your choice. This is not kidnapping. It’s important to my boss that you say that you came to Moscow of your own free will.”
“Because this is about propaganda value.”
“Correct. If you say we abducted you, then where is the value in that? That will only make a difficult diplomatic situation with your country worse.”
The night had been cold before, but now, standing on the tarmac, Sam felt as if the wind were carving him up. Anatoly, who was last in line, pulled his collar up around his throat in response to a frigid gust.
“So, what do you choose?” Alex asked.
In the distance Sam saw a van with black-tinted windows pull up outside the closed gate to the airstrip. Alex and Anatoly both watched the van.
“We must leave before they get through that fence,” Alex said without turning his head. “Time to decide.”
Sam ducked his head and entered the jet.
In minutes the jet had performed a steep liftoff, and Sam was gazing down at the spires of Prague rising through patchy snow and the green Vltava River snaking through the city.
He had no idea what fate awaited him in Moscow, but he knew that he was about to become famous or infamous, depending upon one’s point of view. And everyone in the world with a television or a computer would have a point of view.
33
Chris and Ian sat on a bench on a dusty road on the outskirts of Zipolite waiting for the bus that would take them to Mexico City to find Zoey—if she managed to make it there. Ian was badly hungover behind cheap sunglasses, sipping from a small bottle of rum. His black mood hadn’t lifted.
They watched a dog tearing into a bag of old tortillas pulled from a restaurant’s trash can and almost failed to notice a man approaching down the sidewalk.
A nude man.
Perhaps the nude man they had seen on the beach the previous night.
His pubic hair was coated in dust from the street so that it resembled a lewd powder puff. The man had a rotund build—that much was obvious—but Chris averted his eyes and tried not to absorb any further details.
“They always run a half hour late,” the nude man said. “Hope you aren’t in a hurry.”
“How’s the trip to Mexico City from here?” Chris asked.
“Long, hot, and bumpy—like my ex-wife.”
“I hope you don’t ride public transportation like that,” Ian said.
“Don’t judge me, man,” the nude man responded. “You clearly didn’t stay in Zipolite long enough. How long were you here?”
“A few days,” Chris said.
“Nah, see, that’s not enough time to ingest the spirit of the place. Two, three more weeks and you guys would be walking around town like natural men.”
“I don’t think there’s anything natural about that for guys our age,” Chris said.
“Suit yourself, but you don’t see me sweating like you two are,” the nude man said.
“Yeah, but I won’t be getting sunburned in the places where you’re going to get sunburned,” Chris said.
The nude man nodded placidly and walked on down the street and into a bar. A setup for a bad joke, Chris thought.
“Where does he even keep his cell phone?” Ian asked. “That’s what I want to know.”
“Actually, I don’t think you do.”
Five or ten minutes passed as they stared down the road, willing the bus to appear, baking in the midmorning sun, each working out for himself the practical difficulties posed by life as a natural man.
At last Chris said, “I’m going to call Hazlitt again.”
“You sure that’s smart?” Ian asked.
Chris held up his Mexican burner phone, which he’d purchased along with a hundred-dollar phone card. “They won’t be able to trace a burner, particularly if we keep it brief. I need to know what he’s learned about this agency that we’re dealing with and this agent-slash-killer Anton Corbin.”
Chris dialed, and Hazlitt picked up on the second ring. “Hazlitt. Who’s this?”
“It’s Chris Bruen.”
“Where are you?”
“You know I’m not going to answer that question.”
“Why are you calling then?”
“I wanted to see what you’ve learned about Anton Corbin—and the people that he works for. Don’t tell me that you haven’t looked into it.”
“I don’t think I should have this conversation inside the building,” Hazlitt said. “Call me back again in fifteen minutes on my cell.” Hazlitt provided his cell number.
“You’re still not going to be able to trace the call,” Chris told the agent.
“I know, just do it. This is to protect me.”
Chris waited fifteen minutes and redialed Hazlitt.
“If you had to leave the building, then I have to assume you have something to tell me,” Chris said.
“Not as much as I would like. I made a few inquiries about that Anton Corbin guy. He served in military intelligence during Iraq One. Then he spent some time with the CIA, then moved over to NSA. Career spook. Doesn’t seem to have any qualms about getting his hands dirty.”
“So where is he now?”
“Not with the NSA. Someplace else. Somewhere in national security, but that’s the thing—I can’t tell exactly where. I can see that he’s on the federal payroll, because I found a record of his retirement account, but I can’t figure out what agency he’s assigned to.”
“Maybe Homeland Security?”
“Even they aren’t this secretive.”
“You should be careful.”
“You’re telling me to be careful?”
“At least they don’t know where I am. If you get discovered asking the wrong questions, they’re going to know exactly where to find you.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Hazlitt said.
“Ian thinks the NSA may have set up some new off-the-books operation. A place where they can do the things that they aren’t even allowed to do as the NSA.”
“What aren’t they allowed to do as the NSA?” Hazlitt said. “But, yeah, I was thinking something along those lines.”
“So it sounds like Anton Corbin has found a home within the government where he’s been given permission to be as bad as he wants to be.”
“It seems so,” Hazlitt said. “I wish I had something for you that was more helpful.”
“At least we’re seeing things the same way. You still think we need to turn ourselves in?”
There was a silence on the line, and Chris could hear cars passing. Hazlitt was on the street. At last Hazlitt said, “No, if you came in now, I don’t think I could protect you. I really, really hate to say this, but you’re probably safer running.”
“Understood.” Chris shrugged at Ian, who looked away in frustration.
“Is there any way that I could help you from here?”
“I don’t think so. We’re outside the US now.”
“What about Doucet? Is she still alive?”
“Yeah. She’s still running.”
“But she’s not with you?”
�
�No. I think I’d better sign off now. I may call again later.”
“Do that. I’m not done looking into this, but my avenues are limited. I’m at a point where if I ask many more questions, I’m going to put a target on my back.”
“Be careful, Hazlitt,” Chris said. “This is probably going to end with me in custody, and I’d rather be taken in by someone I trust.”
Chris hung up, then threw the burner into a dumpster. A few minutes later the bus finally lumbered up the street and pulled in at the bus stop with a pneumatic wheeze.
All the windows were down, and a hot breeze whipped through the bus, which was empty except for Chris, Ian, and the impassive driver, who never spoke to them or looked in the mirror. He might as well have been driving a completely empty bus.
Ian’s head leaned against the dusty window. With his sunglasses on, Chris couldn’t tell if he was asleep or drunk. The question was answered when Ian lifted the bottle of rum to his lips.
Chris knew Ian was a liability, but he’d decided they were both safer as long as Ian stayed with him. If he left Ian in Zipolite, the young hacker would keep drinking in that waterfront bar until he was tossed out in the street, drawing attention to himself and with no ability to run. A noisy, sloppy gringo sitting duck—who knew exactly where Chris and Zoey were headed.
Of course, bringing Ian to Mexico City entailed plenty of dangers of its own—more police, more security cameras, the Sinaloa Cartel . . . And none of the risk would be worth it if Zoey never managed to make it out of Ecuador.
He looked at Ian again, his pale face covered with a light stubble and a sweaty sheen, black strands of hair plastered to his forehead. No matter how debauched he became, he still looked like a kid. He recalled all too clearly these push-pull emotions from the days when Tana was drinking—the urge to cut someone loose competing with the inability to leave them helpless.
“You doin’ okay there?” Chris asked.
Ian put his head back on the headrest. “Never better, man. Never better. I’ve got a feeling this is all going to be over soon.”
Chris had the same feeling, and he didn’t like it.
34
Zoey was not a thief, but she needed to steal a car in order to make it to Quito and the airport. She couldn’t rent one, because that required a credit card. Using one of her cards would be like sending out a homing beacon to the people who wanted her dead.
She walked the streets of Loja, looking for a vehicle with the keys in the ignition. Loja was a small town, and she figured that people would be more trusting there, less on guard. That assumption appeared to be incorrect, as she wandered, peering through car windows, to no avail. You could only go around looking into car windows for so long before someone stopped you.
A car pulled up in front of a small grocery a half block in front of her. A long-limbed man climbed out with a cardboard box and hurried inside, leaving his green Audi four-door idling outside. Zoey saw her opportunity, but she knew it was going to be close. The man was clearly only dropping off something. He’d be returning any second.
She started sprinting.
As she neared the driver’s-side door, the delivery man exited the grocery. He heard the footsteps, saw Zoey running, and lost one precious moment, synapses sputtering as he grasped what was happening.
Zoey climbed inside the car and slammed down the manual lock on the passenger’s-side door—just as the delivery man grabbed the door handle. He rattled the handle with one hand and pounded the window with the other, all the while swearing in Spanish.
Zoey stepped on the gas. The man ran with her for a few yards, but he couldn’t keep up for long. She left him standing in the middle of the street, hands on his knees, cursing in between gasps.
It didn’t take long to leave the town of Loja, and soon she was on a straight, narrow road out of the valley as the sun began to climb over the verdant mountains. Once Zoey had escaped the town and her pulse began to settle, she noticed the powerful, sweet scent that filled the car. She realized that it was coming from the cardboard boxes on the backseat, the same type of box that the delivery man had carried into the grocery.
Keeping one eye on the road, Zoey grabbed one of the boxes with one hand and set it on the seat next to her. It was filled with sugary fried pastries, and she tried one.
It was wonderful, some sort of Ecuadorean version of a doughnut, and still warm. Forget Bolivian marching powder—give me a large cup of Peet’s and a box of these, and I could drive halfway across South America.
Zoey nibbled the pastries and accelerated across the back roads of Ecuador on a high of sugar and adrenaline. Looking at herself in the rearview, she had to laugh: she looked like Tony Montana in the last scene of Scarface, if you substituted powdered sugar for cocaine.
The Andes formed the spine of Ecuador, running from Loja in the south to Quito in the north, and Zoey’s route consisted of a series of two-lane roads in the shadow of those mountains. The landscape was a study in every shade of green in nature’s palette.
Seven hours later she arrived at the outskirts of cool, fog-draped Quito, leaving the stolen car on the top level of an airport parking garage. The phone number of the bakery was on some flyers on the backseat, and Zoey scribbled it on a scrap of paper. Once she was safely out of Ecuador, she planned to call up the bakery and let them know where they could find their stolen delivery car. If her Spanish was serviceable enough, she would also compliment them on their sugar coma–inducing pastries.
Zoey made her way through the airport, trying to maintain a 360-degree view of her surroundings without looking too deranged or guilty.
No sign of Damian, Roland, Maria, or Serge.
But could the cartel already have linked her to Damian’s crew? Could the cartel already know what she looked like?
Zoey was not about to underestimate the capabilities of a crime syndicate that had just been robbed of an amount equivalent to the gross national product of a middling country.
Zoey studied the schedule of departing flights, looking for the next flight out. The odds of being apprehended increased with every minute she spent in the terminal.
As expected, there was a Mexico City flight leaving in forty-five minutes—just enough time to buy a ticket, navigate the security line, and board the plane. The agent at the ticket counter didn’t raise a tweezed eyebrow at her false credentials. Although she knew she had no right to, Zoey began to relax a bit when she had the ticket in her hand. She made her way to the security line, still searching the crowds for a glimpse of Damian’s crew.
Zoey was about a third of the way through the queue when she saw Damian Hull enter the ticketing area from outside, followed in close formation by Roland, Serge, and Maria. She had a choice to make now. She could continue to wait in the security line, hoping to make it through before Damian and his crew spotted her. Once inside the terminal they’d have to be crazy to attack her. And that assumed they even found her.
Zoey turned her back. The surest way to stand out was to be the lone face staring back at them.
The security line crept forward. The agent operating the scanner seemed to be learning on the job.
A suitcase entered the scanner. There was a pause as the agent scrutinized his monitor. He leaned in and studied the X-ray-like black-and-white image on the screen.
He reversed the conveyor belt a bit, stared at the screen.
The conveyor advanced, the agent examining the screen again.
The agent motioned for one of his fellows to pull a bag from the conveyor for closer inspection.
Zoey felt a scream rising from her chest to her throat. Soon it would be on her lips.
She cast a surreptitious glance back at the ticket counter and saw that Damian and his crew had their tickets and were headed for the security line—directly toward her.
Zoey was about to push her way out of the line, but she waited a moment too late. Her eyes locked on Maria, who was staring straight at her, a bandage over her nose where Zoey had
hit her with the book.
Maria pointed, her lips moving. Damian’s eyes locked on Zoey, then Roland’s, then Serge’s.
Zoey had to perform a quick calculation. Would it be safer to break from the security line and run? Or stay in the line, surrounded by security guards? Would they really dare kill her here? Or inside the gate area?
Damian and his crew were advancing quickly across the terminal. She had already waited too long to make the decision.
A phalanx of six men blocked her view. They were brown skinned, possibly Mexican, dressed casually but expensively. The men approached Damian and stopped his group. There was arguing, and then the man who seemed to be the leader of the group drew a gun and held it low and nearly out of sight against Damian’s gut.
With the other men crowding around, it was difficult to make out what was happening, but Zoey saw it all because she was watching intently and had the right angle. Damian and his crew were turned around and marched back out of the terminal and away from the security line.
Maria stopped for a moment, speaking rapid-fire Spanish to her captors and pointing toward Zoey. One of the men looked back in Zoey’s direction.
But by the time he did, Zoey had ducked out of the security line and hidden in a restroom.
Zoey entered a stall, locked the door, and crouched on top of the toilet so that her shoes couldn’t be seen beneath the door. She could only pray now that Maria hadn’t seen where she’d gone. No one else seemed to be occupying the restroom. In fact, it was so quiet that she could hear a faucet dripping.
The restroom door swung open with a bang.
Footsteps on the linoleum.
The pfft of a soap dispenser.
The sound of water running in a sink.
A paper towel ripping, impossibly loud.
More footsteps, drawing closer to the stall.
Zoey tried to control her breathing, but it came in gasps through her open mouth. She felt certain that the person on the other side of the door could hear her.
The moment stretched and then stretched some more, until it felt as if the space-time continuum were about to rupture. Then the footsteps moved away. Probably just someone washing up and checking themselves in the mirror. A member of the cartel would have been more thorough.