“How?”
“By making truckloads of money. She said they were spread all over the world, and had controlling shares in more companies on Wall Street than you can imagine. But she said no one knew about them, not really. They were strictly behind the scenes.”
“How do they make their money?”
“I asked her that. She babbled on about something called the Array.”
“What’s the Array?”
“I don’t know. She started crying then, begging me not to kill her. I got impatient and hit her. That was a mistake. She started talking crazy stuff. The kids, she said, she was the one who paid the kids. A hundred bucks a month, that’s all IIC paid them.”
“Who were the kids?”
“Beats me. It sounded like they were a bunch of normal kids. They weren’t psychic, and they knew nothing about the stock market. But Michelle did say they were all from the third world. She acted like she was their mother. She said she made sure they got their checks each month. But then she started sobbing. She said that was her big mistake, that she had talked about them once in public. That’s why they had sent me to kill her. She got real hysterical at the end, I don’t think anything she said was reliable.” He pauses. “You’re not just busting my balls? You really might let me go?”
“You sound like Michelle.”
“Don’t screw with me.”
“Relax. Did you question any of IIC’s other contracts?”
“No.”
“Did you question Randy?”
“I wanted to, but he had a gun. I had to move fast.”
“Was he your last hit?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have a contract for another?”
“Yeah. It’s IIC-related. The . . . well . . .” He doesn’t finish.
“You were going to mention the file. I want to see that file.”
He speaks with force. “It’s in a vault in my office. Go in there and you’ll run into my wife or my kids. I can’t risk that.”
“I can be in and out in a minute if you give me the combination to your vault. And I can promise they won’t see me.”
“No one can promise that.”
“See how easily I hid from you? Mr. Marko the Magnificent. Tell me what I want to know. This is a deal breaker.”
He sighs. “The vault’s behind a painting behind my desk. Sixteen right. Nineteen left. Three right. Four left. Then spin the dial clockwise three times to clear it before you try to open it. Otherwise, it will trip an alarm and tip off Rita.”
“You sound like you care for the old broad.”
“She’s been good to me. We’ve been good for each other.”
“Do you work for any other brokers?”
“No. I make enough with Rita.”
“Good. Because Randy was your last job.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“I’m very serious.”
“What if I promise to turn down all IIC jobs from now on?”
“Promise all you want. But know if you leave town in the next thirty years—for any reason whatsoever—I’ll hunt you down and kill you and everyone in your family. If you doubt my sincerity, test me and take a drive to Cedar Rapids next month. Your son will be dead the next day.”
“These conditions are highly unprofessional.”
“I told you, I’m not a professional.”
“You can’t set up a wall around this town.”
“I don’t need a wall, just a few informants. Besides, you saw how easily I found you. It’ll be just as easy to track you.”
He considers. “I was thinking of retiring anyway.”
I hear truth in his words. “The kids?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me what Michelle meant by the Antichrist.”
“How should I know? She was raving. She knew she was about to die.”
I can’t argue. “I’m going to give you two names: Lisa Fetch and Jeff Stephens. If you hear of a contract that’s been put out on them, you’re to alert me immediately.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“A large check.”
“I prefer cash.”
“Fine. Call this number.” I have him memorize a private phone line I keep for such purposes. “Are we clear about everything?” I ask when we’re done.
“I still don’t want you in my house.”
“That’s the least of your worries. You’ll see a light go on in my car when I’m about to leave. It’s parked at the end of your driveway. Don’t speak to your wife until I’m gone.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to let me live.”
“Miracles never cease. Two last points. Did you see any data files Randy had in his possession? Ones that related to IIC?”
“No. But I was given strict instructions to destroy his computers. He had six.”
“What kind of security does Rita keep?”
“She lives with her boys—the three youngest: Mad Max, Slim, Fats. They’re not professional. They catch you and they’ll skin you alive. Please, if they do catch you, don’t . . .”
“Don’t mention your name, I got it. How’s the leg?”
“I’ll live.”
“That’s right. You’ll live in Fairfield until the day you die. Capisce?”
“Capisce,” he agrees. Then he asks, “May I ask a question?”
“Yes.”
“Who the hell are you?”
I stand in the dark and begin to move away.
“Someone you don’t want to meet twice,” I reply.
Back in Cedar Rapids, in the airport parking lot, I study the file I stole from Marko’s house. The contract is on a seventeen-year-old girl from India named Shanti. She was born in Madras but now lives in San Antonio, Texas. There’s a picture of her in the file. That’s what catches my attention first.
Shanti’s face is horribly disfigured.
Apparently she was the victim of a crime that has become all too popular in my home country. Forced into a marriage arrangement when she was but a child, she tried to get out of it two years ago, when she was fifteen. Her suitor-to-be didn’t approve of her decision. Instead of being a gentleman and letting her go, he bought two car batteries, drained the sulfuric acid into a steel cup, and threw the corrosive liquid in her face. Clearly, if he couldn’t have her, he didn’t want anyone else to have her.
From the photo, it is obvious Shanti is blind in the right eye, and her file states she has only limited vision in the left. I find it hard to study the picture and not feel sick and angry. Half her face has been melted away. The file contains her street address and a note that says, The mark is helpless, devoid of security of any kind.
Yet the file contains another note. It’s important Shanti be killed as soon as possible. It makes me wonder.
I have suddenly lost interest in Rita and her boys. Inside the airport, I alter my return ticket so that I’ll arrive in Texas in the middle of the night.
SEVEN
The next morning, I sit outside Shanti’s house in a fresh rental and contemplate how I should approach the girl and her uncle, Shivam Garuda, who appears to be her sole guardian. Since I don’t have time to cultivate a friendship with the girl, a blunt introduction seems best. I have a fake FBI badge that my contacts in the agency will back up, should the uncle call and check on me. I’m now Special Agent Jessica Reese.
The house is small, with at best two bedrooms, in a poor section of town. I have arrived early enough to catch the uncle before he leaves for work. I don’t imagine Shanti will answer many questions without him present. According to Marko’s file, she’s alone from nine in the morning until six at night every day. Her injuries keep her from attending school.
I do a sweep of the area before I knock. There don’t appear to be any assassins near the house. Why should there be? IIC has assigned the job to Marko, the best hit man in the country. When I do knock, Shanti’s uncle is quick to answer.
“May I help you?” Mr. Shivam Garuda is only
forty-five but looks older. He’s extremely thin, to the point of malnutrition, with white hair and a bump on his spine that forces him to bend slightly forward.
“Hello. My name’s Jessica Reese. I’m with the FBI.”
I’m wearing a black pantsuit and skillfully applied makeup, both of which make me look at least in my mid-twenties. But it’s the tone of my voice, the way I flash my badge, my whole manner, that makes me appear older. Mr. Garuda studies my badge closely.
“What can I do for you?” he asks, guarded.
“I’m here to speak with your niece, Shanti. But I understand you’re her guardian and wouldn’t mind if you sat in on the questioning.”
“What is this about? Is Shanti in trouble?”
I nod sympathetically. “She may well be in trouble, but not with the U.S. government. Please, if I could come in and have a few minutes of your time, I think we might be able to help each other.”
My tone reeks of sincerity. Plus, I look harmless. He relaxes a notch and lets me in the house.
“Shanti is sleeping. Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”
“Not at all.”
“Would you like some tea?”
“Tea would be nice. Thank you.”
He brings me up a cup of warm chai and heads for the back of the house. The taste brings back old memories. On the wall are paintings of Lord Krishna—as a child, with his mother Yashoda, and as an adult, playing his flute for the gopis. Of course, I knew from their names that the Garudas were probably Hindu, but it warms my heart to see they worship the same God as myself. If only they knew that I once met Krishna . . .
Mr. Garuda reappears a moment later. He looks uncomfortable. “My niece is getting dressed. She won’t be long. But I want to warn you—”
I interrupt gently. “I’m aware of her condition.”
He’s relieved I know but nevertheless nods sadly. “She was the prettiest girl.”
“I’m sure she was.” I pause. “Has she had reconstructive surgery?”
He gestures to his poor abode. “It’s all I pray for. But right now, there’s no money for doctors.”
“I understand.”
Shanti appears a few minutes later, wearing dark sunglasses and a simple white dress. In person, her disfigurement is even harder to bear. The acid did not just take the right eye but also her right nostril and a large portion of her right cheek. A large gap extends away from her mouth, revealing stained molars and a mass of scarred gum tissue.
Yet she doesn’t hesitate to take a step forward and shake my hand.
“My uncle says you are Special Agent Jessica Reese,” she says.
“Call me Jessica, please. You’re Shanti?”
“Yes.” She gestures. “Have a seat, make yourself at home. This is exciting for me. I watch X-Files reruns all the time, but I never dreamed that I would one day be visited by a real-life FBI agent.”
Like most educated Indians, her English is excellent, but unfortunately there is a faint hissing sound to Shanti’s words. It’s due to the large hole in her cheek, and perhaps nerve damage to her tongue. Otherwise, I’m sure, she would have a delightful voice. I vow right then I’ll get her the finest plastic surgeons in the land, once I know why the IIC wants her dead.
I chuckle at her remark. “This might surprise you, but that show is one of the reasons I became an FBI agent.”
“Have you been one long?” Mr. Garuda asks. I’ve done my best to make myself look older, but he’s sharp-sighted and no fool.
“I’m only two years out of the academy in Quantico. You may have heard of it. It’s back in Virginia. Before I graduated, our instructors used to joke that all the newbies would be sent off to Texas. It turned out I was the only one.”
“You must feel isolated,” Shanti said.
I shrug. “Sometimes.”
“Have you made any new friends?”
These are questions I should be asking her, the poor dear.
“None that I would take home to Mother,” I say with a smile. Then I change my tone, getting serious. “I should explain the purpose of my visit. I must warn you ahead of time it will shock you.”
“In a good way or a bad way?” Shanti asks innocently.
“I’m sorry, I wish I was here with good news.” I lift up the file I took from Marko’s house and pass it to her. “Shanti, can you read?” I ask.
“Yes. With these glasses on.”
“What is that you’re giving her?” Mr. Garuda asks.
“Once again, please brace yourself. This file was taken off a notorious hit man known to the FBI as Marko. He has a reputation as a killer for the Mob. But in this case, for reasons unknown to us, he’s been assigned to kill you, Shanti.”
Mr. Garuda gasps in fear, but Shanti remains remarkably calm.
“What did I do to him that he would want to kill me?” she asks.
“You misunderstand. He’s been hired by a third party to kill you. He’s a professional. He murders people for a living. He has no personal interest in you.”
Shanti holds up the picture. “This must have been taken recently.”
“How recently, do you think?” I ask.
“The dress I’m wearing in this photo—I only bought it last month.”
“Are you saying this Marko is going to come to our house?” Mr. Garuda demands.
I raise a hand. “There’s no danger of that. Marko has already been taken out of action. He won’t be harming anyone else. But we still have a problem. We don’t know who hired him to kill you.” I pause. “Do you have any idea why someone would want you dead, Shanti?”
She slowly shakes her head. “No. I mean, there’s Juna. He’s the one who . . .” She has trouble finishing the sentence.
“He’s the man you were engaged to?” I say carefully.
She nods. “But that was two years ago, in India. Juna’s a poor shopkeeper who makes his money rolling bibis all day.”
“Cigarettes?”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“I’ve traveled in India. So you feel Juna is an unlikely suspect?”
“Yes.”
I turn to her uncle. “Mr. Garuda, do you have any enemies?”
“None that I know of.” He stops to wipe at his eyes. “I’m sorry, this is very disturbing. Shanti has been through so much, and to think there is someone out there who wants to hurt her again . . .”
Shanti strokes the man’s arm. “Don’t worry, Baba. The FBI is here to protect us. Nothing bad is going to happen.”
The girl’s calm courage impresses me.
“What Shanti says is true,” I say. “I’m going to assign a team of agents to this house so that Shanti will be guarded 24/7. Should a second contract be taken out on her life, no harm will come to her. Any professional hit man who approaches this house will quickly see how well she’s guarded and immediately leave town.”
“Why do you think there will be a second contract?” Mr. Garuda asks.
“Because they arrested the man who was supposed to kill me,” Shanti explains to him before turning to me. “Is that true, Jessica? Whoever wants me dead will just hire someone else?”
“Yes. Assuming they’re anxious to have you killed. And that appears likely given the fact they hired Marko at the start. Until he was caught, he was considered one of the deadliest hit men in the country.”
“I must be more important than I realized,” Shanti says.
“To someone,” I say. “We come back to our original question. Is there anyone you can think of that would want you dead?”
“There’s no one.” She gestures to her face. “Because of my injury, I seldom go out. Never mind enemies, I hardly have any friends.”
“Do you work, Shanti?”
She hesitates. “No.”
“You don’t have a part-time job that you might do from home?”
She glances toward her uncle. “There’s a small job I have, but I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“Why not?”
>
Mr. Garuda interrupts. “The company that employs her has a strict privacy policy. I’m sure you can understand.”
“On the contrary, I can’t think of a single American company that warns its employees not to talk about the firm they work for.” I pause. “We’re talking about IIC, aren’t we?”
Shanti and her uncle look surprised. “How do you know about them?” she asks.
“Let’s just say the FBI is very interested in them. In fact, we suspect IIC might be behind the contract on your life.”
“That’s impossible,” Mr. Garuda says. “They’re an investment firm. They have done nothing but help Shanti. I can’t believe they’d want to kill her. It makes no sense.”
“It makes no sense to me, either. But then, I don’t know what your niece does for IIC.” I pause. “How do they help you, Shanti?”
She hesitates. “They send me a check for one hundred dollars every month.”
“Why? Because you’re handicapped?”
“It has nothing to do with my face.” She stops and puts a hand to her wound. “At least, I don’t think it has anything to do with what Juna did to me.”
“Explain.”
She lowers her head. “It’s silly.”
“Tell me anyway.”
She raises her head, yet this time her eyes don’t go to me, but to one of the paintings of Krishna on the walls. She stares at it a long time before she answers.
“When Juna threw the acid in my face, the pain was unlike anything I had ever imagined. I felt as if someone was holding a blowtorch to my head. The burning wouldn’t stop, even when my friends washed away the acid. It just kept burning and burning. They took me to the doctor and he bandaged me and gave me pills for the pain, but still the burning stayed. I felt I would go mad. I couldn’t see then, nothing, and the doctor told me the blindness would be permanent. I didn’t know what to do. My mother and father—they felt sorry for me. Yet they also felt I had disgraced our family by refusing to marry Juna. My own father had the nerve to say that what Juna had done to me was my karma.”
“Damn him to the deepest hell,” Mr. Garuda whispers.
“Please, Baba, don’t curse. It doesn’t help.”
“He’s my brother, and I’ll curse him till the day I die.”
Thirst No. 3: The Eternal Dawn Page 9