Compact with the Devil: A Novel

by Bethany Maines

  “OK,” said Nikki. That was more like it.

  There was an electronic burble, and Astriz plucked her phone from the cupholder, driving now with her cigarette hand. They were pulling off the freeway now into an industrial-looking area. In the distance, a sports stadium loomed.

  “Ja?” There was a pause and some chatter from the other end. “Oh? Uh … Ja.” Astriz frowned, shaking her head, and extended the phone to Nikki. “It’s for you.”

  For a second, Nikki held out hope that Z’ev had managed to track her down, then she put the phone to her ear.

  “Nikki?” said Jane’s hopeful voice.

  “Jane?” answered Nikki, perplexed. Then she started to think of all the reasons that an on-vacation Jane would call her. None of them were good. “Jane, is something wrong?”

  “I … I…” Jane was stumbling over her words. Nikki’s hand tightened on the phone.

  “Jane, what’s wrong?” She tried to keep her voice flat and neutral, so as not to add additional panic to the situation.

  “I had to call,” said Jane. “I had to apologize. This is all my fault! We’re being punished because I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut.”

  “Jane,” said Nikki, relaxing. “You’ve apologized enough already. It’s not your fault. I mean, you didn’t intend for the CIA to show up and we don’t even know it’s because of you anyway. We’re not being punished.”

  “Then why did Mrs. Merrivel break up the team?” demanded Jane. “Why did she make me go on vacation?”

  “Vacation isn’t a punishment,” said Nikki reasonably.

  “I’m on a beach!” wailed Jane. “I’m on a beach and I hate it. I don’t tan! I’m Goth.”

  “So go to a Goth club and mosh out to some angry metal music or something.”

  “You have no clue what Goth is, do you?” asked Jane.

  “Sure I do,” said Nikki. “They wear a lot of black and think the world is pointless?”

  Jane sighed in apathetic disgust. “It’s a lot more than that.”

  “OK, so go do something Goth-y then. You’re on vacation!” Nikki tried to sound cheerful.

  “Why? The world is pointless,” retorted Jane bitterly. Nikki laughed.

  “Jane, I would love to help you find something to do, or at least point out that I’ve seen you wear brown and even jeans sometimes, but I’m in Stuttgart. We’ve got a lock on Cano and we’re going to try to put him down before he hurts anyone.”

  “Stuttgart?” said Jane, suddenly perking up. “What’s the date over there? You should go to the Kit Masters concert!”

  “You listen to Kit Masters?” asked Nikki, surprised.

  “Er … no. I mean, maybe some of my friends in the European branches sent me a song or two. I looked him up when we started working with Camille.”

  “Uh-huh. I don’t think he’s very Goth, Jane.”

  “Whatever,” said Jane with a sniff.

  “Yeah, whatever,” said Nikki, smiling. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “No, wait,” said Jane. “Don’t you think you could use some help? Don’t you definitely need to send for your intel officer?”

  “Sorry, Jane,” said Nikki. “You’re just going to have to sit on that beach a while longer.”

  “Whatever,” said Jane gloomily. “Bye.”

  “Bye. Enjoy yourself!”

  “Be careful!” said Jane as Nikki hung up.

  “Your friend wanted to chat?” asked Astriz with a hint of sarcasm, taking the phone.

  “My intel officer. She doesn’t want to be on vacation,” explained Nikki. Astriz raised a questioning eyebrow; Nikki shrugged. Explaining Jane, the CIA, and Z’ev to Astriz was last on her to-do list, especially since it would turn into defending Jane rather than explaining.

  The phone rang again; this time Astriz checked the number before answering it and Nikki pulled her mind back to the present.

  “Ja?” There was some chatter on the other end, and Astriz nodded.

  “Wir sind fast am Ziel,” she said, and paused again. “Ja. Ja, ja, bye.” She hung up and looked at Nikki. “Almost there. Cano is in a café near the stadium. I have a surveillance post set up.”

  Nikki thought they had been driving at a good rate of speed but felt her head jerk back as Astriz put her foot down on the accelerator. She took a sidelong look at Astriz, her long cigarette and driving gloves, and nodded to herself. What was she? Six, seven years younger than Val? Just young enough to think Val was the coolest agent ever when they had met. Nikki didn’t blame her; she remembered the feeling. But sitting next to the German woman, it was clear to Nikki that Val had shaped Astriz just as much as she had shaped Nikki. She wondered if Astriz was aware of it; then she shook her head. It didn’t matter; it just meant that Nikki was going to have to be careful. Val would never have welcomed a foreigner on her turf.

  Astriz wound her way through an industrial neighborhood, slowing as they neared their destination. Down side streets, Nikki could see the bulk of the Gottlieb-Daimler-Stadion. And as Astriz parked the car, Nikki realized that they must be in the kind of commercial area that sprang up around stadiums and mostly catered to fans of one variety or another.

  “This way,” said Astriz, leading her toward a corner building, her trench coat billowing behind her. Nikki buttoned her cardigan, shivering. First chance she got, she was going to buy a jacket.

  They were entering an office building that appeared to be closed. Astriz breezed past the janitors and headed for the back stairs. Nikki followed Astriz upstairs to a conference room, where what looked to be an espionage picnic was laid out for them. Binoculars, a mark-7 remote listening device, two sandwiches, and a thermos sat on the table.

  “Loni is kind,” said Astriz, smiling at the sandwiches. “What do you see?” she asked as Nikki picked up the binoculars.

  “Mmm…” Nikki scanned the café, looking for Cano. “Got him! Corner booth. He’s with someone.” The signage from the café obscured the head of Cano’s dining partner, but Nikki saw that both their hands were resting clearly on the tabletop, where no sudden moves could be made.

  “He’s got backup,” said Astriz, pointing away from the coffee shop to a building kitty-corner from the office building. A man leaned against a wall by a bike rack, smoking. Nikki nodded and went back to Cano.

  “Do you have any idea who he’s meeting?” asked Nikki, handing the binoculars to Astriz.

  “We think it’s a contact from Voges,” answered Astriz, zooming in on the pair across the street. “Voges is a fixer; he can supply anything for a fee—guns, mercenaries, new identity, money. Whatever Cano’s planning, Voges can help him set it up. I can’t make anything out.” Astriz handed the binoculars back and Nikki refocused them to take another look, scrutinizing the table. Cano was easy enough to identify from his pictures. He had a suntanned complexion, a scar across his left eye, and a wild shock of black hair. His hands were wide, hirsute, and the knuckles were flattened and scarred. The other person had smaller hands, one of which was clenched around a cell phone; the other held a plastic-looking rectangle. He, or she, Nikki couldn’t be sure, was dressed in a gray jogging suit.

  “The other person is holding something in one of his hands,” said Astriz.

  “I’m trying to figure that out now. It has a picture of a devil on it,” said Nikki, squinting and trying to get a closer look at the plastic card in the hands of the gray-suited figure.

  “A devil?” repeated Astriz. “What’s that got to do … oh scheisse.” Nikki heard the thump of Astriz’s fist on the glass and refocused the binoculars. Across the street, a woman on a motorcycle revved the engine.

  “It’s Camille,” said Nikki, recognizing the woman as she pulled on a helmet and flipped the visor down. Together they watched as Camille drove straight through the plate-glass window at the front of the café.

  Nikki pounded down the stairs, Astriz behind her. Her thoughts tripped through her head, colliding with each other before leaving. She didn’t have a g
un. She never told Z’ev that she loved him. Astriz had better have a gun. Camille was going to get them all killed.

  They exited onto the street in time to see Cano’s backup charging into the café, gun drawn, and from the back of the café Nikki could see the person in the gray jogging suit, hood now up, running down the street. Astriz hesitated, clearly torn.

  “I’ve got the contact,” yelled Nikki. “You go after Cano, and for God’s sake, get Camille out of here!” Astriz gave her a thumbs-up and ran toward the café.

  Nikki sprinted after the gray tracksuit. The dark streets were the perfect cover, and Nikki could only catch glimpses of the person whenever they were illuminated by an errant streetlight or pair of headlights. Dodging cars, Nikki slid on the wet, slushy pavement and rounded a corner, just in time to see her quarry scramble over a chain-link fence.

  Swarming over the fence, Nikki dropped down, seconds behind Tracksuit, in a parking lot. The enormous bulk of the stadium squatted across the asphalt from her, looming over the packed parking lot. There was a dull thrumming in her ears and she shook her head, only then realizing it was the sound of music emanating from the stadium. Tracksuit had ceased to dodge and weave; he was now in a full-out sprint for the back of the stadium. Nikki gave chase, sweat pouring down her face.

  Tracksuit dodged some roadies and ran up a ramp leading to an intake bay. A large security guard lumbered into view as Tracksuit flew past.

  “Hey!” he yelled, apparently not seeing Tracksuit but spotting Nikki right off. He was a large man, standing a good six feet, six inches tall, with a neck thicker than his head and hands the size of dinner plates. Nikki dove under one of his meaty paws, but he was quicker than he looked and managed to make contact with the other, sending her crashing to the floor. Spinning onto her back, Nikki took aim at his groin and thumped her foot upward. The security guard grimaced and hesitated before falling to one knee. He was hardly out for the count, but it was all the time Nikki needed to get back up and send a roundhouse kick whistling into the side of his head. Continuing forward without waiting to see the results, she heard the crash and smiled as the security guard hit the floor behind her. Someone yelled for her to stop, but she was already running. She didn’t have time to turn around and look.

  Turning a corner, she was faced with a crowd of roadies and backup dancers.

  “Gray tracksuit, which way?” she yelled. There were a handful of startled stares. “Which way!” yelled Nikki again. A half-naked girl in devil horns and body paint pointed left. Nikki ran left through a door and stopped. The cavernous room was packed with clothing and makeup; it was a disaster zone of nooks and crannies and had no visible exit. There was a groan from the floor to her left, and Nikki saw a pair of legs emerging from under a toppled chair.

  Nikki moved the chair and found herself staring into the woozy blue eyes of an older woman with huge bouffant hair. She was also wearing an older-model Carrie Mae necklace. Rachel had one displayed in her lab. It was the first 100 percent reliable knockout-gas model—a real breakthrough in Carrie Mae technology.

  “Whahappen?” asked the woman, rubbing her head.

  “I’m with Carrie Mae,” said Nikki, speaking rapidly. “Is there a way out of this room?”

  “Carrie … Did Camille send you?” The older woman’s face brightened at the idea.

  “What? No. Is there another way out?”

  “The back door,” said the woman, pointing vaguely. “But, why…”

  Nikki dropped the woman and pushed her way through the racks of costumes. Sure enough, a back door stood open, revealing the expanse of backstage area. Tracksuit was nowhere in sight.

  GERMANY II

  Maxwell’s Silver Hammer

  “Bastard piece of shit!” exclaimed Nikki. It was one of Z’ev’s favorite swear phrases.

  “I don’t think that’s appropriate Carrie Mae language, dear,” said the woman, peering over Nikki’s shoulder.

  Nikki pivoted slowly to look at the woman.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, thinking of a few other examples of un–Carrie Mae–like language.

  “I’m Trista,” said the woman, patting absentmindedly at her towering hair. “Who are you? What are you doing here if Camille didn’t send you?”

  “I’m asking the questions,” snapped Nikki. “What’s your mission?”

  “I’m not on a mission,” said Trista primly. “I retired from Carrie Mae. I’m now the head makeup artist to Kit Masters.”

  “Son of a bi—”

  “Young lady!” exclaimed Trista. “I just do not know what is happening in Carrie Mae these days that they would hire women who use that kind of language.”

  Nikki took a deep breath and counted to ten.

  “What concert is this? Where am I?”

  “It’s the Hotel Hell tour,” answered Trista. “Kit Masters?” she added when Nikki’s expression tightened.

  “Kit Masters, Camille Masters’s son?”

  “Yes,” said Trista. “Is there some kind of trouble? Who are you?”

  “Nikki Lanier,” said Nikki. “Antonio Cano escaped from prison; I’ve been sent to apprehend him.”

  “Oh God,” said Trista, going pale and clutching the nearest clothing rack for support. “Please tell me he’s not here.”

  “I was chasing someone he was talking to,” said Nikki, withholding the information that the meeting had been interrupted by Camille.

  “Oh God!” exclaimed Trista again, her hand dramatically covering her heart. “We have to do something! That’s too much; Kit can’t know about that.”

  “No one’s telling him anything yet. Doesn’t he have security?” asked Nikki impatiently.

  “Of course, but he’s just come out of rehab, and he doesn’t know anything about Cano or Camille’s job. You can’t tell him!” Trista was wide-eyed in horror.

  Somewhere an alarm went off, beeping in a rapid rhythm.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Trista, jumping slightly at the noise. “Oh! We have to go. It’s time!”

  “Time for what?” asked Nikki.

  “Uh … uh…” Trista was hurrying around the room, collecting bits of clothing and strapping on a tool belt full of makeup. “Just … come on. I’ll explain it on the way.”

  They walked rapidly through the backstage area, passing a strange desk full of switches, manned by an overfed roadie in a tour T-shirt and a donut clasped in one hand. A panoply of wires connected the desk to what looked like an air compressor, which ran hoses for pneumatic mechanical legs that rose into the dark recesses above their heads.

  “That’s the elevating stage,” said Trista, noticing the direction of Nikki’s gaze. “The band’s up there, and when Kit comes out after intermission, he’ll get on that.” She pointed to a small platform that was ringed with an iron railing. “It’ll shoot him up on the stage. Then he’ll get on the elevating stage with the band, and then they’ll all rise another twenty-five feet in the air and hover while the fireworks go off.”

  “Great,” said Nikki, feeling that some sort of response was called for. She wasn’t sure where they were going or why. She needed to question Trista about likely suspects for Tracksuit’s identity, but instead Trista seemed to be giving her a tour. They climbed steep, corrugated metal stairs, the concrete floor beneath them disappearing rapidly.

  “We need to focus on Cano,” said Nikki, feeling that she was losing control of the situation and raising her voice over the music that was getting louder as they approached the stage. “Assuming Cano’s targeting Kit, who on the tour would meet with him?”

  “No one,” said Trista. “Everyone loves Kit.”

  Nikki rolled her eyes. “Well, someone met with Cano. Someone I chased back here; someone who conked you on the head.”

  “No one would want to hurt Kit.” Trista’s face folded into an angry pout.

  “All these people ‘love’ Kit?” asked Nikki skeptically, gesturing around ascurrying roadies. “No one would give up security details for a fat l
ot of cash?”

  “Duncan vetted everyone,” said Trista.

  “Who’s Duncan?” Nikki asked.

  “Duncan Kilkenny, Kit’s bodyguard,” said Trista, looking distracted as they came out into the wings of the stage. “He takes care of all the security matters. Here, hold this.” She pushed a pile of clothes at Nikki.

  “No, really,” said Nikki, fumbling the clothes. “I don’t have time for this. I have a mission. Cano—”

  “That’s why you have to stay!” exclaimed Trista. “You have to protect Kit.”

  “He’s got bodyguards. You just said.”

  “What’s he doing?” asked Trista, checking her watch. “He should be offstage by now.”

  Onstage Kit Masters was screaming lyrics into a microphone, leaning way out over a speaker. His sleeveless T-shirt was soaked through and clung to his body. The square stadium was jammed with people. Banners littered the swarming pile of fans. As the band jammed, Nikki craned her head and watched sweat fly off the drummer in post-bath-dog shakes of his flailing arms. Kit finished the song, throwing up his hands in exultation. The fans screamed in reaction, and Kit stepped back from the microphone and looked around, seeing who was with him. He lifted his hands and made small patting, shushing movements. The stadium quieted to a mountainous whisper. Kit hitched up his pants with an almost embarrassed movement.

  “Now, look, people, ordinarily at this point in the show I go sponge myself off, but we are having such a good time that I think we need to do one more song. Which one do you think we should do? What do you think, guys?” He turned around to look at the band.

  “One more song,” muttered Trista. “He must be having a really good time. He never does an extra song. He’s always prompt about his halftime break.”

  Out onstage, Nikki could hear the band shouting suggestions.

  “‘God Hates Elvis,’” said the guitar player; the bass player shrugged.

  “‘Less Than Second,’” said the keyboardist, and then the drummer yelled, “‘Heaven-Sent!’”