Compact with the Devil: A Novel

by Bethany Maines

  “Welcome to Paris, Nicole. I see that you have managed to get reequipped.”

  “The Paris branch is being friendly,” said Nikki. “Svenka, meet Astriz. Astriz, Svenka.”

  “I like friendly,” said Astriz, giving Svenka a once-over. “Do they have any leads on Camille?”

  “They didn’t realize she was in Europe,” said Nikki. “Do you have any leads on Cano?”

  “One,” said Astriz. “I nearly had him in Reims, but Camille ran me off the road. It was a … what does your military say? A cluster-screw?”

  “Not quite, but same meaning,” said Nikki.

  “Camille is a highly respected agent,” said Svenka, looking uncertainly from Astriz to Nikki. “She’s friends with our director. Why would she run you off the road?”

  “She’s not thinking clearly,” said Nikki. “We need to find her.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Svenka doubtfully.

  “Speaking of the Masters family,” said Astriz, “what have you found about Herr Masters?”

  “Well, apparently most of the accidents were an attempt to make Kit reconsider his career choice. Show him that stardom isn’t so great and maybe get him to take a break from it all,” said Nikki, choosing to leave out the person who caused the accidents. “It was for his ‘own good.’” Nikki made air quotes around the last phrase. “No connection to Cano.”

  “Very strange,” said Svenka.

  “However, the most recent incident—a truck deliberately crashing the tour bus—wasn’t connected to the other accidents. So I have to assume it’s connected to Cano. And we’re back at square one in terms of figuring out who on the tour is in cahoots with Cano.”

  “Cahoots?” repeated Svenka, and belatedly Nikki remembered that they were both non-native English speakers.

  “Collusion, alliance, in league with,” said Nikki, waiting for the lightbulb moment.

  “Ah!” said Astriz at last. “Well, it would have to be someone who could alert Cano or the truck driver to the tour bus’s exact location.”

  Nikki nodded. “Someone with an ax to grind, who doesn’t want Kit to succeed.”

  “You have someone in mind?” asked Svenka.

  “I have two top suspects. Angela—the tour manager—has been leaving alcohol in Kit’s greenrooms. Or there’s Duncan, Kit’s bodyguard, who has a picture of Camille and her husband from the IRA days and was covering up the accidents.”

  “But what does either of them gain from killing Herr Masters?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Nikki. “Angela seems bitter and angry now that Kit’s sober and making his own decisions. And I know Duncan is hiding something. I just don’t know what.”

  “Kit doesn’t have very much family,” said Svenka helpfully. “Just his grandmother and Camille. Maybe he left either Duncan or Angela money in his will?”

  “Pulled his file, did you?” asked Astriz.

  “Maxim magazine interview,” muttered Svenka, blushing.

  “So … just Camille and his grandmother,” repeated Nikki, staring off into space.

  “Who would presumably inherit,” murmured Astriz. Nikki shared a look with her.

  “Well, thank you, Svenka,” said Nikki, standing up and holding out her hand. “You have been very helpful.” Svenka looked confused but stood also.

  “Of course,” she said, “I am happy to help.” Svenka shook hands with Nikki and Astriz and walked out of the lobby, pausing to wave at the door. Astriz watched her all the way.

  “Cute ass,” said Astriz as the revolving door spun back around empty. “Too bad that she’s not so”—she tapped her forefinger against her temple—“smart.”

  “I think she’s just young,” said Nikki, sitting back down and putting her feet up on the coffee table. “You don’t think Camille would really hurt Kit, do you?”

  “It seems implausible,” said Astriz, “but you had the same thought or you wouldn’t have sent our little friend packing.”

  “The person who was creating the accidents was the retired Carrie Mae agent Camille had watching Kit—Trista Elliot. Trista’s been following Camille’s orders to scare Kit into leaving the rock star life.”

  “So maybe Camille wants to kill Kit for money, but going to Cano … I don’t think even Camille…”

  “I don’t buy it,” agreed Nikki. “She’s terrified someone will hurt Kit. I’m not saying her decisions are rational, or even smart, but I do think she’s trying to protect Kit the best way she knows how. I don’t think she gives a damn about money.”

  “Back at the beginning then,” said Astriz glumly.

  Nikki laced her fingers behind her head and stared at the ceiling. “Svenka’s right. I need to look at Kit’s will. Cano wants to kill because of his history, but whoever’s working with Cano wouldn’t have that history. It has to be something basic, something simple, like money.”

  “What about Camille?” asked Astriz.

  “She may be off her rocker, but we have to proceed like she’s on our side.”

  “She wrecked my car,” said Astriz. “She is not on my side.”

  “Point taken,” said Nikki. “But you can’t shoot her.”

  “Punch her in the face?” asked Astriz.

  “Sure, sounds great,” said Nikki. “But we need to get her and Cano under control.”

  “We have word that one of his associates may be at a club later tonight,” said Astriz. “I was planning to either follow him or capture him and force him to tell us where Cano is. I can pick you up when we go.”

  Nikki nodded. “That will give me some time to question Kit about his will.”

  “Then we have a plan,” said Astriz, standing. “I will call for you at ten.” Nikki nodded and Astriz strode off with the briefest of waves.

  “Val-like and yet not,” said Nikki thoughtfully to herself.

  PARIS II

  Something’s Wrong

  Nikki waited in the lobby for Astriz with a feeling of self-satisfaction. True, she hadn’t been able to get the details of Kit’s will, but she had managed to lend a little anti-Brandt support and talk Kit into having dinner with the band. And more important, Kit had endured the entire hour of dinner with drinkers without even breaking a sweat. Seeing the occasional glass of wine on the table had not sent Kit reaching for the nearest bottle, and the band had been glad to see him. Even Duncan had cracked a smile when Hammond told a story about an Amsterdam lounge singer, dueling pianos, and Kit parked on top of a piano like Michelle Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys.

  Which was a far different mood than Duncan had been in when she’d first arrived in Kit’s room. Brandt had been pushing Kit to let the press follow him around.

  “So they can, what? Snap pics of me napping? No bloody thanks!” exclaimed Kit as Duncan let Nikki into the room, his face grimmer than usual.

  “Well, then let them come with you to the AA meeting tonight,” said Brandt.

  “Absolutely not.” Brandt appeared caught off guard by the stark refusal in Kit’s voice, and Angela lifted her head in surprise. “Meetings are private for a reason. The people there give me support and understanding, and I am not about to exploit them just to give myself good press. Being who I am already makes it hard enough for people to open up. My meetings stay anonymous, do you hear me?”

  “Yeah, sure, Kit, we can do it your way,” said Brandt coolly.

  “It’s the second A, for Christ’s sake!” shouted Kit, as if just realizing what AA stood for.

  “Fine!” snapped Brandt. “I said we wouldn’t do it, already.” It was Kit’s turn to look surprised at Brandt’s outburst. “But we have to do something.” Brandt ran his hand over his hair, feeling the gelled ridges but not disturbing his coif. “If you’re not going to do it tonight, then it’ll have to be New Year’s Eve, the day of the concert—maybe you can take some press to the studio.”

  “I really don’t want to,” said Kit distinctly, his jaw clenched. “I’m not ready to take anything into the studio,
let alone complete strangers. You need to stop pushing me.”

  “Look, if you say you don’t want to do it, then you don’t do it. Simple as that.” Brandt snapped his fingers in emphasis, but Nikki frowned. Brandt was giving in too easily. Had he had a change of heart? Or did he just have some other plan up his sleeve? “So the schedule is: meeting for you tonight, press junket tomorrow, take it easy day of the thirty-first. Just some sound checks and runthroughs on the day of.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” said Kit with a dismissive wave.

  Brandt and Angela had left then, Angela shooting her a look of poisonous dislike. Kit had looked up at her as if he couldn’t remember why she was there and Nikki felt ready to sink into the floor. The one time she actually answered his call, and now he didn’t want her.

  “Hey,” said Nikki, feeling a blush starting around her collarbone. “I was going to dinner with the gang. Thought you might want to come along.”

  Kit hesitated. “I have to go to this thing tonight.”

  “Yeah, I heard. No biggie.”

  “But wait, wait.” He glanced nervously at Duncan as if for reassurance. “Maybe I can stop by for a few minutes.”

  “Yeah, that’d be cool.”

  “OK, let me get my jacket.” Kit grinned and dashed into the bedroom.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” hissed Duncan as soon as Kit was out of the room.

  “I’m inviting him to dinner.”

  “You can’t just treat him like he’s a normal person! He’s an alcoholic and a rock star. You can’t just invite him to things.”

  “He’s going to have to see people drinking eventually,” Nikki retorted. “And besides, he’s going to a meeting right afterward. Seems like this would be the perfect opportunity to test the waters.”

  “Ta-da!” said Kit, jumping out of the bedroom and posing. “Don’t I look smashing?” He flipped up the collar of a suit jacket he’d put on over his blue hoodie. “Brandt left it here. I think it looks rather good on me.” He did a spin and threw his hands up in a rock star pose.

  Nikki laughed. “Absolutely smashing! Can we go?”

  “But of course, darling, but of course.” He had offered her his arm, and Nikki had taken it, suppressing the urge to make a face at Duncan.

  Nikki was still reveling in her triumph over Duncan when Astriz pulled up in a beat-up Yugo, looking miserable. Laughing, Nikki stepped out to the curb.

  “What’s the matter, Astriz?” asked Nikki, leaning down to talk through the window. “This car doesn’t match your self-image?”

  Astriz’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “It’s all that was available on short notice, but it does not produce good speed,” said Astriz stiffly. “It is not adequate.”

  “But it gets good gas mileage,” said Nikki, trying not to laugh.

  “I don’t care!” snapped Astriz. “The car is ugly!”

  Nikki turned an impending laugh into a cough as she was getting into the cracked vinyl passenger seat and patted Astriz on the shoulder.

  “It’s OK. No one will ever believe that Serbo-Croatian engineering is really your thing. You’ll be back in a Mercedes soon.”

  “Danke,” said Astriz with a small sniff.

  “What’s the plan?” asked Nikki.

  “We have an informant who says that Cano is meeting a supplier tonight at Club Jupiter. I thought we would run the same plan as last time. Wait for him to meet his supplier, seize him on the way out, and then call the cops on the supplier.”

  “And hope that Camille doesn’t interrupt this time?” asked Nikki.

  “At least now we know to expect her,” said Astriz. “Perhaps this time we can stop her before she ruins our trap.”

  “What are we packing?” asked Nikki, eyeballing the black duffel bag in the back.

  “I remembered what you said about snipers,” said Astriz. “But I didn’t think you would want to ask for one from the Paris branch.”

  “Mm,” said Nikki in nonverbal agreement. Svenka had seemed helpful, but she was worried about her comment about Camille and the Paris director being friends; keeping demands on them to a minimum might be preferable. People talked with annoyance about good ol’ boys’ clubs and their glass ceilings, but very few understood the ice-age type of freeze that could be instituted by a well-organized sorority of hatred.

  Astriz continued. “So I just got some basics. Two MP5s and two Kimbers.”

  “And silencers,” Nikki said approvingly, opening the bag to take a peek.

  “Ja,” said Astriz. “Camille is too loud for my tastes. I thought we should stick to something quieter.”

  “Camille is not the target,” Nikki said, reminding her.

  “But if she happens to take a bullet in the toe, then accidents happen. She killed my car,” said Astriz bitterly, and Nikki laughed.

  “Ricochets happen,” said Nikki in agreement. “But remember, our primary target is Cano. If you get a clean shot, take it. I’d love to tie him up neatly and leave him for the police, but let’s face facts. The man’s a killer, and he’s not going to stop.”

  “We’re authorized?” asked Astriz, glancing at her.

  “I’m authorizing,” said Nikki.

  “I didn’t know you could authorize,” she said, and Nikki couldn’t tell if she was impressed or annoyed.

  “I have case-dependent kill authorization. In this case I’ve been authorized.”

  “Huh,” said Astriz. “Well, I guess that’s why they pay you the big bucks.” Nikki snorted at that.

  Fifteen minutes later Astriz pulled up in an alley and turned off the car. Nikki passed out the handguns, tucking hers into her waistband and pocketing the silencer. The guns were Kimber Raptors with three-inch barrels on aluminum frames—easy for concealment. Nikki preferred the old standard 1911, but Kimber produced solid guns with reliable performance; she had no complaints.

  “I think someone should wait here with the car, as backup,” said Astriz, and Nikki sighed. “Someone” was a linguistic substitute to make a request more socially acceptable. “Someone” never meant the speaker; “someone” invariably meant the person being spoken to.

  “I think you should go out front,” said Nikki directly; she didn’t have time to worry about offending anyone. “I will cover the rear exit from the inside, while you cover the front from outside.”

  “Why you?” demanded Astriz.

  “Cano doesn’t know me.”

  “He doesn’t know me, either,” Astriz said in protest.

  “Three days following him around and you think he hasn’t got a clue what you look like?” asked Nikki. “If he’s half as good as Camille says he is, then I find that unlikely.”

  Astriz made a grunt that wanted to be disagreement but didn’t quite make it.

  “I’ll have you on speed dial,” said Nikki. “If I buzz you, don’t bother to pick up, just come running.”

  “Ja,” said Astriz, nodding. “I will approach from this end of the block; there’s a café I can watch from.”

  “I’ll circle around and approach from the opposite side,” said Nikki.

  The rain was turning into tiny, stinging snowflakes as she approached Club Jupiter. Nikki could see that it was not much of a club, at least not in the sense of dancing and flashing lights. It seemed more of a low-key drinking establishment designed to draw an older crowd. The bouncer was sitting just inside the door. He looked big enough, but he was sipping wine and nibbling from a plate at his elbow; he barely looked up as she entered. It was hard to look tough with a cheese platter.

  She skirted the edge of the room, scanning the tables for Cano. It was a dimly lit place with candles in jars on the handful of tables and seating at the bar. No one looked suspicious, and she settled into a seat at the bar with her back to the wall.

  The bartender returned from delivering drinks to a table and took her order for the house red. Nikki checked her watch and then the door; it was only half an act. Women alone in bars were not especiall
y common in any culture. She needed to look as though she were waiting for someone. Minutes ticked by, and then she checked her watch for real. She hated stakeouts. Another ten minutes stretched into infinity and Nikki checked her watch again. The door opened and Nikki tensed as Svenka entered with the brusque, businesslike look of someone who was there for a purpose. Nikki frowned, her eyes narrowing. She had noticed, in her short tenure with the company, that Carrie Mae women tended to look as though they were always there for a purpose. It was a look she tried to coach out of her team; it made them too easy to spot in a crowd. Nikki relaxed against the wall, letting herself merge with the shadows from an overhanging shelf.

  She had two choices: approach Svenka or wait to be approached. It was not a big bar; eventually she would be spotted. Before she could decide, Svenka had seen her and was marching across the room to plant herself defiantly in front of Nikki.

  “You’re blocking my sight lines,” said Nikki. Svenka’s defiant pose wilted slightly, but she forged ahead.

  “You must come with me,” she said.

  “Sorry, honey, working,” said Nikki. “No time.” “Honey” was a word that implied that Nikki had higher status and power, and Nikki used it intentionally.

  “But you must,” said the girl. “I am supposed to insist. The Paris director requires you,” said the girl, beginning to look frustrated. “I will use force.” She pulled aside her coat and displayed a Taser. Nikki sighed.

  Nikki thought about ways to disable Svenka. She thought briefly about shooting her in the foot and shook her head at that bad thought. All her options involved fighting or doing what she was told. Neither was appealing or would advance her goals.

  “Svenka, sweetie”—Nikki used the diminutive like a weapon—“you transferred to Paris because you wanted to be posted somewhere urban and classy, didn’t you?” Svenka nodded. “But the Paris girls just use you for muscle, don’t they?”

  “They make cow sounds when I eat lunch,” Svenka said quietly, her shoulders dropping dejectedly. “It’s because I’m big.”

  “No, it’s because they’re lazy bitches who don’t want to break a nail. Carrie Mae is about women being able to stand up for themselves. If they want to be Carrie Mae they should stop hiding behind you, and you need to tell them.”