Sexile

by Lisa Lawrence

  “What the hell does that mean?’ I asked. It seemed a reasonable question.

  “It means this goes beyond Brazil,’ he answered. “Haskell has pushed some very good people out of MI6. He’s going for the top job of running things, and heaven help us, he’s four years away if he keeps advancing up the rungs. I grew alarmed when I noticed how many missions he arranged to be handled as private contracts for Orpheocon and its private mercenaries—as if the interests of British intelligence are one and the same with those of the octopus. He also personally authorized Simon Highsmith to be assassinated, apparently upon request by the company. Simon has made as much trouble for them as you have. They tried to kill him in Nairobi, and as I suspect you already know, he’s gone to ground. Since Highsmith is now freelance, he’s not under any official protection of Her Majesty’s Government.’

  “Where is Simon now?’

  “We don’t know. We assume he’s still in Africa.’

  “Oh, that’s just… wonderful.’ And I wondered something else. “How did the bad guys figure out Teresa Lane was Teresa Knight? When Marinho went after Duncan McCullough, he knew exactly who I was.’

  Hodd groaned and collapsed back into a chair. “You, young lady, were too good at your job. Marinho and Ferreira are sexist, macho types. Word spread through the corporate grapevine at Silky Pictures of a talented new female director for Luis Antunes, and Marinho naturally grew curious. He never believed in a convenient bit of luck, especially with talent. I sent you in to be a lowly video editor, and lo and behold, you’re promoted to director. I never expected Marinho to hear of you at all, let alone fly over to Britain! I never thought he would be smart enough to use Orpheocon to check you out—and discover there was no Teresa Lane. I underestimated him. And Ferreira. God…This is a huge mess.’

  “It’s worse than you think,’ I said. I briefed him on Beatriz. How she was unknowingly about to commit a terrorist attack that for some reason, Ferreira, Haskell, and Orpheocon wanted to let happen.

  They all stared at me, Hodd and his agents.

  “My God, this is…’

  “What?’

  Hodd completely lost his temper. “The stupid bastard!’

  He got up and went to the window, staring out at the ocean as he struggled for self-control.

  One of the agents, a young woman with thick black hair and black eyebrows, perhaps of Middle Eastern heritage, spoke in a low voice to her colleagues. She had a Yorkshire accent. “It’s contemptible. Either he’s allowing himself to be played or he’s letting it happen.’

  “Haskell,’ I prompted.

  She turned to me, her eyes down as if she knew it was unprofessional to speak her mind. But she couldn’t help herself. “Yes. After 7/7, after 9/11—it’s unthinkable to let this happen to a friendly nation.’

  “I suggest,’ I said coolly, “all of you, when you have the time, take a nice long look at what Orpheocon has done in Africa for the last couple of decades.’

  We heard the cell in the woman’s handbag—the ring tone was a Beyoncé tune, and it sounded inappropriate and ridiculous in this grim moment.

  Hodd walked back from the balcony as she answered her phone. “Your point is well taken, but let’s debate corporate colonialism another day.’

  “And Graham?’ I asked.

  Hodd was out of patience. “Don’t second-guess me, Miss Knight. I know mistakes have been made, but I told you my operatives are moving in. They’re fetching him now—’

  “No, they aren’t,’ said the young woman on the phone, looking mildly terrified as the bearer of bad news. “They’ve raided the location, but… No Ferreira. And no Bailey.’

  “What?’ barked Hodd. “I was told—’

  “It doesn’t matter what you were told,’ I snapped. “You were told wrong! Where else could Ferreira hold him?’

  “We thought of that, so I sent operatives to watch six other houses we know Ferreira owns. Bailey won’t be at any of them.’

  I headed for the door. “Hodd. What about Marinho’s house in Barra da Tijuca?’

  “Abandoned after Ferreira shot Marinho. Bailey isn’t there. My men have it secured.’

  “Good. I’ll go over there now.’

  “I just told you it’s been abandoned,’ grumbled Hodd. “What do you want to go there for?’

  “To check a hunch.’

  I was already halfway out of the apartment as Hodd told one of his agents to go with me. Then the agent and I were running downstairs, out the exit, and to a BMW parked across the street.

  ♦

  The catalogues. Those silly furniture catalogues Marinho always flipped through, picking out shopping items. We betray ourselves in our obsessions, and in handcuffs and with an arm broken Marinho had said: The prick never appreciate me. Every time he buy a new place, I always send him a housewarming gift.

  Marinho had known where Ferreira’s properties were.

  Yes, it was slim, but I was hoping that a delivery invoice would turn up among Marinho’s things, something that left a trail. Sent him an antique globe only last week. Maybe, just maybe, it got sent to a house that Hodd’s people hadn’t discovered yet, the spot where Graham was actually being held.

  Marinho’s interior décor was as hideous as you’d expect. A clash of styles with his greedy selection of items, no thought given to how they’d go together. Not that I bothered to really look around. The agent with me, a guy named Sims, got us through the door past Hodd’s men guarding the place, and then I rushed for the catalogues. Wasted ten precious minutes, flipping and stopping at pieces circled with red felt marker, and then one of the agents found Marinho’s receipts in a kitchen drawer. One was for the globe.

  “This place,’ I told Sims. “Did Hodd’s people check this place?’

  A house blocks away in Barra da Tijuca.

  No.

  “Then let’s get the hell over there!’

  A five-minute drive. Sims, me, and another agent from Marinho’s house tagging along for backup, since Hodd and additional men would take half an hour to join us. Sims pulled the BMW up a good two blocks away from the new location, so as not to spook anyone inside. Then things got bizarre. As we approached, we spotted a couple of Ferreira’s men leaving from the back door of the house. In a hurry.

  Sims kicked the door in, getting the drop on one of Ferreira’s men, and I shouted, “Graham? Graham!’

  “Teresa …’ Weak, distant, from a basement.

  “Miss Knight!’ Sims called out in a panic. He had his knee in the back of Ferreira’s man on the rug, couldn’t chase after me. I was being stupid—rushing farther into the house without checking to see if there were more bad guys.

  But there were none. Strange that two of Ferreira’s men took off with just one left alone to guard Graham. Surely Ferreira knew one wasn’t enough, considering that Graham was a trained intelligence officer.

  Found him, slumped in a chair, but already disentangling himself from ropes. Tall man with deep mahogany brown skin and a shaved head, a bruise formed on his chin and another above his eye, but not too worse for wear. My gorgeous man.

  I threw my arms around him.

  “Are you all right?’ I asked, but I don’t think I gave him a moment to answer, hugging him and kissing him hard. “How did you untie yourself?’

  “Haven’t. Just used some isometrics and yoga to loosen the ropes,’ he said weakly. “Took me bloody forever to get to this point. Next time Ferreira’s hooked to a bomb, let’s dump him in the ocean.’

  I laughed. Great minds think alike, I thought, but I didn’t say it. I was busy laughing and wiping the tears from my eyes, kissing him again and holding him tight. “You’re all right,’ I muttered. “You’re all right…’

  “We’re both all right…’ He shushed me gently like a child and kissed me, and we rocked in each other’s arms.

  ♦

  Sims said he and the other agent would keep the house secure, and he passed me the keys to the BMW to get Graham out of t
here. Sims had already phoned Hodd to let him know Graham was safe, and he had even found Graham’s gun on a table in the lounge. As Graham holstered it, he made a weak joke about how Hodd better not want paperwork, and he swayed a little, still weak from his beating. I put an arm around his waist to steady him as we headed out the door.

  We were a block away from the BMW when we heard the limousine. I thought: You’ve got to be kidding with the limousine again. But Hodd couldn’t have gotten here that fast.

  No. Not Hodd. A power window rolled down, and we heard a deep voice call out, “Bailey.’

  Graham and I both froze. Graham pulled the Glock out of its holster.

  “There’s no need for that.’ The voice sounded vaguely offended by his caution. The car door opened.

  I recognized the figure emerging, the hawk nose and the black hair in a severe widow’s peak, the pasty complexion. He practically loomed over Graham, and I guessed he stood six foot five. Gaunt in his charcoal suit, looking like he’d just sold an insurance policy to Death. If I haven’t made it clear already, the guy gave me the creeps.

  “Haskell.’ Graham muttered the syllables of his name like a curse.

  13

  The MI6 man raised his palm towards us in a calming gesture, the blue eyes wide in disbelief. “Would you care to explain what you think you’re doing, Bailey? Have you gone mad? I send you here for a simple extraction, and you become a wandering case of paranoia, hunting down our cutouts—’

  “Cutouts?’ I asked, tugging on my lover’s hand.

  Graham sounded bored. “Fancy word for go-betweens and couriers.’ He looked crossly towards Haskell. “And he’s using it inaccurately, since we know José Ferreira is more than a courier, he’s a player.’

  “Bailey,’ sighed Haskell. “Graham. I can ignore the insubordination, especially given what you’ve just been through. And God knows Hodd has fooled people before. If you want to know what is truly going on, let’s go for a drink, and we’ll discuss it. We’ll drop Miss Knight off at your apartment in Botafogo.’

  “Cameron,’ said Graham, lifting the Glock and aiming it at his head. “That wasn’t even very subtle, mate. Pretty obvious we’ll both be dead the minute we get inside the car.’

  “No, not you, just me,’ I corrected him. And as both men looked at me in surprise, I explained, “That’s why Ferreira’s men were heading out just as we arrived—with one guy left to guard you. He was supposed to hand you over to Stretch here. Haskell needs you for something, Graham. He’s what kept Ferreira from killing you.’

  Stuck here on the street, the two of us, Sims and the other agent back at the house.

  “That does make sense,’ said Graham, and he shook his gun at Haskell and ordered, “Tell your agents in the limo to drive off. They can pick you up here in five minutes.’

  “You kill me, Bailey, they’ll drop you on the spot. And Miss Knight.’

  “Oh, I reckon they won’t, Cam. You see, if you’re dead, your toadying protégés sort of become masterless samurai, don’t they? Not worth it to kill us and piss off Hodd. He wouldn’t forgive them and take them back after that. You don’t think he would hunt them down over us? Hold them accountable for this little rogue show you’re putting on? Orpheocon’s hiring, true—but your men won’t be useful if they have death squads after them.’

  “London will consider the results—then it will judge who’s gone rogue.’

  “Waiting, Cam. Waiting and running out of patience. If it helps, I promise I won’t kill you.’

  Haskell smiled at this innocent request for trust. He looked towards the limousine and gave the driver a nod. The car pulled away from the curb. “Right. What do you want?’

  “Just like that,’ sneered Graham. “Buy us off.’

  “Yes, just like that,’ replied Haskell. “You’ve had people kidnap you, try to kill you—I would think you would appreciate the novelty of another approach.’

  “You want to brief me, so go ahead. Why allow the terrorist attack?’

  The giant glanced at his shoes, all the way down there, and looked up with a triumphant smile. “Ah, I see. You know nothing. And therefore Hodd knows nothing. That changes things. It does actually help you, in fact. I can offer you a financial incentive as well as guarantee your safe passage out of Brazil. You can leave tonight.’

  “That’s it,’ I said gently, interrupting.

  Graham relaxed the Glock only a little. “What, babe?’

  “The Grinch who stole Christmas. The cartoon—not the crappy movie. He looks just like the Grinch.’

  He made a point of studying Haskell with a pensive frown. “Yeah, at first you spot it around the eyes, then you realize it’s mostly the evil.’

  “That’s not very fair,’ I said. “I mean to the cartoon.’

  “Sorry, you’re right.’

  “I don’t find either of you amusing,’ said Haskell. “I thought we’d have a productive five minutes, Bailey, and set a price.’

  “In the future,’ I pointed out, “you might want to consider the bribe before you frame someone and order them killed. It’s a credibility issue.’

  Haskell laughed. “What makes you think you’re included, Miss Knight? Any arrangement here is with Bailey alone. You’ve made yourself such a headache to certain people they’re well past the idea of corrupting you. I suppose in a perverse way you might consider that flattering.’

  “Coming from an egomaniac whose best friend is a drug lord, I suppose I have to,’ I said.

  Haskell glowered at me. He loomed. In the middle of the Brazilian night, despite the palm trees and architecture, he demanded we pay him more awe than this place, a force unto himself. I’m sure the bastard thought he was.

  “No, Miss Knight, what is truly egotistical—and arrogant—is this idea of the individual. The notion that you are important. You and that man there walking his dog across the street and those stupid, illiterate bumpkin girls you liberated. I don’t pity those women. I don’t pity the veal I order at dinner. Your father is a professor of history at Oxford, and I am astonished he never taught you an important lesson: Every populist movement bestowing power upon the ignorant—power at the expense of the trained elite—has been an unmitigated disaster, from the French Revolution to the psychopathic Khmers to the Taliban.’

  “I see. We little people should know our place.’

  “In a word, yes,’ said Haskell. “The community to which I belong and in which Bailey here plays a role no longer guards antiquated nation-states. We are the real economists. We always have been. And you, Miss Knight, are a dilettante. You run around and play detective and, true, you’ve caused us a few setbacks, but we carry on. Bailey has been trained, and we’ve invested in his skills. There is room for promotion for him—advancement. Which is why I want to remind you now, Graham, that one woman is as good as another.’ A wolfish chuckle here. “And you do so enjoy variety, don’t you?’

  The tactic didn’t work. I didn’t feel threatened by Graham’s past—I couldn’t. And he wasn’t by mine. We were past that. Graham kept the Glock aimed at Haskell, keeping his eyes fixed on him.

  “You’re making me wait again, Cam. I don’t like waiting.’

  “And what are you waiting for, young man?’

  “Waiting for you to explain.’ There was more hidden anger in that tone than what had exploded with Marinho cuffed to the radiator.

  “Go ahead. Explain it to us. It’s so big you still want to recruit me for it. Teresa’s right. It’s the only reason Ferreira didn’t kill me at the house, right? You stopped him. You just hate throwing away a tool—one that’s stupid and useful . Whatever it is, it’s that big, and you need me for it. But the job is elsewhere, not in South America.’

  “Very clever—you’re right. Call Brazil a ‘rehearsal’ if you like, though I suppose that’s not precisely accurate. The big show will be in Africa. Simon Highsmith has tried to stop it, but we’ve made him run with his tail between his legs—for the moment. Maybe you’d li
ke to kill him for us?’

  “If I ever kill Simon, it will be for my own reasons. Will the operation go forward if I kill you, Cam?’

  “Yes, it will. And you won’t kill me, Bailey. I know you won’t. For one thing, you gave your word. And you’re so concerned with London and what it thinks. Politically, you know it’s better to have me around than to have to explain why you executed a senior Field Control supervisor.’

  “You’re right,’ said Graham, and he relaxed his gun arm.

  And without hesitating, shot point-blank at Haskell’s knee.

  “Shit!’ I yelled. I couldn’t believe it.

  Haskell’s face went white with shock and then agony, and he fell like a tree onto the pavement. He stared up at us, wide-eyed in disbelief, blood already soaking his hand where he grabbed his leg.

  Graham leaned over and said, “Teresa Knight would make a better field agent than I could ever hope to be. But she’s too good for you, you walking cadaver.’ He turned to me. “Let’s go, babe.’

  He gripped my arm and steered me away. “Walk. Just keep on walking. Where’s the car?’

  “That one there. You promised you wouldn’t shoot him.’

  “I promised I wouldn’t kill him. A wounded man ties up resources, attention. Fewer guys to chase after us.’

  “That was a very Simon Highsmith thing to do,’ I remarked.

  “No, Simon would have hung onto that bomb and tied it round Haskell’s skinny neck.’

  Yes, he would. But to be fair, Simon would have dumped Haskell in the ocean too.

  ♦

  He didn’t show it—none of the stress, none of the effects of his brief ordeal—until after Hodd’s debriefing and he was alone with me in the apartment hotel in Botafogo. They had hit him a couple of times, but unlike Marinho, Ferreira’s other thugs weren’t very skilled at throwing a punch. It was the helplessness of being tied up in a chair, the apprehension that death or some horrible torture before death was imminent, that made his body shudder all at once in a nervous spasm.

  He muttered sorry to me, explaining that he’d never been taken hostage before. Yes, they tell you what to do, how to cope, he said. You get training—how to store away useful details for later debriefing and how to check opportunities for escape. But it’s another thing to go through it.