by Matt Rogers
‘It’s not that.’
She looked up.
He met her gaze.
He said, ‘I had a girlfriend. A partner. I lost her.’
‘How?’
‘She was shot in the head to lure me to New Zealand on a revenge mission.’
An uncomfortable pause.
Violetta swallowed a ball of unease.
She said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I know, but…’
‘Are you married?’ he said.
She said, ‘No.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Not for a long time.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘I lost him, too.’
Another uncomfortable pause.
King said, ‘Your last boyfriend?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Nearly eight years ago.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was mugged. He tried to resist. They stabbed him.’
‘I’m sorry, too.’
‘Like you said… not your fault.’
He ran a hand through his hair and stared out the window.
Trying to find the right words.
He said, ‘Does it get any easier?’
She smiled a sad smile. ‘Not really.’
‘Damn.’
‘Did you think she was the one?’
‘She was the one.’
‘So was mine. His name was Beckham.’
‘Hers was Klara.’
‘This is a stressful job,’ Violetta said. ‘I don’t get the chance for a release often.’
She let the words hang in the air.
He let them wander through his mind.
He thought hard.
She took the silence the wrong way.
She got up and covered her eyes with her hand in embarrassment.
Again she said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
She strode into the hallway, out of sight, to put some space between them.
King stayed where he was.
Thinking.
Wondering.
Would she care?
Or would she want you to move on?
To find your own happiness?
He kept thinking.
He found his answer.
He got up off the sofa and followed Violetta into the hallway.
43
It was only a four-hour flight to Tulum, and the jet was fuelled up and ready to go when Slater reached JFK International Airport, so he figured they’d touch down in the early hours of the morning — both locations were operating on the same timezone, after all.
A couple of unassuming men in dark suits were waiting on the runway to receive him, and as soon as he stepped out of the town car they wordlessly ushered him aboard.
He was the only passenger.
There was a pilot, and a co-pilot, and not much else.
He took a long look around and sat down on the plush seats and waited for takeoff.
The co-pilot sauntered out of the cockpit.
He was short but well-built, and his uniform was impeccably pressed. He sat down across from Slater and said, ‘I’ve been given full clearance to debrief you.’
‘Okay,’ Slater said.
‘You’re on your own when we get there, for reasons I’m sure you’re privy to. We’ve been given special permission to land at the Tulum Naval Air Base, so as soon as you pick up your cargo, bring it straight back to the jet and we’ll get back in the air. The Mexican government is cooperating, but they’re not officially getting involved in this, and frankly neither are we. Whatever happens, happens. Your employers want full deniability.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Slater said. ‘I’m used to that.’
‘It could go swimmingly, or it could be disastrous,’ the man said. ‘Either way, we’ll wait as long as we need to. We’ll put a heart rate monitor on you so we can track whether you’re alive or dead. If you blink out of existence, we’ll be in the air five minutes later. Is that understood?’
’Sounds like a plan,’ Slater said.
The man nodded once, and got to his feet.
Slater said, ‘You’re not the co-pilot, are you?’
The guy winked. ‘You think they’d tell any civilian that sort of information?’
He returned to the cockpit and slammed the door closed.
Slater kicked off his shoes, put his feet up, and stretched out across the seats. He stuffed a pillow behind his neck and stared up at the ceiling, lost in thought.
The Gulfstream taxied down the runway and lifted into the sky.
He had to admit he was accustomed to this. The general lack of information would have deterred even the most strong-willed of soldiers, but Slater had been operating on limited intel his entire career.
So had King.
It stirred remnants of dark memories. Memories he’d rather never let resurface, but they came back all the same. It was the bitter reality of hyperintention — try not to think about elephants, and all you can think about are elephants. He recalled bloodshed and violence and chaos and carnage, and amidst it all, a deeper satisfaction that had driven him to keep putting his body and mind on the line for his country.
So why the hell wouldn’t he do it again?
Then he thought of Ruby Nazarian, and those memories weren’t much more pleasant. She’d saved him from certain death at the hands of a drug cartel in the jungles of Colombia, and for that he would be eternally grateful. If she was in danger, he’d drop everything to make sure she was okay. He and King had a similar pact, forged in bloodshed. Nothing could break it.
He wondered what he would say when he saw her. He went down that road for a spell, but quickly enough realised he was getting too engrossed in possibilities. In the end, it didn’t matter. She would either accompany him back to the United States, or disappear forever.
And if she chose the former… then what?
He didn’t know.
He envied King for being able to spend the night with Violetta, but not for reasons one might assume. He would be able to pick her brains on the intricacies of the Chinese plot. Was it most of the upper echelon of Chinese government behind this sabotage attempt? Or was it a smaller ragtag band of extremists?
Either way, he sensed something coming.
Something he couldn’t see how he had the ability to fix.
Not on his own.
Not even with King, or Ruby.
No, this was something greater…
He closed his eyes and drifted into a dreamless sleep, occupied by silence and stillness as opposed to nightmarish visions of the future.
He thanked his lucky stars for that relief, at least.
Four hours later, they touched down in Mexico.
44
As Violetta traced a finger down King’s chest, he said, ‘Was that professional of us?’
‘Does it matter?’ she whispered, and gently touched her lips to his cheek.
They were sprawled out on the bed, draped in twisted sheets, both naked. King’s chest rose and fell with heaving breaths.
He hadn’t been able to resist getting carried away. As soon as he’d placed a hand on the small of her back and she’d responded by slipping out of her skirt, he’d wanted to devour her.
She’d felt the same, it seemed.
She’d turned and lifted his shirt off and fell on him with a recklessness that belied her ordinarily stern demeanour. That professionalism had fallen away when they’d reached the bed. The business trip turned to pleasure awfully quick.
Now they both lay coated in a thin sheen of perspiration, utterly spent.
It seemed like she couldn’t believe what happened.
She said, ‘I want you to know … I never … I don’t usually…’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I understand.’
‘Is it usually that good? I mean, I’ve been focused on my work for so long. That was…’
‘No words?’
‘No words.’
‘Glad I feel the same, then.’
She kissed his neck, then his chest, then his stomach. ‘You are incredible.’
He said, ‘Why do you do this job?’
She paused halfway down his torso, and rested her head sideways across his abdomen, so she could look up at him.
She said, ‘It’s hard. I guess I thrive in difficult times. If I was doing anything else, I’d get bored.’
‘Interesting.’
‘What about you? I’m a pen pusher. What led you to become an operative?’
‘I don’t do it anymore,’ he said. ‘I got out.’
‘But you did it for a decade. I read your files. If you wanted to get out earlier, you would have. Something kept you ticking between the ears. Something kept you pressing forward.’
‘You said it yourself.’
‘I handle stress. That’s about it. I don’t handle what you used to go through on a daily basis. It would drive anyone insane.’
‘But it’s the same principle,’ King said. ‘If I’m not challenging myself, I get restless. I know I have certain talents and I’d drive myself insane if I didn’t use them.’
‘So how did retirement go, then?’
He tensed up, and she felt it.
She sighed and said, ‘I’m sorry. That was dumb in hindsight.’
He said, ‘It was going well. Better than I deserved, at least. I was still pushing myself every day, but my life wasn’t in danger anymore. It was a thousand pound weight lifted off my shoulders. And Klara … she was happy. I was happy, I guess.’
‘But…?’
‘But I was getting the same nagging feelings. I couldn’t help but think of the people who were dying because I was selfish enough to worry about myself, and what I wanted. And just as I started getting those feelings… she was murdered.’
‘Sounds like you lost someone amazing.’
‘She was,’ King said. ‘Like I said, a whole lot better than I deserved. That’s why I got out for good. Because of her.’
‘Well,’ Violetta said, ‘if you choose to stay in, I’ll be here. And I’m more than happy to help you through any unrest you might be dealing with. I think we can mutually attend to each other’s needs, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Sounds like it’d ruin our professional relationship.’
She kissed his chest again. ‘I think you can compartmentalise. Your file said you were good at that.’
‘Could we stay detached?’
‘We’d have to.’
‘I guess it’d be one way to relieve stress.’
‘You got that right.’
‘Like the secret world’s version of a work-sponsored fitness membership?’
She laughed, and climbed on top of him. Her breasts seemed to defy gravity. He ran his hands over them and listened to her purr her approval.
She bent over him and kissed him hard.
He returned the favour.
Thirty minutes later, properly exhausted, they fell off each other again.
King smiled.
Violetta smiled back.
Then the seriousness returned, drowning out any temporary pleasure, and she said, ‘I need to debrief.’
He said, ‘Make yourself at home.’
She fetched her smartphone off the bedside table and padded out of the room. King propped himself up on one elbow and thought long and hard about what he was doing.
Eventually he concluded there was nothing wrong with it at all.
He was on standby, and even though it felt like he was amidst a war, this was technically downtime. It didn’t matter what he did whilst waiting to receive orders. The requisite parties were scrambling to decipher what the Chinese were doing, and when it all came bubbling to the surface King would throw himself into harm’s way in a heartbeat, but until then…
It took her nearly an hour to reappear. He flashed her a curious glance, but she ignored it. He nodded his understanding, more to himself than to her.
Compartmentalise.
No matter how intimate they got, it wasn’t his job to sort through intelligence channels. The bureaucracy of top-secret government operations had never been his strong suit, and he’d never been involved in the messy details. They told him where to go, and when. Violating that system was sacrosanct.
She slipped into bed and said, ‘Sorry. But I don’t want to talk about it. Not now.’
‘Any news?’
‘Some. None of it good. When we need you, we’ll let you know.’
King nodded.
Then he said, ‘Tell me how your boyfriend really died.’
45
She looked at him, stared deep into his soul, and said, ‘What?’
‘You were convincing,’ he said. ‘But not convincing enough. He wasn’t mugged. I could see that split-second decision in your eyes where you decided to throw in a substitute story.’
She didn’t say anything for a long time, and he feared he’d offended her.
Then she said, ‘You are good.’
‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I wanted to leave the possibility out there. If you want to talk about it, I’m all ears.’
Silence.
He propped himself up on the other elbow and watched her stare into the distance, her eyes glazing over as she looked out the window. She wasn’t admiring the view. She was lost in murky thoughts.
He knew exactly what she was going through.
He could connect to the extremes of the emotional spectrum.
He’d seen — and experienced — it all before.
Finally she muttered, ‘Plata o plomo.’
He looked at her.
His stomach twisted into a knot.
He knew what it meant.
He’d waged war against the cartels before.
He said, ‘Silver or lead.’
She said, ‘You understand why I don’t want to tell the truth to people I’ve just met?’
He nodded.
He didn’t say anything.
He didn’t need to.
The cartels, and the circumstances surrounding their existence in Mexico, were filled with depravity and hopelessness. Any attempt to cull them had failed, and he’d personally witnessed their amoral violence up close and personal at the beginning of his career. It had forged him into the man he was today.
And he knew about Plata o plomo, the offering of silver (a bribe) to any righteous opposing parties. If the subject refused, they were executed. It was a lose-lose situation. Accept a place on the cartel’s payroll, nullifying anything you can do to lawfully resist them in the future, tarnishing your own reputation and record…
Or die.
King said, ‘Was he a journalist?’
She nodded.
There were tears in her eyes.
‘I’d never had a boyfriend before Beckham came along,’ she said. ‘I’m a hard bitch when I need to be — which, in my career, is practically all the time. And he changed me. He was handsome, but it wasn’t that — if he found something worth investigating, he went after it like a junkyard dog. He was the most passionate man I’d ever seen. And it killed him.’
‘Where?’
‘Guadalajara,’ she said. ‘He went there to research how deep the cartel ties ran in government. I told him not to. Everyone told him not to. But he was too morally pure for his own good.’
‘How’d they do it?’
‘They walked up to him on the street one day and pressed a briefcase full of cash into his hands. He left it right there on the sidewalk, where they gave it to him. He dusted his hands off and went back to his hotel. He was too pure. The next day, as soon as he stepped out of the lobby, they pushed him into a car and put a bag over his head. No-one did anything to help. That’s … not something you do when the cartels are involved. Not when they own the country.’
King bowed his head.
She said, ‘They found his body three days later. It had been mutilated. Bef
ore death.’
‘Christ.’
‘That’s why I haven’t been dating. That’s why I do this job. Because this job takes up every waking moment of my life, and that’s about all that stops me from going mad.’
He said, ‘It eats away at you, doesn’t it? The injustice of it all.’
She smiled a sad smile. ‘Well, that’s why you do what you do. You said it yourself.’
He kissed her. ‘Two broken people in a broken world. That’s what we are.’
‘And we’re damn good at it.’
He said, ‘When this is over … I’d like to see you again. Outside of work.’
‘Does such a thing exist?’ she said.
‘Well, I’m glad we’re both on the same page about that, then.’
She kissed him. ‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe?’
‘That’s as good as you’re going to get.’
‘So we’re back into work mode now? No mention of what just happened?’
She said, ‘Something like that.’
They got dressed, maintaining a shared, comfortable silence. They stole the odd glance at each other, but Violetta had been telling the truth — together, they were the masters of compartmentalisation. There was no fawning over each other — that time had come and passed, and they’d found their release. Now it was back to what mattered.
As they drifted out of the bedroom, she stopped him in the doorway and got up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.
She said, ‘I’ve never told anyone what happened to him. Apart from you.’
He stared down at her, understanding the importance.
She said, ‘I’d like to see you again. After this. More than anything.’
He nodded.
And a faint twitch of warmth stirred in his chest. Something reactivated — a sensation he hadn’t thought he’d ever be able to find again. Not after Klara died. It was still in the earliest stage imaginable, but it was there, and that was what mattered.
She pecked him on the cheek.
She floated out of the room.
He stood leaning against the doorway, composing himself.
He didn’t know what he was feeling.
But he knew it was good.
Then he left the bedroom, too, passing over the imaginary threshold.