3 Lies (28 page)

While their names and backgrounds were all Middle Eastern, most Arabic, there didn’t appear to be any militant Islamic link. Certainly, their original recruiters would have thoroughly vetted them, and then there was the on-going Company observation. Perhaps a reprimand was enough to veer loyalty. One could never be certain. Until, of course, one became certain, then it was too late. Such was the business of spies.

A knock on his door startled him. “Come in.”

Posey’s brawn filled the doorway, blocking the light from the hall. “I got the payroll reports you wanted.” He held out the file. “Any chance you need anything else up there?”

“Who did you meet?”

“Sue. A little too chatty but very fine.”

“Your charm usually leaves them speechless.”

“True. Speaking of charm. What did you do to Albert?”

Doug sat at his desk. “Why?”

“He’s been human-like today. Though, I’m not sure it works for him.”

“I got a whiff of that too. I’ve got no nails for his coffin if that’s what you’re hoping.” He rotated his feet at the ankles trying to work out a few kinks.

“His retirement can’t come soon enough.”

“Did Sasha get the faxes out to the marinas?” Doug pulled an intra-agency memo from his in-box.

“In process. You asked the brown fox out yet?”

“Too busy.” He feigned interest in news about a change in the parking policy.

“Shot down mid-air, eh?”

He ignored the question. “What about that guy I asked you to find. What’s his name?” He referred to his notes. “Shakir Siddique.”

“Dead.”

“Bummer.”

“Broke his neck rock climbing in Egypt late last year.”

“Did you pull his pay file?”

”You’re joking, right?”

“Due diligence. Gotta kick over every rock. Besides, I thought you wanted an excuse.”

“I need to blast home. Can I get it when I come back?”

“I’ll get it. I need a change of scenery.”

“Can I bring you anything?”

“I’m going by my house later.” He lifted the blue Oxford shirt away from his chest. “Getting a bit ripe.”

Posey pressed away from the doorframe. “You remember how to get there?”

Doug shouted at Posey’s broad back as it disappeared. “I’ll call you if I need directions.”

He planted an elbow on the desk to support his chin. The payroll file inspired a core-deep yawn. Due diligence. Even assets on the lam had to eat.

Rabi Falim. Consistent payments for assignments up until the time of his trouble. His personnel file indicated Mr. Falim had the distinct misfortune of crashing his car into a Saudi police station after leaving a hashish den in Riyadh. They mistook him for a suicide bomber. During the ensuing melee, Mr. Falim stumbled away from the scene and made it to a safe house. His handlers smuggled him to Athens at the first opportunity.

The next eight payroll records also marked a negative change in status, indicating the professional blunder in each man’s personnel file. One unfortunate tried to woo the wrong man’s wife. Another lost his nerve during a critical border crossing with images of strategic importance. Yet another tried to sell Egyptian antiquities to a plant on the black market. Lucrative, dangerous careers marred by miscalculation. Doug knew he saw their dullest facets, but it was hard to imagine a successful mission with these guys in league. They jeopardized their usefulness through bad judgment. Bad timing. Bad luck.

Doug wondered about the dead guy. Shakir Siddique. His name bubbled to the surface as did those of the other men on the list. But he couldn’t be on any assignment. Not if he was dead. Even dead his luck was bad. Dead and still in bad company.

“May I come in?”

Natalie leaned into his office wearing a white cashmere dress that wrapped her body like papier-mache. A vision worthy of a few bald Himalayan goats.

It erased his last mental image. A doorway full of Posey. A definite trade up.

“Yeah. Of course.” Doug rose to his feet.

“I came to get an update.” She made no noise as her white heels picked across the floor.

He gestured toward a chair for her to sit. “I sent a report over with the latest—”

“—and to apologize.” She settled into the chair, crossing her legs at the ankle. “I’m sorry about barking at you out on the path.”

“So you will marry me?”

Her mouth turned up at the corners. “That would serve you right.”

She had a sense of humor after all.

“I promise I’m not a stalker.” He sat down across from her.

“Another white-boy monopoly.” She flipped a braid behind her back. “Career isn’t my only concern. We have lives on the line.”

He reached for one of his files. “I’ve been checking out the missing assets. One of the guys doesn’t quite fit with the others. Shakir Siddique. He’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Since last year. Climbing accident.”

“But he’s on our missing list.”

“Did you read my report?”

Her eyes bunched. Her back lengthened straight as a mannequin’s.

“Then you know that nine from the list came into the country on fake papers. We confirmed that five left within a week, leaving potentially four still roaming here. But we never showed any traffic on Siddique.”

“Dead does limit a man’s travel options,” Natalie said. “Any theories?”

“None, yet.”

“What about the marinas? Any news on that angle?”

“No. What’s the latest on the worm code?”

“Nothing other than I’m the leading suspect.” The set of her jaw seemed to beg him to deny it. “I’m not worried about what might be found. Just because I could have doesn’t mean I did.”

“Who told you?”

“Chester Spivey. He may be a tough mother, but he’s fair. I’ll take my chances.”

“What about me?” His left leg started its bouncing dance.

Her lashes curled over shiny dark marbles. “What about you?”

“Are you going to take your chances with me?”

Her posture loosened. “Doug, you seem like a nice guy.”

“Ouch. Don’t say that.”

She pushed off from the chair arms and stood. Her facial expression absent of guile. “You’re work, baby.” She patted his cheek. “I don’t mix in my work. It’s policy.”

“Bad, bad policy.”

“It may be.” Her parting look flickered his hope. Her firm, fine, cashmere butt swishing out of the room lit a flame.

She slammed the door shut a little softer this time, but a slam still slammed. Doug’s leg stopped keeping double-time. Maybe a shower would have helped.

The tired he felt burrowed into his bones. Sleep was an extravagance he measured in minutes. Time away for rest put him out of the game. Participating in this investigation rivaled his childhood dreams of double-oh-seven intrigue. He even had the beautiful girl. Sort of. He could catch up on sleep later, after finishing this, the greatest race of his life.

He scrubbed his scalp with both sets of fingernails to satisfy an itch and, hopefully, reinvigorate his brain. Payroll. He needed to find Posey’s new honey and close the file on Shakir Siddique. Doug left his office and jogged the long way over to the payroll records office.

The payroll clerk available to help was a fine looker, but also nearly ready to give birth, possibly twins. Not likely the one Posey had in mind. Her name badge said her name was June, and he guessed she was Polynesian.

“Shakir Siddique. I’ve got his information here. Do you need a printout?”

The Company discouraged the use of paper, for reasons of security, reducing environmental impact, and keeping costs down so as not to infuriate the average taxpayer.

“What’s there to print? When was he paid last?”

“Last week.”

Last week. Doug stopped short of choking on the words. “Uh. Did you double check the ident number I gave you?”

He wondered if her poor husband ever received the gonad-melting glower he received from that question. Nine months living near this broad’s hormones would test the mettle of any man.

“Yes. A printout please. Of all payroll activity from the last three years.” He smiled as if he meant it. “Include the deposit information. I want to know where the money is going. Thanks.”

The clerk recovered her professional demeanor, and Doug left with the information. Somebody was collecting money in the dead man’s name. Or maybe he wasn’t dead. Either way, the file on Shakir Siddique stayed open.

On the way back to his office, he saw Sasha Burke, manager of the broadcast fax department. She was in a hallway conversation, holding her coat and purse with an apparent intent to go home. Doug wanted to find out if they received any faxes from the marinas about the missing boats. He paused a moment to allow her other conversation to wind down.

“Sasha. Doug Bryant.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Posey Kong brought a job over to you for a project I’m working. We requested an outgoing fax to marinas. I wanted to see if you’d gotten anything back.”

“Nothing yet. Posey came by earlier to check.”

His mood fell. “I hoped we’d get a yank on that one.”

“Try more real estate. Sending is easy. One touch of a button, and we can fax the wired world.”

He wanted to be patient, but the overly pregnant woman already tapped into his meager reserves. “We damn near covered it already. Mexico, the Caribbean and both coasts.”

“That’s not what the orders said.”

“What orders did you get?”

“The first time we faxed the left coast all the way to Santiago. The second time we hit Eastern South America.” She seemed to pickup on his stifled irritation and took a defensive posture. “I specifically remember the original order included the East Coast. Someone changed the order.”

From the head below deck, Amir listened to Salif’s cell phone call with the controller. Even if Salif shared all the pertinent details with the mission team—which Amir did not expect—Amir finally owned a direct connection. He had heard the controller’s voice for himself: educated, direct, accustomed to giving orders. Still, an aspect of the voice emanated that no amount of self-control could entirely mask.

Apprehension.

Any mission worth pursuing inspired a level of anxiety. Anyone who said otherwise was a liar. Like an athlete before the event, every operative found a way to springboard into action from nerves that oscillated with fear. He found a way to manage, to cope, to overcome, or became a casualty. Better to take out one of your own than allow him to jeopardize the mission. Sparring with the twang of his own spinal cord was Amir’s
raison d'etre
. Even sex never rivaled that thrill.

Salif told the controller, “We deserted the white van as ordered.”

“You wiped it clean?”

The air rushing through the phone receiver punctuated Salif’s annoyance at the question. “The van was not in immediate jeopardy. We will now have to acquire another vehicle. This adds risk.”

“Did you wipe it clean?”

A long pause. “Yes.”

“It had to be done.”

Someone followed the white van when Amir drove it from Beth’s and when Binard drove it from it from the medical supplier. They lost the tail both times but came closer to danger than was wise. Getting a new vehicle incurred less risk. Amir agreed with the controller. The van was a liability. Salif’s opinion on the mission-front was apparently unvalued.

Salif changed the subject. “Are we any closer to completing the mission?”

“It progresses.” A pause. “What of the prisoners? Any difficulties?”

“The usual maladies. And-”

“
Mal de mer
sending them to the railing, so to speak?” The controller snickered.

Seasickness hit everyone eventually. For any ocean-bound ship, an on-board supply of seasick remedies ranked directly behind fresh water, food, and fuel. They had pills, patches, pressure bands, even multiple forms of ginger. Powder. Crystals. Candy. The best defense against seasickness was prevention. Lots of water, light meals, fresh air. Once seasickness took hold, sudden death seemed a preferable option. Aboard ship, cleanliness was next to godliness. Vomit aboard ship was entirely ungodly.

“The sick woman may not last much longer without medical attention.”

“Make another recording of her voice today. We won’t need her much longer.”

A waste to lose one so beautiful.

“But tell her you’re getting another machine just to keep them quiet.” The controller continued. “The men are still tamed?”

“They are no threat.”

Indeed. The five male hostages on board were a pathetic bunch of soft, old women with paunches, worried brows, and eyes that entreated when Amir entered their cabin. The only male hostage not chasing a century looked the weakest. Still, Amir always took a sidearm along in case one of them decided to reclaim some manhood.

“Don’t underestimate them. Desperate men will often surprise you. Make sure they have plenty of magazines to read. It helps keep their minds occupied elsewhere.”

The controller ended the call, and Amir wandered toward the salon deck knowing Salif would seek him.

Salif greeted Amir on the stairs with orders. “Provide the men with fresh reading material. I will send Binard to assist you.”

Amir feigned surprise. “Now?” He wondered how much information Salif would divulge.

A lip hitched up sneer-like. Perhaps Salif thought of a witty retort for his next conversation with the controller. “It will be a nice surprise when they wake.”

Neither a lie nor the whole truth.

Amir read Salif’s mood as displeasure. The controller led the call, interrupting, repeating, emphasizing. He treated Salif with all the consideration awarded a hireling. Salif apparently felt the sting of his own favorite whip. Amir fought the desire to grin.

Salif lifted his chin, bounced on the balls of his feet. His glare swept past Amir. “Also, get another recording of the sick one. Tell the women we are getting a machine for her. Maybe tomorrow.” He bounded the stairs by twos.

Amir did not care to see the beautiful one die, but it seemed a necessity now. He found the box of magazines for the men. Envy passed through him for Imad Hasafi. Imad’s role in this mission was over days ago. Amir could have been on the beach by now instead of staring at the sign outside the men’s cabin reminding him to don his ski mask.