Compact with the Devil: A Novel (5 page)

None of the channels holding her interest, Nikki left the TV on the music video channel and pulled her laptop from under her seat and flipped it on, plugging in the thumb drive Mrs. M had given her. She stared out the window as it booted, dimly aware of the music videos still playing on the TV.

Nikki restlessly flipped through the files on the drive, feeling vaguely like a voyeur. Pictures of a much younger Camille smiling with her arm wrapped around a beefy Irishman went past. She didn’t want to know about Camille’s past. She didn’t really even want to know about Camille in the present. With a sigh, she dug into a section that had Cano’s name in it.

“In an attempt to form alliances with other terrorist groups, the Basque separatist Antonio Cano has approached the IRA through Declan O’Deirdan and his brother, Matthew. The consultant Camille Masters believes Cano to be the leader of the group using Carrie Mae packaging to smuggle weapons. The consultant continues her mission with the IRA but believes that we should develop an independent profile of Cano. Consultant Masters believes that O’Deirdan is becoming disenchanted with the IRA. Next meeting is scheduled for…”

The dry tone of the intel officer’s report left a lot of information between the lines. Why was Declan becoming disenchanted? In retrospect, with the knowledge that he and Camille would be married, the answer was obvious. But the report writer hadn’t seemed to know or care. Jane would never have posted a report like that.

Nikki flipped back to Camille’s service record. The marriage was included. There was the record of Declan’s death. A yearlong hiatus for Camille followed it.

“Declan O’Deirdan, former IRA, and Consultant Masters pursued Cano to his home country of Spain. Receiving a tip-off, Consultant Masters attempted to corner Cano at an abandoned farmhouse on the road to Aramaio.”

“‘On the road to’…,” muttered Nikki in disgust. Where was the address? The GPS coordinates?

“Mr. O’Deirdan was already at the farmhouse when the consultant arrived. Initial reports suggest that Mr. O’Deirdan may have arranged the meeting. Consultant Masters currently rejects this conclusion.”

Nikki rolled her eyes.

“Cano refused to surrender, and when Consultant Masters attempted to effect arrest, Cano blew up the farmhouse, killing three of his own men, as well as Declan O’Deirdan, and severely injuring Consultant Masters. Consultant Masters was removed to a nearby hospital for medical care. Mr. O’Deirdan’s body was returned home to Ireland.”

The report was unsatisfying. She could understand Camille’s grudge against Cano, but it didn’t really explain how Cano had knowledge of Camille or her family. At the thought of family, Nikki frowned. Reopening Camille’s service record, she scanned down the page until she found the section she was looking for—the
section on Declan. There was a picture of Camille and Declan in their IRA days, all woolen sweaters and AK-47s.

Next of Kin: Christopher (Kit) Masters—son

Tessa E. O’Deirdan—mother

Matthew D. O’Deirdan—brother, location unknown

The picture for Christopher showed him in an overly posed publicity shot of a boy band. Nikki shook her head and chewed her lip, pondering the vagaries of Camille’s file. She wondered if Camille had made her son’s surname Masters to protect Kit from Cano or to protect him from his family’s past.

Beyond her computer screen music videos were still playing. She focused on the TV, her attention snared by the flashing colors. She’d never heard the song before, but the video had all the hallmarks of a big pop hit. The singer was wearing a wicked red suit and walking down a flight of stairs—a hip-hop version of “New York, New York.” Dancing girls slinked after him dressed in skimpy red leather outfits and wearing horns.

The scene cut away to a backstage area, the camera zooming across roadies and a door that had a star with the words
KIT MASTERS
printed on it. Startled, Nikki plugged in her headphones. The scene cut back to the music video.

The camera zoomed in as the refrain started, and the singer turned a pair of startlingly blue eyes to the camera and winked.

“The devil may care,” he sang, “but I don’t.”

He had a generous mouth that curved into a roguish smile, and Nikki felt an answering smile tug at her own lips. It was hard to resist someone who was having that much fun. Nikki scrutinized the singer. He had a boyish face, round nose, mischievous eyes, and that flashing smile that was more cute than handsome. Nikki
squinted, covering half of his face with her hand; he did look sort of like Camille.

“Welcome, everyone,” said a voice-over as dancing girls shook their groove thing, “as TransAir goes behind the scenes at the Kit Masters Hotel Hell tour.”

You say you’re gonna leave,
But I know you won’t,
Sweet sin, slipping in,
The devil may care, but I don’t.

“With
UNCUT Magazine
calling him the next big thing,” said the voice-over, “Kit Masters is poised to leave his boy band roots behind and become the biggest star in Europe.”

Nikki’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. She would never have believed in Camille’s ability to produce a charismatic pop star, but the proof was singing to her from the TV screen. She tried to picture Camille as a proud stage mom and utterly failed. In all their interactions, Camille had come across as extremely derisive of anything remotely related to popular culture. She’d actually chided one of the other agents for watching YouTube on her lunch break.

The camera panned the backstage area again. It was clearly stock footage that had been re-edited for the convenience of the airline. Roadies were running around; the band milled about their instruments like racehorses waiting for the starting gates. They were studies in stereotypes. As if someone had put together a band from a checklist.

Item: one crazy drummer—check. He wore a Union Jack wrestling singlet and had dyed his hair into leopard spots. He wore Doc Martens over knee-high Pippi Longstocking striped socks and seemed happy about it. Nikki watched as he beat out a rhythm
on a stagehand, then on the stage, then on the keyboard, until the keyboardist pushed him away.

Item: one heroin-thin guitarist—check. This one topped off his gelled coiffure with a tiara and wore a torn Def Leppard T-shirt over his tight black multizippered pants and enormous boots. He was smoking and slouching insolently over his guitar, in the union-approved pose of guitarists everywhere.

Item: one slightly dorky but trying-for-chic keyboard player—check. Looking straight out of an eighties video, he wore a skinny tie and button-up shirt with the shirtsleeves rolled up, and a fedora pulled down low over one eye. He was running his fingers over the keys nervously, as if afraid that Crazy Drummer had injured them.

Item: one silent but funky bass player—check. They had gone against type here and cast a black woman. She had a couple swirls of glitter on the left side of her face, but the rest of her costume consisted of a white tank top and pair of well-used jeans over flip-flops. Her funkitude was all in her accessories: a devil-horn headband was wedged into her long braids, and she sported a heavy silver cuff on one wrist and a reggae-colored sweatband on the other. She had a second sweatband farther up that same arm, and Nikki realized that these were on her playing arm and were probably useful rather than stylish.

The final item—sexy backup singers—had been assembled in fine style. The girls were wearing red leather skirts and thigh-high boots. Horns had been attached to their heads, possibly with super glue, and much of their exposed bits had been covered in red body paint. Nikki watched as they ran through a few of their moves; she wondered if they got paid as much as the rest of the band. Probably not.

Nikki sighed and rubbed her temples. So much for Cano being unable to locate Camille’s son; this guy had gone and put himself
in a giant spotlight—literally. They had probably even heard of him in a prison like Puerto 1. She had been planning to hit the ground running in Germany. Connect with the local consultants. Track Cano to wherever he was going and figure out how to bring him down. Angrily, she yanked the headphones out of her ears. She couldn’t afford to split her efforts trying to protect a rock star. Why hadn’t Mrs. M emphasized how popular he was? No wonder Camille was beside herself.

Nikki leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. This was definitely not the way she had planned to spend her Christmas. Of course, she also hadn’t planned on spending her Christmas on a plane. She had planned on spending it with Z’ev, and now she wasn’t at home and she wasn’t with Z’ev. She pictured the way his brown eyes crinkled up when she made him laugh and felt homesick. She wondered if this was what it meant to be grown-up—wanting things that didn’t exist anymore. On second thought, it probably wasn’t being grown-up; it was probably just being old.

She opened her eyes again and looked at Kit Masters. He finished his song with a wink of his ice-blue eye and the video blanked out. He didn’t look like the kind of person who let real life push him around. He looked like someone who took on the world headfirst and laughing. She envied that.

“Rock star…,” she muttered to herself. Rock stars were the kind of people who had security. They had paid babysitters on staff. She turned back to the computer and skimmed his file. She raised an eyebrow over a few drug/alcohol arrests for various kinds of mischief but relaxed at the detail that he did indeed have security. Relieved, she shut down the computer, promising herself that she’d review the files more carefully later. For now, she wouldn’t let Kit Masters change her plans. She had to keep her eye on the objective—Cano.

Nikki slung her backpack over her shoulder and pulled her inadequate cardigan more tightly around her. The digital clock told her that it was December 26 and seven
PM
. She had managed to miss Christmas.

At the Barcelona airport, she’d been met by an excited young agent with a message from Mrs. M. Cano had been spotted crossing into Germany. She was to go directly from Barcelona to Berlin and meet a German operative named Astriz Liebenz. So much for seeing Spain.

The layover had taken hours, and her first flight had been canceled. Not many people flew on Christmas Day. Once again her career as a superspy seemed slightly less than advertised. James Bond never had to wait for a layover. But what was she supposed to do? Even if she rented a car and drove straight through, where was she going? Without intel, the safest thing to do was stick to the plan. Once in Berlin, she’d found a message waiting for her
from Astriz Liebenz. The message politely assured Nikki that, while picking her up was of utmost priority, due to circumstances out of human control she was not to be picked up until 7
PM
. Nikki had crumpled the note up and thrown it in the garbage can. Astriz might as well have written, “I’m busy doing my job and will get to you when I’ve got time.”

She’d ended up calling her mother and getting the answering machine. The cell phone had also gone to voice mail. Either her mother was
that
mad or she had gone to visit Grandma. Cell reception was weak on Grandma’s farm, since the neighbors (all two of them) had rejected an offer to put up a cell tower. With nothing else to do, she spent the time playing solitaire and trying, unsuccessfully, to not think about Z’ev.

The sliding glass doors of the Stuttgart airport opened on a sleetish rain covering the world in dirty film and admitted a gust of cold wind into the airport that broke Nikki from her thoughts of Z’ev, warm California nights, and salsa at Club Caliente. Daylight had long ago faded from the sky. She was definitely going to hold Mrs. M to her promise about approving any winter wardrobe purchases. A newer-model Mercedes pulled into a cab space and a woman got out, giving the European two-fingered salute to a cabbie who had the nerve to comment. Taking a deep breath, Nikki walked out into the elements; this had to be her ride.

“Nicole?” said the woman, surveying her uncertainly.

“Astriz?” replied Nikki. There was a silent moment where they measured each other, and then the woman nodded. She was about thirty-five and wore a pair of black slacks with suspenders over a crisp white button-up shirt. A beige trench coat, black driving gloves, and newsboy cap completed the ensemble. Her blond hair shot out from under the cap in defiant spikes.

“This way,” Astriz said, jerking her head at the car.

“You’re not what I expected,” said Astriz in German-accented English once they were on the road.

“Well, I’m sure you were expecting someone with a coat,” said Nikki, holding her fingers in front of the heater. She knew what was coming next, but she was hoping to avoid it.

“Heh, yes,” said Astriz, lighting a long thin cigarette and cracking the driver’s-side window an inch. “But also, I thought you would be taller and perhaps a little older.” She blew smoke out the side of her mouth toward the open window and cranked the heat with one hand. “I worked with Valerie once, you know?” the woman said.

“No,” said Nikki, pausing slightly, “I didn’t.”

“She nearly got me killed.”

“She shot me in the chest,” said Nikki, trying to keep her tone neutral. “Twice.”

“Then it is probably a good thing she is gone,” said Astriz with a laugh.

Nikki shrugged and continued to rub her hands together over the vent.

“But, uh, I hear you made them keep her name on the wall?” Astriz glanced at her sidelong, only taking her eyes off the road for a second.

Nikki leaned back in her seat. Talking about Val was one of her least favorite things. But she was getting used to this particular conversation. Val had been the stuff of legend, and the circumstances of her death had spread like wildfire through Carrie Mae. Astriz wasn’t the first person to think Nikki would be taller or older.

“I don’t think how she died should negate how she lived,” said Nikki.

“She wasn’t always bad,” said Astriz, a little sadly.

“Not always,” agreed Nikki.