Double Down (8 page)

Chas waited, and a long moment went by. “Well?” he asked.

“Well what?”

“Are you?”

At this Birdsong looked at him, his face suddenly devoid of humor, of emotion, of anything. His light blue eyes seemed made of ice. Chas stood up to meet his gaze, and a challenge passed between them. “Come now, Chas,” Birdsong said quietly, calmly, cleanly. “Surely if I was who you think I am, I wouldn't tell you, now would I? That would be like shooting myself in the foot. Perhaps I am, and perhaps I'm not, but it's rather patronizing to ask me to tell you, no? Patronizing, and a bit stupid. Don't insult me. Especially when we are in a boat on the open sea and I hold the keys. Let's just forget you asked and continue our nice little evening, shall we?”

Chas didn't reply, but his fear was being replaced by anger. This was a power play, nothing more, nothing less, and he could feel the desire growing in him to put his hands around Birdsong's throat and choke him until he gasped his last breath. Either Birdsong
was
Baba Samka or he was a villain in his own right.
Fuck him.

Continuing to hold his eyes, Birdsong joined Chas at the table. Chas palmed the knife he had tucked under his sleeve and waited for Birdsong to speak.

Birdsong took his glass of Chianti and swallowed nearly all of it in one gulp. “Mmm,” he murmured, licking his lips. “Now who doesn't like a good Chianti? I notice you haven't touched yours. I wouldn't have picked you for a white wine kind of man, Chas.”

“Thanks, Birdsong, but I'm not thirsty,” Chas said, every muscle tensing, every piece of him ready to do whatever he needed to get back to shore alive. “Can we please just get on with it?”

“Testy, Chas. And impatient. Perhaps it is all those failed wedding attempts? Probably rough on the soul, yes?”

A muscle in Chas's jaw ticked. “Birdsong,” he said tightly, “did you write
Casablanca
in the sky over my wedding?”

At this Birdsong laughed for way too long. Chas was so pissed he almost stood up and punched him.

“Thank you, Chas, for the laugh,” Birdsong said, clearing his throat. “Surely you should know by now that's not my style. I heard about it, though. I liked it. A lot. Romantic move, don't you think? Using your company's coveted code five and broadcasting it over your wedding? That was the
second attempt
, was it not?”

At this Chas started to stand and Birdsong stopped him.

“Sit the fuck down, Chas,” he said, “and put the knife away. Surely there's no need for that. Now be a good boy, and I'll give you the intel you asked for. That's better.” He paused to pour himself more wine, and drank the whole glass with ease. “This is it, all I really know. You're looking in the wrong place, and on the wrong shore. He's one of yours, not one of ours. And that's all the news I've got. Good-bye, Chas.”

“Good-bye? What the fuck does that mean?”

“It's a salutation people use before they part ways.”

“Birdsong, stop with the riddles. What the fuck is going on?”

Birdsong stood and smiled then, and it gave Chas a chill that raced up his spine and made his blood run cold. Without warning, Birdsong turned and dove overboard.

Chas ran to the side of the yacht. “What the—” he said, as Birdsong surfaced and waved.

“I do hope you know how to drive a boat, Chas,” he called with a smile. “I'm going to swim back to shore.”

“But—that's—”

“I've done it plenty of times before. This is what I grew up doing in South Africa.
Buona sera!
And good luck. I put the key to the lockbox on the table. Please leave the key to the boat back in the box. And safe trip back! I hope you don't crash—I'd hate to see you die of something as useless as a boating accident. Take care, Chas.” And with that he swam off through the dark and dangerous waters.

Chas felt his shoulders drop.
Eccentric
wasn't even the right word for Birdsong . . .
odd, creepy,
and
depraved
were more like it. But he had given Chas some information, so that was good. And Chas was still alive, so that put him ahead of the game. He started the yacht, familiarized himself with the controls, and steered back to the port, finding the wharf as quickly as he could. He'd spent many summers in Hilton Head, and yachts were not unfamiliar to him. He thanked his lucky stars that he was comfortable on the water.

After docking the boat, he went back to the lockbox and opened it. He retrieved his gun and his phone; underneath the gun was a note, presumably written by Birdsong.

Read this and destroy it. I took the actions I took so that I would not be on BS's radar. Look to the CIA. And look further into Gabriella.

Shit
, Chas thought. This was the last thing he wanted to hear. It pointed once again to an American terrorist, likely Susannah's father, Buzz. And to Gabriella? Was there more to her role in this mad caper? He found himself suddenly more confused than ever.

He shredded the note, then tossed it in the water. As he watched it sink, he swallowed to ease the tightness in his throat.

‡‡‡

Tyka and Mahmoud had searched the kitchen, then done a second search on the rest of Birdsong's house, and while they hadn't found the lock they were looking for, they did find a lead . . . a note Birdsong had tucked into the book he was reading in his bedroom. The scrawled writing was hard to make out, but there were some phrases that were legible:

Gabriella more involved. How?

BS still at play while BC incarcerated in Quantico?

And a location:

LAT 40.7495 LONG -73.9082

“Shit, Mahmoud,” Tyka said, looking at it, shivers on her skin. “This is the last thing I would have expected.”

“Yes,” he said grimly. “I also am surprised. Hard to do, but seems to happen often with this case.”

“And where the fuck do these numbers lead?”

“We'll go somewhere where we can talk and figure it out. But we'd better get going. On the double.”

“Yes,” she said, tensing up, “but please take a picture of the intel first. I don't want to mess any of this up.”

“Tyka,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder and instantly calming her, “it will be all right. I promise.”

“It's never all right. You know that.”

“But now you have me on your side. So it's different.”

“Why?” she asked. “It's never all right for you, either.”

“True,” he replied. “But it's like in math, how two negatives make a positive. Together we will turn this around.”

“I was never very good at math,” she said. Looking up, she caught his eyes and was shocked by the commitment she saw in his gaze, the confidence, the honesty. It startled her to see a look like that, and it startled her more to realize how much she needed it. Not wanting him to know how much his confidence meant to her, she pulled away from him and began to cover their tracks. Mahmoud took a picture, and they left all as they had found it, going back out the side window.

8

Tyka and Mahmoud were having a glass of wine at an after-hours place Tyka knew about; the owner would go to sleep, and those in the know would stay as late as they wanted and put what they owed in the cash box. Tyka had been taken to the intimate haunt years ago by an Italian lover; now she brought Mahmoud there to discuss what they'd found. It was a fairly small café, but big enough that they could have some space to talk without fear of being overheard. It was furnished with dark wood, simple tables and chairs, and hand-painted mosaic tiles. A group of young artists in a corner huddled over some paintings, and a couple of old men sat at the bar. Italian folk songs were playing from an old-school stereo above them.

The two assassins were sharing a bottle of Chianti. Tyka shifted in her chair. She was uncomfortable for so many reasons; chief among them were her fears about how Gabriella was further implicated, as well as her own feelings of vulnerability around Mahmoud. She was juggling confusion, anger, and shame, and she didn't know how to deal with it all other than to act businesslike, drink her wine, and chain-smoke.

“So what do you think is going on here, Mahmoud?” she asked, trying to keep them on task.

“Well,” he said, leaning in, his dark eyes seeming to penetrate to her very core, “it seems Birdsong has been part of this somehow . . . but if he is BS, odd to refer to himself in the third person unless he's a psychopath, right?”

“But BS
is
a psychopath. We know this. And for that matter, so is Birdsong. From everything I've heard, anyway.”

“Right. But I get the feeling he's not who we seek . . . just a part of the bigger picture.”

“Yes,” she said, inhaling a deep drag of her cigarette. “Me too. And how strange about the location he found, no?”

“Very strange.” The coordinates turned out to be a neighborhood in Queens, New York. “I can't make heads or tails of it.”

There was a pause, the sounds of the music and the laughter mingling. Tyka and Mahmoud caught eyes. She wanted to keep this all business, to say something sharp and witty, to look away, but she could do none of it—she felt herself inexorably drawn to him, unable to break their connection.

“I'm happy to be near you again,” he said gently. “I didn't like how we left things back at my hotel.”

“It's fine,” she said, finally dropping her gaze and looking away from him. “I understand this has been about momentary pleasure, nothing more. I just don't like being so easily replaced. And I really didn't like how your girlfriend spoke to me.”

“She's not my girlfriend,” he said, “and we haven't slept together since I've been with you. It did not even enter my mind—I was too distracted by you to think of anything else. . . . Anyway, I spent the whole time with her upset about what happened in Johannesburg. Tyka, you're hardly replaceable—”

“What happened in Johannesburg?” she asked, cutting him off.

“Ah,” he said, “of course, you wouldn't have heard. Baba Samka struck again. He blew up my friend Amal's safe house.”

“She's the one you've helped all these years?”

“Yes.”

“And she was killed as well?”

“Yes,” he said, his jaw tensing. “All were killed. All.”

“My God,” she said with a sigh, reaching out to touch his hand. “How awful. And how personal. Shit. Mahmoud . . . I am so very sorry for your loss.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, holding hands. She could feel the connection between them, an understanding, a shared grief.

“Mahmoud,” she continued, pulling her hand away, “what do you think it means about Gabriella being more involved? I don't understand.”

“Nor do I,” he said. “Let's start this way: How about you tell me about her. When did you meet?”

“Well, I met her when I was quite young. And I initially believed her cover, that she was part of the crime family. I had inherited the task of assassinating Bruni from a friend of mine . . . my teacher, really.”

“Explain.”

She spoke to him at length about Spliff, touching upon her childhood in Ukraine and France and her mother's work in intelligence. She tried not to reveal too much of herself, but it was hard to describe her upbringing and her running away without painting a picture of isolation, of fear, of rage, of loneliness. And it was a true picture, too . . . just not one she wanted to share with anyone, least of all Mahmoud. But since he already knew about the catacombs in Odessa . . . maybe she could tell him just a bit more.

“When I inherited the assassination, I spent a lot of time watching the family, finding just the right time, the right way to enact the best kill. Spliff had been hired by an American—someone I never met—and I stood to earn a tremendous amount of money if I could do it cleanly and without leaving any tracks. So I spent a lot of time observing.” She took a sip of her wine. “I watched Gabriella for a long time, and never saw a crack in her armor. But she was infinitely smarter than I was. She'd also been watching
me
! For years. Shows you how young I was then. And just at the moment that I was about to take Bruni down, I was intercepted by Gabriella, who fought me—we were quite well matched, by the way—took my weapon, tied me up, and then revealed that she was interested in the same thing as I was, but not yet . . . She said we needed to wait. She wanted more information before he got taken down, more that could implicate him. To be honest, I don't know how she found me . . . but she became, to me, the greatest mentor I have ever known, and the only true family I have ever had.”

Mahmoud sighed deeply, then took her hand again. He opened the palm and kissed the center of it, gently, sweetly, and filled with . . . what? Tyka did not know. Only that it made her want to run as far away as possible.

“Thank you for telling me a bit about your life,” he said, with great sincerity in his eyes, so earnest that it made her stomach revolt and her heart beat faster. “It is a privilege getting to know you.”

“You're not getting to know me,” she snapped, pulling her hand back, already ashamed of her reaction. “I was just answering your question. That's how I know Gabriella, okay?”

“I'm sorry, Ms. Tyka,” he said, concern in his gaze making her even angrier. “I did not mean to offend.”

“Back off, Mahmoud,” she snarled, unable to stop herself. “This is just business.” In truth she did not know why she was acting the way she was. Fear, certainly. And something else.
Shame
. She carried a great deal of shame inside her for not being loved the way she ought to have been, for the way her mother didn't care about her, for needing something, desperately, that perhaps only this man could give her. This man . . . this elegant, unruffled, passionate, exquisite man who was looking at her with
admiration
?
Love?
Even though she was treating him like shit?

It was too much for her to take. She didn't want this, not now, not while she had a job to do, not while she had to uncover details about Gabriella that might prove that her whole life purpose had been a lie. No. She would run away, run as far as she could, and never look back. She stood abruptly and reached for her wallet.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Mahmoud said. “I'll take care of it. Where are you going, and why suddenly in such a hurry?”

“I just don't think we have a moment to lose,” she said. “I'm going back to her apartment to see if I can find anything else.”

“I'll come with you,” he said.

“No!” she said, too rapidly, she realized, and too emphatically. “I need to go alone. I think we're done here, Mahmoud, don't you?”

“Sure,” he said, the look of confusion on his face nearly breaking her heart. “As you wish, Ms. Tyka. But may I ask—how do you feel about me sending the Bod Squad in to investigate the Queens neighborhood? I believe they've been taken off this case altogether, but we can use that to our advantage. We don't want to alert the authorities, and they can go under the radar.”

“Fine,” she said flippantly, unable to take down the wall she'd put up. “I don't give a shit who you send as long as they don't compromise this any further. And as long as they know I'm not with them—I'm on my own.”

“I assure you, Ms. Tyka,” he said softly, “that is quite clear.”

“Good-bye, Mahmoud,” she said, her words clipped. “I'll be in touch. You have my number. Call if there's anything I should know.”

“Will do,” he said. He moved toward her, looking like he had more to say, but she turned and walked away as fast as she could to make sure he wouldn't see the tears forming in her eyes.

This is why I'm better on my own
, she thought.
Less complicated
. But as she walked away, she felt a loneliness she hadn't known since she had been a girl, and she feared that she'd never be able to dispel it.

‡‡‡

Mahmoud watched Tyka leave with a sigh, enjoying the last glimpse he might ever have of her lean frame, blond hair, and determined walk. He'd thought they were getting somewhere, that she'd finally opened up to him, but he'd ended up just scaring her away. Or had she scared herself away?
Damn
. She was as close as he'd ever come to finding someone in his league, and he wanted the chance to explore it more.

He uploaded his notes on what they'd uncovered to the FTP server, to a file the Boss had titled “To Catch a Thief.” Bossman had wanted Mahmoud to have a way to get them information from wherever he was. As soon as everything was uploaded, he sent a text to Jackson:

Casablanca. New angle for the Bod Squad to work. Needs to happen ASAP and be totally UTR. Don't tell FBI. Just FTP. Info is live on To Catch a Thief. And call me ASAP. M

Then Mahmoud made his way out. Maybe it was the wine, or the information they had received, or the fact that Tyka had walked out, but his guard was lowered. So when he was jumped by three men, he was taken completely unawares. Something was held in front of his face . . .
Damn
, he thought,
they're taking me down
. As he passed out, he heard someone say in his ear, “Nice to see you again,
Hunter
.”

‡‡‡

Jackson got the text from Mahmoud just as he was searching for a reason to leave the Carnivale. Thank God Mahmoud's text saved him from having to spend more time watching this depravity! Figuring the Boss would be done soon, and they'd all rendezvous at the surveillance van, he left as quickly as he could. But when he called Mahmoud back, it went straight to voice mail.
Shit.
Accessing the FTP server, he opened the folder and downloaded the contents. Picking up his pace, he ran to meet Lisa Bee and Susannah. He was psyched that they had potential new life on this case . . . the case that they all believed still belonged to them.

‡‡‡

The Boss had been in a back corner of the barn talking to Rhoda Kurthovsky—she was terrified that Nants would abuse her further, kill her, even, for exposing his secrets. She confessed that she was the one who had contacted them . . . she had watched him abuse one woman too many, and was finally ready to incriminate him.

“I've loved him all my life,” she told the Boss, holding her mangled hands together in her lap, tears marring her mascara. “We met so young, when I was first in this country, and he saved me. I always believed he could send me back to Russia if I didn't do what he asked. For a long time, we would sell young women together. The slave trade, you know, young girls from Eastern Europe. Then our customers dried up as the authorities cracked down. I never wanted to do it . . . but he made me. I only tried to make the girls more comfortable; they were like my children, you see, for I never had my own. As we grew a bit older, he came up with this idea for a carnival of women and somehow he made it happen. Disgusting, yes. And we've been enslaved here ever since. I got your information from one of the men who came here, who was laughing about this email he got from someone asking about underground prostitution rings, so amused that anyone would respond to that. So I did.
I
did.

“Help us,” she said. “I don't want to be without him, but I can't live this way anymore.”

The Boss leaned toward her, a look of sympathy in his eyes. “I'll take care of it,” he said, “just as soon as I can. I promise.”

“The customer, he was saying how easy it was to fool the government, how he could do awful things right under their noses . . . how no one would listen, that it was all bullshit anyway. . . . He said his initials were BS, that that is what they stood for . . .
bullshit
 . . . that the whole government was bullshit, and no one would ever help people like us . . .”

“Wait a minute,” the Boss said, standing rigid. “What did you just say?” She repeated herself, and the Boss felt his hair standing on end. “Rhoda,” he said, trying to appear calm, “this is very important. Is there anything you can tell me about this man?”

“No,” she said, struggling to speak through her sobs. “I can't even remember what he looked like. Just that awful laugh.”

“Anything else he said to you? What he was wearing? Any distinctive marks?”

“No,” she said. “Only that he wanted me to do things I've never been asked to do before. None of them sexual. Only strange. He wanted me to hold him in my arms, and call him . . .
Bobby
, that was it. And tell him it was all going to be okay.”

“
Bobby
,” the Boss mused. “Hmm. Thank you, Rhoda. You may have just helped me out a great deal. I promise to do the same for you.”

He left her weeping in the back, and shot off like a jolt. Seeing that Jackson had left, he quickly made his way out the door.