Foreign Éclairs (9 page)

He pulled me close. “We will find out. I promise you.”

Now I glanced around, fearful that we were being watched. Certain that we were.

“What do we do?”

“For now, we head back to the apartment.”

“And rip out every single listening and watching device they put there.”

“Unfortunately not,” he said. He pulled me closer. “Yablonski is calling in a few favors, and he’s making arrangements as we speak. You and I need to go home and wait for him to contact us. Until we get further instructions, we have to pretend as though we have no idea we’re being watched or listened to.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I’m sorry. You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”

“You know I do.”

I hung my head and closed my eyes. Except for the traffic and the wind shushing through the trees, the evening was silent. My stomach growled.

Gav patted my knee. “Let’s get something to eat while we’re out. The less time we spend in the apartment, the better.”

We started back for our apartment after having devoured far more food than was good for us. Our favorite Mexican place specialized in takeout but provided two small Formica tables and four wobbly aluminum chairs for those rare patrons who chose to dine in. We’d occupied one of the tables for more than an hour, consuming tacos, burritos, chips, salsa, and guacamole, little of which I actually tasted.

Agent Romero met us outside the elevator when we alighted at our floor. “One of us will be out here all night if you need anything,” she assured us. “You can both sleep soundly knowing we have agents stationed around the building. No one who shouldn’t be here is getting in.”

We thanked her and let ourselves into the apartment the same way we always did. And yet, the clank of our keys into the ceramic bowl on the table inside the door sounded different. The very air smelled different. Breathing felt different.

Talking, however, was the absolute worst. The pressure to behave normally—to pretend we had no inkling we were being observed while every nerve in my body twisted with tension—made forming casual conversation virtually impossible.

Gav had expressed his strong belief that whoever had established surveillance had placed only a handful of listening devices around the apartment and would not have had the time to set up cameras.

Still, to be safe, we agreed to keep our actions as benign as possible. That meant no pantomiming messages. No writing notes. If the bad guys
were
watching, they needed to be convinced that we didn’t suspect a thing.

We hung up our coats in silence and moved toward the kitchen, bumping into each other when we both started through the doorway at once.

“You first,” Gav said.

“No, after you.”

He tried to smile, but it was as forced as my gesture signaling him to go ahead.

Gav walked through the kitchen into the living room, where he turned on the television. I opened the refrigerator and stared in, seeing nothing.

Updates screamed from the TV. Our eavesdroppers had to have realized by now that we’d escaped being blown to bits. I kept my fingers crossed they wouldn’t try to redouble their efforts tonight.

“I hope Jason has good insurance,” Gav said.

Okay, here we go.

Gav’s comment about insurance at Suzette’s signaled the start to our agreed-upon script—the one we’d worked out over dinner because we had no choice: We
had
to discuss the bombing. Avoiding the topic would have only raised suspicion.

I poured two glasses of water from the carafe in the fridge and handed one to Gav as I joined him in the living room. No wine for us tonight. We needed to stay alert.

Every television news station cheerfully reported that no diners had been seated at the front table at the time of the explosion and that no one had been killed in the “gas explosion.” On-camera experts theorized that if anyone had been dining in that space when the blast occurred, casualties would have been a certainty.

I delivered my line: “I can’t imagine how that happened. Aren’t there safeguards in place to prevent gas explosions?”

Gav stood in front of the TV, arms folded. “These things happen.”

“Can you imagine if we’d gotten to the restaurant on time tonight?” I gave a shudder that wasn’t complete affectation. “The gas company should do a better job of protecting the public.”

“Shush,” he said, pointing to the TV. “I’m watching.”

Gav would never tell me to shush, but our eavesdroppers didn’t know that.

“We were right there, less than a half hour after it happened.” I injected a trace of whine into my voice. “What more do you need to know?”

“There’s nothing more I
need
to know,” he said, answering my huffy tone in kind. “Can’t you just be quiet for five minutes? I want to watch this.”

“Fine. Cuddle up with your TV. See how much comfort it gives you tonight.”

I slammed my water onto the coffee table and stormed into our bedroom.

It didn’t matter that the squabble was bogus; exchanging sharp words with Gav unsettled me more than I cared to admit. This fabricated argument was our best cover. How
better to prevent awkward, stilted conversation than by avoiding conversation entirely? If our eavesdroppers believed we were angry with each other, they’d accept our silent treatment as a reasonable consequence.

Sitting on my side of the bed, I stared up at the ceiling, doing my best to look like a beleaguered wife. At this time of night, I would normally get comfortable in my sleepwear, but the idea of undressing where I might be observed froze me in place. The thought of how many times I’d done so since Sunday night turned my stomach.

I blew out a breath of frustration and reminded myself of Gav’s theory that the Armustanians hadn’t had time to install cameras. I wanted to believe that.

Rather than get changed, I made my way to the other bedroom, where I turned on my computer and pulled up one of my favorite recipe sites.

You want a peephole into my life you lowlifes? Here it is.

I browsed recipes until my vision blurred. My bones were tired, my spirit drained. I cast a look at the doorway, wishing I could talk with Gav. Really talk. But I needed to sleep and I knew he needed to, too.

Steeling myself, I pulled out the long-sleeved T-shirt and cotton pants I usually slept in, and began making my way to the bathroom. Surely they wouldn’t have set up a camera in there.

“Hey.” Gav stood in the doorway, frowning. “I’m going out.”

“What?” I covered my surprise with indignation. “At this time of night?”

Gav’s proclamation could mean only one thing: Yablonski must have texted and wanted to meet with him. Although we’d anticipated that possibility, the likelihood had grown dimmer with each passing minute.

“I need air,” he said.

“It’s so late.”

He met my eyes and held up two fingers. “For the second time: I need air.”

Two fingers. I was to come, too.

“Oh, really?” I said with a snarl. “Seems a little fishy to be wandering outside by yourself.”

He shrugged and walked away.

“What? The television isn’t enough company for you anymore?” I called to his back.

“Cut me a little slack, would you?” he shouted in return. “One of my buddies is in town. He just texted that he wants to meet for a beer. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Fine.” I got up and followed. “I’m coming along. I could use a drink.”

“You’ll be bored out of your wits.”

“So? You’re not the only one who had a rough night, you know.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Romero nearly jumped when the two of us exited the apartment. She glanced at her watch. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

“We’re going out,” Gav said. “You’re to remain here.”

“Sir?”

“You have your orders.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, but I could tell she didn’t like it.

Gav strode past his car without giving it a glance. I kept up with him, knowing better than to ask what was up. When we were almost to the end of the parking row, he turned and opened the passenger door of a dark blue Ford. “Your chariot, ma’am,” he said.

Once I was in, he came around and sat in the driver’s seat. He dug beneath it until he came up with a set of keys.

“Yablonski?” I asked.

He nodded as he started the car. “Can’t take the chance that they bugged either of our vehicles. Unlikely, but not worth the risk.”

I rested my head back and sighed deeply. “I cannot believe how hard it is to stay in that apartment,” I said as we pulled out of the lot. “Even my thoughts feel formal and stilted.”

“I know,” he said, checking his rearview mirror.

“Please don’t tell me we’re being followed.”

He checked both side mirrors, then the rearview one again. “That’s the nice thing about late-night meetings. Makes it way easier to spot a tail. The only vehicle behind us is the one that’s supposed to be there. We’re clear.”

Gav hadn’t gotten into specifics at the Mexican restaurant and every inch of me was crawling with curiosity. “What’s going on? Can you tell me now?”

He gave a curt nod. “As I mentioned before, there’s no doubt Armustan was behind Sunday’s bombing at Cenga Prison. Yablonski and I are convinced that they’re responsible for tonight’s attack as well.”

“And for some unknown reason, they’re targeting us,” I said.

“Not us.” He shot me a sideways look. “You.”

“Me?” I nearly shot out of my seatbelt. “But why?”

“Remember when we talked about how Armustanians value family honor above all else and how they swear to avenge their loved ones’ deaths?”

“I never killed any Armustanians.”

“No, you didn’t.” He took a last-minute left on a yellow light and checked his mirrors again. “You did, however, kill their plan to kidnap Josh.”

“And for that they’ve declared war on me? They should blame their operatives or whoever devised the plan in the first place. The fact that it failed wasn’t my fault.” I thought
about that. “Well, not entirely. It was a bad plan to begin with. You don’t kidnap the president’s children. You don’t touch children.”

Gav waited for me to finish my tirade. “They
did
blame the person who devised the plan. Remember when I told you about the Armustanian regime being overthrown?”

“Of course.”

“Its leader was overthrown because of you.”

I had no words. “Explain.”

“You, Ollie, singlehandedly foiled the kidnapping attempt causing Armustan to lose its last chance to negotiate Farbod Ansari’s release. When that happened, its leader fell into disgrace. He’d failed, badly. Angry Armustanians rose up, murdered him, then paraded his body through the streets. A very public humiliation.”

“A blow to the family honor,” I repeated quietly. “Who is the relative coming after me? And why now?”

We’d crossed the Potomac into D.C. and were now heading north.

“His name is Kern and he seeks to avenge his brother’s death by overthrowing the new regime and reclaiming his family’s power.” Gav turned to me. “You didn’t just save Josh’s life that night. You took down an entire faction—what had been the most powerful faction in Armustan until that point. The new leadership is on shaky ground. Kern stands a good chance of gaining control.” He made eye contact. “If he can succeed, that is.”

Raindrops pattered the windshield as we sped through the night. I worked to process everything Gav had said. After a couple of miles, he turned right.

“Kern’s success comes with my death, is that it?”

Gav’s face was grim. “Armustan’s ultimate goal has always been to free Farbod Ansari from prison, make no mistake
about that.” He kept his eyes on the road. “Kern’s objective is to seize control of his country using any means at his disposal. We believe he intends to use you to achieve his goals, though how, we can only guess. What’s important, as far as you’re concerned, however, is that to Kern you represent the loss of family honor. That makes you a personal target.”

“Which is why he won’t give up until I’m dead.” Ahead, the shiny pavement reflected the watery streetlights, smeared and bright. “None of this makes sense. If the Armustanians did arrange to have my purse stolen, then why am I still alive? They could have killed me right then and there.”

“I’m hoping Yablonski has answers for us,” he said.

Gav slowed as we encountered a residential area where two-story brick houses were set so close together there were no gangways between buildings. Identical in style, the homes formed a line of giant, sleepy faces. Their wooden, spindled porches were shadowed teeth; their front door noses sat between tall window eyes, all shaded closed this time of night. Above the windows, half roofs jutted forward, their heavy overhangs resembling angry brows. Like the buildings were frowning at us.

“I hope he does, too,” I said. “By the way, where exactly are we going?”

Two blocks later, Gav parallel parked in front of one of the squat, silent homes. “We’re here.”

Gav led me to a house in the middle of the block. As we ascended the concrete steps, a woman stepped out of the porch shadows.

“Good evening, Agent Gavin, Ms. Paras.” She opened the front door for us as another agent stepped out of a far corner to take her place. “Follow me.”

The small front hallway was not much bigger than an elevator car. Smelling of damp pets and old carpeting, it offered just enough light to keep us from tripping over one another. Our guide waited for Gav to close the front door behind us before she opened the one in front of her.

Though considerably more spacious than the hallway, the room we found ourselves in was also small and only slightly better lit. Three pieces of art—the kind one might find at an
ART SALE TODAY
stand by the side of the road—decorated bare, cracked walls. A sagging, patterned sofa sat along the far side. Heavy brocade draperies framed the front windows
and, behind the fabric, the shades were down. There was a low table, a television on a stand, and a fog of stale cigarettes. The bare floor creaked under our feet.

Ahead and to our left, the galley kitchen featured almond appliances, fluorescent lighting, and the white trimmed-in-oak cabinetry that had been all the rage in the 1970s. Slightly shabby with its worn linoleum and dated fixtures, the narrow space was nonetheless clean. I sniffed the air. Bleach. An improvement over the musty welcome at the front door.

The agent turned and gestured to our right into what I presumed was the dining room. “In here.”

Yablonski sat on a folding chair at the center of a long, collapsible table. He had a laptop open to his right and paperwork piles everywhere else. The plaster walls in this windowless, rectangular room had been painted a high-gloss white that reflected the bleak illumination from four bare, high-wattage bulbs overhead. I blinked in the brightness.

“Come on in,” he said, waving us into the two folding chairs opposite him. “So it seems we’re required to work together again, doesn’t it, Ollie? I’m sure you’re delighted by the prospect.”

His words sang with sarcasm, but his gaze was warm.

“Always a pleasure to work with you, Joe. I only wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Someday, perhaps,” he said. He glanced over the top of my head and nodded to the agent who had brought us in. “That will be all.”

She ducked out of the room. A few seconds later, I heard the front door open and close.

“Let me tell you what we’ve uncovered in the few short hours since you both neatly avoided assassination. Well done, by the way.” He turned to me first, “Ollie, let’s go back to the
night of your mugging. You identified two assailants, am I correct?”

“Yes, Viceboy and Dagger,” I said, “but both of them are dead. Executed gangland style, according to the Metro Police.”

“Mr. Sargeant informed you of the existence of a third gang member, correct?”

“He did. He said the police would try to pick this person up and question him. I believe his name is Cutthroat.”

“Mr. Cutthroat is in custody. He’s refusing to say a word to the detectives, but I’m convinced he’ll talk with us.”

“Us?” I asked. “He’s here?”

“Not yet.” He turned his attention to his laptop and navigated using his touchpad. Swiveling the computer around, he asked, “Do you recognize these men?”

The question had been directed to me. There were three faces on the screen. I studied them but none looked familiar. “No.” I turned to Gav. “You?”

He made a low noise that, in any other situation, could have been amusement.

Before he could answer, I slapped my forehead. “Of course you do.”

He had an arm around the back of my chair and used his fingers to rub my shoulder. “I haven’t met any of them in person, though.”

Yablonski identified each of the men in turn as he pointed to their photos. When he got to the last one on the far right, he said, “And this is Kern. Their leader. It’s not a clear image, but it’s the best we’ve got. We have every reason to believe that he stayed back in Armustan and chose not to accompany his lieutenants on this mission, but we don’t want to overlook the possibility that he may be in the United States.”

Kern didn’t face the camera directly. His attention seemed to be focused on something low and to his left; I couldn’t get a good look at his eyes. Although the photo was blurred, there was no missing the wavy brown hair that hung past his shoulders, his full, bushy beard, and the heavy mustache that covered his lips. From this hazy image it was impossible to determine the man’s age; he could have been twenty-four or forty-seven. So I asked. “How old is he?”

“Our best guess—thirty-two,” Gav said.

A door opened at the back of the house. Angry protestations followed, along with the unmistakable sounds of bodies scuffling and struggling. Alert, I sat up straight, but when Yablonski didn’t seem to be bothered, I relaxed.

A male voice: “Where is this place?” More scuffling. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“Right on time.” Yablonski stood. He made his way to the rear of the home and spoke to the new arrivals. “Up here.”

I turned to Gav. “What’s going on?”

Before he could answer, Yablonski returned to the room, carrying another folding chair. He opened it, placed it at the head of the long table, and resumed his original seat.

A moment later, two agents half-dragged, half-carried a rangy young man into the room. He shouted profanities and struggled against his captors, his eyes wide with panic.

Shackled, with his hands cuffed behind, the guy wouldn’t have gotten far even if he had managed to break away, but I can’t say that I blamed him for trying. He smelled of hot fear and cold dread. His face shone with perspiration. Beneath his open leather jacket, his T-shirt was stained with sweat.

Yablonski pointed to the folding chair he’d set up. “Have a seat, Mr. Cutthroat.”

I watched as the ferocious-eyed young man took in the stark room, its temporary furnishings, and Yablonski’s apparent
authority. As the two agents pushed him into the chair, he glanced at Gav, then at me. I could tell my presence puzzled him most of all. “What’s going on? Who are you people?”

Yablonski brought his face close to Cutthroat’s. “Right now we’re your best friends.”

A sheen of perspiration gathered along Cutthroat’s upper lip. He had wide-set eyes and a sharp, straight nose. Scar tissue from an old wound zigzagged from near his right ear down to his chest. I wondered if that injury was how he’d gotten his name.

“You can’t hold me. I know my rights.”

Unruffled, Yablonski regarded him thoughtfully. “You want us to let you go?” He sat back, crossing his arms. “Fine.”

Cutthroat glanced up at the two agents flanking him, as though he expected them to snap to it and release him from his bonds. They stared straight ahead as though they hadn’t heard a word.

Yablonski cleared his throat. “But before we do, let me ask you this: Where will you hide?”

“Hide?” Cutthroat asked. He slid a quizzical glance at me and Gav again. “What do you mean?”

Yablonski wrinkled his face and scratched his forehead. “I mean, Detectives Beem and Kager were able to find you and pick you up less than a day after they learned of your existence. How long do you think it will take the men who killed Dagger and Viceboy to hunt you down?”

Cutthroat looked ready to jump out of his own skin. His gaze darted about the room as though looking for an exit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, convincing no one.

Yablonski leaned forward again, resting his thick arms on the table, never taking his eyes off the fidgety captive. “You know what they did to your friends,” he said. “How
long do you think you’ll stay alive out there once they find out about you? Hmm?” He waited for that to sink in.

“I didn’t have anything to do with Viceboy and Dagger getting offed.”

“You and your friends went back a long way, didn’t you?” Yablonski shuffled through papers. “Look what I have here.” He held up a photograph of a grade-school class where three boys’ faces had been circled in red. “Did you first meet Bobby and Roger in Ms. Winchell’s second-grade class,” he asked as he tapped the photo, “or do the three of you go back even further, Steven?”

At the mention of each of the gang members’ real names, Cutthroat/Steven flinched. “I didn’t have anything to do with them getting killed,” he said again.

“We know you didn’t,” Yablonski said smoothly. “But if you can tell us who did, we might be able to offer you protection.”

Cutthroat shook his head, more in an expression of disbelief than of refusal.

Yablonski turned to his laptop and navigated the touchscreen again. From my vantage point, I could see that he’d returned to the three photos he’d shown me earlier. Turning the laptop around to face Cutthroat, he asked, “Do you recognize any of these men?”

The young man leaned back, fear in his eyes. “The one on the left and the one in the middle,” he said. “They killed Viceboy and Dagger.”

“What about the man on the right?”

Cutthroat squinted. “I never saw him.”

“You’re sure?”

“That’s not a real good picture. He could be anybody, but uh-uh. I don’t think I ever saw that guy.”

“How do you
know
the two other men killed your friends?” Yablonski asked.

Pain worked its way across Cutthroat’s face. His eyes hardened and his mouth tightened in a way that made it seem he was trying not to break down in front of us. “I watched them do it.” His Adam’s apple bounced up and down, twice. “I was supposed to stay on the outside, to make sure Viceboy and Dagger stayed safe.” He gestured toward the laptop with his chin. “But these guys . . . there was no forewarning.”

“Why did the two men kill your friends?”

Cutthroat looked away. He shrugged.

“Steven,” Yablonski said, his gray face darkening with impatience, “your friends made some bad decisions and it got them killed. Do yourself a favor and make the right decision now.” He spoke slowly, allowing every syllable to settle before moving to the next. “I can help you. I can offer you protection.”

“Nobody can protect me.”

“I can,” Yablonski said. “I’ve done it before with much bigger fish than you. All you have to do is tell us everything you know. From the start.”

He waited while Cutthroat fidgeted and bit his lip.

“Take us back to the beginning, Steven,” Yablonski said. “Tell us everything you know. What did Viceboy and Dagger get into?”

“Who are you, anyway?” Cutthroat asked. He turned and pointed his chin toward us. “Who are they?”

“I told you before: Right now, we’re your best friends. Your buddies got in way over their heads. Once they stepped in, they had no chance of getting out alive. But you do. One chance. And this is it.”

Cutthroat seemed to be waging an inner war with himself. Arguments played across his features so clearly I could almost hear them. “Listen,” he finally said, “I told them—I told Viceboy and Dagger—that they were messing with the wrong people.”

Yablonski nodded. “From the beginning,” he said.

Cutthroat took a deep breath. He tossed a look over his shoulder. “Can I get these cuffs off? And a cigarette?”

“Cigarettes will kill you. Aren’t we here to prevent that? You can have water,” Yablonski said, but he allowed the cuffs to be removed. One of the agents stepped out and returned a moment later with four bottles of water.

“Now,” Yablonski said when we were settled. “Talk.”

Sometimes leaning on the table, sometimes gesturing with lanky arms, Cutthroat told us about how Viceboy and Dagger had been approached by the two men. “They promised money—lots of money—and guns. The kind that are hard to get.”

“Where were you?” Yablonski asked. “During these negotiations, I mean?”

“I had to take my grandmother to the hospital that day,” Cutthroat said with a frown. “But when I got back Dagger and V—we used to call him that for short—told me about these guys and the money we were looking at. They didn’t try to cut me out. They wouldn’t. The three of us always worked together. We came up in the ranks together and had each other’s backs.” He gave a shrug as though it didn’t matter, but the look in his eyes made him look lonely and forlorn.

Yablonski tapped his computer screen. “When did you finally meet these two men?”

“Never did. They didn’t know about me. V thought it would be better if I stayed on the outside to make sure the two guys made good on their promises. I was their backup, y’know. I stayed out of sight when they met up, but I was always around.”

Even though I didn’t know where any of this was going, I was too fascinated to interrupt.

“When was this?” Yablonski asked.

Cutthroat took a deep drink of his water. “A week ago
maybe?” He studied the ceiling for answers. “Yeah, a week ago last Tuesday. That’s when my grandma fell and I had to take her in.” He looked at me and at Gav. “She’s okay, by the way. No broken hip or anything. Just a lot of bruising.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said.

“Back to the story,” Yablonski said.

“Those two guys?” Cutthroat lifted his chin to indicate the two men in the photos. “They were bad news. Really bad. Viceboy and Dagger hooked up with them again a couple days later. That’s when I saw them in person for the first time and when I heard what they wanted.” Cutthroat shook his head. “Weird accents. No idea what country they were from, but nobody asked. These guys were scary. There was this look in their eyes.” He affected a shudder. “Never seen anything like it.”