No Way Back (8 page)

“A two-for-one, Rob,” the instructor says.

“Aw, shit.
Shit
!” Rob says, face coloring a little. We start laughing, but it takes a beat for Rob to join in, and he manages to sound both pissed and embarrassed.

Next day, I go down the block with the Wilson and the XD holstered. First run I draw the Wilson and use a two-hand grip, but double-tap targets. Same score as before: fourteen kills, no moms. The instructor asks for a repeat. The results are identical.

“Can you go both ways?” he asks me.

“If I have to, yeah,” I say.

“Let’s try one that way,” he says.

So it’s down the block again, pulling the Wilson from under my armpit with my right hand, the XD from behind my back with my left when the first target appears. It gets tricky quick; at a couple of places, two targets pop out simultaneously at awkward angles. I pop the left one with the Wilson, swing toward the right and fire just as I put a second round into the left with the XD.

The instructor checks the targets, reports. “Slight fall-off in accuracy, but not nearly as much as I expected. Twelve instant kills, five more so close to instant they’d be down, no threat. No misses,” he says. “And no Allisons.”

Rob’s smile is lame.

“Where did you learn to shoot?” the instructor asks.

“Army,” I say. “Brigade pistol team, not all-Army.”

“Real-world experience?”

A couple of years ago, I’d have snapped back that I’d capped, greased, hammered, taken down, smoked, or any other euphemism you like for shot to death probably five times as many human beings as the photo targets I’d holed here. Now I just say, “Enough.”

He nods, turns to Allison. “There’s no work here for me. Your man’s one of the best shooters to come through in a long time. I’ll tell the guy at the gate to let you all pass if you want to use the place. But there’s no point to my presense.”

“Okay,” Allison says. “Thanks for your help.”

“No problem,” he says. Then he shakes my hand. “Nice watching you work. Good luck.”

It’s a useless vanity, I know, but during the ride home to the spook house I find myself expecting Allison or Rob to say something—even a couple of words—praising my performance. They do not. Apparently shooting isn’t a high-value item on their scale of skills. When I insist to Allison later I need shooting time at least twice a week, she agrees. But it’s Nadya who takes me to the range. She at least seems interested in what I do there.

And thank God for Nadya. I was worried she’d be next to disappear. But she still comes around every day after lunch, comes over most evenings for dinner or drinks, too. She’s changing, but in a way that eases me. The stiff drills slip almost unnoticeably into casual conversations, boy-girl stuff again, but between people who’re long past the first meeting stage, are good friends, maybe lovers or on the verge of being that.

Nadya’s my comfort, until I realize that’s one more illusion, in which I’m an eager collaborator. Then I hate it, knowing how well they know me on some levels. And how wrong they can be about others. That damned psych profile badly needs updating. Yes, I once was a hound, in the worst ways. That changed a long time ago. Does the profile reflect the fact that I now play the foul-mouthed, swinging-dick role because I have to? That my
bonds with men are a survival tactic, necessary to my trade? That men bore the hell out of me, unless we share certain very narrow professional experience and expertise. And even then I can only take so much before their company feels stale, stagnant? That my interest in women, on the other hand, is only sometimes sexual and more often mental? Is there any indication that I genuinely believe women in general are sharper, smarter, and much more intriguing to talk to than any male friends I’ve ever had? That I find the subtle shifts their minds can make, the differences in the ways they perceive the world, endlessly fascinating? That my flirting is generally only cover for another interest?

No. And they absolutely can’t know the feelings I’m developing for Nadya, because I scarcely understand how this could be happening myself, in such a fucked, false, and strained situation.

Allison’s a pro, but she can’t mask the strain entirely. I begin to notice nervy gestures she never made before: tugging her ponytail absently in the middle of a conversation is the most obvious. There’s also a faint brittle quality to the mutual teasing. And the sorority-house silliness isn’t fully present when she wakes me one morning, even though she’s in her Crew catalog sleepover mode, wearing the boxers, the sloppy top, the loopy smile as she shakes my shoulder. “God, you’re the lazy one. Up! Skivvies, a shirt and tie, suit pants and coat, shoes. And put on your holsters, holding. Alteration time.”

Right, I’m thinking as I get dressed. Had to wait until my gear arrived, so the suits can be nipped and tucked just so. They have to hang naturally, no telltale bulges or lumps anywhere, no printing. No hint I’m heavily armed.

The tailor, a fat bald guy who never lost his Italian accent, starts complaining the moment he comes in with Allison and sees me standing there, coat swimming from the shoulders down, pants folded at the too-large waist, inches of fabric bunched over my shoes.

“Too skinny, too skinny,” he mumbles, walking around me, looking me up and down. He has to mumble—lots of pins held in his mouth—but the chalk and tape measure in his hands don’t keep him from making the palms-up gesture of dismay.

It takes a half hour to do the pinning and chalking. No fun being a dummy, so I’m relieved as hell when he’s finished. Until he insists—and convinces Allison—that he has to repeat the process on the other four suits, since each is cut slightly differently.

That kills the entire morning. I’m tired and cranky when at last that fat obsessive-compulsive says “
Finito
,” carefully packs everything up, and leaves. Allison closes the green folder she’s been studying for the past two hours. She looks at me vaguely, as if she’s still mainly concentrated on what she read. Then she focuses. “Hey! Free day today. We’ll go out, wherever you want. Nice lunch, relaxing afternoon?”

“Sounds good.”

“Uh, one condition. Forget the jeans and boots. Wear a polo, khakis, those new loafers.”

“Sure.”

“Not much to ask, is it? Anyway, you’ve got to get used to this stuff. Have to feel easy and natural in it. In fact, from now on, it’s all you’ll be wearing. Suits, too, when they come back.” She grins. “If you behave, I might even let you touch my Mini. For a block or two. Okay?”

“The gardens of stone? That really where you want to go?” Allison says when we’re out and moving in her Cooper.

“It is.”

“Are you feeling a little morbid or anything? Arlington National Cemetery isn’t generally a favored destination for guys who’ve been cooped up with us. Now that I think of it, it’s never been a destination. You have somebody there? Family, friends?”

“No.” She knows I’m lying. Has to be in my dossier that there is a friend there all right. From the first Gulf War. One of the unlucky few. But I’ve no intention of staring at his grave.

“Care to share why, then?”

“No.”

Allison makes a few turns, we’re crossing a bridge over the Potomac, almost blue today under the cloudless sky. I get a partial view of white splendor: Lincoln’s place, Washington’s obelisk, the green mall, and rising green to the white Capitol. Another illusion; ten blocks southeast of where congressmen, senators, Supreme Court justices pursue their particular interests, it’s a war zone, black gangbangers with no future and nothing to lose. So they’re rolling every night, trying to make their dime, capping anyone who gets in the way. D.C. has one of the highest murder rates in the nation. Southeast—and a couple of other ’hoods—is where it goes down. And nobody woke up to it even when a congressman got robbed and shot on the Capitol grounds a few years back. Nobody wants to admit it’s hopeless, endless. Like the civil wars in Africa.

Just a glimpse, a fleeting thought too straight on to resonate. Pretty soon we’re cruising a pretty Virgina parkway, turning into Arlington, parking. I stretch, suck in
some breaths deep as I can. Not quite autumn yet, but the monsoon humidity’s gone, the air seems clean and crisp.

“Well, where to?” Allison asks.

“Kennedy’s first.”

The eternal flame’s not much, most certainly not eternal, so it’s hard to know why the expressions on the faces gazing at it look so awed and reverent. The white stones around it, bearing chiseled words, interest me. “We will bear any burden, pay any price,” I read out loud.

“You a closet patriot, Terry?” Allison asks. I’m thinking she sounds just a bit spooked.

“No,” I say. “Just considering that ruthless, ambitious bastard sure knew great speechwriters when he read them.” I pause. “Let’s walk.”

I take point, aiming for quieter, less trafficked precincts. The gardens are beautiful, white marble crosses bright against the clipped grass, flowing along the contours of the rolling terrain, parting gracefully as a brook around copses of well-tended mature oaks and maples and pines. It’s artfully arranged so you can see straight lines only obliquely, though the spacing is perfect. I can’t find an angle of view that reveals the graves are as rigidly positioned as an elite division in full-dress formation on some vast parade ground—which is a brute demonstration that no man’s an individual, just an easily replaceable part. The designers worked hard to make sure no one ever sees it quite that way.

“You know what this really is, Allison,” I say. “This beautiful ground is nothing but a junkyard for broken pieces of the machine.”

“I could say that’s cheap nihilism,” she says. “Or I could spin it once, say this is the real land of the free, home of the brave. Sure, most of those here weren’t combat heroes. But they served, they didn’t shirk it. And now they’re free.”

“Free?”

“Of this fucked world, they are.”

I stop under a broad-spreading oak on a little knoll, the familiar pleasant scent of newly mown grass in the air. Allison moves up near me. So near our shoulders are almost touching.

“What are we going into?” I ask.

“What you and Westley discussed. We have an interest in a certain package that’ll be moving. From Busan to Vladivostok to Pyongyang. Sensitive, but not hot, not high intensity. We’ve got our Russian connections, the package has the North Korean ones. All you have to do is keep the package secure. We think it will be about as straightforward as it ever gets. We do not anticipate trouble. But, as usual, we want to be geared up for anything, no matter how unlikely.”

“Oh, that clears up a lot.” My tone’s sarcastic but my mind’s racing. All Westley’d said was North Asia. Now I’ve got actual places, a hint of the actual players. Did she slip up, or was she told it was time? “Listen, I know you’re wired. But here’s a question I’m sure your handlers won’t mind you answering. Why me?”

“I’m not wired, and you already asked Westley that. You’re still wondering why you were picked for something outside your specialty, when we must have a dozen contractors who do specialize in baby-sitting? And this apparent anomaly’s giving you a slightly paranoid sensation?”

“Come on, Allison. Do you really think I’m just another no-brain shooter? Yeah, probably you do. I behave like one, so maybe that
is
all I am. But I am not, repeat not, prone to paranoia. So, why me?”

“As you were told, we’re stretched and busy. Some attrition these past few years, too. Some burnouts, some too compromised to use again. A couple of casualties
we’re sure of. A few more just missing. That shouldn’t come as startling news to you.”

“It doesn’t. But it isn’t an answer, either. Come on, Allison.”

“I don’t actually know. Partly your Russian fluency. Partly the military stuff,” she says. “But I’m guessing. Because I didn’t ask for you. Westley gave you to me, Luther.”

“Luther? So I’m myself again. Terry sure did a fast fade.”

Allison won’t meet my eyes.

“And of course Westley did,” I go on. “The man’s running the op, he picks the team. Standard.”

“Actually, it isn’t. Because he isn’t.” Allison pauses. “I’m running this, Luther. Westley’s contributing.”

This is fucked beyond belief. I cannot buy it. “Don’t you mean ‘controlling’?”

“Hey, use whatever word you’re comfortable with,” she says.

“I’m real careful with words. Subtle little bastards. The wrong one at the wrong time, in some places, will get you killed.”

“Then hear this: I will be giving all the orders on this op. Nobody is going to even get bruised. I am in charge. Completely. Trust me.”

Either Allison’s deluded, or I’ve been had. Instantly every instinct I’ve been stupidly ignoring or deliberately burying since Westley appeared at Flannery’s begins strobing. I have got to get some hard intelligence on Westley, on Allison, on this whole deal. The problem: Who can provide, and how? I’m in virtual lockdown. No phone, no computer I’ve seen with Internet connections in the spook house. Never out alone, so I can’t even drop a quarter in a pay phone. And who to call? I’ve got no one inside the Company, no contacts at the DEA—not
since the Francesca Russo incident—who might have CIA friends, nobody at NSA or the Pentagon.

I’m obsessed with this the rest of the day and all through a pizza dinner in the library with Allison, Nadya, and Rob. My preoccupation is impossible to miss, but they ignore it. I hardly pay attention when Westley strolls in, says, “Well, shall we watch some movies?” even though this seems completely bizarre.

But I snap to, the moment the tape starts to roll.

NADYA NARRATES, STILL CURLED IN HER CHAIR. SHE’S
the only one who hasn’t straightened up, turned slightly tense, since Westley appeared.

“Thug on the right, that’s Bolgakov. Delicate villain left rear is Tchitcherine. Amazing they’re still in business. Almost chopped by Gorbachev, slipped under Yeltsin’s scythe, and so far seem to have escaped Putin’s notice.”

“Tell us why, Nadya,” Allison says.

“Swaying reeds, I imagine, no matter the breeze.” She laughs. “They’ve not been good boys, but they’ve groveled and fawned and spoken out of school about others less discreet. And of course their commands are no longer so sensitive as they were in tenser days. Siberian missile regiments. Been twiddling their thumbs for ages now.”

The video’s a combination of official coverage of what seem to be ceremonial meetings with Chinese and American figures, plus some clandestine stuff of Bolgakov and Tchitcherine’s private comings and goings. It’s been digitally enhanced or the technology has made a quantum
leap in a decade, which is how long it’s been since I last saw this kind of surveillance.

“Take a good look, Terry,” Allison says. “The generals are our new Russian assets. These”—the video cuts to lower-rez short scenes, all crowded, but four faces that appear in every one—“are our package’s North Korean friends.”

“They have names?”

“Sure. They’re in the dossier you’ll be getting. Hope you can pronounce them better than you managed Eunkyong’s.”

Allison’s dig draws a chuckle from everyone. Except Westley. Westley just glances at me, shrugs, as if to say “Kids. What can you do?” It reminds me of a meet we’d had in ’99, during which he invited me to take a brief holiday in Kosovo, exercise my long-range termination skills on some Serb commanders. Which I politely declined.

“And this,” Allison says as the video switches to perfect clarity, the subject clearly conscious of the camera’s presense, even smiling and waving, “is the package. Kim Chung-hee. Mister Kim. Chairman of one of the ROK’s most progressive
jaebeols
. Very forward-looking businessman.”

“
Jaebeol
?” I say.

“Korea’s got about thirty of them, their version of the Dow Jones Industrials. Only they’re not public corporations. They’re huge conglomerates, family-controlled, thick as thieves with the government. Modeled somewhat on Japanese
zaibatsu
, like Honda, Sony. You know some of the Korean ones: Samsung, Daewoo, Hyundai.”

“Jesus.”

“Kim’s is one of the smallest. Think Apple compared with Microsoft. Family control and government alliances, though, have an exponential effect. The Kim wealth is hard to imagine. But that’s not important. You
know North Korea’s a rogue state, paranoid, sealed off. Kim’s forward-looking, as I said. He had business feelers out to Pyongyang before the 2000 meeting between the ROK president and the North’s maximum leader, Kim Jong Il. After that, he got more active, started trading with the North through its two back doors, China and Russia. He’s very welcome in Pyongyang now.

“The cool part is this: he loves us. He has a house in Big Sur, comes over maybe once a month, and talks for hours about everything he’s seen, heard, and been doing in the North. About two months ago, he told us about a possible deal, buying something from our Russian generals, selling it to North Koreans. Asked if we wanted to go along for the ride. Absolutely! We want the North to have what the Russians are offering, so we want to protect the deal.”

“I think it would be useful to point out that money does not move Kim in this,” Westley says, his tone calm, knowing, almost paternal. “The man’s an idealist. He keeps asking why the thirty-eighth parallel exists anywhere except on maps? Why is there a DMZ there? Koreans are one people, south and north, he says. As the Germans are one people, west and east. The Germans tore down the Wall, turned off the death strip separating them. Why shouldn’t Koreans do the same?”

“He’s being a bit naïve, of course, for such a smart man,” Nadya says. “He doesn’t seem to understand how change bubbled up from below in Germany, until the DDR leaders couldn’t keep the lid on. Nothing bubbling at all in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.”

“I don’t think he’s even entertained the notion that the famine in the DPRK may be artificial, deliberately created as a means of control by Chairman Kim, who’s taken a leaf direct from Stalin’s book,” Allison says.

“None of this,” Westley says, “lessens our Mister
Kim’s value. He has access to the North. Access we otherwise would not have.”

I’m looking hard at the videos. I’m seeing a man still in his thirties, very corporate, very at ease and seemingly jovial. I’m also seeing his eyes change suddenly while his smile stays the same, and people in his entourage snap to when he utters a few words. Like young staff captains hearing the voice of God in the person of the Joint Chiefs head: with eagerness, obvious deference, and terror. I also see he’s got a personal security team around him, not in-your-face but obvious to anyone who knows what to look for, in every situation. From the ways they move, they appear to know their trade.

“So why not insert an intelligence agent into his entourage? He’s got his own protection team,” I say.

“Going forward, we might,” Allison says. “On this particular outing, the intel will be obvious in the deal. But Mister Kim’s a little nervous about the Russians. He doesn’t quite trust them. Also, he’s a bit worried someone might get to someone on his own team. So he asked for security assistance.”

“And I’m it? That’s crazy.”

Westley laughs. But this time he’s the only one.

“No,” Allison says. “We’ll have people on the ground in each place Kim goes. Including a former colleague of yours. He’s already out there. You can have a big reunion.”

“That is so reassuring.” I wonder who she’s talking about, knowing by now she wouldn’t tell me if I asked.

“It should be,” Allison says. “One foreigner—with one task—is all we can put into Kim’s entourage without arousing suspicion. What did you expect? A bunch of Secret Service types with badges on their lapels and little ear mikes hovering around him? Come on, Terry.”

“And it’s only a business exchange, not an espionage mission,” Rob says. Another country heard from.

“My task, in full?”

“Stick close to Kim, protect the package. As you’ve been told.” It’s Westley now, in command tone. “Any little thing goes wrong, you will be well covered. You will be picked up by friendlies within minutes after you’ve got clear and signaled.”

I look at Allison. She’s looking at Westley.

“Package. Right. Kim. But what are we talking about in terms of merchandise, since I assume you want me to get it out with him? Small, light? Bulky, heavy?” I ask.

“Easily portable. Kim can slip it into his coat pocket. Once we obtain it from the Russians,” Westley answers. His next words are not those of a mere contributor, as Allison termed him. “Oh. If you do have to move, and anyone appears even vaguely to be in your way—theirs or ours—just kill them, okay?”

“Well,” Allison says when the video stops, the lights go up, and Westley’s disappeared. “Let’s have a drink. Shot of Barbancourt Rhum, souvenir from my last trip to Haiti?”

Rob and Nadya say yes. “Make mine a Cuba Libre, hold the rum,” I say. Allison produces her bottle from a nook near the video/audio system, pours three shots of rum. She takes a can of Coke from the mini-fridge I never knew lurked there behind the cabinet doors, hands it to me.

“Tell me something,” I say, when everyone’s had a sip. “You guys work with Westley before?”

“You have,” Rob replies, taking a swig of rum, swirling what’s left around his glass.

“Brilliant,” Nadya says. “Rob, you’re amazing.”

“Yeah, he’s super,” I say. “But he didn’t answer the question.”

“Ah, no. I mean we have, but not this way,” Allison says. “The three of us have teamed on lots of things. Westley delivered a contractor for some of them. Here, to the house. Then he went away. One or another of three guys from the Langley operations unit was always the officer in charge.”

“So this is the first time Westley’s actively engaging in an op?”

“With us,” Nadya says.

“Couldn’t possibly be his first, though,” Allison says. “He’s way too senior. We assume he’s run plenty. Just not in our area.”

“Assume?” I say. They don’t know as much about where Westley’s been on the ground and in the shit as I do, and I don’t know even half. Serious lapse here. “You check with any of those three Langley officers on this?”

“Who do you imagine told us Westley would be in on this one?” Rob says. “Jesus.”

“And did they say why?” I ask.

“Terry, Westley didn’t just bring
you
to us,” Allison says, seemingly a little anxious to chill the static that’s developing between Rob and me. “He brought the Russians. And the package.”

“What?”

“Kim is Westley’s find,” Allison says.

Rob and Nadya look at her as if they’re thinking maybe Allison’s gone too far, given up something she shouldn’t have. Then Nadya must decide it’s okay.

“One might,” she says, “call Mister Kim Westley’s man, actually.”

“Hey,” Rob says.

“No reason Terry can’t know this, Rob,” Allison says,
a bit more sharply than I’ve heard her speak before. God, I’m getting slow. This is deliberate, building a little creative tension between me and Rob. Supposed to push me closer to Allison. “He’s Westley’s too, for God’s sake. Terry’s going to be so close to Kim they’ll almost be touching. And that’s what Westley wants, right?”

Rob just looks at her. “A contractor,” he says. The tone’s nasty.

A tone of voice, wrong time, wrong place. Once that would’ve been sufficient provocation for me to radically rearrange some guy’s facial features, but I’d reckoned I was past that now. So I’m juked when the old demon starts rising fast. My muscles tense, my stance shifts. If that prick Rob says one more word, he’s meat.

“So the relationships should be clear, before people start tripping each other,” Allison goes on. “We all slide smoothly, as a team. No friction, no bumps or stumbles. Understood?”

The demon vanishes, just like that. Rob’s a cipher again. I’m busy thinking Allison had better get clear on her role relative to Westley’s.

Rob drains his glass. “Got a refill left in your souvenir?”

“Sure,” Allison says, drawing Rob back to the cabinet.

Nadya snuggles into the sofa next to me, not close enough to mean anything, starts talking lowly in Russian.

“Rob’s such a shit sometimes,” she tells me. “Here’s something useful. Kim has no Russian. One of his executives has some, does all the translating, but rather poorly. So. Best not to let on you’re fluent unless one of two things happen: the executive is making dangerous mistakes, or our beloved Generals Bolgakov and Tchitcherine start playing games he’s not getting.
Da
?”

“Paws off, Russki,” Allison calls cheerfully across the room. “Poaching’s against house rules, remember?”

“No wicked intentions on my part, I’m sure.” Nadya
laughs. “You’ll want to watch this one closely, though. I doubt Terry’s the faithful type.”

Rob snorts, as if disgusted by our lack of seriousness. “I’m out of here,” he says, and leaves.

“Why’s he wrapped so tight?” I say when Allison flops on the sofa next to Nadya, deciding it’s best to pretend I haven’t spotted their game. “Fucking asshole.”

“Can’t you be more colorful, Terry?” Nadya grins.

“It’s territorial,” Allison says. “He wanted to do your job. Rob’s very good at lots of things, but Westley felt he needed someone with more real-world experience. And someone who’s off the books. Just in case. Anyway, Rob feels somewhat slighted. Maybe envious as well.”

“Then he’s an even bigger asshole than I thought,” I say.

“The atmosphere’s getting rather thick in here,” Nadya says. “Fancy a stroll, Terry? Turn or two around the block before bed?”

“Love it,” I say.

“It’ll have to be a threesome, then,” Allison says, rising. “No way I’m letting you two wander off into the night on your own.”

“Bitch,” Nadya says, laughing.