by Greg Rucka
"So how do you find the source, where it started?"
"You don't. You can't."
Scott looked over to me, then to Natalie, then back to Alena. "I can't accept that."
"Agent Fowler, that has nothing to do with anything," Alena said. "We are not talking about a hiring that started with an individual. We are talking about a decision of policy. Oxford will be funded until he completes the job. Or until he becomes more of a liability than an asset to the people who wish to use him."
"And he becomes a liability when?"
She smiled. "When he allows a book to be written about him."
It got laughs from both Scott and Natalie, and it made her smile a little brighter.
"Is that the only way?" Scott asked.
"There are others. If Oxford were to begin blowing up buildings in Manhattan, if he began killing people without due caution, if his behavior became erratic, the contracting party would have to sever the relationship. Anything that would cause them embarrassment, that would do it, if used properly. The information I have given you will have the same effect."
Scott scribbled quickly on his pad, then looked at me. "How embarrassing would it be if you paid a visit to Gracey and Bowles?"
"Depends how we did it," I said. "If I contact them and ask for a meeting, they're likely to say sure, how about someplace dark and deserted at four in the morning, and why don't you bring that lovely lady friend of yours. And then they'd tell Oxford where to expect me."
"But if I contact them, ask to meet, and you arrive with me?"
"That'll give them pause."
"And then we tell them that we know about, say, the prime minister of Moldova, or a certain military officer in Africa."
Alena coughed softly. "That is precisely what you should do."
"The result being they'd leave you two alone?" Scott asked.
"Ideally."
"Is that likely?"
"They will stop. Whether or not Oxford will, too, that is another matter entirely. Either way, it would force an action."
"What kind of action?" Natalie asked.
"They might cancel the contract, call him off altogether. They might put the operation on hold, although that seems less likely. They might attempt to buy Atticus off, bring him into the fold, encourage him to sell me out. There are any number of choices."
"I won't sell," I said.
She looked at her crutches propped against the table. "I know."
* * *
When Scott's cup had been emptied for the seventh time, I refilled it from the pot and then set another to brew. The smell of the coffee was strong, just a little burnt, and I was surprised that I didn't want any. Alena and Scott were still talking, and I was feeling stiff after all the sitting, so I headed down the hall to the foot of the stairs, where I used the banister as a makeshift barre and did some stretching. Natalie came and shut the door from the kitchen, leaned against the wall, watching me. She tried to stifle a yawn.
"You can go to sleep," I told her.
"Not quite yet." She rubbed her eyes. "What is that, ballet?"
"Yeah."
"She taught you ballet?"
"No, that would have taken eight or nine years."
"Russian school," she noted.
"Well, obviously."
"I took lessons when I was a kid." Natalie moved from the wall around to the stairs, sat down on the third step, still watching me. I went through a couple more motions, trying to get loose. The ballet wasn't as effective as yoga, but it helped. "Bridgett said you'd gone diesel. I didn't believe it until I saw you."
"Is diesel a bad thing?"
"Hell, no." She tapped my hand where it rested on the banister, getting me to look at her. "So, are you going to tell me what's going on between you two?"
"Me and Bridgett?"
"I've got the you-and-Bridgett part figured pretty well. The defining moment was when she blew into my office and called you a brainwashed fool and a fuckin' son of a bitch, to boot."
"She'll divorce you, too, she finds out you're helping me."
"Maybe so, but she's probably more inclined to cut me slack."
"Meaning she'd call you a fool and omit the brainwashed part."
"That's my thinking. So talk to me about you and Alena."
I stopped stretching. "It's kind of like working with you, actually."
"I think I'm flattered." She cocked her head. "Is that all?"
I sighed. "Why is it that everyone thinks I'm sleeping with her?"
"I'm not sure everyone does. I don't. I didn't. But if I had, it would be because you're a heterosexual male who has never showed an aversion to sex, and who spent a large amount of time with a not-unattractive woman who conceivably held a position of great power over you. And because it's not beyond the realm of possibility. And because I have a dirty mind."
I leaned both hands on the banister, looking at Natalie past the supports. "You put it like that, I'm wondering why I didn't."
"Because you were involved with someone when you left. And because it would have been icky."
"Both true. Bridgett didn't seem willing to get that far, though."
"It's probably easier for her to believe that you've fallen for Alena than for her to accept that you changed of your own free will. And the fact is, you cheated on her once."
"That was your fault, you tempted me with your feminine wiles," I said.
"Well, you know, when I'm drunk off my ass I'm extremely seductive."
"Bridgett said that I'd fallen for her?"
"Not in so many words. But the brainwashing comment and the repeated references to Patty Hearst made it clear to me that she wanted to believe you were a victim rather than a participant, that you'd been manipulated emotionally."
"And what do you think?"
"I actually don't think you've changed that much," Natalie said. "I'm in the minority, but I think I know you pretty well. You've always tilted at windmills. You know what's funny?"
"What's funny?" I asked.
"I like her, too," Natalie said. "I know who she is and what she's done, I spent three hours this morning with her discussing wind shear and ballistic drop, the relative merits of bolt versus semiautomatic rifles, and I had a thoroughly enjoyable time. It's not just that I like her, it's that she's likable. Why is that?"
"She wants to be liked."
"Yeah, but why?"
"I don't know. It could be psychological. From what she's said, I expect a large portion of her childhood was spent seeking approval from adults who rarely gave it. Oxford was almost the same way, though he didn't seem to want me to like him, so much as to understand where he was coming from. He wouldn't shut up once he got rolling. These are people who don't have many honest interactions, who every time they speak to someone, they're always calculating a result or an angle. I'd think it's pretty liberating to just be able to say what's on your mind."
She chewed her lower lip for a couple of seconds, and then the door from the kitchen opened and Alena came through on her crutches.
"All finished?" I asked.
"Yes. Agent Fowler is using the bathroom, I think all of the coffee caught up with him."
"How are you feeling?"
"I'm tired and my leg aches. I want to sleep."
Natalie got up, clearing the stairs, but Alena stopped before reaching them, at my side. She touched my elbow.
"What he and you are thinking of doing is very dangerous," she said. "I tried to explain that to him, but I'm not sure he understood."
"I'm sure he did, he's a smart guy," I said.
"I don't dispute his intelligence, Atticus. But I am worried that if too much pressure is put on Oxford's masters, Oxford himself will become even more unpredictable. It could make things worse, not better."
"I'll tell him you said so."
"Please do." She moved to the stairs, started painfully up them, Natalie and I watching, and after the fifth step it began to feel very awkward, and I wanted to help her. A shine of p
erspiration appeared on her forehead, and her hands on the crutches turned white from the strength of her grip.
When she reached the second floor she looked down at us.
"How long did it take me?" she demanded.
"Eighty seconds, about." Natalie sounded embarrassed.
"Eighty seconds. Tomorrow I'll do it in seventy."
Natalie went up shortly after to double-check that Alena had gotten settled, and I joined Scott in the kitchen where he was finishing his notes. My watch read three minutes past four when he capped his pen and stowed his pad, and I walked with him as he went to his car.
"She's a fucking gold mine, you know that?" he asked. "She practically gave me too much information, I'm not even sure where to begin. We can hit Gracey and Bowles tomorrow."
"Not yet," I said. "I want something more to hold over Oxford, not just his bosses."
"Like what?"
I didn't answer, and we continued along the path to where he had parked. The rain had stopped early in the evening, and everything smelled wet. It was cold enough outside, now, that a slight film of frost had covered the windshield of Scott's car. He wiped it off with a gloved hand. A few leaves blew across the lawn.
"Alena is afraid you're not aware of the danger here," I said. "She's afraid that if we pressure Gracey and Bowles, it could backfire."
"Everything I took down tonight I'm forwarding to the SAIC," Scott said. "He'll send it straight to Washington, you can bet on that."
"That may not be enough insurance."
"Can you think of anything else to do?"
"That's the problem. Oxford's going to keep coming until either he's dead, we're dead, or he's been called off. And I'm not so sure about that last one. That's why I want some insurance."
"And again I ask, like what?"
"His money."
He opened the door to the car, slipped behind the wheel, then started the engine and cranked the defroster to full. "I'll start sending faxes tomorrow morning, but I have to tell you, based on what she said, I don't think we're going to get very far. If Oxford's drawing government pay, they're in a very strong position to block any inquiry I make."
"Then don't inquire," I said. "Let me handle it."
"You asking me to sit on my hands?"
"I'm not saying that, I'm just saying don't go looking for his money. If you've got other avenues to pursue, do it. Oxford made some noise about cash moving between me and Havel, you could look into that, see how he managed it. But if you start trying to dig up stuff about his funds, that'll set off alarms."
"You just said we need to find his money."
"I'll handle it."
He blinked at me. "Jesus, you will, too, won't you?"
"I'm going to be gone for a week, maybe longer. If you need to contact me, go through Natalie."
"Do you have that much time?"
"Oxford was wounded when he left Bequia, and we've been careful since then. It'll take him time before he finds us again."
"Long enough for you to be gone a week or maybe longer?"
"I'm optimistic."
"That's fine as long as the optimism isn't foolish."
"I think I've got the time," I said.
Scott grunted and swung his legs into the car. I put a hand on his door, pushing it shut. He drove away, the gate opening automatically as he approached it. I watched the specter of his taillights disappear behind the trees.
He'd gone out of sight when I realized that I'd forgotten to tell him to be careful.
Chapter 4
Alena was already up when I woke, and I joined her in her room for some yoga. We kept it short, and she took it easy, then went to take a shower in the master bathroom. I headed downstairs and put together some breakfast, coffee for Natalie, and some rather lumpy smoothies for myself and Alena. She came into the kitchen as I was finishing up, moving energetically on the crutches, and when she saw the bottles for all of the supplements I'd bought, she laughed.
I waited until she'd finished her drink and her vitamins before telling her what I was planning. Natalie came in as I was starting, but since the coffee didn't kick in until I was almost halfway through, I ended up repeating myself a lot. Alena listened intently, and after I'd finished she told me that the plan sounded solid enough, but that I should use Austria instead of Switzerland if everything worked out as I intended.
"You want a Sparbuch account," she told me. "It's a passbook account, but anonymous. You'll need to find a willing Austrian national to set it up."
I said that I didn't think it would be a problem, then went upstairs to shower and pack my bag. Dan arrived while I was getting dressed, the four guards he'd promised in tow, all of them smaller and younger-looking versions of himself. I immediately recognized two of the faces from the Brighton Beach restaurant, though it took a little longer before I could place the other two. They were the ones who had held me outside of Katrina's room at the brothel. All of them came armed, pistols and rifles, and all of them spoke fluent English, with accents ranging from almost negligible to nearly impenetrable. It made giving them their marching orders interesting. Natalie gave them the rundown of the location, broke them up into shifts, and put them to work guarding the house and the perimeter.
While she was briefing the guards, a car pulled up to the gate. The doctor Dan had located was in his early fifties with watery and bloodshot eyes, white and thin like a distance runner or a junkie. He never gave his name and never asked any of us for ours, and he brought two bags with him, and I searched them both before letting him into the house. Aside from medical tools he had a small pharmacy in one of the bags. The other held a variety of braces and equipment for making casts.
Alena had come to watch Natalie's briefing, and when I came in with the doctor, she moved to the guest room on the ground floor for his exam. I put Dan on the door and followed them in, watching while the doctor asked Alena to lie on the bed. She removed her pants and lay back, and the doctor pulled the gauze from her shin and began poking and prodding from her foot to about midway up her thigh. He asked her a few questions about range of motion and sensation. A couple of times his fingers dug into her skin, and she winced, but never made any sound.
After twenty minutes he was ready to diagnose, and it wasn't good.
"Without an X ray I can't be sure. You've shattered the two bones that run from your knee to your foot, and while the splinters have been removed, the bones aren't knitting. I don't know who the butcher was who practiced his needlepoint on your leg, darling, but if I were you I'd ask for my money back. Not even counting the tib-fib clusterfuck in there, the muscle damage is tremendous. That you've got any sensation in your left foot at all is surprising as hell, and that you're not screaming in constant agony is truly amazing. I've seen members of the New York Jets crying like babies with injuries less severe than this."
"Is there anything you can do?" I asked, not liking his mirth.
"Surgery, but that's not my arena. You want someone to get in there and clean the thing up, maybe replace the bone with a rod. That's all speculative, though. Like I said, I'd need to see an X ray to be sure what is going on in there."
"If I have surgery will I get my leg back?" Alena asked.
"Probably not. There's nerve damage as well as muscle trauma. With extensive physical therapy you could put some weight on the leg, but it will never be able to hold you again. You're looking at needing a crutch or a cane for the rest of your life, toots."
"You've got a great bedside manner, doc," I said.
He turned to me, wiping at his eyes. "Hey, chew me, smartass. I'm here because the ugly Russian outside gave me two grand to drive up to Mahwah, and he promised me another three when I left. This lady's lower leg has been mangled, and from what I can see that's because she got it shot up. So it looks to me like you're illegals or criminals or something I don't even want to know about. You get her to a surgeon, they can maybe do something for her. Otherwise, the leg stays useless."
Alena propped
herself up on her elbows and muttered something in Russian.
"What can you do, doctor?" I asked.
"I can put a brace on the knee to help immobilize the lower leg, that should help with some of the pain. And I can hook her up with some Percodan or another pain reliever of her choice."
"I'll take the brace," she said. "You can keep the drugs. You'll probably get more use out of them."
"No argument there." He dug into the bag that held the braces, selected one and eyeballed Alena's knee. Then he discarded it and pulled another one out, this one longer, and began strapping it to her leg. She swore once as he was tightening the straps, and when he was done she had a combination of metal and rubber running from her ankle to above her knee.
"She's going to need some help getting her pants back on," the doctor told me, closing his bags. "You kids have fun, now. Where's Ugly with my dough?"
I led him from the room and told Dan to see him the rest of the way out. Dan nodded and glanced back at where Alena was sitting up on the bed and asked her something in Russian. She responded tartly. Dan nodded again, rested his big hand on the doctor's shoulder, and left.
When Alena was up, she put tentative weight on her left foot, and it didn't look like much at all, but just that action made her suck a sharp breath and brought water into her eyes. I handed her one of her crutches, then held the door for her while she limped out of the room and back to the stairs.
"Time me," she said, and started up.
It took her fifty-six seconds. Instead of being pleased, she scowled all the way back into her room, where she settled into a chair and stared out the window.
"I should go with you."
"No, you really shouldn't," I said. "Aside from the injury, it would just leave you more exposed."
She nodded grudgingly. "When you get the money at the bank, leave yourself at least fifty thousand to travel on. Withdraw ten thousand in Swiss francs before you leave."
