Arch Enemy

by Leo J. Maloney

  Driving on the dirt road cut down on their speed. The Jeep held up fine to the bumpy ride, but they came upon occasional puddles that spanned the breadth of the road, and they had to pass slowly so as not to get mired.

  After the first fork, Yolande pulled over at a roadside shack, where a shirtless old man was sitting, watching the sparse traffic. She tucked her gun in her pants and got out of the Jeep, exchanged a few words with him, and left him with a five-dollar bill.

  “He says the truck convoy passed this way,” she said, shutting the door and turning on the engine. “About four hours ago. We are on the right path.”

  They drove on as the afternoon grew late, stopping to ask people along the way if they had seen the trucks. Other than a wrong turn that forced them to backtrack twenty minutes, they were making excellent time.

  The sun was low in the sky, with only jungle on either side of them for a long stretch, when they came upon a Cold War–era Peugeot parked lengthwise, blocking the road. Morgan had opened his mouth to ask Yolande about it when he heard movement behind them—three men dressed as civilians, two brandishing revolvers and one an AK-47, coming out of the forest. Another man stood up from behind the car, aiming a Glock 19 at the Jeep.

  Ambush.

  “Hold on!” Yolande stepped on the gas. The Jeep jerked, the seat belt digging into Morgan’s shoulder as they rammed the front of the Peugeot. It swiveled, knocking down the man crouching behind it. The tires of the Jeep skidded on the damp dirt as Yolande tried to get clear of the car.

  The tires gained purchase, but Yolande lost control with the sudden acceleration. The Jeep spun on the mud. Morgan was yanked side to side, and lost sense of left and right, up and down. With a final yank, the vehicle came to a stop, and Morgan realized they had tipped over and were upside down. He released his seat belt and fell onto the roof.

  The men were shouting and running toward them.

  “Yolande!” She was out of it, in a daze from the crash. Her eyes were open but distant and hazy. He put his hand on her shoulder and shook. “Yolande!”

  Her eyes focused on him. Morgan pulled his PPK from its holster. He opened the door, using it for cover, and fired on the approaching men. They fired back, bullets hitting the side of the car. They hung back. They had no cover out in the road. But Morgan and Yolande’s defensive advantage wouldn’t last.

  Yolande undid her seat belt. Morgan cast a lingering glance at the gun case, which had landed in the back, far out of reach. The gunmen were coming. They would realize in a moment that they could gain the upper hand by circling the car. Morgan didn’t feel like sticking around for that.

  “Ready?” he asked Yolande.

  “Ready.”

  He ran out of the car, shooting his PPK at the attackers. He hit one in the shoulder, and the other two ducked for cover. He emptied the magazine to give Yolande time to disappear into the bush, and then he ran after her. They plunged into dense jungle, leaving the Jeep, their remaining guns, all their money, and the sat phone behind. He tossed the empty PPK.

  They came to a stop at a clearing, panting in the intense forest heat. Insects buzzed all around them, beginning their evening symphony.

  Morgan and Yolande were moneyless and weaponless, deep in hostile territory, lost in the jungle of Ivory Coast.

  Chapter 24

  “So, Alex.” Dr. Strimling steepled her fingers and touched them to tight lips. “Why do you think I called you here today?”

  She had her graying hair pulled back in a bun. Her shoulders looked tense and raised under the shoulder pads of her tweed coat. Everything about her conveyed the impression of being wound tight, all corroborated by her office—prim, all the books on the bookshelf pulled out so that they were flush against one another, everything on her desk arranged as if on a grid.

  “I guess I have some idea.” Alex refused on principle to show any kind of contrition about her current academic dire straits.

  “Have you had any trouble getting around with your leg? We have resources for—”

  “I know about the resources. And I’ll pass.”

  “Okay. Well. It’s just important for you to know that they’re there for you.”

  No, what’s important is that you covered your ass by telling me about them.

  “Alex, the reason I called you in today is—we need to talk about your academic performance.”

  “Yeah, I kind of got that.”

  “I sent you various e-mails about it already.”

  “Yes. Yes. I saw.”

  “You didn’t think to reply?”

  Alex didn’t have a response to that. She was annoyed by the whole conversation.

  “Your grades last semester were fine,” she continued. “A-minus, B-plus. You even managed a full A in your Introduction to Sociology course. And now, nothing higher than a C, and a failing grade in two classes. What’s going on, Alex? Is everything okay at home?”

  Her voice took on a patronizing tone that filled Alex with gall.

  “Everything’s peachy, all right? This is not me lashing out because my parents are getting a divorce or whatever.”

  “How did you break your leg?”

  Alex looked out the window. Water dripped from icicles hanging from the eaves.

  “I’m concerned that it might have something to do with—”

  “It was a motorcycle accident, all right? I totaled my bike just... driving down the highway.”

  “Sometimes, when things are going too fast in life, you look for a way to stop. Sometimes, those things play out in odd ways. Like in an accident.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “I’m trying to find the root cause of this change,” she said. “Maybe if we can identify it, we can—”

  “What, you want to be my shrink now?”

  Strimling rested her forehead against her outstretched fingers. “I don’t have to be a freshman adviser, you know. I signed up for this because I care.”

  “Well, don’t. You’re not very good at it.”

  Alex could tell that stung and felt a pinch of guilt at having said it. The professor threw her hands up in frustration. “I’m going to refer you to Mental Health Services. If you’re having trouble, they can offer you help.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Alex, this is very important. If you don’t do this, there’s a good chance you’re going to lose this entire semester. You’re already teetering on the edge of academic probation. Frankly, this is your last chance to avoid it.”

  “Look, I’ll try harder, okay? I’ll turn in the paper, bring up my GPA, whatever.”

  “It’s out of my hands and in yours, Alex. It’s really all I can say.” She pushed herself back from her desk and stood up from her chair. “Do you need a hand getting up?”

  Alex braced on her crutches to stand. “No,” she said. “I don’t.”

  She walked back to her dorm room in a haze of anger. She opened the door, saw that Katie was absent, and slammed it shut behind her.

  She shed her scarf, hat, and heavy coat, tossing them on the floor next to her desk. She rested her crutches against the bed frame, and after some maneuvering, holding on to the reclining wooden chair and bed frame, sat and then slumped onto the bed. She let her eyes wander around the darkened room. Katie had left a dirty bowl with the remnants of mac and cheese on top of the minifridge again.

  She shut her eyes, inviting the calm of sleep. Instead, something snapped in her mind. Her despondent anger became an unexpected burst of determination. She pushed herself up, hopped to her desk chair, sat down, and opened her laptop. She created a new Word document and named it Criminology 101, Paper 1. She opened up her folder of sources, papers downloaded from JSTOR, and scanned the titles. She opened one and read from the abstract.

  This article assessed the prevalence and extent of prison radicalization among . . .

  Her patience ran out after a few lines, and she brought up the document again. She wrote her name, the name of the professor, the title of the co
urse, and the date in the upper left-hand corner and then inserted her last name and the page number on the upper right-hand corner. She adjusted the document to one-inch margins and double-spaced lines. The vague thought of creating a template, which always teased her at this point in the paper, hovered in the back of her mind, but she shut it out. She hit the Enter key after the date and center-justified. She typed:

  Adjective noun: something something phenomenon of prison radicalization . . .

  So far so good. Enter once more, left-justify, indent.

  Since the dawn of civilization . . .

  She scowled and deleted it, mashing the backspace key as if she could delete it harder that way.

  She chewed on her fingertip until there was a knock at the door. She leaned over to pull the handle.

  The door creaked open and a face appeared in the crack. Simon, with a big, dumb smile on his face. He looked like he could barely contain his excitement.

  “We’ve got it,” he said.

  “What?”

  “They answered! We got a response!” He pushed open the door, revealing that he was carrying his laptop like a tray, the monitor open.

  Alex swiveled her own computer shut.

  “Show me,” she said.

  He set his laptop on top of her closed one. On her legs, it was lopsided because of her cast. The computer was open to an e-mail, on an e-mail client she did not recognize.

  The Ekklesia welcomes all interested applicants to prove their dedication and worth to the cause.

  Submissions are to be public and aligned with the interests of the people. Dazzle us, and you may become one of us.

  “What do you think that means?” Simon said.

  “I think they want us to do something,” she said. “Like they did with Panagopoulos.”

  “You mean—”

  “Get your cane, Watson. ’Cause we’re detectives now.”

  Chapter 25

  Lisa Frieze was driving on I-90 back into the city, trying to keep her eyes open. The day had yielded a whole lot of nothing on the Panagopoulos case. She still had no idea how the attackers had gotten in or out and was no closer to identifying any of them. Still, she’d made a little headway on the Watson front.

  She dialed Peter Conley from the road. “I got us a meeting at Hornig,” she said. “The elevator company. They have a major office in the city.”

  “You’re the best. Who are we meeting with?”

  “Some higher-up,” she said. “I don’t have a name.”

  “I’d rather deal with the low-level guys,” said Conley. “They know what’s going on better than management.”

  “And that’s why management is going to do its best to keep you away from them. Meet you there?”

  “How long?” Conley asked.

  “Half an hour.”

  “Okay. Text me the address,” said Conley.

  “Nina Cotter,” she said. “General Manager of Operations here at Hornig. Are you the FBI agent?”

  Cotter was in her fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair cropped short, wearing a navy blazer over a matching pencil skirt. Frieze saw a distorted version in her of her own future: professional, high-strung, working twice as hard to get as far as the men in the old boys’ club. It might also explain why Frieze had such an instant dislike of her.

  “Special Agent Lisa Frieze.”

  “Is this your . . . partner? Is that how it works?” asked Cotter.

  “This is a special consultant working with me. Peter Morris.”

  “Nice to meet you. I have to say, I’m more than a little concerned that the FBI is looking into this matter.” She offered up a look of consternation to match. “Is there any indication that this might be a criminal matter?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out,” said Frieze. “Mind if I take a look at your accident reports?”

  “Be my guest. I can e-mail them to you.”

  “Actually, could I talk to the technical staff working this situation?” Peter broke in. “It would really help to get into the nitty-gritty with the people who are on the ground. So to speak.”

  Cotter grimaced, sucking in air through her teeth. “That’s gonna be tough. They’re tied up with this project. It’s extremely high priority for us. I’m afraid I can’t spare them at all at this moment.”

  “Ms. Cotter,” said Frieze, “I need to insist—”

  “I will cooperate with you, Agent Frieze, to the extent that my people can still do their jobs. If not, I’m afraid you’ll have to come back with a warrant.”

  From Cotter’s face Frieze could tell they weren’t going to get any further in that meeting. There was no use wasting her time.

  “All right,” said Frieze. She handed over her card. “I’ll look out for that e-mail. Thank you for your time.”

  “We can find our own way to the elevator,” said Frieze.

  The doors closed and the car moved down.

  “You went a little light on her back there,” Conley said.

  “She’s stonewalling,” said Frieze. “It’s no use pushing, she’ll push right back.”

  “You think she’s hiding something?” asked Conley.

  “Most definitely.”

  Chapter 26

  Lily felt a surge of excitement when she found Scott waiting for her at a corner table at Le Troquet. She pointed him out to the maître d’, who took her coat and walked her to the table.

  There was something refreshing about him. All the stupid pickup books these days told men to treat women like dirt. Well, maybe not dirt, but with little things, like keeping them waiting at the restaurant. Play dominance games. She seemed to have good odds that this was just maybe a decent guy.

  He stood up as she approached. “I was concerned you wouldn’t show.” He held out his hand for a shake as she moved in to kiss his cheek, and they did an awkward kiss shake. Lily giggled.

  “So, what brings you to the city?”

  “We’re courting a developer. Some hotshot upstart. He’s the best thing since sliced bread, apparently, so I’m here to lure him with a wad of cash and stock options.”

  Lily held up a finger. “I propose we taboo any further talk about work.”

  The waiter set down a breadbasket and gave each of them a menu, all done in rich cream stock and baroque calligraphy. The prices were written as two- and sometimes three-digit numbers, no cents or dollar signs. And the actual amounts confirmed that this was indeed a restaurant for the cream of the crop.

  “I think I can live with that,” said Scott.

  “I find it lets me figure out whether there’s anything more to a man than that,” Lily commented.

  “How often do you find there isn’t?”

  “If I had a quarter for every man who could only talk about work, I might be able to get myself a cup of coffee.” She bit into a breadstick. “I don’t date much.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “It’s a work thing, which . . .” She trailed off.

  “Well, we don’t have to talk about work at all,” he said. “I accept. The topic of work is officially off the table.”

  “Good. That way I can pretend I haven’t Googled your name and read all I could find about you.”

  He chuckled. “You, on the other hand . . . total mystery. Not a whiff of an online presence. I should recommend you as an example for certain high-profile clients.”

  “That’s veering dangerously close to work talk.”

  “Apologies,” he said. “Let’s veer away then. Music?”

  “Classic British punk,” she said. “You?”

  “Prog rock.” He laughed. Prog rock was at best the older, stodgy cousin to punk. “Let’s move on from that one, shall we?”

  The waiter came to take orders for drinks. “White?” Scott asked her.

  “I drink red.” She flashed a coquettish smile.

  “Red it is,” he said. Then, to the waiter: “Capanna Brunello de Montalcino, 2010.” Bold choice. Expensive, but not ridiculously so
, which she well knew he could afford if he wanted to. But it was important to her that he didn’t have to.

  “You said you don’t date much,” he said, when the waiter had gone. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I just don’t usually feel like I should inflict my life on someone else.”

  She couldn’t believe she was saying this to him. There was just something about the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, that was utterly disarming. It made her comfortable saying just about anything to him, which was a dangerous quality in its own insidious way.

  “That doesn’t say much for your self-esteem.”

  “I’m just being realistic.”

  “And yet here I am,” he said, with his broad smile and big white teeth. “Asking—no, begging—to get to know you better.”

  “You, Mr. Renard, don’t have to beg for a single thing in your privileged life.”

  “I’m not so sure. Have you ever tried to get coders to do what they’re supposed to? Sometimes begging is the only thing that has any effect.” She laughed. “So,” he went on, “what is the lady having?”

  She picked a nice midrange dish, osso buco over polenta, which would pair well with the wine.

  “You know,” he said, “they have a Wagyu steak au poivre here that you need to try.”

  She glanced at the menu. The price was three times that of the osso buco.

  “Come on, you don’t—”

  “I swear I’m not showing off. But to come here and miss this opportunity—it just wouldn’t sit right with me.”

  She smiled. “Okay. I’ll have that.”

  “Rare?”

  “Blue.”

  “I like you.”

  The waiter served the wine. She took a sip, woody with hints of berries. “So is this your routine with all your dates, or—”

  Her phone rang in her purse.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, reaching for it in the spare seat. “Let me just turn it off.” She withdrew it and glanced at the screen.