by John Altman
A flickering movement behind her. She turned. Nina had edged a few inches toward the near nightstand. There was a gun in the drawer, no doubt. Home protection, Tristan Brooks would call it.
For a bottomless instant, their eyes met. There was accusation in Nina’s gaze, alongside wounded self-pity. Song felt a gust of anger. Nina had no right to pity herself. She had never splayed open a rat on a shovel to roast it. She was a wealthy New Yorker, born and bred. She had attended Covenant of the Sacred Heart, where she won the lead role of Abigail Williams in the junior-year production of The Crucible. After a good experience onstage, she had decided to pursue the arts. At the same age, Song had been undergoing the surgeon’s knife and enduring nightly chonghwa sessions, tearing herself apart for the benefit of her trainers.
Nina had gone to Pratt. She had married a successful doctor. Song had gone to Bundang and murdered a defector. Nina had her fancy apartment, her hired help, her vacation home with its boathouse and stretch of perfect white private beach. She had so much more than her fair share that she felt embarrassed of her good fortune. And yet, she dared resent Song, who was only struggling to survive.
Raise the gun; shoot her dead. Fuck the mess. And still Nina would not appreciate how good she had it in the big scheme of things. There were far worse things than a quick, painless death. Consider Song’s own mother, fighting to force one last husky, choking breath down a swollen throat as flies buzzed and her own daughter turned away …
Nina edged closer toward the nightstand.
Song reached into her bag, and her fingers found the SIG.
Nina dived for the night table. Song fired instinctively, and a little spray of blood and brain and bone poofed outward from the back of Nina’s head.
The body continued its dive toward the nightstand, banged against it, and sprawled onto the floor. Blood welled from the hole in the forehead, turning the bib of the linen sundress a deep crimson.
Song vomited onto the cream-colored love seat. Nothing but bile came up.
She fell to one knee, steadied herself, then looked back over one shoulder to make sure Nina wasn’t moving.
The woman was as dead as yesterday.
Song looked away before her stomach could heave again. The shot had not been loud, she thought. Not loud enough for anyone to hear. No neighbors lived within sight. She was okay.
But in fact, she couldn’t attest to how loud it had been, because somehow she had not heard the gunshot at all.
She straightened. Her gaze dragged back to Nina. Her best friend. A bloody mess.
Nina’s own fault. If she had behaved herself, things might have turned out differently.
Probably not, but maybe.
Over now. Spilt milk.
The headache was coming back.
Carpet and bedspread were spattered like a Jackson Pollock canvas. Song might hide the body, but plenty would remain. It is the beating of his hideous heart!
She had hoped for a brief sanctuary, but it was not to be. Nina would be missed. The car was in the driveway. Song had to keep moving.
For a few moments, she indulged a fantasy. She stuffed the body into the car and lit it on fire. The FBI found the charred Lexus, and inside it the body of a woman about Song’s age, with about Song’s build, with Song’s phone still clutched in one hand. Of course, this woman would have smashed her mouth against the steering wheel during the crash, preventing any useful application of dental records. They didn’t even bother to test DNA.
But she couldn’t figure out how to make the fantasy reality. Prop the body behind the wheel, sure; that was easy enough. And say, just for the sake of argument, that she could clean the bedroom. Then what? Would she get the car up to speed somewhere and then jump out? Even if she tucked and rolled, she would break a leg in the process. Maybe prop the accelerator down with a broomstick, like in the movies. But even if that worked—admittedly a long shot—a car was not likely to burst into flames upon colliding with something. She might help it along with a gas can and a match. But that would leave evidence.
Her eyes turned to the window, the lovely view outside. The boathouse, the lighthouse, the hazard buoys …
The plan rose fully formed into her mind. When it was done, she would move from one anonymous motel to another, paying cash, leaving no trail. She would not try to cross an international border. She would not try to rendezvous with her contact. From this moment on, Song Sun Young was a free agent.
An excellent plan. It would not only end pursuit by the FBI, it would also spare her brother. Pyongyang could not punish her for dying in the line of duty.
Eventually, she would settle in another city, far away, where she could blend in. She would live the rest of her life keeping to herself, never daring to grow close to anyone. Intimacy invited unnecessary risk. She would find a modest job: low profile, anonymous. She wouldn’t need much to get by.
Thus would she grow old and die, free but alone. Queen of her own private hermit kingdom.
The rock and the hard place, but here was the way out. All she had to give up was everything she held dear.
And that was already gone.
She looked at her friend’s body with distaste.
Langley, VA
Night was falling when they turned into the parking lot. As Dalia got out of the Range Rover, her bad knee folded beneath her, and she just managed to catch herself against the mirror.
McConnell hovered, ready to help, but she waved him off. She moved under her own steam through security, onto an elevator, and into the conference room. Little had changed during their absence. More cans of Red Bull littered the table near Sam, and a platter of tired-looking sandwiches had replaced the bagels and coffee. Benjamin Bach was on his feet, still or again, looking at his phone. Sonny was seated, resting his eyes. DeArmond watched the wall-mounted monitor, rolling a pencil idly on the tabletop.
On-screen, windows had been rearranged. A long row of minimized tabs ran along the bottom. Only six windows remained open: the interface with the RGB server; the ARGUS live feed; IMSI Catcher seeking the woman’s phone; Stingray monitoring Mark Abrahams’ phone; the voice-to-text of police feeds; and a new window relaying updates from agents dispatched from the FBI’s Intelligence Branch to start knocking on doors, interviewing people who knew Mi-Hi Abrahams.
“The miracle worker,” Bach said dryly as they entered. “See yourself on TV?”
Dalia sat down carefully, shaking her head.
Sam fortified himself with a sip of Red Bull before reaching for his keyboard. “Twenty outlets picked it up in the past ninety minutes. And counting. Everything from majors to locals. CNN’s pretty typical. Gives you the flavor …”
An anchorwoman with big hair and an electric-blue blazer appeared. developing story, read the chyron beneath her. terror suspect injures fbi agents.
“The FBI has announced that the attempted apprehension of a terror suspect went horribly wrong on Saturday night when the suspect brutally gunned down two federal agents near Newark International Airport, wounding both, one seriously.”
The screen changed to two placards of agents posing before American flag backgrounds.
“The confrontation occurred around 11 p.m. According to a spokesperson, Special Agent Craig Elwell remains in critical condition at Newark Beth Israel Hospital. Special Agent Angel Alfaro’s condition is fair, with favorable indicators. Identified as a suspect: Yusuf Bashara of Jersey City …”
A blurry screen capture appeared: the man in a watch cap, with a heavy black beard. Then a somber taxi-medallion photograph of the same face. “Authorities caution that Yusuf Bashara is armed and dangerous. He may have a hostage, Mi-Hi Abrahams of Manhattan. Anyone with information on his whereabouts is requested to call the dedicated FBI twenty-four-hour tip line.” An 877 number appeared at the bottom of the screen. Dalia felt a moment’s sympathy for the whiteboard jockey who
had lent his visage. He would have a hard few days, insisting it was a case of mistaken identity. But they all made their sacrifices.
Now came the photograph from Martha’s Vineyard. Song Sun Young looking young and innocent in a yellow sundress, Mark Abrahams with an arm around her shoulders. Desperate appeal from kidnap victim’s family.
“A dramatic appeal tonight from the family of Mi-Hi Abrahams, the Manhattan woman abducted by Yusuf Bashara before a brutal attack that left two federal agents in the hospital, one in critical condition.”
The scene changed to the living room of the Lexington Avenue apartment. Mark Abrahams sat on the couch. His children sat on either side, the boy looking shell-shocked, the girl gazing offscreen at something distracting her.
“Mi-Hi.” Abrahams’ voice was steady and calm. “If you can see me or hear me, please know we are looking for you. We will find you. You will be okay. And to Yusuf Bashara …” His voice took on an edge. “Turn yourself in. If you don’t, there’s no telling what might happen. The authorities promise me that every effort to be fair will be made if you turn yourself in. We are going to get you one way or another.”
The anchorman again. “In Washington today, the GOP made a last-ditch attempt to push through—”
Sam stopped the video. The sudden silence felt empty and dead.
“Good work.” Bach sounded grudging.
Dalia said nothing. She had baited the trap. Now they would learn whether she had read the woman correctly.
Southampton, NY
Beneath emerging stars, Song approached the boathouse.
The flag at the end of the dock fluttered softly. Smells of saltwater and fish veiled an undertone of something rotten.
She held a key ring she had found in a kitchen drawer. Shaped like a life preserver, the ring held two keys. One unlocked the boathouse.
She stood in the doorway without turning on a light, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. The craft was big, almost thirty feet long, covered with a heavy-duty vinyl casing and winched up out of the water.
After a few seconds, Song moved forward. She found the winch controls. A motor hummed, and the boat lowered with a creaking groan.
She unhooked the boat’s cover. Stenciled letters on the stern read Windsong. The boat was white with blue trim, with seats in the bow and more seating wrapping around the transom and port side.
Under a rear seat, she found the battery. Before starting the ventilation fan, she paused, listening. Nothing except the quiet lapping of water, and the squeak of the hull against the cushioned slip. She turned on the blower and let it run, clearing out gas fumes before starting the engine.
She dropped into the driver’s seat. The second key fit the ignition. For the moment, she left it unturned. A worm of uneasiness wriggled inside her. Eight years had passed since she last drove a boat. In the darkness, distance would be hard to judge. She had seen no other lights on the water. Even the lighthouse was dark.
After two minutes, she turned off the blower. By the winch controls, she found the button for the boathouse’s roll-up door. She pressed it, climbed back into the driver’s seat, and fired the engine. Shifting into forward, she cautiously leaned the throttle up. A powerful engine growled in response, and she was out in the bay. Confident again now that she was moving. This would work.
She looked at the rolling boil of froth behind the boat. Dissipating, vanishing. This would work.
The boat rose high on the waves, then fell. The night breeze was stiff. She opened the throttle wide, leaving all lights off. No other boats out here—no birds, no people, no drones, no moon, no lights. Nothing except her and the stars and the dark water. This would work.
She pounded over swells, hair whipping in the wind. The sensation of streaking across empty water was thrilling. The headache was gone.
She slowed, seeking the floating lighthouse. It had vanished. Using the compass to keep her bearings, she peered into the blackness.
She found it: a hulking silhouette empty of stars. Why was the lamp dark? All the better for her story, whatever the reason. She eased the throttle back to neutral and let the boat drift. The wind, the waves, seemed to be gaining force. But let her drift. This wouldn’t take long.
First, she found a life vest in a compartment beneath her seat. She buckled it in three places, then tested the fit. Snug.
Next she went aft and opened a lockbox near a downrigger. She lifted out three vinyl-coated ball-and-fin weights: six pounds, eight pounds, ten pounds. She turned to her canvas bag and took out credit cards and passports and cash, Adderall and rations and rolled-up sun hat and compact SIG Sauer P229. She left behind clothes, disguises, her own two phones and Nina’s, and the cloner, antenna, and reader/writer.
She zipped her supplies into two freezer bags she had taken from Nina’s kitchen, then fitted the bags inside two waterproof Tupperware containers. She stuffed the Tupperware inside an embroidered Etsy fanny pack she had found in a hall closet. Zipping the pack shut, she buckled it around her hips.
She put the six- and eight-pound weights in the canvas bag and closed it, then took off her sneakers, ran the laces through the belt loops of the jeans, and tied them securely with square knots.
She found the lighthouse again. The boat had drifted surprisingly far away. The shore beyond was a low spine of black. The worm of apprehension gave another wriggle. She had never been an especially strong swimmer, but with the life vest, she would manage.
She opened the engine, then wedged the ten-pound weight against the throttle and corrected the course.
She threw the canvas bag overboard, into the wake. It disappeared beneath dark foam.
She clambered up onto the side of the boat, using a cleat as a handhold, and winced at the bolt of pain from her left hip. Mist drizzled onto her face. The boat was moving fast. The lighthouse was coming up quickly.
She took a deep breath, held it, and jumped.
She had thought the life vest would keep her above the surface. But for a strangely long time, the world was all spinning bubbles and black, frigid water. Her heart skipped.
She bobbed back up like a cork. Shivering, gasping. Her clothes had sculpted to her body. The waterlogged shoes tied around her waist seemed bent on dragging her under. Whether the life vest could support her was an open question. She paddled, thrashing, taking in short, hard breaths. She got a mouthful of saltwater and, for some reason, swallowed instead of spitting. Her sinuses burned in protest.
She swallowed another mouthful and flashed back to crossing the Tumen, the second time, when her feet had floated. For a moment, she had lost contact with the bottom. If the current had been stronger, it might have taken her, swept her off her feet and turned her ingloriously upside down, filling her lungs, then deposited her bloated corpse somewhere on a bank downriver, like so much carrion.
The life vest was holding her up now. No need to panic. She stopped treading water, testing her hypothesis. Water came up to her chin, touched her mouth … and then dropped away as she bobbed over the swell.
She forced her breathing to slow, then felt to make sure she hadn’t lost the fanny pack or the sneakers. Yes. They hadn’t been ripped free as she skidded into the water. She was okay.
Everything was okay.
The boat was moving off at a good clip, a large, sleek silhouette racing toward the lighthouse and the buoys.
After taking another deep breath, she swam after it in the darkness, digging in with strong overhand strokes, finding a rhythm.
Twenty strokes. She rested, floating. Just beyond the lighthouse, the boat ran aground on something. Very undramatically, it stopped. She could see the bow protruding at a strange angle between buoys. Maybe it would sink, maybe not.
She swam again. Heart calmer now. Shoes around her waist heavy, dragging. But the water was not so bad, once you got used to it. She saw with daylight clarity where
she needed to go. That stretch of beach, right there. She swam, rested, swam, rested. A sharp pain jabbed her side. A cramp. She waited, teeth gritted, the life vest buoying her up and over the swells.
She could hear her teeth chattering. The cramp loosened, and she swam again. Getting near shore now. Black water choppy. But she was making it.
Her foot touched something underwater. It rolled away immediately. But then there was another. Beach pebbles. And sand.
She climbed out of the water, dripping, shivering, teeth clacking away.
The water’s surge and ebb was lower on her now, down to her waist, then her knees. A rough noise reached her ears. She turned. The boat was some distance up the shoreline. It was coming apart, waves tugging against rocks. Half of it was going back out into the bay. The rest looked as though it would stay where it was. The darkness made it hard to be sure.
She got all the way onto shore. Her hip throbbed again. While in the water, she had forgotten it.
Twenty feet away, she saw garbage cans. Farther up the sand, an outdoor shower.
And a path, leading up the beach and away.
She sank to her knees. For a count of thirty, she breathed, resting.
Then she untied the sneakers from around her waist, put them on, and made for the path.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Langley, VA
Benjamin Bach had reached a fine, delicate state of exhaustion. He felt as fragile as an eggshell.
After swallowing another dose of pholcodine, he lowered himself onto the couch and checked his phone. No new message waited.
He frowned. Then checked the time. Almost twelve hours had passed since he sent the message with the subject line Alas Babylon.
Maybe his man had lost his nerve.
He checked again, in case a message had come in the past five seconds. Nothing.
Lying back, he set the phone on his chest. His heart beat light and fast in his ears—the metronome of his anxiety. He rubbed his eyes and looked around him without seeing, at the souvenirs and the framed picture of himself and his father and the rainbow.
