The Elgin Deceptions (Sunken City Capers Book 2)

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  The nighttime city smells of the street, and an agglomeration of the various restaurant foods I pass. The sidewalk tables are stored for the season, and the patrons look snug and warm through the glowing windows. The cold nighttime breeze brushes past my bare cheeks, causing me to pull my arms tighter to my body in my navy-blue trench coat, despite the multiple layers I’m wearing.

  Cigarette smoke swirls in front of me from two smokers standing on a break. The burnt smell mixes together grossly with the restaurant scents. Crushed tan butts litter the cobblestone street.

  The abandoned textile factory takes up half the block and is made of weathered brown bricks, seeming to sag on top of each other, that lamely climb up three stories to a slanted black-painted metal roof. It’s still an hour and half early for the opera, so I don’t see many signs that they’re setting up in the abandoned factory.

  I stroll by quickly, like I’m on my way to something else, and mark where I think the main entrance will be—down off an alley. The door is propped open, and I hear a box of glass clink as someone sets it down—either glassware or a box of booze.

  I walk past the alleyway and then slow down to take my time circling back to the factory to come in from another direction. The factory is large, taking up half a block in each dimension—the opera won’t be using all that space. It’ll be easy to slip in and get into position.

  The waiting around part—not so much.

  * * *

  It took me all of ten minutes to climb into the ratty old building and locate where the opera was setting up the bathrooms for my planned run-in with Shǐ. These old buildings are hardly a challenge; there’s no tech on them, and teenager delinquents routinely find their way in to have parties.

  If drunk, moron teenagers can manage it, it’s not a challenge to a professional.

  The real challenge was sitting still for the next sixty minutes waiting for everyone to show up—booor-ing.

  The biggest unknown in the whole thing (after whether Shǐ would even show up) was how to get the vial of ipecac, a clear chemical solution that causes vomiting, into Shǐ’s drink.

  Fortunately, the opera organizers know how to move alcohol, and Shǐ, wearing a purple, shimmery gown with calf-high slits, queued up for a drink almost immediately after arriving.

  The pre-curtain call was an organized mess, and it was simple to slip in behind the bar with my head down, like I was supposed to be there delivering another box of booze, and slip the sugary ipecac solution into Shǐ’s Manhattan cocktail.

  After that, I ditched my outer clothes for the tighter black yoga pants and body suit, and now I just shimmied into the industrial sized vent that passes over the woman’s bathroom for the inevitable aftermath. If Shǐ was being followed on the train, then ne’s likely being followed now. So it’s important that we can talk without me being seen.

  I don’t have to wait long. Ipecac is some quick-acting nasty stuff.

  Shǐ rushes into the three-stall bathroom and promptly runs to the nearest stall, drops to nir knees and starts vomiting violently.

  The two women applying makeup in the small mirrors above the sinks give each other disgusted looks as chunks hit the toilet water with heavy plops.

  Shǐ moans between heaves, then starts another round.

  The two women leave in a hurry, and I make my entrance, opening the vent with a metal screech.

  Shǐ looks up at me, nir eyes watering, nir face pale. Ne flushes the toilet, and the sound of whooshing water fills the bathroom.

  I grin and wave hi at nem, dropping down into the far stall. I step out of the stall and lock the outer bathroom door so we can be alone.

  “Hi, Shǐ,” I say cheerily. “How are ya?”

  “You,” Shǐ manages to say, breathing shallowly. “You did this.”

  “Yeah,” I admit. I hold my hands behind my back, and twist my body away from nir like I’m a school child being caught for being naughty. “But we needed to talk.”

  “And this—” Shǐ stops to collect nemself. “And this was your solution?”

  “Well,” I say, “it could’ve been shooting out the other end, but I thought you would prefer this.”

  Shǐ is just able to shake nir head no before launching into another round of decorating the inside of the toilet. Mostly dry heaves this time.

  While ne’s collecting nemself, I grab a clear plastic cup from the stack on the vanity and fill it up with water for nem.

  “All right,” I say, “your preference is duly noted. Next time we need to talk, I’ll have it shoot out the backside.”

  Shǐ doesn’t turn around, but rests nir head on the tips of nir fingers. “What do we need to talk about?”

  “You’re being followed,” I tell nem.

  “I am aware of that.” Shǐ continues to cradle nemself on the bathroom floor.

  I think over this response and decide to play a hunch that isn’t exactly related. “Liáng contacted you,” I say. “After we told him not to.” I’m betting Shǐ already knew ne was being followed before that day on the train.

  “He is not without his own resources,” Shǐ says, nir voice pale and shallow. “It’s one of the reasons I recruited him.”

  Recruited? “He likes you, you know,” I blurt out of nowhere to give me time to think. If nem is Chinese Government, then what is Liáng? Agent or blackmailed pawn?

  “Yes,” ne says. “I am aware.” Ne pauses to retch more. Ipecac is some powerful stuff.

  When ne’s done, I ask, “Do you like him?”

  Ne leans back and exhales slowly, nir lips puckered in an “o” shape.

  I hand nir the glass of water I’ve been holding.

  Ne hesitates and looks questioningly at the glass.

  “It’s just water,” I tell nem.

  Ne takes a sip and spits it out. “What is it to you?” ne asks me about Liáng.

  I shrug in response, still unsure how I feel about the other night. “He’s part of my team. His personal life is part of my business. I can’t have him distracted out there. So if you’re going to ultimately turn him down, do it after the job, not before—”

  Shǐ looks up at me, the uncertainty still plain in nir eyes. Ne still doesn’t know about Liáng.

  I’m tempted to ask what nir hesitation is, but we don’t have time for girl talk at the moment. At least I think it’d still be called girl talk, right? Even though Shǐ is non-binary. Non-binary-girl talk?

  “Excuse me, but was there a point to this meeting?” Shǐ asks, bringing the conversation back on point, but ne can’t pull off the necessary self-righteousness to the statement while kneeling down by the toilet and trying not to retch.

  “Who’s following you?” I ask. Based on our interactions, I think I’ve got everything I’m going to get out of Shǐ in regards to Liáng.

  “MI5,” Shǐ answers.

  British intelligence, in charge of domestic and counter-intelligence operations. Equivalent to the American FBI.

  “You’re MSS, aren’t you?” I ask. Chinese intelligence.

  Shǐ doesn’t answer. But nir stare might as well be a dog slavishly nodding its head and barking, “Yes! Yes! Oh, yes!”

  Great. Just. Freaking. Great.

  “Standard or informed?” I ask Shǐ about MI5 following nem. Was it standard surveillance or are they aware we’re up to something?

  “It—” Ne stops to revisit nir oversized porcelain cup.

  Jeez. How much did I give nem? “How much do you weigh?” I ask.

  Ne spits several times and rinses out nir mouth. Ne sits back and says, “I hate you.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “A lot of people do. Standard or informed?”

  “It started standard,” Shǐ says, and wipes nir mouth. “But ever since your stunt that’s made the near constant news cycle—”

  Dropping the stone through the roof of the Great Court. Yeah, that might have gotten their attention.

  “—They’ve been more focused. So good job on that.”

  Oh, h
ey, look at that. It takes three hundred and forty one licks to get to the center of a lollipop, and it takes three minutes of intense vomiting to break through Shǐ’s façade of serenity.

  “We received an unscheduled package,” I tell nem, “at our post box from the same place that we got the SFID chip—”

  The bathroom door shunts inward against its lock. Someone immediately bangs on the door. “Excuse me, miss,” an older male voice calls through the door, “Is everything all right in there?”

  I quickly make a gagging motion at Shǐ, who promptly turns around and hurls more. Once ne finishes, ne flicks me off and calls out in a weak voice, “No. Your food has made me violently ill. I will find your manager—” Ne pauses to fill the porcelain bowl more. Although at this point, it’s just dry heaves and poor Shǐ has tears running down the side of nir face.

  It kinda makes me feel bad.

  Shǐ continues once ne’s able, “—I will find your manager when I am well enough to leave. I do not require medical assistance. Please have a sealed water bottle ready for me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the male voice calls out uncertainly.

  Shǐ and I stare at each other for a second in silence, continuing to give time for the voice to step away.

  Ne asks in a quieter voice, “Did you pick up the package?”

  “Of course not. The question is: who sent the package? The Muppies tracking the missing squiddie, or MI5 pulling at loose strings hanging off of you? And how about a courtesy flush?”

  Shǐ takes another sip of water, spits it out and manages to pull nemself up to sit on the toilet and flushes it. Once the initial whirl of water drops an octave, ne says, “It would be prudent to assume they’re connected.”

  If they’re connected, then Shǐ was very likely followed here. And that older male voice likely had a much different motive for trying to barge in first rather than knocking.

  Which means I have to get the hell out of here.

  “If they are connected,” I say, “then we need to go silent. No more contact, except at our choosing.”

  Shǐ gives me a dark, discerning look. It’d be more threatening if ne wasn’t so pale from vomiting.

  I save nem the trouble of having to threaten me and say, “We’re still a go—”

  Ne reaches into nir shimmery purple clutch purse and pulls out a folded manila envelope and hands it to me. “The Ministry information.”

  Whoops. I had forgotten about that part in the whole MI5-is-on-my-ass revelation.

  “I thought,” ne says, “that the manner of the random opera tickets arriving was Liáng asking me out. So I took the opportunity to take care of this.”

  “Oh … ?” I raise my eyebrows knowingly at nem.

  Ne heads me off icily, “That is why I agreed to come at all.”

  “All right, all right,” I say and put my hand up holding the manila envelope defensively.

  “Well,” I say, “It’s been nice. But I gotta run.” I motion around the toilet area. “And sorry about all that.” I do actually feel bad. I didn’t think it would last that long. “I won’t be in touch,” I say to end the conversation and step back toward the other stall to climb up into the vent to make my getaway.

  “Good,” ne says. “If you need to, have Liáng do it. As much as I enjoy your company, I’d rather not have anything else shooting out of either side of me.”

  * * *

  The evening has settled into a cold night as I make my way back toward the Birmingham train station. I’m back in my everyday clothes of tight skinny jeans and marigold sweater under my navy-blue trench coat, hurrying along with my head down—presumably against the cold. But really it’s an excuse to keep checking behind me to see if I’m being followed.

  Which is how I pick up the short portly man who’s keeping pace with me about thirty feet back. His natural gate is much shorter than the quick steps he’s taking to keep up with my longer strides.

  I already signaled Puo that I had an admirer and would check back with him once I dealt with it.

  I keep an eye on the short portly man as I switch back away from the train station, and continue to think.

  MI5. Freaking. Great.

  I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than if it were the Muppies. Probably worse. MI5 is probably informing the Muppies.

  The short portly man follows me dutifully. The sound of his steps are lost in the sounds of the street full of people out on a Friday night—although Birmingham’s streets are always full, as it’s the most populous city in the British Isles.

  It’s overcast tonight, threatening to rain. I can smell the brewing mist over the layer of street grime and the cold.

  I turn down a less populous side street, increasing my pace as soon as I’m out of sight. There’s a side entrance to an old Victorian pub and I duck into it, past the propped open dark-green door.

  The pub is separated by dark wooden booths around the central bar that fit five to eight people. I quickly make my way over the black-and-white tiled floor and mingle into the dense crowd, keeping an eye on the side entrance.

  I pretend to look over the beer menu and can’t help but smile at the sign screwed into the wall that reads, “Caution. Pickpockets are known to operate in this area.” Why yes, yes they do. Caution. One just walked into the bar. Caution. She’s standing right next to you.

  The stocky man walks past the side entrance, his round head swiveling back and forth as he tries to locate me. Whoever this guy is, government intelligence agent he is not—they tend to be much more competent.

  But there’s something familiar about—

  It’s Ham the Cleaner.

  Son of a bitch. As soon as I realize it, he turns and looks straight at me.

  What horrible voodoo was that—that as soon as I identify the piggish dick, he can magically locate me in a crowd?

  Ham makes a beeline straight for me.

  I’m going to need a drink for this. What the hell is he doing all the way here overseas? I’m not seeing things again, am I? Although Ham would be the last person I desired to see.

  Back when Winn was with us, we skimmed the Cleaners’ code off of Ham. We created a situation that scared the shit out of him and caused him to panic, which enabled us to copy the code without his knowledge and made him happy to just not be in jail.

  I move out of the packed booth I’m in (picking up some drink money out of the burnt-orange safari purse hanging ignored on the back of the stool as I set the menu back down) to find a quieter spot to brush off Ham.

  Deeper in the pub, the wooden booths around the bar give way to normal standing room. I step up to the bar and order an amber ale.

  A clammy hand grabs me around the upper arm. “We need to talk,” Ham says.

  I hate this asshole. I turn toward him and with my free hand flick him hard on his Adam’s apple.

  He sputters, and removes his hand from me to cup his throat.

  “Don’t ever touch me again—” I move into his personal space. “Next time I’m going to break bones, scream, and have you arrested for assault.”

  Ham gives me an equally dangerous look. “You’d have to file a complaint to do that.”

  He means deal with the cops.

  I really hate this small, soft little man. “Try me.” My I-don’t-give-a-shit meter just went up a tick.

  Ham continues to massage his throat and casts his gaze furtively around the pub. He whispers, but no more civilly, “We need to talk.”

  The bartender drops off a rich, deep-amber ale in a pint glass in front of me. There’s not much foam, and the small bubbles swirl from the bottom of the glass in what looks like a choreographed dance.

  I drop money from the ignored safari purse on the bar and grab the pint glass to find somewhere more private to deal with Ham.

  We find a table secluded enough in the back corner and sit down. I choose the stiff wooden chair facing the wall, rather than the built-in padded bench—easier to get away. And given Ham’s personality, ea
sier to use the chair as weapon to smash over the bastard’s face if my I-don’t-give-a-shit-meter spikes to new levels.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him. “You have some sort of exchange program set up?” I leave off: for assholes.

  “I know what you did,” Ham hisses at me.

  “Did what?” I ask, annoyed. If Ham could prove anything, a friendly meeting in a pub tipping me off is not how the Cleaners Guild would move.

  “You know what.”

  Fuck! All my frustration at Winn, at Puo, at Liáng, at possible MI5 involvement suddenly has a target. A small, soft, piggish asshole who I thoroughly detest. “No,” I say. “I don’t.”

  I roll my eyes to emphasize his stupidity and take a sip of the amber ale. It’s a tasty beer, light like a pale ale, with tones of caramel offset by a minor bitter finish.

  “Yes. You do,” Ham insists. He then continues in the same dumbass conspiratorial tone, “You have no idea what you’ve started—”

  Started? But Ham talks over me before I can retort.

  “—It’s going to be bad for both sides. You need to tell them what you did.”

  “Ham,” I say leaning forward, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Tell who? About what?”

  Ham actually looks scared for the briefest of seconds as he stares at me. “You never could just listen.”

  Yup, there it is. My I-don’t-give-a-shit-a-meter just went up several ticks. I’ve had enough of this meatbag who’s filled way more with cockiness than confidence.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask as a last ditch effort before I do something stupid.

  “Hiding.”

  What? That was unexpected. I can only stare at him as I process that.

  He’s not lying. I can tell by the manner he said it. And he immediately looks like he regrets it.

  The simple truth saps my frustration. “Ham,” I say much more seriously, “What is going on?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  IT’S ONE-THIRTY in the morning, three hours after my unexpected run-in with Ham, and I’m sneaking into Puo’s room back at the house in Hampstead. The two of us need to talk without Liáng listening in.