by Jeff Abbott
So she nuzzled my neck, put her hand on my back.
“This is a bad idea,” I said, catching my breath. Justine’s mouth traced along my jawline.
“I feel so uncomfortable,” Rébeque said. “You two are making me feel unwelcome. I should go and give you privacy.” Her voice sounded almost merry.
Justine turned my face to hers and gave me a gentle kiss. I let her do it. Then I kissed her back, very softly, so it could feel like we were just playacting. It had been a long time. She was smart and beautiful and I could be dead soon like Steve.
“I don’t normally do this while assisting people in tracking geeks,” Justine said. But she kept her lips close to mine. Her mouth tasted of wine and mint. She laced her fingers in my hair.
“It’s appreciated,” I said.
Rébeque made a grand show of setting down her Champagne flute in irritation. “Now you ignore me for a guy you just met. Some friend,” she said in loud, heavily accented English, and shrugged in that Gallic way that conveyed to any onlookers her deep annoyance. She walked toward the bar, recovered her dignity, and placed herself next to the jacket, a wounded look on her face. I decided Rébeque would be quite the performer in the courtroom. Juries must love her.
“I suppose,” Justine said, her mouth close to mine, her finger against my jawline, “you need to spy on those tiresome people.”
I wanted to say, I’m a dad. My first wife was a traitor. I used to be a spy. You don’t want to get close to me. But I said none of that and just said, “I suppose I do.”
She said, “Nuzzle my neck and you can look over my shoulder.”
I did. Her neck, lightly perfumed, smelled so good, of honey, of flowers I couldn’t even name. The big guy and the pixie were still arguing, but it had shifted in its heat: the pixie was lecturing the big guy, using her fingers to count whatever grievances she had.
I leaned back from Justine, smiling.
“If you’re really chasing that woman, I’ll be disappointed,” Justine said.
“I’m not.”
“I leave Miami tomorrow.” She glanced over at Rébeque. “Unless I don’t.”
“You have school, Justine.”
“It’s not starting right away.”
“Rébeque is talking to that man in the jacket. He has bought her a glass of wine.”
“And you are stuck here with me. The man in the jacket has no chance. Rébeque has a wonderful boyfriend back in Lyon.”
“And you?”
“And I don’t.” Her mouth was close to mine again. Her hand was on my knee. I glanced over her shoulder and saw the pixie slap the big guy.
Hard. I heard the impact of flesh over the thrumming beat of the music.
13
THE BIG GUY stood, but not in a threatening way. The security guards around the reserved section took several steps toward the big guy’s table.
The big guy shook his head, almost sadly, and rubbed his cheek and the pixie didn’t seem to know what to do after the slap. She stumbled away from him, and she stormed past us, glancing once over at the jacket, who had no eyes for her and was loudly testing his high-school French on Rébeque, who was pretending to be charmed by his linguistic incompetence.
I wondered what I’d seen.
I sat down and the big guy had cast his gaze around at every man who looked inclined to come to the pixie’s rescue. Including me, for the briefest of moments, but I wasn’t a threat because Justine was playing with my hair, and I turned my face away in the dim lights.
When I glanced at him again, the big guy was alone, at a table full of expensive wine and with seats around it. Lost in thought. Maybe his heart was broken. Maybe he was thinking about Steve Robles dying in a pool of rain and blood.
Then I saw him gesture toward the jacket and Rébeque. He might not be used to being alone, or he might be ready to move on to the next woman and I thought: No, no, no, come back to us, don’t do it…
But Rébeque did. She went and sat down with the jacket, shook hands with the big guy, who stood to greet her with a polite smile. The jacket sat on the big guy’s right and Rébeque, very smart, sat next to him rather than next to the big guy.
The jacket poked the slapped cheek of the big guy and shook his head and the big guy shrugged, but didn’t look happy. However, he put a polite smile on for Rébeque. A natural host.
“I don’t like this,” I said. “These could be dangerous people.”
“Rébeque is a lawyer,” Justine reminded me, as if this imparted an ability to deal with the unruly. “She’ll be fine. So. What do you do?”
“I own a bar here. Several, actually. Including two in France.”
“Very cool! In Lyon?”
“No. Paris and Strasbourg.”
“Tragedy.” Justine smiled at me again, and how long had that been: a woman looking at me and not wanting anything more than my company? Mila, with her endless agendas; Leonie, wanting me to grant her a special, permanent place in my son’s life. Lucy, my ex, with her catalog of lies, even when she said she loved me.
“Yes, it is. I’ve never been sorrier I don’t own a bar in Lyon.”
“No, I meant, final night. Like in a book. I meet an interesting guy my final night here.”
“You say that only because I’m totally using you and your friend.”
“Ah. We’d come in here and some guy would try to pick us up, then find out we were French and make bad jokes about chain smoking or surrendering too easily. I thought the guys in Miami were more sophisticated.” She laughed.
“I don’t like Rébeque hanging out with these guys.” My fear for her had turned into a fist in my chest. “It’s a bad idea.”
“It will be fine,” Justine said.
I glanced over again. The big man was leaning forward, elbows on knees, talking animatedly to Rébeque, who was laughing politely. She had a fresh glass of wine set in front of her.
This went on for forty minutes. Rébeque and the jacket danced once, then the big guy and Rébeque danced, but he didn’t seem too into it. As though distracted. Then they returned to the table, drank wine and spoke some more, then the big man and the jacket got up and they all said their good-byes. I kept my back turned to them.
Rébeque slinked back to our table.
“I’ve been a wreck,” I said as she sat down.
“Ah, they’re harmless,” Rébeque said. “The handsome guy is named Galo, the fashion failure is Ricky.”
“I have to follow them,” I said.
“Ah,” Justine said. “You and your obsessions.”
“I’ll be back,” I said. “Stay and have fun, I’ve covered the tab.”
Justine gave me a doubtful look. “You’re not coming back, Sam.”
“I am.”
She touched my jaw with her fingertip. It felt wonderful. “Well, we’ll see. Take the ticket with you, so you can get back in.”
“Thank you both so much,” I said. I kissed Justine on the forehead and I hurried out of the club. I’d lost sight of Galo and Ricky and then I spotted them, separating, shaking hands at the valet station. I decided to follow Galo.
It was a ten-minute wait, given the crowds. I’d given my claim ticket to the valet and then I returned to the corner of the porte cochere, pretended to study my phone’s screen while the two men spoke softly. Once Galo laughed. Ricky shook his head. I got an old-friend vibe off of them. They paid me no mind.
Our cars arrived roughly at the same time, delivered by the swarming flock of valets. Ricky got into his old Mercedes; Galo got into a newer Porsche; I followed him out of the lot. I hung back, just barely keeping him in sight.
I followed Galo’s Porsche to an Art Deco apartment building on South Beach. The crowds on the street were thick with those wanting to see, and wanting to be seen. (This modern need for attention from total strangers confuses me.) I watched him go inside. Okay, an address, I could do something with that.
But I thought of Justine and told myself, Go see her. Just to say tha
nks and good-bye. I wheeled back to the Corinthian. I got back into (Or); the bouncer remembered me—“French dude!” he laughed—and waved me in. On the dance floor, I could see Justine and Rébeque dancing with a pair of young guys. The guys were well dressed and probably had nice, normal jobs. Justine didn’t see me. She gave her dance partner a polite smile, but not as nice as the one she’d given me.
I watched for a moment, full of regret, then I went back to the valet station and I went home. I hadn’t reopened Stormy’s since Steve died and I thought of the money flowing like a river into (Or), probably earning more tonight than Stormy’s cleared in a year. I could charge twenty bucks for a beer and see if I could catch up.
I went upstairs to the humble, slightly shabby apartment. I wouldn’t have wanted Justine to see this dump anyway, I thought, not after the glamour of the Corinthian. I sat on the edge of the bed. I could feel her lips against mine. We’d wanted each other and that was okay. I was twenty-six, divorced from a traitor, with an infant son, and chasing murderers. What was I doing with my life?
14
I FELL BACK on the bed and thought, Give up the bars. Hand them back to Mila, quit working for the Table, figure out something else to do with your life. Then I thought of Steve, laughing. My brother, pleading for his life on the grainy, low-grade video. Helping an innocent young man in New York whom some very bad people wanted me to kill in an unholy exchange. A woman in San Francisco, whispering Help me before all hell broke loose and people started trying to murder her.
Was I more moved by the unexpected dangers people faced, or the feel of Justine’s lips against my own? Duty or life?
Back in my brain the fire lit. I got up and went to the computer. I had an e-mail from an address I hadn’t seen before, an address that was mostly random letters and numbers. It was a report, a summation of press clippings about the Varela family, from newspapers, magazines, news services. Librarians never sleep, I guess, especially ones on parole. She wasn’t supposed to be on the computer, but the e-mail wasn’t signed, there was nothing in the address to suggest it had come from librarian-turned-criminal-mastermind Paige. I opened the report and my gaze locked on the words “Galo Varela.”
He was Cordelia’s older brother; no doubt the one I’d heard on the telephone tap. He was a senior vice-president at FastFlex, his father’s cargo transport company. He had been arrested twice for fighting when he was younger, both times acquitted—this wasn’t from a news report, but a personal note from the rogue librarian, who’d made some phone calls to those in the know. He’d also been valedictorian of his class in an expensive private school, played football for the Miami Hurricanes, although not as a starter, and trained as a pilot before getting his MBA. Made sense when your family was in the aviation business. Galo had been groomed for success.
He must’ve known Cordelia hired Steve. Was he behind the Colombians? Why kill a man hired by his own sister?
I scanned the articles Paige had pulled. Reynaldo Varela—who went by “Rey”—had three children: Galo, Cordelia, and Edwin, the son who’d been kidnapped and killed. I studied the photo of Edwin from the newspaper; you could tell he was Cordelia’s brother, the resemblance was strong. Rey had been married, and widowed, three times. Unlucky in love. He had a stepdaughter named Zhanna from the final wife. A quick summary told me he’d built his company with a Russian business partner, flying cargo on routes between Europe, the Mideast, and Africa after the Cold War on surplus Russian aircraft behemoths such as IL-76s and Antonovs. Those planes were the hardy workhorses of the Soviet Air Force, and Rey and his partner made runs where they dodged missiles and customs and kept the planes together with luck and glue. They flew cargo such as flowers and fish and medical supplies. FastFlex eventually expanded and settled their base back to his hometown in Miami, flying runs to South and Central America and the Caribbean and the western coast of Africa. He’d kept the company family owned and bought out his Russian partner, Sergei Pozharsky, and poured a lot of money back into the business. He’d flourished in a big way. He’d slowly built his millions and been generous back to the city—all confirming what Paige told me earlier. He had a good quote from an article, when asked about running an airline: “Cargo does not complain like passengers do.” It made me smile, for a moment. Not a lot else. Nothing really about the man, what had driven him to build this business, what he was like in the wake of losing three wives and a son.
I wondered who the fiery pixie was. There was no mention that Galo was married. A girlfriend? I looked up the address in South Beach on the online property tax records. Twenty-four apartments in the building. No Varelas listed as owners, no names I recognized. Some names looked corporate.
I took out the casino plaque. This might have been what Galo sent Ricky to look for; I’d just found it first. Maybe this was my ticket to getting inside the maze of the Varelas.
* * *
My lessons from the inside:
The burnt man said, leaning forward, “When you’re an inside man, you have one job. Find the thread.”
“The thread?”
“The thread. You are pretending to be something you are not. You are not on a stage. You are in a maze, a labyrinth. You have to pick up the thread that leads you out of the maze, like Perseus in the old myth. You go into the maze, you kill the monster, you follow the thread out.”
I blinked. “The monster was called the minotaur.”
“Yeah, I know. But concentrate on the thread.” Here his voice rose in a hoarse whisper. I wondered if his vocal cords had been singed. “It’s the information, or the person, that takes you into the maze, all the twists, to get to the heart of what you need. Either the person you need to bring to the CIA, or the information we need, or the object we need. You pick up the thread. The thread takes you into the heart of darkness and then leads you home.”
“Um, in the story, Perseus didn’t pick up a thread to find the monster. The thread was his way of getting out.”
“It works both ways for an inside man,” the burnt man said.
“So what’s the thread?”
“It can be a person. A guide. Someone you make trust you. Or information that makes you irresistible to the people you’re infiltrating. Makes you golden. Hey, wasn’t Perseus’s thread golden?”
“I don’t remember. This is your story, you should know.”
He leaned back and his eye stared at me from his ruined face. “You think this is a waste of time.”
“No, sir, I don’t. I’m just trying to understand.”
“Inside man, you got to have attitude. You’re not there to play a part. You’re there to get in, get what you came for, get out. It might take you five minutes or five years.”
I laid back on my bed. I thought of the burnt man and what had happened to him the one time he didn’t take his own advice. I wondered what Justine was doing with the guy who’d moved in after I left. I wondered if I might ever see her again. No, probably not. For the best.
There was one way to find out what the chip was worth.
Go to Puerto Rico and see what happened when I tried to redeem it at the casino.
I undressed and I went to bed, my thoughts full of Justine and Cordelia Varela and the regulars at the bar, mourning Steve, the rounds to be bought no more, and that little flame in the back of my brain burning to put the world right. But what I dreamed of was Coma Thug awakening and pointing at my picture, and the taxi driver telling the police he’d picked me up carrying a motorcycle helmet less than a mile from Coma Thug’s broken body, and Cordelia Varela sitting in a courtroom and saying, Sam lied to the police, where do I even start? So many ways for my life to unravel, because I had to fix the world, make them pay for Steve. That night I dreamed of the strong hand pulling me and my family from the wrecked car, flames along the side of the road as the scrubby grassland began to burn, jets rumbling above as the besieged airport emptied. In the dream I reached up toward one of the planes and in the weird bent physics of dreams Rey Varela looked
down at me from the window.
Come on, Sam, let’s hurry. Don’t cry. It’ll all be okay, Steve said.
My life was still a debt unpaid.
15
THE NEXT MORNING I called in a favor.
I called the CIA.
Or rather, I called a back corner of the CIA, where my oldest friend in the agency, August Holdwine, was a fast-rising star. He and I had both worked for Special Projects, a group that sounds like they might design databases or handle career day at Virginia high schools. What they handle are dirty jobs. The ones that can never be owned or claimed. Because they tread on the territories of law enforcement or overseas agencies. I called August at a number he’d given me for emergencies and left a message.
He called me back in ten minutes, even though it was a Saturday. “How’s the kiddo?”
“Daniel’s great. He’s awesome.”
“You could send me a picture now and then of my godson.”
“I don’t really want his photo going into a CIA archive because I sent it over the official wires.”
“He might be the only baby in the world who already has a CIA file, Sam, it’s fine. I have a home e-mail account you can use.”
August had sent Daniel a onesie from the University of Minnesota—where August had played linebacker—and I told myself to remember to have Leonie put him in it and send a picture to his godfather. The bribery involved in espionage isn’t always what you expect. “All right. I need a favor.”
He waited to hear it.
“The old Sam Chevalier identity,” I said. “Can you reactivate it for me?”
Long pause. I waited.
“Why?” he asked.
“I might need to travel under a different name, briefly, and have a different credit history.” I’d decided redeeming the chip as Sam Capra might be too dangerous. Plus, if there was money tied to cashing in the chip, I didn’t want it going to my bank account. Better to act under a different name.
