by Vince Milam
Pulling the .45 remained an option, unneeded. A quick hand signal toward Bishop—stay put. I stepped past the large man on the floor, used the momentum to snap the wrist he’d used on the girl. He screamed. The white-hot cry of pain echoed off the low ceiling, and the working girls huddled, grouped against the walls.
I advanced toward the knife-wielding muscle, forced him to make a move. A move on my terms. The knife came low, deadly. I caught his forearm, punched his throat, and as he fell, broke his knife arm at the elbow. He rasped a bellow of pain, tried to breathe, no longer a threat. A quick glance confirmed Bishop had heeded my signal and declined participation in the festivities. It was over in under ten seconds.
A settled intermission filled Paramaribo’s best whorehouse. Case Lee, center stage. Bello’s scream lowered to a guttural moan. Muscle two joined the chorus, short violent gasps for air, emphatic exhales, attempting to control the pain.
“Behave, Bishop.”
He nodded, relit his cigar, and leaned back. Saved some face.
“That’s sound advice,” I added. “Behave.”
I checked the room for any additional assailants, grabbed my jacket, and made a calm exit. A light rain had started. I jogged away. The rain washed, cleansed. The whorehouse event faded, shoved deep, racked up, and discarded. Another sad vignette, played out on life’s garbage-ridden stage. Sad, tawdry, lonely.
Fatigue flooded me—a full day. A quiet, clean drink at the hotel bar called. I jogged in that direction. The movement provided more physical release, tuned both body and mind. It also saved my life.
The angry bee-buzz of a bullet whipped past my neck. The echoed crack of a pistol followed. Someone had missed his or her running target, me, by an inch. The bullet’s movement past my head and the sound of the retort identified the general location of the source. A parked car provided me cover. The drawn .45 presented a deadly fact—I’d deliver the next shot.
This could have been related to the whorehouse incident, but mental alarms screamed otherwise. I scuttled near the front bumper of the vehicle, stayed low, surveyed the direction of the shot. The glint of a metallic firearm revealed my adversary’s position—across the street, a dark shape also crouched behind another vehicle. The .45 took aim.
Automatic gunfire blasted down the road. Tracer rounds, mixed with regular bullets, left brief red lines in the night air. A cadre of scared soldiers, posted at the nearest street intersection, didn’t bother ascertaining what the hell was going on. Instead, they had opened fire with their Uzi submachine guns toward the general direction of my assailant’s shot. Bullets pinged off parked cars and struck the street with a wet whine. The cacophony continued for fifteen seconds, then stopped. Hushed commands and back-and-forth arguments among the group of soldiers floated through the light rain. Dogs barked, and heavy wooden house shutters slammed.
A quick glance across and down the street revealed a retreating shadow, quickly covered by the night.
Chapter 18
The front desk staff lacked the usual smiles, eyes toward the floor when I informed them of my scheduled departure on tomorrow morning’s flight. They were cautious, wary, and less prone to engage. Someone had delivered them a first-class ass-chewing. Fletcher Hines, CIA. A man upset over their lack of prepaid loyalty. And upset with himself for having been outbid by a Russian spy. I settled the bill with cash.
“Pleasant evening?” Nika asked.
Alone, she worked a hotel bar drink. Tight jeans, black running shoes, and a dark maroon hoodie. She oozed sexuality from such a casual outfit.
I sat two stools away and ordered a Grey Goose on the rocks. Her presence prompted a new review of the possibilities. The bullet with my name on it, close. Too damn close. A pro must have fired it. I had presented a nighttime running figure, and the shooter had missed by an inch.
Hines, maybe. The CIA would consider me a loose end that required tying. A well-trained hit man hired by Luuk Hoebeek, another possibility. Ravindu Tjon had tasted, for the final time, Hoebeek’s displeasure.
Or Nika, now sipping her drink, cool as a cucumber.
If she was the shooter, then brass balls led her to inquire about my evening. Perhaps she considered the hotel bar neutral ground. There wasn’t a damn thing neutral about the black widow perched several feet from me, smiling. Her hoodie’s large front pocket showed signs of something small and heavy nestled within. A pistol. Of course, she would carry, part of her motif. Whether she’d used the weapon this night was the $64 question. The metallic coolness of the .45 pressed against my lower back, tucked inside my jeans, provided comfort. If gunplay ensued, I could draw faster than her. Maybe.
“It’s been a hoot so far. How about you?” I asked.
Long red fingernails performed a light bar-top staccato, similar to a piano player, bored. She smiled, ignored my question, and asked, “Such a peculiar life we live. Do you tire of it?”
“I’m tired of being shot at.”
The light clack of her manicured nails stopped, and a look of concern—real or fake—appeared. “Someone shot at you today?”
“I didn’t say today.”
“I assumed.”
“You assumed right.”
At least the tawdry atmosphere of the whorehouse had been replaced with a civilized, albeit lethal, venue. Another office setting for Case Lee, Esq.
She sent her right hand into the hoodie’s front pocket. I reciprocated, slid my hand over the pistol grip at my back. We both froze, locked eyes. Then she smiled again and shook her head.
“Really?” she asked.
“As real as it gets.”
Still smiling, she slowly extracted her hand, showed a pack of smokes and a lighter. The heavy bulge remained in her hoodie pocket. I returned my right hand to the bar top, took a drink with my left.
She lit a smoke and addressed the bar-length mirror. Bottles of booze blended with her reflection. A little finger corrected a perceived issue with her hair.
“I’ve discovered something interesting, Case. And I do like your name. It fits.”
John Bolen hadn’t lasted long with her. I did a quick replay of the last twenty-four hours. I’d been careful. Discreet. Unless Hines had shared information with her. You never knew. Then it hit me. My Grey Goose glass from last night. Fingerprints. The glass taken, the prints lifted, digitized. Then combined with photos she’d taken of me with a hidden camera. Zip it up, hit “Enter,” Moscow bound. Voila—the profile of a Mr. Case Lee emerged. Damn. I should have taken the glass with me. Her physical allure had worked—caused a slip. A stupid misstep on my part.
“It will come as no surprise that inquiries were made,” she said. “I’ve received background information. And I must say, you do have an interesting past.” She continued an inspection of herself in the mirror and took a drag of her smoke.
“And that’s all it is. The past. I’m boring now.”
“Boring?”
“And tedious. Client-based sleuthing. Run-of-the-mill stuff.”
She turned, faced me. “The bounty on your head is hardly run-of-the-mill.”
“Remnant of the past.”
“Even so. My, my. Quite a sum of money.”
I downed the Grey Goose and held the glass suspended, toward the bartender. He nodded back and prepared another. He showed no interest in the conversation. Too cryptic, perhaps. Or too dangerous to have any claims of overhearing. Nonplayers go deaf with regularity.
“You looking to collect, Nika?”
She laughed and took another drag of her smoke, exhaling toward the ceiling. “Oh, Case. I’m long past such endeavors. Like you, I focus on the mission.”
“The mission.”
“Yes. And the suggestion I’d be motivated by mere money actually hurts.”
She stuck out a lower lip as an exaggerated affront at my question. Then she broke a wry grin, shook her head, and added, “Still, it must keep you on your toes.”
“Yeah. I’m a regular Gene Kelly. Dancing in the rain
while dodging bullets.”
She gave a “Hmm” and moved on. “Well, be assured this is friendly turf.”
“The bar.”
“Yes. I want you comfortable, relaxed. The night is young.” She winked and took a sip of her drink.
A hotel front desk employee stuck her head in the bar and called the bartender. He left, and the low-ceiling room now held just the two of us. The damp rain spots on her hoodie and jeans hadn’t dried. She laid her smoke in the ashtray, undid her ponytail, and shook her head, releasing a cascade of blonde tresses.
“Think about it,” she continued. “Ships passing in the night, pleasure taken, no strings.”
Quiet footfalls on hardwood outside the bar, murmurs from the front desk, and the aroma of expensive perfume a few feet away. Chanel No. 5.
“Just so I’m crystal clear on this moment, you’re intimating we have a drink, conduct a little belly rubbing, and forget our daily woes? Am I hearing that right?”
Lunacy, plain and simple. Neutral ground and a roll in the hay. Sheer lunacy, but an attribute common among clandestine professionals. They weren’t my tribe, but I’d worked with them and understood where she came from.
She took a drag, locked eyes. “You should go home, Case. Report to your client the rumor and speculation you’ve uncovered.”
“And that’s about all I’ve got.”
“Sufficient for a job well done. Leave the international gamesmanship to the professionals.”
“Like you.”
“Like me.”
Odds were stacked high she was malevolent, hollow, a stone-cold killer. A possible attempt on my life twenty minutes ago, not quite acknowledged, now shunted aside. An alluring new proposition made. The thought of passion spent with her brought shivers, most of them the wrong kind. Most, but not all.
“Let’s talk about your day, Nika. Idle chitchat. Get to know each other better.”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Takes to do what?”
“To salve your ‘get to know her’ prerequisite.”
“Just being friendly. And professional. Not a prelude for other activities.”
I drove that stake in the ground for two reasons—to set boundaries for this little interaction and to ensure I didn’t slip. I’m a straight man. And she looked like a Victoria’s Secret model. Break out the resolve tools, nail certain doors shut.
She chuckled—low, sexy, lethal. “My day was certainly more mundane than yours. Not a single bullet passed me by. I feel left out. What’s a girl to do?” She played a bit more fingernail piano, smiled, pleasant.
I shifted on my seat, the cold steel at the small of my back reassuring. “So if you were betting, who’s ramrodding the rebel effort?”
“Back to work subjects?” She cast a false pout.
“This is no small shakes. The taking over of a sovereign country by insurgents,” I said. “Plugging in a new leader.”
“Plugging in a new leader. How Soviet.”
“A leader very amenable to the desires of the funding power player.”
She took a sip, swayed to unheard music, bored.
“You think it’s my team?” I asked.
Throwing out the possibility of a United States–led effort provided a starting point. No accusations, no denials, and acceptance of the possibilities. Her turf, and I wouldn’t linger long.
“It could be. Don’t look at me for answers. I’m trying to find out. Like you. Except this is my job. You’re a freelancer.”
“I’m pretty good at it.”
“I imagine you’re better than good at other things.”
“Let’s stay on topic.”
“Again, why don’t you call it over and done? Report what you’ve found, and head for the hills or wherever it is you live.”
Absent the bartender, she stood on the bar’s foot rail and leaned far over, retrieving the bottle of Grey Goose. I watched the whole show and avoided staring at her ass. Her hoodie pocket thumped on the bar top and caused a casual freeze of movement. She looked over her shoulder, gave a friendly raise of her eyebrows.
“Oh, my,” she said, then continued on her mission and poured us both another drink.
In for a penny, in for a pound. This was liable to be the last time I ever saw her, so I opened my kimono a bit, starting with a half lie. “I’m heeding your advice, Nika. Leaving this place tomorrow. First flight.”
She’d buy it, after checking with the front desk and going online to backdoor the airline’s passenger list. A layer of cover while I mucked about on the other side of the Coppename River.
“All the more reason for a bit of relaxation,” she said, cocking her head and raising the corners of her lips.
“Couldn’t afford it.”
“Afford what?”
“The emergency-room bill at Paramaribo’s finest hospital.”
She laughed. It was getting late. Tomorrow, another busy day. This was her turf, her game. Time to shake and stir, tilt the seesaw, then leave.
“Ravindu Tjon is dead.”
An ice-cold expression fell across her face.
“And you know this how?”
“Eyeballs.”
“Who did it?”
“Your dear friend, Luuk Hoebeek.”
She lit another smoke and pursed her lips, thinking. A single polished fingernail tapped the bar top. She stared into the mirror. “You’ve certainly been a busy little beaver today.” The statement was directed at her reflection. The next one locked eyes with me. “Busy, busy. That can be very unhealthy.”
“I take vitamins. Whose payroll was Tjon on? Yours?”
“I hate to say this, Case. I really do. But you’re out of your league.”
“And I just met with a merc. Name of Bishop. Chopper pilot. You know him?”
A broadside effort, firing definitive statements and blunt questions. No subterfuge, no spy craft. My rules.
“Everyone knows Bishop.”
“If Bishop is double-dipping with you, he won’t last long.”
“They come and they go,” she said.
“I’m discounting the Chinese.”
“Unwise.”
“They have too many commercial interests in this neck of the woods to risk screwing it up. So it’s either your side or my side.”
“You’ve left out commercial interests. The world runs on money. Big money.”
A Nika feint. The blueprints from Tjon’s office showed massive docks, piers, and repair yards. A naval base, not commercial.
“I’ll give it a toss-up. United States or Russia. That’s going in my report.”
“Highly speculative. Bordering on unprofessional.”
She had ceased any warmth toward me, thrown the off switch.
“Goodnight, Nika. And goodbye.” I slid off the barstool and backed toward the door. “It’s been, well, different.”
I no longer existed for her except as another chess piece. Another pawn. She glanced my way, turned, and contemplated her reflection while she mused, planned. The next move, who to influence, who to kill. She soaked in her world, alone, deadly.
Back in the room, I locked the door and slid a chair under the door handle. Gathered bedding and two pillows, closed and locked the bathroom door. The bathtub made for a secure bed. I slept with the .45 and dreamed of darkness and purple streets and death.
Chapter 19
The lobby’s glass front doors revealed predawn blackness. My travel rucksack slung over one shoulder and the displayed .45 pistol sent a simple message. I’m leaving. Don’t mess with me.
A wave and smile at the two front desk receptionists returned neither movement nor emotion. The “strange” factor cranks up in developing countries when revolution is under way. The front desk folks accepted the necessary behavioral changes, chose to navigate through this unsettled period with temporary blindness the mantra of the day.
The press badge dangled from a lanyard around my neck, the larger version placed on the dashboard.
Both helped when I was stopped at a checkpoint at the edge of town. Tired soldiers shook their heads and sent me on my way. The sixty-mile drive to the Coppename River took over an hour. No new burned-out military vehicles littered the lone coastal two-lane.
I kept an eye to my left, toward the wall of jungle. Wild turf. Muzzle blasts from military types tucked into the foliage would have shown, pinpoints of fire from the black sanctuary. Had someone taken a few potshots, a duck-down-and-stomp-the-accelerator strategy would ensue. But the ride, tense and grim, proved uneventful.
Dawn lowered the anxiety a notch or two. The same group of soldiers that had met me yesterday shuffled around the safe side of the long bridge. They stretched, yawned, the night shift over, uneventful, relieved. The same captain approached my vehicle. I reviewed my news-reporter task again, and—as so often happens—a new day had dawned, so he’d check with headquarters, confirm my passage. With Tjon’s death last night, complications were liable to arise at my departing government-controlled territory. When the captain strode toward his command post, I eased off the clutch and rolled across the bridge. They wouldn’t pursue me into enemy territory, and no one fired, either out of confusion or disregard. It didn’t matter. The view in the rearview mirror was the last I’d have of them.
Rebel-held territory. Eighty miles to Niew Nickerie, the town on the Courantyne River that separated Suriname from Guyana. A nowhere town and odds-on favorite for the rebel leader’s stronghold. Past experiences had shown that rebel leaders—and this Joseph Hoff fellow would be no exception—held firm exit strategies. Hoff might pull off a strong assault on Paramaribo and ensconce himself as the new president for life. Or the current guy in power could launch a major military assault on his position and destroy the rebel army. If the latter, Hoff would want a quick exit available. Cross the Courantyne River and find himself on the safe turf of Guyana. Live to fight another day.
