Eye of Heaven

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “Oh,” Iris breathed. “Oh, no.”

  “He didn’t rape her, if that’s what you think. He might as well have, though. When she refused to be his mistress, he killed her with whispers. He destroyed her reputation. He paid his goons to threaten her friends. He got word back to her family in Afghanistan, telling them that she was selling herself for money. He might as well have raped her, Iris. The damage was almost the same. Complete isolation. She lost her job. She couldn’t go home or ask her family for help, because by that point they considered her dead. She had to work odd jobs as a waitress, saving up money to study for a bar exam in another state, and when she could, she packed me up and moved. Finally got work as a lawyer again.” Blue’s forehead wrinkled; his scent was anxious, sad. “She named me after him, Iris. I never understood why. I wasn’t even certain why she told me what happened, who he was. I think it would have been kinder never knowing.”

  “I agree.” Iris could not imagine what it would do to her if she learned something similar about her own father.

  Blue sighed. “She’s a survivor. She used to tell me that pride never put food on the table. That dignity and pride were two separate things, and that as long as a person had dignity, it wouldn’t matter what they had to do, what hardship or sacrifice they had to endure. Dignity was backbone. Dignity was bending but not breaking.”

  “Reminds me of my mother,” Iris said.

  “Another tough lady,” Blue replied. “Do you know anything about her childhood?”

  “Not really. Just … basic history. My mother told me that our ancestors were from East Africa, but that they left almost six hundred years ago to roam up into the Middle East and Europe, eventually settling in France. My mother was born in the Pyrenees. I don’t know why she left, but she went to Scotland first, Argentina after that, and then finally America.”

  “Where she had you.”

  “She was in her late twenties. She had already worked as a performer for several years, but she quit after I was born. Every now and then she would agree to some shows—and I’d go along—but she was careful to keep me out of everyone’s way. I had a bad habit of … shifting when I got emotional. I didn’t truly perfect my control until I was twelve, which meant a lot of isolation.”

  “How did you go to school?”

  “I didn’t. My mom taught me at home and every now and then I’d go in for some state-required test. I thought about college, but I didn’t see much use for it. Life and books are better teachers, and you don’t have to pay money for those.”

  Iris propped herself up and studied his face. She reached out and tugged on his beard. “You still haven’t told me how you know her. My mother.”

  “Iris—”

  “I think we’re past the point where you have to shield my delicate ears, Blue.”

  He sighed, squeezing shut his eyes. “I think this is worse. She … tried to kill me. Or save me. I’m still not sure which.”

  “She did what?”

  “See, this is why I didn’t want to say anything.”

  “Shit.” Iris covered her face. “Did she tell you why?”

  “Apparently, Santoso told her to. I was getting too close to him, and your mother had to follow orders or else risk her cover.”

  “Oh, my God.” Iris rolled onto her back, hands still over her face. “Did she use a gun?”

  Blue hesitated. Iris peered at him through her fingers. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t see the point.”

  “There doesn’t have to be a point. My mother tried to kill you. I want to know how.”

  He squirmed. “She used a bomb. A tiny one.”

  Iris groaned. “Jesus. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

  “Let’s settle for not talking about this anymore. I don’t want to turn you against her or anything.”

  “She used a bomb on you, Blue.”

  “And I forgive her. The end.”

  Iris stared at him, and something else tickled her brain: a memory, a scent.

  Oh, Lord.

  “Blue,” she said slowly. “You were covered in a particular scent after my performance at the Miracle. A perfume. I don’t suppose you remember it, do you?”

  Blue’s jaw tightened. “Maybe. Why?”

  “It smelled exactly the same as what my mother was wearing when she found me in the casino.”

  “Really.” He looked at his hands. “That’s … some coincidence.”

  “I thought so, too. Maybe you would care to explain?”

  “No,” Blue said. “I really wouldn’t.”

  And Iris was fine with that.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Almost twenty-one hours later, after a brief stop in Hong Kong to refuel and change pilots, Iris found herself on the other side of the world.

  Jakarta, Indonesia.

  Iris did not have a passport, a fact she had alerted the men to before leaving Las Vegas. Frankly, she had expected some of them—especially Blue—to pat their chests with an, “Oops, forgot mine,” but apparently in their line of work having the appropriate documentation for a last-minute jet around the world was just as essential as credit cards and a loaded gun. The only thing they all shared in common was the need for a visa, something Fred assured them would be taken care of. Much like Iris’s passport.

  Sure enough, the moment the jet landed at Soekarno-Hatta International Airport, a very tiny man rushed on board bearing a bulging brown envelope. There were no handshakes, not much talking, just a swift demand for all passports, which he slapped down on the coffee table with a grunt. The next five minutes were spent stamping and gluing, accompanied by a constant litany of soft mutters that sounded about as stressed out as the man looked and smelled. Sweat beaded on his forehead; his white dress shirt clung to his back.

  Blue stood behind Iris, and she was more aware than ever of just how tall and strong he was. Looking at him, being near him, made her remember all those hours in his arms, and even though her body ached, it was good—a well-worn feeling that was all the warmer because the person responsible for it was at her side, and she trusted him to stay there. Trusted him to love her as much as she loved him.

  Of course, it scared her, too. Her bad experiences lingered. But that was fine. She could live with a little fear.

  The man finished affixing the visas with a flourish that consisted of a wide, bright smile that was shockingly cheerful. He returned the passports, including a gleaming new beauty for Iris. The picture on the inside looked like a close-up from one of the Miracle’s posters, with her face transposed onto a white background.

  The man left, and customs arrived at the jet—the two conveniently missing each other—and the process of entering Indonesia was completed with yet more stamps, no conversation, and a fat wad of bills that one of the agents slipped inside his uniform.

  “I love money,” Fred said after the officials left. “And I love working for people who possess vast, unending quantities of it.”

  Dean grunted. “I bet you sing ‘Material Girl’ when you’re in the shower.”

  Fred smiled, sticking an unlit cigarette in his mouth. “Better than ‘Mandy,’ Mr. Campbell.”

  Dean narrowed his eyes. Artur patted him on the shoulder.

  A sleek Mercedes van waited for them outside, and tinted windows made it impossible to see in. A short, svelte woman in a tight black uniform stepped out of the driver’s seat. A scarf covered her hair, but her brown eyes were covered in green eye shadow, and her lipstick was an unnatural shade of red.

  “Mr. Fred,” she said, smiling. “How was your trip?”

  “Lovely, Arti. Any messages?”

  “Only that the man you inquired about arrived several hours ago, and with company: the young man in the picture you faxed, as well as an older woman.”

  Iris forced herself to breathe. Fred smiled. “Arti, meet our guests. Everyone, meet Arti. She’s nice and good with a gun.”

  Arti blushed, giggling with what Iris could only define as extreme pa
ssion. She sounded like a hyena. Blue nudged Iris with his elbow, but she refused to look at him. Laughter would be highly inappropriate, even if it was partially due to the news about her mother and Danny.

  The drive from the airport went very slowly. Iris, after each passing moment inside the city center, found her opinion of Jakarta sinking lower and lower, until she could—at last, without guilt—admit to herself that she had entered the unequivocal definition of a hellhole.

  It was no doubt a pleasant, perhaps even beautiful place to live for those familiar with it, but Iris was not familiar, and though she knew it was incredibly small and shallow of her, she did not want to be familiar with this sweltering, steaming city where the air slapped her across the face with its grinding pollution and scents of burning garbage and open sewers; where the appalling poverty, the filth, was relentless, much like the high cries of the gaunt street children who pressed against the van with such desperate, hungry despair she wanted to gather them all up for a meal and a bath and as much money as she could cram into their skinny little hands.

  The traffic did not help, either. Despite Arti’s best efforts, the van became lodged on a side street like a kidney stone in a urethral tunnel of smoking vehicles. No place to run, no place to hide, no way to help; Iris watched the world pass in muted color, movement: green and blue pushcarts laden with soft drinks trundling down the muddy sidewalks; a sea of corrugated iron rooftops, narrow muddy streets, and, in the distance, the spires of modern steel and glass, which seemed like an affront to the extreme poverty all around her. People on scooters and bicycles slipped past; they wore surgical masks over their faces. Pedestrians were everywhere, walking faster than the cars parked in the road.

  Iris looked at Fred and found him chewing on the end of his unlit cigarette. She remembered him as he had been, the odd, bumbling FBI agent, and part of her missed that man. She wondered, too, how he had managed to live the act—all of this, an act—and how a man who read minds was supposed to exist without hating everyone around him.

  “You do it very carefully,” Fred said, turning to meet her gaze. “You keep yourself shut off or shut away, and in places like this or Las Vegas, where the people just don’t stop, you make sure you don’t listen. You tune it out, pretend all those little voices are static. Because if you don’t … well. You go crazy.”

  “So, do any of us have happy endings with the gifts we’ve been born with? Is there one person who has never suffered for them?”

  “None that I can think of,” Blue said, and Iris pushed deeper against him. “Of course, everyone has something.”

  Fred pinched the end of his cigarette between his fingers. “So, would you give it up? When you weigh the good you’ve done with your abilities, would you really just throw up your hands and say, ‘To hell with it’?”

  Blue said nothing. Iris watched his gaze travel to Artur, almost as if he thought the Russian might have the answer. His friend simply stared out the window at the rain clouds haunting the sky. The soft gray light made his face look exceptionally pale.

  “I have no regrets,” the Russian suddenly said, turning away from the clouds to look at them. He took off his glove. “No regrets at all.” And he touched the seat. His forehead creased. “You are very deceitful, Fred. This is a new vehicle. Never driven until now.”

  “Of course,” Fred replied, still playing with that unlit cigarette. “There was nothing I could do about the plane, but after what you did to me at the hotel, I called ahead and made special arrangements.”

  “You know that will not stop me from learning more about your organization.”

  “And I know that anything you find will just be a distraction. All you really want is Santoso. Or maybe just a good fight with a higher-than-average chance of receiving a bullet in your brain.” Fred spit out his cigarette. “Wuss.”

  “Wuss, my ass,” Dean said. “We’re armed and dangerous back here, man. Watch your fucking mouth.”

  “Enough.” Blue gave them all a hard look. “Fred, where are you taking us?”

  “We have a house in Menteng. It’s an old neighborhood near the business district. Lots of embassies and important political types live there. The security is good. We’ll get some intel from the folks observing Santoso’s Jakarta facility and then come up with a plan for getting Serena and Daniel out of there.” Fred glanced at Artur. “You want to read someone’s soul, be useful and go find something of Santoso’s to touch.”

  Iris thought of the facility, Santoso in that small room watching her shift, begging for a bite. “How long does a person need to be in contact with a thing before you can get a reading from it?”

  Artur sighed. “Not long. Moments, even, will produce something.”

  “And does it fade? Does whatever you can do get weaker depending on how long it’s been since that contact?”

  “It depends.” Artur gave her a curious look; all of them were staring at her. “Why?”

  She hesitated. “Because I am something Santoso touched. He hit me. Here.” She traced a circle in the air above her cheek. “And I bit him.”

  Blue reached out and caught her hand. His scent tasted sour with anger. Iris said, “Don’t. It could have been worse.”

  Artur’s eyes darkened. He raised his hand, but stopped just before touching her face. “If I do this, I will see everything. Not just Santoso.”

  “I figured.”

  Blue twined their fingers. “You don’t have to do this, Iris.”

  “I know,” she said, then looked at Artur. “Come on. Do your thing.”

  “Of course,” he murmured, and very slowly placed his palm against her cheek.

  Given Fred’s reaction back in Las Vegas, Iris expected a charge, a rush, some kind of physical or mental response to Artur’s touch. And there was something—a skipped heartbeat, maybe—that made her chest feel odd.

  Artur closed his eyes. His hand fell down to his lap, curled like a claw against his thigh. Iris heard the thick rumble of motorcycles. A lot of them. Traffic moving again, maybe.

  “Well?” Fred asked.

  “Santoso is there,” Artur said slowly. “But this mind—” His breath caught, and he looked at Blue with such consternation Iris felt a stab of fear run from the crown of her head to the base of her spine.

  “Aw, shit,” Dean muttered. “This isn’t going to be good.”

  Iris agreed. But before Artur could explain, the roars of the motorcycles got loud enough to be more than an annoyance, and the frown on Fred’s face twisted into shock.

  “Incoming!” he shouted. Blue pushed Iris forward, covering her with his body as the back windows shattered. Hands reached into the car; Iris glimpsed men wearing black helmets and white T-shirts. The motorcycles’ engines were deafening.

  Fists smacked flesh; Dean and Artur kicked open their doors, pushing back their attackers as they reached beneath their shirts for their guns.

  “Get down!” Fred shouted at them, but too late. The air cracked, blood blossoming on Artur’s shoulder. He staggered, falling back into the van. Iris barely noticed; she was too busy staring at the bullet hovering at the base of Dean’s neck. He reached around and grabbed it, pressed his lips to the gleaming surface, a truly dark smile curving his mouth as he stared at their attackers. The men blanched, but did not retreat.

  Blue left Iris—one moment there, the next rolling from the van, crouching by the open door while Dean dropped the bullet and began firing back shots at a red rooftop. One shot, one body, again and again, his aim unerring. Blue protected his back, fighting with his fists as men seemed to pour out of nowhere, all of them swarming the van. Most of them did not have weapons; the plan, it seemed, was to overwhelm. Arti hit the accelerator, but all she got was bumper. The car in front of them could not be budged. The windshield shattered; the small woman slammed up hard against the seat and then fell forward, her head hitting the horn. She did not move again. The air wailed.

  Iris’s nails lengthened, turning black, and though she refrai
ned from committing to a full shift, she poured power into her muscles and leaped from the car, fists swinging. Blue called her name, but she ignored him, falling into the dance, fighting to protect. Perhaps more of the cat showed through than she intended; the men, some of whom looked as though they had been recruited directly from local homes, off couches and in front of televisions, fell back when they looked at her face.

  “Sepang,” they whispered, eyes filled with horror.

  “Get back in the van!” Blue shouted, sliding up beside her.

  “You first!” she snapped.

  “They’re here for both of you!” Fred snarled. Tears ran down his face; he held Arti’s bloody face between his hands.

  “Shit,” Blue muttered. “Santoso.”

  “No,” Fred said brokenly. “Your father.”

  Blue stared. Dean swore, pushing him back toward the van, dragging Iris with them. The mob followed, still cautious; on the outskirts she saw the original attackers, still wearing their motorcycle helmets, none the worse for wear. Letting the poor hired masses do the dirty work. Iris gave them the finger.

  Artur got out of the van. His gun hand dripped blood, but he kept the weapon trained on the men behind them. Just as they reached the vehicle, something sharp pricked Iris’s back. She knew what it was the moment she felt the pain—the memory was too fresh—but she could not believe her goddamn terrible luck as she reached back and yanked the dart out of her shoulder.

  “Iris,” Blue said, but even as her vision wavered she saw something small protrude from his chest like magic, a thunderbolt, and she reached for him, reached and reached, and she was not going to lose herself this time—no, no, no …