“I dream about him at night . . . about what it would be like if he were gone. How much freer the world would feel. Now I sometimes think—”
“That I will never be free,” she finished for him, her words soft. She ran her hand down his arm to join with his.
“Yes,” he echoed. “That I will never be free.”
“You see,” she said slowly, “he has somehow been connected to the death of everyone I’ve ever called family, directly or indirectly. Or anyone who has ever helped me. It is as though I am cursed . . . if I love someone, he takes them away.”
“It’s almost the same with me,” he said, exhaling deeply, grateful to see more of her true self, holding her hand in return, loving the permission to touch her in such a casual way. “Except for Jackson, who has always been my rock in this, and who I trust with my life. I know that he and his team will get us as close as is humanly possible.”
“Hm,” she said, looking skeptical and pulling away from him. “I don’t know that I agree.” He could see the wall coming back up between them in a flash. “And also, I just can’t help but think that since I got involved with the Bod Squad, all my work has been turned to shit.”
It’s not rational, he thought, but I get it. I just need to turn this back around again. “Honestly, Ms. Tyka, I understand your feelings, but I hardly think joining the Bod Squad has ended your career.”
“Well, it certainly seems that way,” she said. “It feels like they were the cause of Gabriella’s death, and now this.”
“Now, now,” he said, trying to figure out the right thing to say. “You and I both know that Gabriella made her own choices. The line of work we’re in . . . it is not exactly the safest path.”
“Are you saying it was her fault, Mahmoud?” she asked, rounding on him.
Oh no, he thought. I’m saying everything exactly wrong. “It’s not that,” he said, trying to pacify her, wanting to take a step back, to see the lady who lived inside her armor. “It’s that she knew what she was in for.”
“And do you, Mahmoud?” she asked darkly, her eyes clouding over. “Do you know what you are in for?”
“I only know what I hope for, Ms. Tyka. And what I hope for is right in front of me.”
With that he grabbed her, pulled her across the bed toward him, and engaged her in a passionate, take-no-prisoners kiss so long and deep that he lost track of time. They were stopped by a short, sharp knock on the door, and broke apart just as a key card slid into the lock and the door was thrown open.
Standing there in a trench coat, heels, and clearly not much else was Cécile de Foulere, a petite woman whom Mahmoud often worked and slept with. Cécile was a French/Russian double agent who spoke both languages like a native. Mahmoud had forgotten he’d invited her to join him a few days ago—before he’d known Tyka was in Italy, before he’d gotten distracted by his work and his newest bedfellow.
Cécile was dressed to impress, her short, dark red hair spiked, her eyes smoky. “Right,” Mahmoud said awkwardly to Tyka. “This is the agent I told you about. The one who gave me the intel about Buzz.”
The two women took each other in, and Tyka broke the silence first with a short, dry, sarcastic laugh. “Let’s skip the introductions, shall we? I was just leaving.”
As she gathered her things, Cécile said, “Qui est votre plus récent pute?” not realizing that Tyka spoke French. Mahmoud sank down onto the bed as Tyka looked Cécile straight in the eyes and responded, in French, “I’m nobody’s whore. Especially not his. Now get the fuck out of my way before I blow your head off.”
Cécile stepped to the side and Tyka left in a huff. Cécile turned to Mahmoud and said, in a soft French accent, “I’ve never seen you make a mistake before. Bad quality in an assassin. And I’m not particularly interested in someone’s sloppy seconds. What’s wrong, Mahmoud?”
He exhaled a long breath. He’d known Cécile for many years and had always appreciated her candor and her intelligence, as well as the fact that she could match him round for round in bed. She was right . . . he had gotten sloppy, and if this were a different situation, his mistake could have proved fatal. “It’s him, Cécile. We are so close, and now we’ve been made.”
She sat down next to him on the bed and put a hand on his shoulder. “Well, you might have been made, but I haven’t. How can I help?”
‡‡‡
Robert Smith had collected himself, taken care of some email, and set everything up so that it appeared he was still in D.C. It was now about ten p.m. EST, four a.m. in Palermo . . . it would look like he’d been working late again. Over the years he had figured out a way to run most of his unit remotely; he said it was about keeping the cover of his team, but really it was about his own personal freedom. And as his relationship with Gabriella had become more important, his freedom had, too. There were only two things that mattered to him: Gabriella, and exacting revenge. He’d had a rough upbringing, and his sense of justice was as sharp as a razor’s edge.
Gabriella kept a small apartment in Sicily, near where she’d grown up. He’d go there briefly to take a few mementos and clear out anything that might connect her to him; the last thing he needed was for the Sicilian Mafia to come after him. He’d rather they remained just where he had them: eating out of his hand. Did he have to compromise his work with the CIA to ensure a good relationship with the Mob? Sure, but from that he got a lot of intel, a lot of leads, and the freedom to construct whatever stories he liked. This was true power. And power without boundary was what he’d sought by going into intelligence in the first place.
Gabriella’s apartment was located on Via Muzio Salvo Rosina, in a poor area of Palermo near the Porto di Palermo. The building was squeezed between several others, and he knew he could access it easily by climbing the balconies in the back, strewn with clotheslines and laundry hanging out to dry. As he entered the apartment he was struck by how painful it was to be in her space, to smell the scent of her hair on the pillows, her perfume on the clothes hanging in the closet. He did a thorough search of the place and found she’d been true to her word: nothing implicated him or anyone else. She kept the place simple and sparsely decorated with only a few family photos, some pottery, and a cross in every room—the perfect apartment for the cousin of a former Mob boss.
On the bedroom bureau, buried in her jewelry case, was a gift Robert had given her years earlier, in the very first flush of their love. They’d had a beautiful dinner in D.C., and had gone to his staid and bare apartment to make love on every surface. When they’d finally retired to the bedroom, he’d pulled a string of pearls from underneath the pillow and fastened it around her neck; she’d said she’d always wear it when they made love, and she always had. He took the pearls and slipped them into his pocket. Then he went to wipe out what remained of the Marconis, to start from scratch, to clear the playing field. At the very least, the act of murder would ease some of his grief.
‡‡‡
Tyka was making her way through the streets of Palermo to Gabriella’s apartment. She’d checked into a small apartment hotel thinking she would stay for a few days or so, no more than that. She’d been out buying another pack of cigarettes when she remembered something Gabriella had told her: that she’d hidden some valuable information in her apartment in Palermo, and that if she was ever killed, Tyka should get the intel and use it as she saw fit. It had been many years ago that Gabriella had said this to her, and it had been such an emotional few days that Tyka had only just remembered. It was about five thirty a.m. now, and she felt like she hadn’t slept in days—come to think of it, she hadn’t. And then there was Mahmoud.
In light of everything else that was going on, she shouldn’t have been quite as angry as she was. But she was fuming. She’d smoked her way through two packs, downed a small bottle of whiskey, then sat in the shower and cried in a way she hadn’t since she was a girl. And why? Because Mahmoud, that pret
entious, cocky, self-assured pain in the ass, was sleeping with someone other than her? That was ridiculous. She knew the sex was just a release from the missions they were on. She knew neither of them wanted anything more than temporary comfort. She knew there was no place in her life for anything more than a fling. And yet . . .
He had gotten under her skin.
Under her armor.
Fuck.
She was nearly at Gabriella’s now, and tried to distract herself by recalling what Gabriella had told her. There is a tin milk pail in the corner of the apartment, she’d said. It fits the theme of the place, and looks like—how you say?—an old relic. But the pail has a false bottom. Inside is where I’ve hidden the intel. Then she’d made Tyka memorize her address. While she’d never have Tyka over—too risky, too easy then to break both their covers—she’d made sure Tyka knew where it was.
Tyka walked in through the front door and up the stairs. The building was an old one, with simple locks on the doors, and she easily got in using a hairpin and a credit card. Gabriella never had need of any security: before they turned on her, the Mob fully protected her. She slipped through the door and began to look around. Light shone in from the streetlamps and the sky was just beginning to brighten a bit. The light threw odd shadows on the walls from the spare pieces of furniture, and the shutters created geometric patterns on the floors. It was so strange for her to be here, in this space that was clearly a cover for the real Gabriella—this apartment looked like the haven of a sweet Italian girl, replete with country decor and crosses on the wall. From what Tyka knew, Gabriella never went to church, and she lived the life of a savvy international agent, not a nice girl from the countryside. But it was appropriate to her cover, perfectly done. Lace curtains hung over every window, and doilies decorated every surface. There were antique silver candelabras on the living room mantel, and rosary beads on the bedside dresser. And the kitchen had beautiful hand-painted mosaic tiles on the walls. On the refrigerator was a shopping list, and Tyka felt a catch in her chest seeing Gabriella’s handwriting.
Suddenly the hairs on the back of Tyka’s neck began to rise. There was something odd here . . . she had a sense that things had been searched, just slightly. There was an indentation on the bed, above the sheets. A chair just off to one side of the kitchen table stood awry. And it looked like Gabriella’s jewelry had been rifled through. A common thief? The Mob? Or someone else? Regardless, she figured she’d better make quick work of finding what she sought.
In the corner of the living room, next to an antique wooden curio cabinet, she saw the milk pail, filled with dried flowers. She took the flowers out, reached in, felt around the bottom, and was able to slide the panel aside, revealing a small silver key engraved with the initials BS.
Slipping the key inside her bra, Tyka put the flowers back and retraced her steps. Then she went out the rear balcony, climbed down to the alley, and made her way back to her hotel.
4
Fritz had assembled everyone back in the Quantico boardroom to share some intel before things went any further. It was late, but she knew she had to let them know the news ASAP. She was concerned now that she had truly endangered the life of every member of the Bod Squad, and was determined to put her fears to rest before they got in even deeper.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” she said, lighting a cigarette, “but Baba Samka is definitely back on the boards. Rafael got word from one of his contacts that BS blew up Amal’s safe house, killing Amal and everyone inside. We don’t know why, other than that he may have thought she knew more than she did . . . if it was Buzz, that is. Susannah, Chas, I’m so sorry—I know you got to know Amal, that she helped you out. Chas, if this is the work of Birdsong, is it possible he traced you back to Amal’s?”
There was a potent silence in the room. Then Susannah stood up and said, “Sorry, I think I’m going to be sick,” and ran out.
Chas swallowed deeply and watched her leave. Then he looked back at Fritz. “I need to go after her, Fritz. In short, yes, of course it’s possible. But I hope to God not. Do you really think this could be his doing?”
“We don’t know, Chas, but yes, I think so. We need to talk strategy now. And there’s no time to lose. Go make sure Susannah is okay. Then we’ll get right to it.”
“She’ll be fine,” he said. “She’s a lot stronger than I am. It’s just that Amal took care of us. It feels personal. And on top of everything with her father—” He cut himself short. “We’ll be back in ten.” Standing up, he swiftly went to find Susannah.
“Wow,” breathed Jackson, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet. “They might be able to get over it, but I’ll tell you who won’t be: Mahmoud. This is definitely personal . . . Amal was like family to him. This is gonna kill him.”
“Well, merde times ten,” Lisa Bee said, tears in her eyes. “I hate it when it gets personal. I mean, what the heck did Mahmoud ever do to this guy?”
“This is the biz, Bee,” said the Boss, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not rational. And this guy is one of the roughest. We all need to buck up, deal with our feelings, and hunt him down.”
“That’s the thing about a terrorist, Lisa Bee,” Fritz said sympathetically, a bit gentler than the Boss. “There’s no logic here. It’s all about power. We don’t know what makes a person like this enact violence against innocent people. It’s what I’ve worked my whole life to figure out.” She sat down then and let out a frustrated sigh. “What a letdown, huh? Sometimes I feel that the bad guys are like weeds . . . I cut one down, and two spring up in his place.”
‡‡‡
Chas found Susannah splashing her face with cold water in the bathroom. She had been sick but felt a bit steadier now. She lifted her face up and caught Chas’s eyes in the mirror, giving him a slight smile. This was all a bit much to handle at this point: the journeys they had taken, Buzz’s involvement, and now the death of Amal, who’d taken care of them when they’d needed it. “Oh, Tex,” she said hoarsely, comforting herself with the nickname from their courtship, “this sucks.”
“I know, Legs, honey. It’s worse than we imagined.”
“And we’re not even married yet.”
“Well, it’s been one fuck of an engagement.”
At this she let out a laugh. “Heck,” she said, still chuckling, “maybe the third time’s the charm.”
Chas moved closer and put his arms around her. “You know, Legs, after going from the Harvard Club to your mom’s backyard, the next logical choice might be this bathroom, here and now.”
She turned to him and said, “I think you’re joking, but are you even remotely serious?”
He laughed. “I’d do it right now if we didn’t have more pressing business. It’s time to go back in. We need to figure out our next step as a team. You ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s go.”
‡‡‡
When they walked back into the boardroom a few minutes later, the Boss was pacing back and forth. “Chas, Legs . . . I know this is a rough turn, but I need you to pull it together. We’ve got work to do.”
“On it, Bossman,” Susannah replied. “Sorry about that.”
Fritz leaped to her feet. “No, I’m sorry to have dropped a bomb like that—all of this is a bit time-sensitive, as you can imagine. Chas, have you heard back from Birdsong?”
“Not yet,” Chas said, “but he won’t take long.” Suddenly, a text message alert sounded from his phone. “And speak of the devil. . . . Let me see.” He checked his message and spoke as he read. “This is from his burner phone. Good for the next two hours, or so he says. Shall I give him a call? I’m going to be as honest as I can.”
“Do it,” Fritz said. “We’ve got no time to lose.”
“Agreed,” the Boss echoed. “We’ve got to leap on this.”
Chas clicked on the screen, and the call connec
ted. Then he said, “Birdsong? Chas. Good to hear your voice. I’m at Quantico, which I bet you already know, but we’re hoping you can give us a hand.” He listened for a moment, then gave them all a thumbs-up. “Good. Yes, I can fill you in on all the details. Let me find my way to a private room where we can talk freely. And yes, of course, you’ll be compensated within the day.” And with that, he stepped outside to find out where Birdsong might lead them.
‡‡‡
Mahmoud was still with Cécile; they had spent the last couple of hours drinking and talking like old friends. They’d been sleeping together for so long that they’d never actually gotten to know each other; though she already knew about Mahmoud’s family and his hunt for BS, now he told her the details of all that had gone on in the last six months. She was right; he might have needed to use her to do some of the legwork he was now precluded from. They weren’t going to sleep together, not tonight—it was too strange following on the heels of his affair with Tyka. Cécile didn’t want to be insulted, and he thought she could sense that something had shifted. In truth, he himself wasn’t sure what he felt; he just knew that everything had changed, and that he only had eyes for l’Assassin Blonde.
When their conversation was interrupted by Mahmoud getting the call from Jackson that revealed that Amal’s safe house had been destroyed, killing Amal and everyone with her, he was filled with sadness, and then rage. . . . It brought back so much of what had happened to his family that he was robbed of any control, and any humanity. He felt helpless, like he wasn’t a man—after all, he couldn’t save the people he loved. Cécile stood to the side, allowing him to have his reaction, waiting to see how she could help. After breaking a few glasses and nearly putting his fist through a wall, Mahmoud dropped to the bed and wept silently. Cécile sank into a chair and watched, simply waiting.
It was a long time before Mahmoud finally sat up and looked at her. Standing, she lit two cigarettes and handed one to him. “Cry all you want now,” she said. “I have a feeling whatever is to come will take all the strength you’ve got.”
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