“Exactly. So Jackson and I are going to attend this racket—it’s men only—and Legs and Lisa Bee will take the van and do some recon nearby. It’s apparently an eight p.m. show. We’ll check it out and report back. Sound good?” Everyone agreed and began to get to their feet. “Legs, any word from Chas?”
The smile on Susannah’s face quickly faded. “No, Bossman. Apparently he’s not supposed to contact me until after he’s met with Birdsong. I get it, but I don’t like it.”
“He’ll be okay, Susannah,” the Boss said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “If anyone’s got mad skills, it’s Chas. It’ll turn out all right. I promise.”
‡‡‡
Chas had landed in Palermo in the afternoon and had checked in to his hotel. He had wanted to meet Birdsong as soon as possible, but Birdsong said he was unavailable until later on. Things kept getting pushed back until it was now midnight and he was on his way to what he figured was a local café. Birdsong had sent a cryptic text about where to meet in coordinates: LAT 38.13, LONG 13.37. Chas was perplexed by this and thought an address would have been easier, especially since the text gave only part of the numeric code for latitude and longitude and was therefore terrifically unspecific. But one could rarely understand Birdsong’s ways. He was a master of illusion: His status as a former pro soccer player gave him a perfect cover for why he traveled, where his money came from, and how he’d met a number of his contacts. Was it possible, Chas wondered, that this man was Baba Samka? Yes, sadly, anything was possible at this point. Chas just hoped it wasn’t the case.
He arrived at the location to find himself on a wharf at the port of Palermo that extended into the water in front of him. Bizarre. Had he gotten it wrong? Within minutes, however, he saw Birdsong at the wheel of an approaching yacht. In the moonlight he could see the man’s trademark curly blond hair and eerie light blue eyes, and the smile on his face.
Birdsong raised a hand and waved, pulled the boat up to the dock, and came out to meet Chas, extending his hand. “Hello, Chas. Always good to see you,” he said in his slight South African accent.
Chas shook his hand. “Thanks, Birdsong. I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me.”
“Shall we take a ride?” Birdsong asked, inhaling deeply and smiling his customary bright smile. “It’s a beautiful night.”
“I’d rather we just chatted here,” Chas replied evenly.
“Well, I have some food in the fridge, and a fine wine. Easy enough for us to talk on board.”
“How about we stay here, if it’s all the same to you.”
“It’s my only offer, Chas,” Birdsong said, his smile gone and a severe look in its place. “Since you’ve asked me to help you, and the FBI as well, I suggest you do what I ask.”
Chas didn’t think Birdsong would kill him here in Palermo—it seemed too obvious. And the FBI certainly knew his whereabouts; they were monitoring his phone for all calls and texts and had implanted it with a tracking device. But still he felt uneasy. He had his gun, his phone, and his wallet on him, but not much else. He didn’t like this at all, yet he felt it was his only chance to get the intel.
“Okay, Birdsong. Let’s go. I hope it won’t take long.”
“Oh no, Chas. It’ll be quick and easy. Just how the Mob likes it!” Seeing the look on Chas’s face, he said, “I’m joking, old friend. Surely you don’t think I’d kill you? Too . . . pat. Wouldn’t you say? But do me one favor. Leave your weapon and phone on the dock. Wouldn’t want to have an accident on the open sea, right?”
Now Chas really had cause to worry, but he needed to take the chance. Removing his gun and his phone, he handed them to Birdsong. Using a small key, he placed Chas’s belongings inside a lockbox he’d attached to the dock and locked it, slipping the key into his coat pocket. “Easy as pie, right, Chas? Now we can talk in peace.”
Boarding the yacht, Chas looked up at the stars and thought about Susannah, praying he’d come back alive.
‡‡‡
The show had just begun at the Carnivale, and the Boss thought he might be sick. Jackson likewise looked ashen as they took in the scene before them. They were in a small Virginia town about an hour outside of D.C., in a back barn on an empty stretch of fields. They’d driven down roads that got smaller and windier with each turn. The community became more impoverished as they went; the number of small churches, old tractors, and malnourished horses increased the farther they veered off the beaten path. Jackson had driven, and kept quoting lines from the movie Deliverance. Susannah and Lisa Bee were creeped out by it, and the Boss had finally told him to cut it out.
They’d gotten to the show just before eight p.m. The Boss had spun a story that they were traveling through town and had heard about the show; William Nants was only too happy to let them come in for the low price of twenty bucks. Lisa Bee and Susannah were parked several yards away in the surveillance van FTP owned; they were listening in and watching the scene unfold through surveillance equipment from Doc Scrubs, the Boss’s old friend. Doc Scrubs was a Baltimore heart surgeon who liked to tinker with spy gear; he frequently created devices that the Bod Squad made great use of. Right now Jackson and the Boss were wearing items from his “Slummin’ It” line: the Boss had a pack of Winstons in the pocket of his T-shirt that had cigarettes inside and a camera up top; Jackson was wearing a ragged-looking bolo tie with a scuffed ram’s head likeness in the center, the eyes of which recorded video as well.
The barn they were in felt a bit like a circus tent. Bleachers had been set up, and they could see cages and ropes, smell animals and beer, and hear a rowdy noise from the crowd. The Boss unintentionally pissed Jackson off by saying it was like a rodeo—Jackson was a huge rodeo fan, always had been, and hated that the Boss compared his favorite sport to the depravity they could sense in the air.
The Carnivale had begun. William Nants was a balding man with crooked yellow teeth. He wore an old jacket stretched over his large paunch, and his saggy neck looked like a goose’s wattle. He walked with a limp and used a cane. Everything about him was repulsive. But nothing was more repulsive than the show he ran. It was like a burlesque, but a burlesque of enslaved, damaged, and aging characters. There was Marina, who was kept in a cage; Paola, who juggled beer cans wearing a torn bustier; and Kristina, who walked, poorly, on her hands. After their acts, they were auctioned off by Nants, who hawked his wares like he was selling toys. Their time was purchased for very little by the assembled men, and they were taken off into the back of the barn to satisfy the buyers. The Boss thought he might actually throw up as he watched this, and heard Jackson muttering epithets under his breath.
All the women were in bad shape, none more so than the headlining act, Nants’s own wife. Rhoda Kurthovsky spoke with a Russian accent, had a hunched back from scoliosis, and was missing most of her fingers. She hobbled out to the center of the makeshift arena like a dilapidated horse, Nants whipping her on the way. She sang a Russian folk song, weeping the entire time. Thinking she might be a good source of information, the Boss won her for the measly sum of thirty-five dollars. Bile rising in his throat, he took Rhoda’s offered hand and followed her into the back. Nants smiled broadly, his yellow teeth glinting, and said, “I hope you enjoy her as much as I have.”
What a vile man, the Boss thought. And as he looked back at the assembled crowd, he wondered, Who the fuck are these people? How can they be enjoying this? And how can Nants be given the proper punishment? He’d get some information. Then he’d call Babs. She operated under the radar, often killing abusers, torturing them, or committing them to her own distinctive brand of vigilante justice. This man deserved no less than that.
‡‡‡
Fritz sat in her office in Quantico, chewing on the end of a pencil and trying not to smoke her way through another pack of Parliaments. It was about nine p.m., and it had been hours since she’d heard from Chas. At this point she was getting worried, not to
mention frustrated and depressed. She’d been working for the FBI for thirty years, and never had she felt so sure: This was the case that would make or break her. It had been difficult for a woman to rise to the position she had; she’d given up a tremendous amount, and for what? Other women had husbands and children, or were retired already, living the good life, and what did she have? Admiration from those who surrounded her, a good position as the head of a counterterrorism unit, and a bagful of fading charms. And a sore back from spending the last week or so sleeping on her office couch. Or not sleeping at all. Truth was, she was far too old for this.
And yet . . . some part of her was still hungry for the chase, still revved by possibility and conquest of a foe. And she had never felt her heart beat quite so hard, her blood pump through her with such abandon, as they had with this . . . this case that had landed in her lap, confounded her, and excited her at every turn.
She started at the sound of a knock, then Rafael entered. With his bronze skin, searing eyes, and six-foot-plus frame, he wasn’t bad to look at. A small bonus, given the rough shape she was in at the moment.
“Anything from Chas?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she said with a sigh.
“Well, I’ve got some news, but you won’t like it.”
“Give it to me.”
“We’ve tracked his phone to a wharf in the Port of Palermo. No sign of him—just his phone.”
Fritz let out a breath and tucked her unruly hair behind both ears. Then she sat up straighter and pushed her glasses up with the end of her pencil. “And what are your instincts telling you, Rafael?”
“Well,” he said, “I hate to send my men in there if there’s no reason to—then we run the risk of compromising his mission. But if something happens to him—”
“Yes, I know,” she said, finishing the sentence, “it’s on us. And it’s the last thing we want.”
“Right.”
She paused for a moment, then stood, straightening her blouse and buttoning her suit jacket. “Alert your men. I’m giving him thirty more minutes. Then we go in strong.”
“Got it.”
“And Raf?”
“Yes?”
“If they do go in, make sure they take Birdsong alive.”
‡‡‡
Chas was on Birdsong’s yacht out in the middle of the Mediterranean. It had already been an extremely strange evening. Birdsong had driven the boat a ways out into the sea, though the port was still visible in the distance, then poured them each a glass of wine and laid out a midnight repast of roasted vegetables, antipasti, bread, and cheese. Chas found it most peculiar. . . . He felt trapped out in the middle of the water, confused as to who Birdsong really was and where his allegiances lay. He wondered if he was being poisoned, or if he was being fed his last meal before Birdsong threw him overboard. It was stupid to have gone with him, he thought, on a voyage that might very well be his last.
“Relax, Chas,” Birdsong said with a wink. “I assure you I’m not trying to kill you, threaten you, or seduce you. I am only interested in having privacy so that we’re not tracked. You may report back to the FBI when we are done, but I do not wish to alert Baba Samka to this conversation if I don’t have to.”
Chas shifted in his seat. It was time to lay his cards on the table. “Full disclosure, Birdsong. You must know we suspect you are Baba Samka. Surely that’s obvious.”
At this Birdsong let out a long, loud laugh. “Yes, Chas,” he said. “I know exactly what you all think.”
Chas waited, and a long moment went by. “Well?” he asked.
“Well what?”
“Are you?”
At this Birdsong looked at him, his face suddenly devoid of humor, of emotion, of anything. His light blue eyes seemed made of ice. Chas stood up to meet his gaze, and a challenge passed between them. “Come now, Chas,” Birdsong said quietly, calmly, cleanly. “Surely if I was who you think I am, I wouldn’t tell you, now would I? That would be like shooting myself in the foot. Perhaps I am, and perhaps I’m not, but it’s rather patronizing to ask me to tell you, no? Patronizing, and a bit stupid. Don’t insult me. Especially when we are in a boat on the open sea and I hold the keys. Let’s just forget you asked and continue our nice little evening, shall we?”
Chas didn’t reply, but his fear was being replaced by anger. This was a power play, nothing more, nothing less, and he could feel the desire growing in him to put his hands around Birdsong’s throat and choke him until he gasped his last breath. Either Birdsong was Baba Samka or he was a villain in his own right. Fuck him.
Continuing to hold his eyes, Birdsong joined Chas at the table. Chas palmed the knife he had tucked under his sleeve and waited for Birdsong to speak.
Birdsong took his glass of Chianti and swallowed nearly all of it in one gulp. “Mmm,” he murmured, licking his lips. “Now who doesn’t like a good Chianti? I notice you haven’t touched yours. I wouldn’t have picked you for a white wine kind of man, Chas.”
“Thanks, Birdsong, but I’m not thirsty,” Chas said, every muscle tensing, every piece of him ready to do whatever he needed to get back to shore alive. “Can we please just get on with it?”
“Testy, Chas. And impatient. Perhaps it is all those failed wedding attempts? Probably rough on the soul, yes?”
A muscle in Chas’s jaw ticked. “Birdsong,” he said tightly, “did you write Casablanca in the sky over my wedding?”
At this Birdsong laughed for way too long. Chas was so pissed he almost stood up and punched him.
“Thank you, Chas, for the laugh,” Birdsong said, clearing his throat. “Surely you should know by now that’s not my style. I heard about it, though. I liked it. A lot. Romantic move, don’t you think? Using your company’s coveted code five and broadcasting it over your wedding? That was the second attempt, was it not?”
At this Chas started to stand and Birdsong stopped him.
“Sit the fuck down, Chas,” he said, “and put the knife away. Surely there’s no need for that. Now be a good boy, and I’ll give you the intel you asked for. That’s better.” He paused to pour himself more wine, and drank the whole glass with ease. “This is it, all I really know. You’re looking in the wrong place, and on the wrong shore. He’s one of yours, not one of ours. And that’s all the news I’ve got. Good-bye, Chas.”
“Good-bye? What the fuck does that mean?”
“It’s a salutation people use before they part ways.”
“Birdsong, stop with the riddles. What the fuck is going on?”
Birdsong stood and smiled then, and it gave Chas a chill that raced up his spine and made his blood run cold. Without warning, Birdsong turned and dove overboard.
Chas ran to the side of the yacht. “What the—” he said, as Birdsong surfaced and waved.
“I do hope you know how to drive a boat, Chas,” he called with a smile. “I’m going to swim back to shore.”
“But—that’s—”
“I’ve done it plenty of times before. This is what I grew up doing in South Africa. Buona sera! And good luck. I put the key to the lockbox on the table. Please leave the key to the boat back in the box. And safe trip back! I hope you don’t crash—I’d hate to see you die of something as useless as a boating accident. Take care, Chas.” And with that he swam off through the dark and dangerous waters.
Chas felt his shoulders drop. Eccentric wasn’t even the right word for Birdsong . . . odd, creepy, and depraved were more like it. But he had given Chas some information, so that was good. And Chas was still alive, so that put him ahead of the game. He started the yacht, familiarized himself with the controls, and steered back to the port, finding the wharf as quickly as he could. He’d spent many summers in Hilton Head, and yachts were not unfamiliar to him. He thanked his lucky stars that he was comfortable on the water.
After docking the boat, he went back to the
lockbox and opened it. He retrieved his gun and his phone; underneath the gun was a note, presumably written by Birdsong.
Read this and destroy it. I took the actions I took so that I would not be on BS’s radar. Look to the CIA. And look further into Gabriella.
Shit, Chas thought. This was the last thing he wanted to hear. It pointed once again to an American terrorist, likely Susannah’s father, Buzz. And to Gabriella? Was there more to her role in this mad caper? He found himself suddenly more confused than ever.
He shredded the note, then tossed it in the water. As he watched it sink, he swallowed to ease the tightness in his throat.
‡‡‡
Tyka and Mahmoud had searched the kitchen, then done a second search on the rest of Birdsong’s house, and while they hadn’t found the lock they were looking for, they did find a lead . . . a note Birdsong had tucked into the book he was reading in his bedroom. The scrawled writing was hard to make out, but there were some phrases that were legible:
Gabriella more involved. How?
BS still at play while BC incarcerated in Quantico?
And a location:
LAT 40.7495 LONG -73.9082
“Shit, Mahmoud,” Tyka said, looking at it, shivers on her skin. “This is the last thing I would have expected.”
“Yes,” he said grimly. “I also am surprised. Hard to do, but seems to happen often with this case.”
“And where the fuck do these numbers lead?”
“We’ll go somewhere where we can talk and figure it out. But we’d better get going. On the double.”
“Yes,” she said, tensing up, “but please take a picture of the intel first. I don’t want to mess any of this up.”
“Tyka,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder and instantly calming her, “it will be all right. I promise.”
“It’s never all right. You know that.”
“But now you have me on your side. So it’s different.”
“Why?” she asked. “It’s never all right for you, either.”
“True,” he replied. “But it’s like in math, how two negatives make a positive. Together we will turn this around.”
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