“I was never very good at math,” she said. Looking up, she caught his eyes and was shocked by the commitment she saw in his gaze, the confidence, the honesty. It startled her to see a look like that, and it startled her more to realize how much she needed it. Not wanting him to know how much his confidence meant to her, she pulled away from him and began to cover their tracks. Mahmoud took a picture, and they left all as they had found it, going back out the side window.
8
Tyka and Mahmoud were having a glass of wine at an after-hours place Tyka knew about; the owner would go to sleep, and those in the know would stay as late as they wanted and put what they owed in the cash box. Tyka had been taken to the intimate haunt years ago by an Italian lover; now she brought Mahmoud there to discuss what they’d found. It was a fairly small café, but big enough that they could have some space to talk without fear of being overheard. It was furnished with dark wood, simple tables and chairs, and hand-painted mosaic tiles. A group of young artists in a corner huddled over some paintings, and a couple of old men sat at the bar. Italian folk songs were playing from an old-school stereo above them.
The two assassins were sharing a bottle of Chianti. Tyka shifted in her chair. She was uncomfortable for so many reasons; chief among them were her fears about how Gabriella was further implicated, as well as her own feelings of vulnerability around Mahmoud. She was juggling confusion, anger, and shame, and she didn’t know how to deal with it all other than to act businesslike, drink her wine, and chain-smoke.
“So what do you think is going on here, Mahmoud?” she asked, trying to keep them on task.
“Well,” he said, leaning in, his dark eyes seeming to penetrate to her very core, “it seems Birdsong has been part of this somehow . . . but if he is BS, odd to refer to himself in the third person unless he’s a psychopath, right?”
“But BS is a psychopath. We know this. And for that matter, so is Birdsong. From everything I’ve heard, anyway.”
“Right. But I get the feeling he’s not who we seek . . . just a part of the bigger picture.”
“Yes,” she said, inhaling a deep drag of her cigarette. “Me too. And how strange about the location he found, no?”
“Very strange.” The coordinates turned out to be a neighborhood in Queens, New York. “I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
There was a pause, the sounds of the music and the laughter mingling. Tyka and Mahmoud caught eyes. She wanted to keep this all business, to say something sharp and witty, to look away, but she could do none of it—she felt herself inexorably drawn to him, unable to break their connection.
“I’m happy to be near you again,” he said gently. “I didn’t like how we left things back at my hotel.”
“It’s fine,” she said, finally dropping her gaze and looking away from him. “I understand this has been about momentary pleasure, nothing more. I just don’t like being so easily replaced. And I really didn’t like how your girlfriend spoke to me.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said, “and we haven’t slept together since I’ve been with you. It did not even enter my mind—I was too distracted by you to think of anything else. . . . Anyway, I spent the whole time with her upset about what happened in Johannesburg. Tyka, you’re hardly replaceable—”
“What happened in Johannesburg?” she asked, cutting him off.
“Ah,” he said, “of course, you wouldn’t have heard. Baba Samka struck again. He blew up my friend Amal’s safe house.”
“She’s the one you’ve helped all these years?”
“Yes.”
“And she was killed as well?”
“Yes,” he said, his jaw tensing. “All were killed. All.”
“My God,” she said with a sigh, reaching out to touch his hand. “How awful. And how personal. Shit. Mahmoud . . . I am so very sorry for your loss.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, holding hands. She could feel the connection between them, an understanding, a shared grief.
“Mahmoud,” she continued, pulling her hand away, “what do you think it means about Gabriella being more involved? I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I,” he said. “Let’s start this way: How about you tell me about her. When did you meet?”
“Well, I met her when I was quite young. And I initially believed her cover, that she was part of the crime family. I had inherited the task of assassinating Bruni from a friend of mine . . . my teacher, really.”
“Explain.”
She spoke to him at length about Spliff, touching upon her childhood in Ukraine and France and her mother’s work in intelligence. She tried not to reveal too much of herself, but it was hard to describe her upbringing and her running away without painting a picture of isolation, of fear, of rage, of loneliness. And it was a true picture, too . . . just not one she wanted to share with anyone, least of all Mahmoud. But since he already knew about the catacombs in Odessa . . . maybe she could tell him just a bit more.
“When I inherited the assassination, I spent a lot of time watching the family, finding just the right time, the right way to enact the best kill. Spliff had been hired by an American—someone I never met—and I stood to earn a tremendous amount of money if I could do it cleanly and without leaving any tracks. So I spent a lot of time observing.” She took a sip of her wine. “I watched Gabriella for a long time, and never saw a crack in her armor. But she was infinitely smarter than I was. She’d also been watching me! For years. Shows you how young I was then. And just at the moment that I was about to take Bruni down, I was intercepted by Gabriella, who fought me—we were quite well matched, by the way—took my weapon, tied me up, and then revealed that she was interested in the same thing as I was, but not yet . . . She said we needed to wait. She wanted more information before he got taken down, more that could implicate him. To be honest, I don’t know how she found me . . . but she became, to me, the greatest mentor I have ever known, and the only true family I have ever had.”
Mahmoud sighed deeply, then took her hand again. He opened the palm and kissed the center of it, gently, sweetly, and filled with . . . what? Tyka did not know. Only that it made her want to run as far away as possible.
“Thank you for telling me a bit about your life,” he said, with great sincerity in his eyes, so earnest that it made her stomach revolt and her heart beat faster. “It is a privilege getting to know you.”
“You’re not getting to know me,” she snapped, pulling her hand back, already ashamed of her reaction. “I was just answering your question. That’s how I know Gabriella, okay?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Tyka,” he said, concern in his gaze making her even angrier. “I did not mean to offend.”
“Back off, Mahmoud,” she snarled, unable to stop herself. “This is just business.” In truth she did not know why she was acting the way she was. Fear, certainly. And something else. Shame. She carried a great deal of shame inside her for not being loved the way she ought to have been, for the way her mother didn’t care about her, for needing something, desperately, that perhaps only this man could give her. This man . . . this elegant, unruffled, passionate, exquisite man who was looking at her with admiration? Love? Even though she was treating him like shit?
It was too much for her to take. She didn’t want this, not now, not while she had a job to do, not while she had to uncover details about Gabriella that might prove that her whole life purpose had been a lie. No. She would run away, run as far as she could, and never look back. She stood abruptly and reached for her wallet.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mahmoud said. “I’ll take care of it. Where are you going, and why suddenly in such a hurry?”
“I just don’t think we have a moment to lose,” she said. “I’m going back to her apartment to see if I can find anything else.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said.
“No!” she said, too rapi
dly, she realized, and too emphatically. “I need to go alone. I think we’re done here, Mahmoud, don’t you?”
“Sure,” he said, the look of confusion on his face nearly breaking her heart. “As you wish, Ms. Tyka. But may I ask—how do you feel about me sending the Bod Squad in to investigate the Queens neighborhood? I believe they’ve been taken off this case altogether, but we can use that to our advantage. We don’t want to alert the authorities, and they can go under the radar.”
“Fine,” she said flippantly, unable to take down the wall she’d put up. “I don’t give a shit who you send as long as they don’t compromise this any further. And as long as they know I’m not with them—I’m on my own.”
“I assure you, Ms. Tyka,” he said softly, “that is quite clear.”
“Good-bye, Mahmoud,” she said, her words clipped. “I’ll be in touch. You have my number. Call if there’s anything I should know.”
“Will do,” he said. He moved toward her, looking like he had more to say, but she turned and walked away as fast as she could to make sure he wouldn’t see the tears forming in her eyes.
This is why I’m better on my own, she thought. Less complicated. But as she walked away, she felt a loneliness she hadn’t known since she had been a girl, and she feared that she’d never be able to dispel it.
‡‡‡
Mahmoud watched Tyka leave with a sigh, enjoying the last glimpse he might ever have of her lean frame, blond hair, and determined walk. He’d thought they were getting somewhere, that she’d finally opened up to him, but he’d ended up just scaring her away. Or had she scared herself away? Damn. She was as close as he’d ever come to finding someone in his league, and he wanted the chance to explore it more.
He uploaded his notes on what they’d uncovered to the FTP server, to a file the Boss had titled “To Catch a Thief.” Bossman had wanted Mahmoud to have a way to get them information from wherever he was. As soon as everything was uploaded, he sent a text to Jackson:
Casablanca. New angle for the Bod Squad to work. Needs to happen ASAP and be totally UTR. Don’t tell FBI. Just FTP. Info is live on To Catch a Thief. And call me ASAP. M
Then Mahmoud made his way out. Maybe it was the wine, or the information they had received, or the fact that Tyka had walked out, but his guard was lowered. So when he was jumped by three men, he was taken completely unawares. Something was held in front of his face . . . Damn, he thought, they’re taking me down. As he passed out, he heard someone say in his ear, “Nice to see you again, Hunter.”
‡‡‡
Jackson got the text from Mahmoud just as he was searching for a reason to leave the Carnivale. Thank God Mahmoud’s text saved him from having to spend more time watching this depravity! Figuring the Boss would be done soon, and they’d all rendezvous at the surveillance van, he left as quickly as he could. But when he called Mahmoud back, it went straight to voice mail. Shit. Accessing the FTP server, he opened the folder and downloaded the contents. Picking up his pace, he ran to meet Lisa Bee and Susannah. He was psyched that they had potential new life on this case . . . the case that they all believed still belonged to them.
‡‡‡
The Boss had been in a back corner of the barn talking to Rhoda Kurthovsky—she was terrified that Nants would abuse her further, kill her, even, for exposing his secrets. She confessed that she was the one who had contacted them . . . she had watched him abuse one woman too many, and was finally ready to incriminate him.
“I’ve loved him all my life,” she told the Boss, holding her mangled hands together in her lap, tears marring her mascara. “We met so young, when I was first in this country, and he saved me. I always believed he could send me back to Russia if I didn’t do what he asked. For a long time, we would sell young women together. The slave trade, you know, young girls from Eastern Europe. Then our customers dried up as the authorities cracked down. I never wanted to do it . . . but he made me. I only tried to make the girls more comfortable; they were like my children, you see, for I never had my own. As we grew a bit older, he came up with this idea for a carnival of women and somehow he made it happen. Disgusting, yes. And we’ve been enslaved here ever since. I got your information from one of the men who came here, who was laughing about this email he got from someone asking about underground prostitution rings, so amused that anyone would respond to that. So I did. I did.
“Help us,” she said. “I don’t want to be without him, but I can’t live this way anymore.”
The Boss leaned toward her, a look of sympathy in his eyes. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, “just as soon as I can. I promise.”
“The customer, he was saying how easy it was to fool the government, how he could do awful things right under their noses . . . how no one would listen, that it was all bullshit anyway. . . . He said his initials were BS, that that is what they stood for . . . bullshit . . . that the whole government was bullshit, and no one would ever help people like us . . .”
“Wait a minute,” the Boss said, standing rigid. “What did you just say?” She repeated herself, and the Boss felt his hair standing on end. “Rhoda,” he said, trying to appear calm, “this is very important. Is there anything you can tell me about this man?”
“No,” she said, struggling to speak through her sobs. “I can’t even remember what he looked like. Just that awful laugh.”
“Anything else he said to you? What he was wearing? Any distinctive marks?”
“No,” she said. “Only that he wanted me to do things I’ve never been asked to do before. None of them sexual. Only strange. He wanted me to hold him in my arms, and call him . . . Bobby, that was it. And tell him it was all going to be okay.”
“Bobby,” the Boss mused. “Hmm. Thank you, Rhoda. You may have just helped me out a great deal. I promise to do the same for you.”
He left her weeping in the back, and shot off like a jolt. Seeing that Jackson had left, he quickly made his way out the door.
‡‡‡
When the Boss showed up at the van, Jackson was already inside with Susannah and Lisa Bee. The Boss climbed in and shut the door, chomping at the bit.
“Did you guys get the intel?” he asked feverishly.
“Shit, Bossman,” Susannah said. “We got it, but what are we going to do about it?”
“Surely it must lead somewhere,” the Boss said. “I just hope we’ve finally got something real.”
“Bossman,” Jackson chipped in, “this may help. There’ve been some new developments you need to hear about.”
“Spill it.”
“Mahmoud dug up some pretty important shit,” he said, grabbing the company iPad and turning it to show the Boss. “We just accessed the files he uploaded, and it seems he and Tyka unearthed some intel on a return trip to Birdsong’s, but that they don’t think he’s BS. Check it out.”
The Boss looked over the notes, a couple of pictures, and especially the note they’d uncovered. “So Birdsong is investigating like we are. I wonder what loose ends involve Gabriella?”
“Mahmoud says Tyka is on that.”
“Great. And what does this mean? That BS was live while Buzz was incarcerated? Am I reading that right?”
Susannah jumped in. “I think so, Bossman. God, I hope so. I hope we can exonerate him, that there’s still a chance he’s not involved.”
“Hmm,” the Boss mused. “I hope so, too. But where is he now, I wonder? Can we track him down? And does ‘Bobby’ mean anything to you, Legs?”
“No,” Susannah replied. “Not a thing. I just hope my dad is okay. I imagine a lot of people are looking to him for answers.”
“Right,” said the Boss. “And where do these coordinates point?”
“Queens, New York,” Lisa Bee piped in.
“Queens?” the Boss said. “Really? How bizarre.”
“Mahmoud wants us to check it out, Bossman,
but keep it completely on the DL. From everyone. Especially Fritz. How do you feel about that?”
“Well,” he said after a moment, “we don’t have much choice. This puts us back in the game for real. It’s what we all want. And we have to trust Mahmoud on this. We can couple it with our own intel and see what it grows. I don’t know what we’ll find with only ‘Bobby’ to go on, but it’s a start. Legs, have we heard from Chas?”
“Thank God, yes,” she said. “He called about a half hour ago. He was very cryptic—he said he’s on his way back, and he can’t share any information but he got an interesting lead. And his voice—he sounded a bit . . . shaken. Which I’ve never heard before. So it must’ve been tough.”
“Did he say whether or not he thought Birdsong is our guy?”
“He didn’t,” she said with a hitch in her voice, “but he did say my father’s not out of the woods yet. So that makes me think BS is still out there.”
“Confusing. But important. Feels like we’re closing in. Susannah, can you keep the new intel from Chas?”
“I have to, Bossman,” she said. “And I’m good for it.”
“Let’s get some sleep and then head to New York first thing in the morning. In the meantime, I’ve got a colleague I’m going to put on the Carnivale case.”
“Make sure he knows what he’s doing,” Lisa Bee said. “This guy needs to be whipped and chained like those women he’s abusing. I’ve never seen anything so awful in my life.”
“Agreed,” the Boss said. “And she definitely knows what she’s doing. She’s more of a hard-ass than I am. I’d be shocked if he gets to keep his balls after she’s through with him. Get us out of here, Jackson. It’s time for us to go do what we do best.”
‡‡‡
Buzz Carter was still inside Quantico, though only three people knew that, and none of them worked for the FBI. He was in a room that technically didn’t exist, accessed only through a trapdoor, bare except for a single lightbulb that hung over his head. The chair he was tied to had fallen to the side with him in it, and he’d been passed out for some time. He could feel dried blood crusted on his nose, his eyes, and his mouth, and he was sure a couple of his ribs had been broken. They’d been interrogating him for days, trying to get him to admit to plotting the nuclear attack on the Pentagon, and several other terrorist activities to boot. They’d subjected him to waterboarding, beatings, whips, and various other tortures. He couldn’t understand why they were trying to implicate him in a series of crimes he was innocent of; the only thing he could come up with was that Baba Samka had caught up with him and was trying to get Buzz to take the fall for him. This was what Buzz had been running from for sixteen years. This was why he’d faked his own death. Someone on the inside had been turned, and he didn’t know who to trust.
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