The Profile Match

by Jill Williamson

  Good. That all sounded very good.

  Pok left the airport and headed out into the city on a street lined with palm trees. I was instantly reminded of Okinawa, though this seemed somehow older. Perhaps it was the rickshaws.

  “Not rickshaw,” Pok said when I commented on them. “Tuk tuk.”

  The little carriages were attached to bicycles rather than poles a person carried, though I saw plenty of people pulling carts. I also saw a lot more American cars here than I did when I was in Japan, and they were motorcycles everywhere—five times as many as there were cars. Pok called them motos. Most had two people riding on them—I saw one moto carrying three. They wove in between and around the cars. Kind of freaked me out.

  Here and there, distinct oriental architecture made it clear we were in a different country. Of course I saw more American fast-food chains. Three Burger Kings so far. Most of the signage and billboards were written in Khmi, which looked more like Greek or Arabic than Kanji, but there were plenty of signs in English, too. More and more vehicles crammed the road like there were no traffic laws here at all, and maybe there weren’t. At times one land had three lines of cars, vans, trucks, and motos, speeding past pedestrians and people pulling hand carts. At intersections, cross traffic nosed out into the flow until the ongoing vehicles had no choice but to stop and let the others through.

  The ride took about a half hour, during which Isaac and I made small talk with Pok and commented on our surroundings. Pok grew up in Phnom Penh. He was born in 1955, which made him sixty-three. It wasn’t long before he started telling us his story about the genocide.

  “I was working when trucks came, carrying soldiers of Khmer Rouge. People were cheering and waving. The Americans were gone, and we thought war was over, you know, you know? Soldiers, they told us we must leave, that Americans were going to bomb city. These were lies.

  “Four days I walk to Bati. Children were crying. They were tired and hungry. We all were. There was no food or water and it was hot. Many people died from hunger or sickness.”

  Pok went on, telling us how he was eventually taken to a farm and made to work. After that, he was moved to a bridge that needed repair, then into a prison in which everyone was made to write down their biography.

  “Prisoners who were doctors or teachers, they disappeared,” Pok said. “Taken to killing fields. This I learned later. I worked hard at the prison. I collect firewood, move earth, carry water. One day I was sent to rice field. There, I was forced to marry.

  “Many did not like who they must marry. My Samol . . . I loved her, and she love me. When Khmer Rouge lost power, we were freed. The genocide kill two million people. Cambodia is land of orphans. Most people here, they are under forty years old. Me and Samol, we started orphanage. Still today we run orphanage.”

  Isaac asked about the orphanage and got Pok talking about the kids there. I stared out the window, watching the people we passed, studying any who looked older, wondering what their stories were. According to Watkins, once the Khmer Rouge fell, the soldiers lived among the people they’d abused and murdered. It was a lot to take in.

  We eventually passed through an open white gate and into a vast parking lot. On the other side, three wide towers painted white with gold accents rose up like some kind of fairytale Las Vegas casino. Pok dropped us at the front doors, and Isaac and I dragged our bags into an air-conditioned lobby. The place was crawling with teenagers who had congregated into groups with matching T-shirts. I now understood the shirts Grace and I had been given to wear.

  I saw “It’s a FLY thing: Iowa,” an outline of Oregon with the word FLY all squished and bubbly inside, a cartoon potato wearing sunglasses that said, “Idaho Potato FLY.” There was also “Rocky Mountain FLY”; “I ❤ FLYS, NYC”; the shape of Texas that said, “This ain’t my first rodeo”; one that said “FLY” in huge letters with the “L” in the shape of Louisiana; “Kansas: Strictly FLYover”; and my personal favorite, “Fresh and FLY, Philly” in 90s retro Fresh Prince of Bel Air font.

  There were international shirts, too. Egypt had a pyramid-like triangle on the front that was filled with an image of the labyrinth tattoo. I saw the tattoo everywhere, actually. So many T-shirts had incorporated that logo.

  Isaac and I followed the signs to registration. This turned out to be a number of tables set up in a U-shape in one of the ballrooms. Signs above the tables were listed with English alphabetical letters. Isaac and I separated, and as I joined the line for G–H, I realized I didn’t know Isaac’s alias. He’d gotten into the C–D line. I tried to keep an eye on him, so I wouldn’t lose him, though I suppose it was his job not to lose me.

  A group of girls approached me. They had dark skin and hair and the almond shaped eyes of an Asian country. They were all wearing red T-shirts with the fly logo and some kind of CJK characters that resembled Kanji but weren’t.

  “Kah-lee-foh-nya!” one said. “You trade?” She tugged on the hem of my shirt.

  She wanted to trade shirts?

  “I will.” Some guy a few people back in line behind me stepped forward. He was wearing a white shirt with the red Maple leaf on the front that said FLY CANADA underneath.

  The girl shook her head and continued to tug on my shirt. One of her friends stepped forward and peeled off her shirt right in front of us. Standing there in her bra, she handed her shirt to the Canada guy, who in turn ripped off his shirt, and they traded. When both were dressed again, the Asian girl looked like she was wearing a T-shirt dress while the Canadian guy, who was shorter than me and skinny as a rail, still looked like he was wearing a little girl’s shirt.

  By that point, I’d reached the front of the line. I handed the papers Watkins had given me to a white woman with hair cut like a boy’s who was sitting behind the table. She searched a hanging file and handed me a folder and a name badge.

  “This folder has your schedule and hotel map,” she said in a heavy Australian accent. “You must wear your name badge at all times. It’s your ticket into the meetings and main events each evening, and to the caf. also, so you won’t starve. If you lose it, you’ll have to come back here and ask for a second, which has a twenty-dollar fee, American. Any questions?”

  “Nope.” I took the stuff she’d given me and wandered toward Isaac who was standing in the middle of the room, waiting for me. I noted the name Eric Davis on his name badge.

  “Where to, Eric?” I asked.

  “Let’s take our luggage to our room, then come back down and wander,” he said.

  “Where’s our room?” I asked.

  “We’re on the fifth floor.”

  “And Grace?”

  “She’s on three with Agent Dominguez,” Isaac said, “and no, I’m not telling you what room number.”

  We headed for the elevators, but the lobby was suddenly packed full of people all looking toward some sort of huge FLY poster. We edged around the back of the crowd, and as we got closer to the poster, I saw why people were staring.

  Brittany Holmes was there, posing for pictures. A line had formed, and behind it, the mob, snapping pics over the tops of people’s heads. I didn’t really want Brittany to see me, but as I was taller than pretty much everyone, her eyes quickly locked onto mine.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” she said. She strode my way, pushing through the crowd, which parted for her, though everyone was calling out and several people touched her as she passed by. Two beefy guys scurried after her. I didn’t recognize either of them.

  She reached me, grabbed my arm, and hauled me into an alcove with potted palms.

  “How?” she whispered. “How are you here? I didn’t approve you.”

  I grinned. “Guess someone else did.”

  “No!” She growled the word and shoved me. “This is not okay.”

  “Gee,” I said. “Tell me how you really feel.”

  “Ving knows you’re spying on us,” Brittany said. “I told Blaine what Grace told me, and he told Ving.”

  “What did Grace te
ll you?” I asked.

  “I heard you two talking at the slumber party. About how you wanted to come here to spy on us. Grace said you’re missionaries and that you think the FLF is a cult. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to betray you. Though considering the way you betrayed me first . . .”

  “Excuse me?” I said. “You work for the MacCormacks, who’ve abducted me several times, so don’t act like you’re some kind of helpless victim. You made your choice.”

  Her bottom lip trembled as she released a shaky sigh. “You’re right. And I’m trying to fix it by telling you to get out of here before it’s too late. They know you’re trying to expose them, and they won’t hesitate to break you. I lost Val. Don’t make me lose you, too.”

  “Uh, Jason?” Isaac said. “I think we should listen to the lady and be on our way.”

  Brittany’s eyes fixed on Isaac. “Who are you?”

  “Jason’s roommate,” he said.

  Brittany’s gaze landed on my nametag. “Jason Hines. Wonderful. Well”—she looked at Isaac’s nametag—“Eric, I suggest you get your roommate out of here before you can’t.” She turned and strode away.

  Isaac dragged me by the arm to the elevators and hit the up button. “Don’t speak,” he said. He pulled out his cell phone, tapped it a few times, then set it against his ear. No one seemed to answer.

  We stood there until the elevator doors slid opened. Isaac pulled me inside and hit the button for five. Once the doors had shut, he placed another call. The third time he got through.

  “We’ve been compromised,” he said. “Where are you? . . . Who’s with the cheerleader? . . . They’re not answering.”

  Figs and jam. Was Grace in trouble?

  “I’m taking the player to our room,” Isaac said. “Meet me there.” He ended the call. “Why didn’t you tell me Brittany knew you were spying on her?” he asked me.

  “I didn’t know,” I said, panic crawling up my throat. “Grace didn’t tell me.”

  “Any idea when she found out?”

  “Yes, actually. The night Valeria died, I brought Brittany to Isabel’s slumber party. The next morning she must have overheard me and Grace talking about Cambodia. She left angry the next day, but when I asked Grace, she said Brittany was late for some acting thing.”

  “You never mentioned Brittany coming to Isabel’s house,” Isaac said.

  “I didn’t know it was relevant.” Mother pus bucket! Why had Grace kept that from me? “Is Grace okay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Isaac gestured me out, then followed. The hallway was somewhat narrow for a hotel. It had white walls with dark brown wooden trim and doors. Red carpet with a lighter damask pattern covered the floor.

  “Must be nice to have so many exciting things going on in your life that you forget to mention a slumber party with a famous actress,” Isaac said. “Why were you at the slumber party, anyway?”

  “I was with Lukas. We slept in the living room.”

  “Sure. Why not? You’re the miracle kid. Nothing normal goes on in your life.” He stopped at door 514 and stuck his hotel key in the slot.

  I realized I hadn’t checked in yet. “Do I get a key?” I asked.

  “Oh ho ho, no,” he said, pushing the door in. “Your cover is blown. So you’re going to spend the rest of this weekend in the hotel room watching TV.”

  I followed him inside where there were two twin beds covered in white blankets with a green square pillow in the center of each. “Not if Grace is in trouble, I’m not.”

  Isaac walked to the far bed and dropped his stuff. “Man, you lost the chance to weigh in when you forgot to mention Brittany Holmes went to a slumber party with your friends. You both should have filed reports on that evernt.” He pointed at me, then the bed. “Now sit down and stay put while I try Grace’s detail again.”

  “I thought she had four agents with her.”

  “She had two with her. The other two were downstairs on surveillance.”

  Isaac pulled out his phone and walked past me, back to the front of the room and into the bathroom. He shut the door. I heard a lot of banging and winced, remembering how I’d beat up the Amazon box in my bedroom after the Arizona State phone call.

  Isaac must be really ticked off.

  My stomach twisted. He should be. Grace, anyway. How could she have been so careless? Had something happened to her already? Had we blown this mission before it had even started? It honestly had never occurred to me to report that Brittany had come to the slumber party. I pulled out my phone to check on Grace, but the bathroom door opened.

  “Hey, Isaac, I’m sorry, man. I guess I just figured—”

  Not Isaac. An Asian guy. Huge. Shorter than me by a few inches but he had shoulders like The Rock.

  “You come with me,” he said.

  “What’d you do to Isaac?” Please, God, let Isaac be okay.

  The Rock beckoned me toward him with his thick finger. “Let’s go.”

  I tried to think this through. I wasn’t sure I could beat this guy, especially not in this cramped hotel room. I felt for the plastic that covered the stun feature on my ring and peeled it back.

  I stepped toward him, dropping the plastic I’d peeled off the ring. He opened the door, grabbed the back of my neck, and muscled me out into the hallway.

  I pressed my fist to his side under his raised arm. He gasped. His body froze, and he thrashed back and forth. I lunged past him out into the hall, and when I glanced back, he had collapsed on the floor in front of the door, which had shut. I had no way to get inside, so I ran, wanting to get out of sight before The Rock was back on his feet.

  I sprinted down the hall, and when the elevators never came into view, I realized I must have gone the wrong way. Ahead, I saw a door with a push bar. I opened it and found the stairwell. I fled down two levels, then ran out onto the third floor. I sprinted down the hallway, turned a corner, then slipped into an alcove with an ice machine. My cell was in my backpack, and I’d left my backpack in the room. I called Isaac with my watch. It went to voicemail.

  “Isaac, I got away from that guy, but I’m locked out of the room. I’m on the third floor. I’m going to try and find Grace and Agent Dominguez. Call me.”

  I ended the call and pressed the S.O.S. button on my Apple Watch, then I pulled up the TrackMe app and looked for Grace’s location.

  It showed me several blue dots all on top of each other at the Sofitel Phnom Penh Phokeethra. I zoomed in, and the dots slowly separated from one another. Unfortunately, it didn’t give me a floor plan, nor could I tell which floor I was looking at, so it wasn’t all that helpful.

  I opened the schematics app and watched a layout of part of the building appear on the screen. There was an option for heat signatures, so I turned it on, and red dots nearly filled in the entire floorplan. It took me a while to make sense of what I was seeing. First, there were a lot of people in this hotel. Second, this view wasn’t distinguishing between the different floors. I switched to a horizontal view, which also didn’t help much, then found the single floor option.

  Much better, but red dots were still all around me. I don’t think this app was meant to find someone in such a crowded building. I flipped back to the TrackMe app and tried to match the distance between me and Grace to the Schema app. Someone should add the GPS agent tracking to the Schema app. It would really help.

  I zoomed in on the TrackMe app, then I worked my way down the hall, watching to see if my dot was getting closer to Grace’s dot or farther away. It seemed to be getting closer.

  A scream sent a shiver down my spine. I came to a T, glanced to the right, saw no one, then looked left. Some guy was carrying Grace over his shoulder. His tattooed arm was familiar.

  “Hey, Tito!” I yelled.

  He looked back, his eyes two black specks over Grace’s back. He tried to run, but the hallway was too narrow, and he kept hitting his shoulder on the outcroppings for each doorway.

&nbs
p; I caught up and pushed my ring against his back. His feet stopped. His body gyrated. Grace started to slide off him, limp, so I had to move my ring to catch her.

  “Grace, I got you. Hey.” I hefted her into my arms and nudged her face with my shoulder. She groaned, but so did Tito. I stood her on her feet and propped her against the wall, but she slid to the floor. I punched Tito’s back again, giving him another jolt. Once he was still, I pulled Grace up, folded her over my shoulder, and approached the elevators.

  My Apple phone rang. I hit the down button, then pressed answer. “Yeah?”

  “Spencer, where are you?” Isaac.

  “On the third floor, waiting for the elevators. I’ve got Grace.”

  “Bring her up to five. Agent Ricks and I will meet you at the elevators.”

  “Got it.”

  A ding, and the elevator doors on the far end slid open. I headed toward them just as Anya stepped out. I froze. So did she. Then she smiled.

  “You always come to me, Spin-seer. This is a lesson I have learned too many times.”

  I crouched to set Grace against the wall again, hoping I could stun Anya with my ring.

  She pulled a gun. “Go ahead,” she said. “Put her down. I would hate for her to get hurt when you fall on top of her.”

  I double clicked the record button on my watch and lowered Grace to the floor. “Listen,” I said. “I’ll come with you but leave Grace here. She doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “You are sweet, how you always try to convince me of such things. But I know you don’t much like to see friends in pain. Better that I have her as insurance, don’t you think?”

  Grace was settled now, so I lunged toward Anya. She fired her gun, and something sharp pricked my stomach. It wasn’t enough to stop my momentum, though, and I grabbed Anya as I fell, pressing my ring to her arm. She grunted, and her body jolted underneath me, but my world was already fading. The last thing I saw was my arm going limp, taking my hand and the ring away from Anya’s skin.

  REPORT NUMBER: 29

  REPORT TITLE: This has to end. Now.