by Greg Rucka
Dan was waiting for me at the table in the kitchen, drinking from a longneck of Budweiser. Another bottle was in front of him, and he gestured that it was mine, but I shook my head and went to the cupboards, started opening them. The shelves had been filled with canned foods, ravioli and chili and other junk. The freezer was brimming with T.V. dinners and frozen pizzas, and the refrigerator held mostly soda, beer, and condiments. There was a sad head of lettuce wilting in the back of the crisper. I threw that in the trash can by the sink.
"What do you think?" Dan asked.
"Tell me about the alarm, what's it tied to?"
"The monitoring service. If it goes off, they notify the police."
"Who owns the house?"
"Bank in Brooklyn." When I frowned, he added, "All the paper is good."
"Yeah, but by Brooklyn you mean it's a front, that there's no name on it. It can be traced."
"Not easily."
"You're going to need to change that tomorrow, put the ownership in a name, a married couple, I don't care who. Just make it look good, and if you can backdate the sale, that's even better."
"Anything else?" He sounded testy.
"I want you to start looking into doctors, we need someone good, someone who specializes in sports injuries. Has to be completely off the record, but that shouldn't be too hard, and I'm sure you can find someone who lost their license because they started stealing from their own drug cabinet. Make sure whoever you find is discreet, because he or she may have to come out here several times."
"Is this for 'Tasha?"
"Can you do it?"
"All it takes is money. I ask again, is this for 'Tasha, is she hurt?"
I ignored the question, checked out the kitchen window into the backyard. It was night now, and there were no lights from outside.
"You will want the guards, too?" he asked. "I've got some boys, four of them. All good with arms, I can equip them however 'Tasha wants, automatics, submachine guns, even grenades. I can have them here tonight, if that's what she wants."
"Tomorrow will be fine. These are your guys?"
"They work for me."
"They know anything about protection? I mean real protection, not shakedowns."
The chair scraped as he shifted around, and I turned back to see that he was getting up, and looking pissed. "You listen, Mr. Kodiak, you can just drop that shit with me, okay? Your attitude I don't need, I know what I'm about here, I do this shit right."
"You going to answer my question?"
"I beat you down once," he reminded me.
"You did. You want to try again?"
Dan stared at me, his weight shifting into his torso. The longneck was in his right hand, and I figured he'd start with that. I didn't look away from him, and I didn't move, just started cataloguing all of the kitchen utensils and supplies that I saw in my periphery, picking which ones I'd use to stop him if he decided things needed to go that far.
Then he relaxed, his weight settling lower again, and he took a swig from the bottle.
"No," he said, after he had swallowed. "No, I don't think I will."
***
Back on the Franklin Turnpike I found a pay phone and called the hotel, asking for Mr. Lieberg's room. When the phone was answered, I spoke first.
"It'll do. It's not what I hoped for, and we'll need the extras, but it'll do. Her friend is waiting for me there now."
"Where?" Natalie asked.
"Franklin Turnpike in Mahwah. I'll be outside the Dunkin' Donuts."
"Take us an hour."
"Take two, make sure you're clean when you get here."
"Got it."
I hung up and got back in the car, then headed along the turnpike to the Interstate Mall, which was just a couple miles away. I cracked the window and left Miata in the car, telling him I'd be back shortly, then headed inside. At a GNC in the mall I dropped almost two hundred dollars on various supplements, then headed over to the Radio Shack and picked up another hundred or so dollars' worth of electronics. I did a little clothes shopping, as well, buying some extra underwear and the like for both Alena and myself. When I was finished I brought everything back to the car and went back into Mahwah and stopped at the first grocery store I saw. I bought food, mostly fruits and veggies, some fish, two gallons of juice, a gallon of milk, a couple of pretty lean-looking steaks. I also grabbed a ten-pound bag of Science Diet for Miata. When I'd finished loading the car, the trunk was full.
Then I headed back to the Dunkin' Donuts and waited in the car, watching the traffic and thinking. After a couple of minutes I got out again and went back to the phone, but this time I called Scott.
"You free tonight?" I asked him.
"You say such things and my heart leaps with joy."
"You've always been my number one guy, you know that. I'm going to call you in another hour or so, give you a location. Take your time coming out, but when you do, bring your pad and pencil."
"She's cool with this?"
"She will be."
"I'll expect your call," he said, and hung up.
***
They arrived just over two hours after I'd called, pulling into the lot in Natalie's new Audi. Alena was in the front passenger seat, a coat in her lap, the submachine gun under the coat.
"Any trouble?" I asked.
"None," Natalie said. "If he's in New York, he didn't know you were at the Grand."
"You checked us out?"
"All taken care of."
"New car."
"You like it?"
"What happened to the old one?"
"Sold it."
"Nat, you go through cars the way most people go through socks."
"I like that new-car smell," she said. "We'll follow you."
I climbed back into the rental and got back on the road, and they followed me the ten minutes it took to reach the house. The Kompressor was still where Dan had parked it, and the lights inside the house were still blazing bright. I stopped my car and let Miata out, told Natalie and Alena to wait. Dan was still in the kitchen, where he'd killed another two longnecks, talking on his cell phone in Russian. When he saw me he changed his tone, making a quick end to the conversation, then stowed the phone back in his pocket.
"She's here?"
I gestured for him to follow me.
They were still in the Audi, the engine idling, and when Natalie saw us coming, she shut off the car and opened her door. Dan started around for Alena's side, and I looked past him to her, trying to read what she wanted. She didn't seem to have any objection to Dan's approach, and so I let him help her out of the vehicle while I started unloading the rental. Between Natalie and myself we had my shopping unloaded and the bags from the Audi inside in three trips, just as Alena had reached the top of the porch. Dan was walking behind her, and his manner reminded me of nothing as much as an overprotective sibling watching out for his little sister. But when he offered to give her his elbow for support, she snapped something in Russian at him, and again it was clear that, whatever else he felt for her, she scared him.
Natalie set about a quick walk-through of the house while I unloaded the groceries, and Alena settled into one of the chairs in the kitchen, Dan again back at the table. I didn't say anything while I restocked the cabinets and fridge. The two of them spoke in Russian to one another, voices soft, though twice Alena's tone sharpened, and Dan said something conciliatory. I was folding the shopping bags and putting them away when I realized the conversation, whatever it had been about before, had now turned and made me the subject.
Natalie came back and rolled her eyes at me, and I moved to join her in the hall, saying, "I know, it's not good. It's not god-awful, but it's not good."
"The hot tub helps," she said.
"Sure, if you want to be picked off from outside."
"She taught you how to snipe, did she?"
"No," I said. "Sniping's woman's work."
"Well, let's talk about man's work, then. What do you want to do about the a
larms?"
"I picked up some stuff at Radio Shack. Tomorrow we can wire a panic button to whatever room we're putting her in. Other than that, I'm not sure what else we can do."
"Be nice if we had Corry for this," she mused.
"And Dale for the vehicles, but we don't. Which room do you like for her?"
"The second bedroom upstairs, the one between the master bedroom and the smaller bathroom. You and I can take the beds on either side, she'll be covered."
I moved my head to indicate the flight of stairs. "Be trouble if we have to get her out in a hurry."
"Atticus," Natalie said. "If we have to get her out in a hurry, odds are none of us will be leaving alive anyway."
"We'll ask her what she wants."
Natalie looked past me, back into the kitchen. "You have any idea what they're talking about?"
"Probably me," I said.
"Oh, that's egocentric."
"Maybe. But I heard Dan use my name, and I don't think it was in passing. Not sure what the relationship is there."
"Not sure what the relationship is, here," Natalie pointed out.
I started to respond when, from the kitchen, Alena called, "Dan's going to go back into the city, get things ready for tomorrow."
Natalie and I stepped back into the kitchen, saw that Dan was already on his feet. He looked at me and asked, "If that's all right with you?"
There was no condescension in his tone at all.
"That's fine," I answered. "Thanks."
" 'Tasha says you'll pay me tomorrow."
"I'll have the money by the afternoon."
"That's good, then."
He adjusted his coat, glanced at Alena, then made his way out of the house. Natalie turned and followed him to the door, locking it after he left, staying at the window until his car was out of sight. I pulled out one of the chairs at the table and sat down with Alena.
"How do you feel about being upstairs?"
"The stairs will be difficult, but I'll manage. It will be fine." She set her crutches aside, propping them against the table. "Dan says you were unhappy with him."
"Not with him. There are problems with the house, it's not ideal. But it'll serve."
"He says I changed you."
"You did."
"He says I made you like me."
"That I'm not so sure about. But at least I'm no longer addicted to caffeine."
She smiled, but didn't laugh. "When is Fowler coming to speak with me?"
I was only a little surprised. "He's waiting for my call."
"Tonight would be best."
That was more surprising. "I thought you'd take some convincing."
"No, it was to be expected, and if you had not already contacted him, I would have asked you to. I will give him information."
"Like?"
"Oxford has certainly been hired by the same people who told you I had killed in Dallas. They lied to you, hoping you would make their jobs easier. They hoped I would contact you, and that you in turn would contact them. They most certainly planned to then forward that information to Oxford, helping him to narrow his search. Since they are Oxford's employers, only they can end the contract. But if I give information to Fowler, information embarrassing to those people, Fowler will share it with his superiors, and that will force them back into hiding."
"Nice plan if it'll work. Do you think it'll work?"
She shook her head. "But it will complicate things for Oxford at the least, perhaps buy us more time. Understand, I will speak to Fowler only because we can use him."
"He doesn't want to arrest you."
"I'm glad to hear that, because I won't allow it to happen."
"I'll make sure he understands," I said. "You don't have to worry about Scott, he's a good guy."
"Another of your friends."
"He's a good friend."
"I noticed that only Natalie agreed to help you."
"Dale and Corry are still my friends."
"And yet they are not here."
She shut her eyes, tired. It occurred to me that her leg was giving her a lot of pain. She opened her eyes again, then leaned over to where I was sitting and put her lips lightly against my cheek.
"Call your friend," she said.
Chapter 3
She talked to Scott for almost three and a half hours, from shortly after midnight until almost four in the morning. They stayed at the kitchen table, Alena drinking juice and Scott mainlining coffee, and he filled page after page of his notebook with what she said. Mostly she gave him histories, incidences where she knew an assassin had been hired for a job, and she gave him enough facts, enough names and dates, explained enough about how such a contract would be carried out, that Scott could take the information and fill in the rest. She never implicated herself, though at least one of the assassinations she told him of was the execution of General Augustus Albertus Usuf Kiwane Ndanga. She told him about tradecraft, things she hadn't even shared with me, explaining to Scott the sorts of things he should look for if we wanted to tie Oxford to the people who had hired him. She explained contact protocols, cutouts, dead drops, authorizations.
Half of Scott's questions were about money, and he asked Alena to explain how payments were made, how an organization would arrange the funding for such jobs, how the transfers would be handled, in general, how she – and presumably others of her profession – handled their finances. In this she was more forthcoming, all things considered, and when she told Scott that, in fact, she didn't actually handle her money herself, he was incredulous.
"You actually trust it to someone else?"
"Of course. To a bank, in fact."
"A bank?"
"There is no other way," Alena answered. "Suppose I require a rental car, or a hotel room. I would need a credit card, one that is not only legitimate but also matches the identity I am using. A trustworthy banker can supply all of that."
"How does that work?"
"The majority of my money is in a trust with a safe and very private bank, and there is a man who handles the accounts for me. That man receives instructions from me to do certain things."
"Like?"
"If I need a credit card, I tell him to authorize an account payable from my trust in the name I require. If I am renting a storage unit in, say, Queens, he is told to write a check to the firm on the first of every month until ordered otherwise. Like that."
"So this person theoretically knows who you are, he could be used to find you."
"He knows the identity of the holder of the trust," she replied. "He has only met that woman on two occasions. He is well paid, Agent Fowler, extremely discreet, and he has ascertained enough about how I make my living to remain careful."
He stopped focusing on his notepad for a moment to look at her. "You threatened him?"
"I never have needed to."
I spoke up. "Does Oxford use the same procedure? A banker and a trust, like that?"
"Not the same, but almost certainly similar."
"How much money do you think he has?" I asked.
She considered, adjusting her weight slightly and frowning down at her left leg. "Probably more than I do. I'd guess – and this is only a guess – in excess of twenty million dollars."
"How often do you think he contacts his banker?"
"Fairly frequently. Certainly he makes contact whenever a payment is expected, in order to confirm delivery."
"Do the people who have hired him, do they know who the banker is?" Scott asked.
"No. They would be asked to transfer the money to dummy accounts and the like. The banker then handles the rest."
"So the contractor or contractors can't contact Oxford through the banker?"
"No, though whoever has hired him, they must have a way to contact him, and vice versa. In most instances this would give him power over them, but not here – if he is tied to a government agency, working with someone in Langley, say, then he is their employee, beholden to the organization."
&n
bsp; "Is there a direct line of contact?" Scott asked.
"I'm not certain I understand your question."
He adjusted his glasses, trying to find a way to rephrase. "Say someone at the CIA decided to bring Oxford in, to use him for this job, to kill you and Atticus and Havel. Is that person the same one who actually made contact with Oxford, negotiated the deal, things like that?"
She started shaking her head. "No, no, that would not happen. In a private contract, yes, A hires me to kill C, and either A hires me directly, or A uses a contact, B, and B hires me. But that can be traced back. With a government job one thing is universal – there is always insulation. The person or persons who gave Oxford the job, who have set up the accounts with which to pay him, they will not be the same people who decided to hire Oxford in the first place."
"So how do you find the source, where it started?"
"You don't. You can't."
Scott looked over to me, then to Natalie, then back to Alena. "I can't accept that."
"Agent Fowler, that has nothing to do with anything," Alena said. "We are not talking about a hiring that started with an individual. We are talking about a decision of policy. Oxford will be funded until he completes the job. Or until he becomes more of a liability than an asset to the people who wish to use him."
"And he becomes a liability when?"
She smiled. "When he allows a book to be written about him."
It got laughs from both Scott and Natalie, and it made her smile a little brighter.
"Is that the only way?" Scott asked.
"There are others. If Oxford were to begin blowing up buildings in Manhattan, if he began killing people without due caution, if his behavior became erratic, the contracting party would have to sever the relationship. Anything that would cause them embarrassment, that would do it, if used properly. The information I have given you will have the same effect."
Scott scribbled quickly on his pad, then looked at me. "How embarrassing would it be if you paid a visit to Gracey and Bowles?"
"Depends how we did it," I said. "If I contact them and ask for a meeting, they're likely to say sure, how about someplace dark and deserted at four in the morning, and why don't you bring that lovely lady friend of yours. And then they'd tell Oxford where to expect me."
