Codename

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Both. I can start righty."

  Jack positioned me so I led with my left foot, my feet a shoulder-width apart.

  "Have you thrown knives before?"

  "Once or twice." On a good day, in good lighting, with no wind, I could slice the wings off a hornet in mid-flight.

  "These are a little different." He stood behind me, pressing against my back, his hand on my wrist. "You have overhand and underhand throws," he took me through each motion.

  "How about sideways?" I asked, moving my arm as if I were about to skip a stone, and then switching to throw it like a Frisbee. When I did, I pulled Jack tighter to me.

  "I've found the vertical axis provides more control than horizontal," he said, his breath warm on my ear. "But your mileage may vary."

  I gave Jack a little bump with my butt, backing him up, and then raised a star above my head as he'd done.

  Thwap!

  I hit the 20, just above the bulls-eye. The balance and aerodynamic properties of the shuriken were sound, but I'd released a fraction of a second too early.

  "Not bad," Jack said.

  I threw the next two in rapid succession, underhanded. They stuck side-by-side in the triple 20 spot.

  "Tie score," I said.

  Jack let out a soft whistle, then plucked the stars from the board. He also threw underhanded, drilling all three into the triple 20.

  "Have you ever used these on a live target?" I asked, retrieving them.

  "Sure."

  The reply surprised me. Was he really loosening up?

  "Tell me."

  "Well, there was this really annoying cockroach—"

  I gave him a gentle punch on the shoulder. "Bastard!"

  "You're determined to talk about dark stuff, aren't you?"

  "As I said, I never get to discuss these things with anyone."

  "How about that handler guy on the phone?"

  "Jacob?"

  "You two seemed… close."

  "I've never met him in person. Which is probably strange. My life has been in his hands more than a few times. But it's best this way. I don't know his real name. Where he lives. What he looks like. So even if I'm aggressively interrogated, it's impossible for me to give him up."

  I meant it to be an offhanded remark, but Jack turned serious. "Has that happened before?"

  "What?"

  "Aggressive interrogation is spyspeak for torture, isn't it?"

  "Yeah."

  "And you're okay with that?"

  "Of course not. It hurts like a son of a bitch."

  I threw lefty, hitting two trip twenties and a bulls-eye.

  "Have you ever been…?" Jack asked.

  I remembered the straps. The board. The cloth. The endless water being poured over my face, filling my mouth and lungs, struggling to breathe. Those who didn't think waterboarding was torture were idiots.

  "Yes," I said. "While in training."

  "They tortured you during your training?"

  "To learn how to resist it, you need to experience it."

  "And you resisted?"

  "For as long as I could."

  "And have you ever…?" his voice trailed off.

  "Tortured anyone?"

  Jack stared at me. I sensed this was important to him. He was morally fine with beating the shit out of robbers in the park, but apparently leery about using a car battery to make someone reveal where they'd hidden the dirty bomb. I wasn't sure how they were that different. One guy could fight back, one couldn't? One was in pain longer?

  "Maybe you're right," I said. "Maybe we should avoid the dark stuff."

  Jack went his third time, but a pall had fallen over the game. He still got another 180 points, giving him a score of 1. I tried sidearm, and Jack had been right; it wasn't as accurate. I wound up with a score of 71. I could still win if Jack missed.

  Jack didn't miss.

  "We could go again," he said.

  He seemed a bit aloof. I could see how having a woman in your apartment who had been trained to resist and inflict pain might be a bit off-putting. I took his hands, looked up into his eyes.

  "Have you ever hurt anyone innocent?"

  Something flashed across his face. "Not intentionally."

  "Neither have I, Jack. I'm not a sadist. I'm not a robot. I'm just a woman who is really, really good at her job. A job very few people can do. And I like to think that I'm one of the good guys."

  I tilted my chin up, and he kissed me. It was better than he'd done in the park.

  A lot better.

  "So," I said, reluctantly pulling my mouth from his. "Does this place have a bedroom?"

  Jack led me by the hand. He seemed to have gotten over his reluctance.

  Which was good. Because if he questioned me further, it might have gotten complicated.

  I hadn't lied to him. I'd never hurt anyone innocent.

  That's because, deep down in my core, I knew no one was truly innocent.

  Jack

  Chandler kissed with her whole body. Like she needed it the same way others need air to breathe.

  Jack had thought he'd gotten used to Chandler's aggressive nature, but four steps into his room and she already had her hand down his pants.

  He was okay with fast. He was also okay with the two ships in the night/any port in the storm mentality. But there were situations when rushing was better, like grabbing a quick slice with everything at Lombardi's in NoLita, when other times savoring a leisurely Mediterranean meal at Gato in NoHo was favorable.

  Jack was in the mood to savor.

  He lightly held Chandler's wrists and brought them to his chest, setting a slower tempo. He brushed his lips against her throat, lingering there, as he smoothed his hands over her shoulders and down her back. Then he trailed his fingers back up her spine. Feeling a raised line on her side, he stopped and pulled away, giving her a questioning look.

  "Scar," Chandler said, under her breath. "Istanbul. Karambit knife. Ten stitches."

  She brought her lips to his again, little nibbling kisses, and slipped her hands under his shirt. Her fingertips skimmed over his deltoids then stopped at one of his many scars.

  "Machete. A matón in the DDP, atop the A Train."

  "Dominicans Don't Play," Chandler said against his lips. "Nasty gang."

  "Damn straight they don't play," Jack said. "Twenty stitches."

  She took his hand, guided it up under her blouse, and pressed it to her hip bone.

  Jack's fingers grazed a patch of small bumps.

  "Lagos. Twelve gauge. A few pellets got below my vest."

  "Feels like more than a few."

  "Eleven. Two stitches each. That's twenty-two."

  Their mouths met again, tongues exploring. Chandler had taken his cue and slowed down. It was nice. Really nice. As they kissed, she leisurely skimmed her hands up his sides, working his shirt over his head. She stepped back to look at him, tracing her fingers over his abs, finding the scar on his side.

  "Sniper?" she asked.

  "Got sideswiped by a cab on 43rd. Shoulda seen it coming, but I was helping an old lady who fell in the street."

  "Did the old lady… pay you… for your help?" Chandler said, tasting his jaw and throat.

  "She left me in the street, bleeding."

  She pulled back and stared at him for a second, then began unbuttoning her blouse. "I knew it."

  "Knew what?"

  She finished with the buttons, and he skimmed the fabric over her shoulders, revealing a simple black bra. "You're a good Samaritan," she said. "This isn't just a job for you. It's a calling."

  "Maybe. A bit. You think that's crazy?"

  "I think it's hot. So are your scars."

  She dropped down in a squat, tongued Jack's taxi scar.

  He ran fingers through her short hair. "You know we're playing out a movie scene here, right? They did this in Jaws."

  Chandler unbuttoned his pants, peering up at him. "They did this in Jaws?"

  "No. The comparing scars
."

  "Never saw it."

  "You never saw Jaws?"

  "Nope."

  How was such a thing possible?

  "Quint and Hooper are comparing shark bites, and all Brody has is an appendix scar."

  She moved his hand to the back of her neck, on her scalp. Jack felt another scar under his fingertips.

  "Thresher shark," Chandler said.

  Jack's fingers froze. "You're shitting me."

  "Sea of Cortez," she said, easing down his zipper.

  "You were bitten by a shark?"

  "Tail got me. That's why they're called threshers."

  "This is so like Jaws."

  "Did they all have sex after comparing scars?"

  "Hell, no. But in one of the Lethal Weapon flicks, Riggs and Cole compare scars, then later they make love."

  "So the same scene was in Jaws and Lethal Weapon, too?"

  "Actually, I think it was Lethal Weapon 3."

  Chandler stared up at him. "Jack?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Can we stop talking about movies and scars, and can you take me to bed?"

  "Absolutely."

  # # #

  The sex was good. No…great. Right on a par with Cristin, and Cristin knew what she was about. She'd taught Jack a lot during their time together, and he'd focused it all on the rigidly controlled and in-control Chandler, making her lose control and repeatedly call on a deity he doubted she believed in. And then she made Jack do the same.

  It took them a while before ambulation – hell, even coherent speech – became possible again. When Jack was once again able to ambulate, he grabbed a pair of beers and an old VHS tape of Jaws. He insisted they lie in bed and watch it together.

  "You really want to sell me on this movie thing, don't you?"

  "Yes. Until I can quote one you've seen, or find one you like. And Jaws is one of the most quotable films of all time." He did his best Quint and said, "Here's to swimmin' with bow-legged women."

  "Is that from Jaws?"

  "How about we just watch the damn movie."

  They did. If she enjoyed it, Jack couldn't tell.

  Not that Chandler wasn't responsive. She'd been incredibly responsive in bed.

  But watching a movie with her was like talking to her. She remained placid, impassive. Jack had laughed at the "that's some bad hat, Harry" line, jumped when the severed head floated out of the hull (he always jumped, no matter how many times he saw it), and whooped when Brody blew up the shark.

  Chandler's expression hadn't changed the entire time.

  "Wasn't that great?" he prompted as the credits rolled over Brody and Hooper swimming back to shore.

  "Shark looked fake."

  Jack turned to face her. "It's more than just that. The writing. The acting. The music. It's everything. Jaws is a perfect movie."

  "If you say so."

  Jack studied her for a moment. "I don't think I've seen you smile."

  "I can fake it, if you want me to."

  "Don't do it if you don't want to."

  "Okay."

  "Because I wouldn't want to see a fake smile."

  "Duly noted."

  "By the way, have you heard about the constipated mathematician?"

  "No."

  "He worked it out with a pencil."

  Chandler might as well have been a painting. That's how much she reacted.

  "It's not that I don't appreciate a sense of humor, Jack. I do. In fact, I like it a lot. But…"

  "But you're so controlled you don't let emotion get to the surface."

  Chandler nodded. "Yeah."

  He lowered his voice. "Except when making love."

  Chandler nodded again. "Yeah."

  Jack stroked her cheek with his knuckles. "Then maybe we should do that again."

  # # #

  The second time was even better. They'd each figured out what the other liked, and got right to the point.

  When they finished, it was late. Or rather, early. Sun would be up soon. Jack was exhausted, but he rarely had guests, especially of the female persuasion, and he was determined to play host. After offering her various types of foods and beverages – she settled on orange juice – Jack put in the first Lethal Weapon. A funnier movie than Jaws. Maybe he'd catch her smiling.

  He didn't. He fell asleep.

  When he woke up a few hours later, she was gone.

  Chandler

  Jack conked out halfway through Lethal Weapon. As if aware of that, my phone buzzed. Only one person had my number, and I found I didn't want to answer it, didn't want to leave. But as cute as young Mel Gibson was, it wasn't him I regretted running out on. It had been nice to be able to talk to someone again. Really talk. And the sex… well, the sex had been good. I'd had wilder, move explosive and athletic, but sex with Jack had been… intimate. As if we hadn't been just performing a biological act, but really communicating with our bodies, learning each other.

  I would enjoy spending more time with Jack.

  Too bad that wasn't possible.

  "You on the street now?" Jacob asked in my ear after we'd gone through the confirmation protocol. "Safe to talk?"

  I pushed out of the door of the brownstone and into the pre-dawn morning. Birds were already singing. The sun would be up soon. A light wind blew from the west, bringing with it a faint smell of river.

  "Go ahead," I said into the phone.

  "Had a good night?"

  "Yeah."

  "So he has more than just ass-kicking skills?"

  "Ass-kicking, lovemaking; same skills, different application."

  "Hmm. You might be on to something there."

  I took a deep breath of morning air, then forced the warm recollections from my mind. I wasn't in town to make friends. I'd come to work.

  "So what do you have for me?" Standing mid-block, I glanced east toward the park, then west, waiting for Jacob's direction.

  "Get to the Midtown terminal on West 39th. Take the ferry to the Hoboken terminal on 14th Street."

  I turned west. "The mark is in New Jersey?"

  "I spotted him at the Hoboken ferry terminal last night."

  "Facial recognition?"

  "Yeah. He took the ferry to the Midtown terminal, spent around two hours in the city, and then ferried back to Jersey. On his way into Manhattan, he was pulling a carry-on suitcase. On the trip back, his hands were empty."

  I wasn't sure what I was supposed to think about the suitcase, but I waited for Jacob to explain.

  "You can intercept him at the Hoboken pier. I have reason to believe he'll be getting back on the ferry sometime today."

  "What reason?"

  "He purchased four one-way fares. He used two of those fares last night. He has two left. Enough for another round trip."

  "You traced his credit card?"

  "If he was using a credit card, we would have found him a while ago. The camera caught the ticket purchase."

  "I thought you called this a puddle jumper. It sounds like I'm going to be staking out a ferry terminal all day."

  "I have a feeling it'll be faster than that. Something is in motion. Something big. Sending a photo."

  I turned the corner and headed south. A picture materialized on my phone's screen; an impressively clear shot of my target in the ferry terminal. An average size man, probably in his forties. He wore a blue, pinstriped button-down with an oxford collar and wire-rim glasses. WASP. Clean cut with a touch of nerd. The case he was pulling was black leather, like a million others in the city.

  "What was in the bag?"

  My handler didn't answer.

  I knew Jacob liked to play his cards close to the vest, but there were certain things I needed to know, things that would make sensing what a mark would do next easier. One of those things was understanding his end game.

  "You want me to find the bag, don't you? Otherwise you wouldn't have brought it up. So what's inside?"

  "A weapon."

  "What kind of weapon?"

  "It was
developed on Plum Island."

  A chill seized me that had nothing to do with the wind. For a moment, I couldn't trust my voice to work. Plum Island was located off Long Island at the mouth of the sound, just a little more than a stone's throw from the Hamptons and some of the biggest mansions in New York. The government facility on the island had a long history of curing various animal ailments along the lines of Hoof-In-Mouth Disease. It was widely thought to be fairly benevolent.

  I knew different.

  I knew what the government scientists there had really been working on.

  And two years ago, despite the fact that I worked for the same government, I'd destroyed the building and everyone in it. The dead man I'd told Jack about, the one I watched crash and bleed out, that was on Plum Island. Only blind luck saved me from his fate.

  "This weapon, it's biological?"

  "I don't think so. Viruses weren't the only things they were playing with. They were also inventing chemical weapons. One was a concentrated organophosphate that makes your usual WMD neurotoxin, like sarin, seem like aftershave. Vile stuff, deadly in a few parts per million as an aerosol."

  "Sounds lovely." I wrapped my arms around myself, the wind cutting cold through my jacket.

  "Our man caught by the security camera worked as a chemist on Plum Island two years ago, name is Colin Farquart."

  Again I thought of that night. The blood. The fire. "There was no one left in the main lab. Not after I was done."

  "Farquart wasn't among the bodies found. I've been looking for him since. Also, we had a team do a thorough search of the wreckage. The toxin was in an inflammable container. They should have recovered it. But they didn't find it. Both Farquart, and the toxin, have been MIA since."

  "Do you think his plan is to use it? Some sort of revenge scheme?"

  "He could have done that years ago. I think he's been looking for a buyer. And he's finally found one."

  "Who?"

  "I don't know. My guess is it was a dark net deal. I can hack with the best of them, but if he's using an onion router he could put up a for sale ad on an encrypted bulletin board. I know a few sites, but more pop up all the time. They're invite-only, and I don't get invited."

  So Farquart was using part of the Internet that regular search engines couldn't reach. Unless you had the correct URL, you'd never find it. It was how many pedophiles traded child pornography without getting caught. More recently, arms dealers had been using it to sell everything from canons to Apache helicopters.