The Excoms Page 9

  “No, no. That can’t be true. I would never involve myself with them.”

  “How would you know? You were just the courier. The explosives were supposed to be on their way to Berlin an hour after you delivered them. You, of course, would never have had the chance to know this because you’d have been dead not long after you arrived. They wouldn’t have chanced you connecting them to the delivery.” The man closed the file and put his hand on it. “The proof is right here. You will be given a copy, along with audio recordings and video footage that should alleviate any doubts.”

  Looking uncomfortable, Dylan said, “Well, even if you’re right, they didn’t receive the cargo.”

  “Also true. And they are none too happy about that. You are, as they say, on the run. But don’t worry. We do have several solutions for you to choose from that should get you out of trouble.” His line of sight switched to the other side of the table. “Señorita Blanca, your situation is somewhat similar to Mr. Brody’s. The client you were working for before you joined us—who was it?”

  “Does anyone actually fall for that trick?” she asked.

  He smiled. “No. But it’s all right. We already know.” He picked out a different file, opened it, and scanned the top sheet. “The CIA, in the guise of their Mexico City station chief, Stephen Robinson.”

  Ananke glanced at Rosario. A slight tensing of her jaw confirmed the man was right.

  “Politically the United States is at a very critical point right now. The population is largely polarized. A spark or two in the wrong place and there will be a wildfire that no one will be able to put out until the country has burned to the ground. Unbeknownst to his employer, Mr. Robinson is a believer in that fire. He thinks that everything needs to be destroyed so that something better can take its place. He also believes he’s the one who will ignite that spark. The device you stole would have allowed him to move significantly closer to that goal.”

  “What do I care what happens in the States? They don’t care what happens in my country.”

  “Nicely said, but I know you are not that naïve. The day after you would have delivered the device, you would have been killed in your own home, taken into the countryside, and buried in a hole no one would ever find.”

  “And how would you know that?” Rosario asked.

  “Because the contract to end your life was arranged through associates of the people I represent. Instead, we made you disappear before you could complete the delivery.”

  “And now you’re going to tell me that my client thinks I still have the dongles and is hunting me down to get them back.”

  “Technically, you do still have them. They’re waiting with your other things. And, yes, Mr. Robinson is trying to find you. Rest assured, he will be taken care of soon enough, and the inquiries into your whereabouts will fade away. The larger problem is that there are others in his organization who know about the devices and will be looking for them and for you. We have a plan for that also.” He closed the file and selected a third. “Fraulein Kessler, first let me say I’m sorry for your loss. Your employer’s death is a tragedy for all those who knew him. But most especially for you.”

  The woman looked at the screen impassively.

  “May I ask how your shoulder is feeling?” the man asked.

  The woman said nothing.

  The man acknowledged her silence with a sympathetic smile. “As you know, the police possess evidence implicating you in Mr. Wolf’s death. We know your only involvement was that you were there when it happened. My regret is we did not anticipate this event and prevent that woman from getting anywhere near him.”

  “It was my job to anticipate,” the woman said. “Not yours.”

  “That’s not entirely true. You see, Mr. Wolf was a member of the group I represent. An instrumental member, as a matter of fact. You are here because of his faith in you.”

  The woman’s eyes glistened, but she made no response.

  “When we realized you had no chance of getting out of your situation without going to trial, we chose to intervene. Naturally, the police have not responded well. Notifications have been sent across the country and back to Germany asking that you be detained. We are dealing with that, plus working at clearing you of any involvement in Mr. Wolf’s murder. It will take time, but it will get done. Until then, the safest place for you is with us.”

  He traded her file for the last in the stack. “Miss Ananke.”

  “It’s just Ananke.”

  A bow of his head. “Ananke, then. In your case, the murder was your fault.”

  “I’m going to have to take exception to that.”

  “Understandable. We know your intention was not to kill, but you did deliver the fatal dose.”

  “I’m pretty sure you have the details in that little folder of yours, so I don’t see the point of going over everything. Besides, you’re not my client.”

  “Not at this point, no. The organization that did hire you is currently conducting a worldwide manhunt for you. You are, after all, the killer of the people’s candidate.”

  Dylan spun in his seat, staring wide-eyed at Ananke.

  “Holy crap. That guy in the Philippines? That was you?”

  Rosario and the Kessler woman were both now looking at her, too, the former curiously, almost impressed, but the latter with more than a hint of disgust.

  Ananke thought about telling them how it had all gone down, but really, why should she care what any of them thought?

  To the man on the screen she said, “My client would have canceled the manhunt as soon as I walked off that airplane with my asshole backstabber of an op leader if you all hadn’t stopped me.”

  “Ah, yes. Mr. Perkins. Do you think he was working on his own? That he alone decided to switch the drug you delivered to your target? Who do you think was pulling his strings?”

  “Of course he was working for someone else. Which is even more reason for me to turn him over to my client.”

  “I didn’t say anything about his working for a second employer.”

  She stared at him, and then narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to tell me my client wanted me to kill Alonzo all along? He was as angry about what happened as I was when I talked to him.”

  “And everyone in your business speaks the truth all the time?”

  That stopped her for a second, but then she shook her head. “I kill people. It’s what I do. If they’d wanted me to kill Alonzo, they would have just said so.”

  “If they had, you would have planned the mission differently, made sure you were nowhere near your victim when he went down. Then your client would have been left without a scapegoat. This way they have pictures of the killer on the platform with Alonzo. My understanding is that you were to be caught before you could get out of the building. That you weren’t is admirable.”

  “Gee, thanks. But if you want me to believe that the people who hired me were behind it, you’re out of luck. I’ve worked with them for years. We have an excellent relationship.”

  “Even the best soldiers need to be sacrificed at times. But I understand your reluctance, which is why the evidence we’ve gathered will be made available to you, too.”

  The room fell quiet, Ananke and her fellow prisoners contemplating what the man on the screen had told them.

  It was Ananke who finally broke the silence. “Let me get this straight. You ‘saved’ us, and brought us here to ‘protect’ us. Do I have that right?”

  “In part, yes.”

  “So there is something more.”

  “Of course there’s more.”

  “And this more has something to do with why we were kept unconscious until we were all here?”

  “I promise, you will be told everything, but before we dive in, I think it would be best for each of you to familiarize yourself with your new quarters, and take some time to examine the evidence waiting for you there.”

  A distant thump echoed from somewhere behind Ananke. This was followed almost imm
ediately by the low whine of an electric motor.

  The man stacked his folders into a single pile again. “Follow the hall. You can’t miss it. We’ll meet again soon.”

  “Wait! You still haven’t told us who the hell you are,” Ananke said.

  “An oversight. You can call me Administrator.”

  “Are you serious?” Dylan asked, snickering.

  “I am,” the man said.

  “Well, Mr. Administrator, I have a question for you. Why are there five chairs here when there are only four of us?”

  “Simple. The fifth member of your team has not joined you yet.”

  He started to reach offscreen for what Ananke assumed was a disconnect button.

  “Hold on!” she yelled. “What do you mean by team?”

  The man paused. “I thought that was obvious. We’d like you to do a job for us.”

  18

  CRESTRIDGE FEDERAL PRISON, GEORGIA

  “THIS ONE GUY was a real problem,” Ricky said.

  His audience was bigger than usual. Five guys today. His two regulars—Tommy and Prance—plus three newbies who’d arrived the day before and hadn’t had the chance to grow tired of his tales.

  “I mean, I’d already found all his buddies, but this guy? He was proving elusive.” Ricky paused when he saw the confused looks on two of the new guys’ faces. “Elusive, it means, um, hard to find.” That seemed to clear things up.

  “I’d been tracking him for days, way longer than I expected, but finally I corner him at this campsite in upstate Michigan. You know what I’m talking about. A bunch of spots for people to park their trailers and feel like they’re roughing it for the night? This was off-season, though, early November and already really cold, so the place had closed until spring. I knew he was there, though, and I knew he hadn’t left because there was nowhere else he could go. But damn if I couldn’t find that son of a bitch. I looked through the check-in cabin at the front of the camp. I looked under the cabin. I looked through the surrounding woods. You know where I finally found him?”

  Tommy and Prance smiled but kept their mouths shut.

  After a few moments, the youngest of the newbies, a kid not much more than eighteen, said, “Where?”

  “Well, you remember this was a campground, right?”

  Nods.

  “Some people actually used tents instead of campers. If you were staying in one of them, and needed to take a piss in the middle of the night, you needed somewhere to go, right? So there was this row of outhouses off to the side.”

  “What’s an outhouse?” another of the new guys asked.

  “Where are you from?”

  “New York.”

  “City?”

  “You know it,” he said with pride.

  “Ever leave the city before? I mean, you know, other than coming here?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Ricky grinned. “That explains it. An outhouse is a toilet.”

  “You mean a restroom.”

  “No. A toilet. That’s all. The outhouses at this place were small wooden huts, with a wooden bench inside that had a hole cut in the top, and below the hole was a pit where the, you know, waste would go.”

  The new guy’s face cringed. “You’re making that up.”

  “If only I was. Now these particular pits had been emptied at the end of summer, but the truth is, you can never completely get everything out. My guy was at the bottom of the one in the center, and covered in crap. Literally. You know what literally means, right?”

  “Oh, man,” the kid said. “That’s disgusting.”

  “You haven’t heard it all yet,” Ricky said. “Some must have gotten in his nose because as I was walking by, he started sneezing, must have gone on for a whole minute before he finally stopped and saw me smiling down at him. Let me tell you, getting him out was no fun. Thank God the pipes hadn’t frozen and there was still running water in the community showers. Not hot, though. Made him strip down and wash off for twenty minutes, and then put him into the trunk of my car, sans clothes—that means without—and hauled him away. Job done.” He flashed a smile. “Like I told you, Ricky Orbits always gets his man.”

  A born showman, Ricky had stretched his story out so that he finished just as the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of yard time.

  With an “after you, boys,” he followed the others into line and began the long shuffle back to his cell.

  As they neared the building entrance, a guard standing off to the side said, “Ricky Orbits,” and motioned for Ricky to join him.

  Tommy and Prance gave Ricky a quizzical look.

  “Beats me,” Ricky said. “You guys didn’t nominate me for inmate of the month again, did you?”

  They shared a laugh, and then he broke from the line and leisurely walked over to where the guard was waiting for him.

  “Afternoon, Officer Cruz,” he said. “What is it Ricky can do for you today?”

  “That way.” Cruz pointed down a path that ran along the edge of the yard.

  Ricky went first, Cruz a step behind him.

  They walked all the way to the administration building before Cruz again said, “That way,” and pointed at a door Ricky had never used before.

  Inside, they went down a short hallway that ended at a security door.

  “Stand to the side,” Cruz said.

  Ricky stepped to his left. “What’s this all about?”

  “No idea.” The guard looked at a camera above the door and said, “Officer Robert Cruz, transporting prisoner Orbits, Richard.” He recited Ricky’s prisoner number.

  In the silence that followed, Ricky said, “Can you at least tell me who you’re taking me to?”

  “No idea means no idea.”

  “Officer Cruz, I’m disappointed in your lack of customer service.”

  The door buzzed. Cruz pushed it open and waved for Ricky to go through.

  Aha, Ricky thought as he walked into the new space. The private visitation rooms. He’d heard about them, but no one had visited him after his incarceration so he’d had no reason to ever come here before.

  The hall was wide enough for four people to walk abreast. Five doors were on each side, with windowed upper halves that would allow guards to keep an eye on what was going on inside. No watchers at the moment, though.

  Cruz led him to the center door on the left. Unlike elsewhere, its window had been covered from the inside. The guard opened the door and stood to the side.

  Ricky looked at him for a moment, then at the doorway, and then back at Cruz. “Seriously? Not even a hint?”

  “Get in there.”

  “If I get one of those survey cards when this is all done, do not expect me to give you five stars.” He stepped through the doorway.

  The room was disappointingly bland. A table and a few chairs, that was it. There weren’t even pictures on the walls. There were, however, two people present.

  Sitting at the table was a woman in sharp business attire. Good-looking but in a serious way, like she’d forgotten how to have fun. Standing behind her was a man who was all height and muscle. No doubt he was a reminder for Ricky to behave.

  “Mr. Orbits, thank you for coming,” the woman said.

  “Lucky for you I had a meeting canceled.”

  When he reached the empty chair across from her, she held out her hand. “You can call me Miss Marsh.”

  He cocked his head. “Miss March?”

  “Marsh. As in swamp.”

  “I like my way better.” He winked.

  Apparently it was a joke she’d heard before, because her only reaction was to repeat her motion for him to sit.

  “So, Miss Marsh,” he said as he settled into the chair. “Do you visit random prisoners often?”

  “Never.”

  “How lucky am I?” Another wink, and another nonreaction.

  “Shall we get to business?” she said.

  “You’re calling the shots, so whatever you want to do. I would appreciate it
, though, if we can stretch this out for as long as possible. It’s a nice break from the usual routine, know what I mean?”

  “Breaking from your usual routine is exactly why I’m here.”

  “Now you really have my attention.”

  “You are in the first year of a ten-year sentence on federal weapons charges. Is that correct?”

  “I believe that’s what it says on my paperwork.” What he’d actually been imprisoned for was getting in the way of someone else’s operation. There’d been no trial, only an agreement that it would be better for him to do some time than to die young.

  “Your home is in Chicago?”

  “That’s where they forward my mail from.”

  “And you are thirty-eight years of age?”

  “What is age, really, but a mental state?”

  She tapped an impatient finger on the table. “Answer the question, please.”

  “There are…certain documents that claim I’m…” He tried to voice thirty-eight, but his lips refused to form the words. “…that number you mentioned.”

  Apparently, that was good enough for her because she moved on. “Your back, please. Show it to me.”

  “My back.”

  “Yes. Specifically, lower back, right side.”

  “Oh. The scar.”

  “Yes. The scar.”

  He stood, turned around, and pulled up the flap of his shirt. The scar was half an inch above his hip bone and looked like a sideways checkmark. It had been a gift from a wiry little punk who’d tried to rob Ricky in Nairobi.

  Ricky nearly jumped when he felt the woman touch his back. She began pulling at the scar as if it were a sticker. When she let go, she said, “Thank you.”

  “You don’t want to see my tattoo?” he asked as he tucked his shirt back in.

  “Which one? The leopard on your thigh, or the name under your hair above your left ear?”

  Good thing he wasn’t looking at her, because he couldn’t quite keep the surprise off his face. He didn’t think anyone but the tattoo artist knew about the name on his head.

  “Either one,” he said as he turned back around, his composure restored.