Headcase, p.10
Headcase, page 10
‘I found someone to make the coffee.’ She sounded relieved. ‘Now, where—oh, hello.’ She’d noticed Thistle.
Zara did the introductions. ‘Hazel Cuthbert, this is Agent Reese Thistle.’
Cuthbert’s eyebrows shot up. ‘FBI? What can I do for you, agent?’
‘I’m here to see some surveillance footage,’ Thistle said.
Presumably the footage Zara had just overwritten. Ariel Wilcox had said no one would notice that the time stamps were wrong, or would attribute it to a malfunction. But she didn’t know Thistle.
‘We’ll take a raincheck on the coffee,’ I said. ‘I’m sure Agent Thistle would like to run her own investigation without anyone watching over her shoulder.’ I fixed Thistle with a pleading look.
I was a cannibal, but I’d also saved her life. Lost my arm doing it. Would she trust me?
‘Yes.’ Thistle’s expression was unreadable. ‘I’m afraid this is a confidential matter.’
‘Of course.’ Zara smiled pleasantly and passed a business card to Thistle. ‘If we can be of any help at all. Good luck.’
Thistle looked down at the card and then tucked it into a pocket.
We walked away down the corridor. I couldn’t resist a glance back. Thistle hadn’t followed Cuthbert into the office. She was just standing in the corridor, watching me.
Our eyes met. I wished I could say something. Apologise for scaring her. For existing, maybe. But I looked away, and followed Zara around the corner.
•
‘The spyware should have already infected the whole network,’ Zara said as we drove back towards the safe house. ‘I’ll get SIGINT to confirm when we’re back at the safe house.’
I barely heard her. I was thinking about the look on Thistle’s face. I’d been overjoyed to see her, but clearly the feeling wasn’t mutual.
In the time we’d spent apart, I’d apparently convinced myself that there were no hard feelings. That she thought of me fondly, and often.
I’d been a fucking fool.
The traffic around us was as thick as tar. The AC didn’t quite filter out the gasoline fumes, and they were giving me a headache.
‘The program will track keystrokes from every terminal and record audio from all the webcams in Space City,’ Zara continued.‘So we can check if people believe the story about the diabetic coma and delete any messages that contradict it. But that’s a lot of data, so we don’t have the budget to listen in for very long. A week, tops.’
I kept my eyes on the road. I was counting cars, memorising licence plates and mentally rearranging the letters on signs. Trying to crowd out the dark thoughts.
‘But things could get more complicated,’ Zara said, ‘now that your girlfriend is involved.’
I glanced over sharply. ‘She’s not my girlfriend.’
‘Ex-girlfriend, whatever. Having spyware on the Space City network won’t help us monitor an FBI investigation.’
‘There won’t be an investigation,’ I said. ‘We got rid of the body. Erased the videos. The witnesses will keep their mouths shut.’
‘Agent Thistle can be very persistent,’ Zara said. ‘I seem to remember that you rescued her from the slaughterhouse, and then she came right back.’
The slaughterhouse was an old shed where the dark web psychopaths had kept their prisoners. Zara had let those men torture and kill their captives to maintain her cover. This hadn’t seemed to trouble her conscience, then or now. She was mentioning it only to remind me that she was dangerous.
‘If the FBI finds out about the crashed fighter jet, they’ll draw the same conclusion we did.’ Zara signalled and merged onto the freeway. ‘And they suck at keeping secrets. We may need you to sabotage their investigation.’
Perhaps this was the real reason Zara had recruited me. She had known a situation like this might come up—that one day she’d need someone both well connected to the FBI and completely expendable.
‘I don’t have many contacts at the Bureau anymore,’ I said.
‘There’s Thistle. And you might be pleased to hear that Agent Ruciani and Dr Norman still work there. I believe you’ve met Peter Luzhin’s replacement, also. But if you don’t think that’s enough …’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose I could find another way to cut Thistle’s investigation short.’
Something choked me—a mixture of panic and cold fury. I spoke without thinking: ‘If anything happens to her, I’ll kill you.’
Zara looked amused. ‘Is that so?’
‘Yes.’ It was much too late to pretend Thistle didn’t matter to me. My only hope was to make Zara believe the threat. ‘I don’t even care what happens to me afterwards. I’ll kill you, and then I’ll eat you.’
Zara took her gaze off the road for a moment and searched my face. Then she said, ‘You’re sexy when you’re possessive. You know that?’
I looked out the window, heart pounding. I told myself Thistle would give up on the case. There was no evidence left that anything at all had happened. I wouldn’t need to get involved.
I stared hard into the side mirror, forcing myself to breathe deeply. Counting cars, reading licence plates.
One in particular caught my eye.
‘We’re being followed,’ I said.
Zara was experienced enough not to react. ‘Where?’
‘Grey Jeep Wrangler. Three cars back.’
She glanced at the side mirror, moving her eyes but not her head. She wouldn’t have been able to see much. The sun was bright, glinting off the windshields of all the other cars.
‘Is it your girlfriend?’ Zara asked.
‘She’s not my girlfriend. And no.’ I couldn’t actually see the driver, but I wanted Zara to forget about Thistle.
‘How long has it been on us?’
‘Just since that last set of lights. But I saw it this morning, too.’
‘Common model,’ Zara said.
‘Same plates.’
‘Where did you see it this morning?’
‘We picked it up on Katy Freeway,’ I said. ‘About where the traffic stop was yesterday. It turned off towards Bellaire.’
‘You’ve only seen the one car?’ Zara had caught my meaning. If the Jeep had taken the Bellaire exit but found us again here, that probably meant it was working in concert with a second vehicle.
‘So far.’ I wished I had sunglasses, to make it less obvious that I was examining the other vehicles. But nothing said spy like sunglasses, so CIA agents never wore them, except on vacation. None of the cars in our immediate vicinity looked familiar.
‘How about a late lunch?’ Zara signalled right. We turned, cruising into the mouth of a drive-through.
Rule number one when tailing someone: Don’t get too close. Rule number two: No sudden turns. I expected the Wrangler to roll straight past. But it broke both rules, turning into the drive-through right behind us.
‘You got a gun?’ I asked Zara.
She raised an eyebrow.
‘Just checking,’ I said. ‘I know you’re not from Texas.’
A speaker box crackled to life next to Zara’s window. ‘Welcome to Jack in the Box. Can I take your order?’
‘What do you want?’ Zara asked me, without taking her eyes off the mirror.
‘Uh …’ Usually I would quickly order the meatiest thing on the menu. Today, I made a big show of thinking about it first.
‘I’ll get the Bacon Ultimate Cheeseburger,’ I said finally. ‘With fries.’
While the box was offering me a Coke, I turned and used my good hand to give an apologetic wave to the car riding our bumper.
No movement from behind the windshield. I still couldn’t see a face, but I saw hairy knuckles on the steering wheel. Not Thistle. I was both relieved and disappointed.
‘No drink,’ I said.
‘Will that be all?’ the box asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘If the order on the screen is correct, please drive—’
We were already moving, turning the corner.
I buzzed down my window so I could listen. I heard the box crackle again, asking the driver behind us what he wanted. His voice was low and firm. The kind of voice I associated with military people.
When we reached the cashier’s window, a lanky-haired white boy held out a POS terminal. ‘Eight-fifty.’
‘Quiet,’ I said, still listening to the car behind.
‘Excuse me?’
I couldn’t make out the words, but I got the tone and rhythm of the conversation. The driver had a passenger and was asking if they wanted anything. I couldn’t hear the passenger, but I could tell from the brevity of the pause that the answer was no.
Zara handed some bills to the kid. ‘Pardon my friend. He’s autistic.’
The kid’s expression changed from annoyed to uneasy.
‘You can, uh, move along to the pick-up window,’ he said. ‘Have a nice day.’
Zara buzzed the window back up and eased the car further along.‘There’s an alley that cuts between Commerce and Franklin,’ she said. ‘We can lose them there.’
I knew the one. We’d driven past it this morning. A garbage truck had been trundling through, so the alley was likely to be clear now. Even if our pursuers saw us go in, there would be no subtle way to follow us. They would probably let us go.
But if they did follow us in, that meant they were ready for a confrontation. I got the feeling that was what Zara wanted.
‘Right now, they don’t know we’re onto them,’ I said. ‘That changes as soon as you start swerving into alleyways. It’s an obvious attempt to lose a tail.’
‘We don’t have a choice,’ Zara said.
‘Yes, we do. Just act natural.’
‘And then what? Lead them the whole way to the safe house?’
‘No, to a motel. Mid-range. The kind of place travelling consultants might stay at.’
Zara chewed her lip.
‘I don’t have a gun,’ I added. ‘And my one-two punch is just a one, these days. You think you can take out both people in that car—plus however many are in the other vehicle, the one we haven’t identified—by yourself?’
We reached the pick-up window and stopped.
‘Because if you can’t,’ I continued, ‘and we both end up dead, we can’t complete the operation. Which could mean a nuclear confrontation between China and the USA.’
A girl with tangled bangs appeared at the collection window. ‘Sorry, there’s a delay on that burger. I’ll get you to pull into the waiting bay.’ She pointed.
Shit, I thought.
Zara looked at me. ‘Do we do it?’
I hesitated. We could just drive off, but the people in the Wrangler would have noticed that we hadn’t received any food or drink. They’d realise that we’d gone into the drive-through because we were onto them. But if we pulled over, they’d pass us, and get a clear look—or a clear shot—into our vehicle.
If I’d ordered nuggets, we wouldn’t be having this problem.
‘Sorry, there’s a delay on that burger,’ the girl said again, in exactly the same voice, like we’d gone back in time ten seconds. ‘I’ll get you to pull into the waiting bay.’
‘Do it,’ I told Zara. Our pursuers would see us—but we’d also see them.
Zara eased the car forwards and pulled over. In the mirror, I saw the driver of the Wrangler reach out and take a cup from the window. It looked like he’d just ordered a soda, maybe to avoid the risk of getting stuck in the waiting bay. Smart.
Zara had drawn her Ruger LCP II, and was keeping it hidden under the handbag on her lap. It was a small gun, with a six-round magazine. I wondered what our pursuers had.
‘Don’t,’ I said.
She ignored me. If the driver of the Wrangler pulled his own gun, she might be able to hit him before he hit her—but the muzzle flash would burn my face off.
The Wrangler caught up to us, and then overtook us. As it passed, I looked at the driver. He had a bent nose, a receding hairline and a suit jacket. He was sitting a bit higher up than me, so I couldn’t see past him to the passenger. He met my gaze and held it for a beat. Then the Wrangler eased forwards, and I couldn’t see either of them anymore.
It drove back out onto the road, turned right and disappeared.
Zara breathed out and put her gun away. ‘You recognise that guy?’
‘No. But he didn’t look like a Chinese spy.’
‘What, because he was white? Most spying is done by locals. Either hired or blackmailed. That guy could easily work for the MSS.’
This was true. But there was something about the way the guy looked at me. Not threatening, but not evasive either. He was suspicious of me and didn’t care if I was suspicious of him in return.
Someone tapped on Zara’s window. It was the girl with the bangs, holding a paper bag, the grease from the fries already soaking through.
‘Bacon Ultimate Cheeseburger,’ she said.
I took it. The smell of the meat made me forget all about the driver of the Wrangler.
‘Have a terrific day.’ The girl was already walking away.
‘We still haven’t identified the other car,’ Zara said. ‘They could be watching us right now.’
‘So act natural.’ I took a bite. Nearly a thousand calories in one burger. I closed my eyes so I could pretend the meat didn’t come from a cow. ‘Let’s go to a motel.’
CHAPTER 14
When does a cut of meat watch your house?
We took a circuitous route, but not suspiciously so. We stopped for gas, even though the hybrid car was nearly full. We parked in a lot for a while, Zara pretending to make a phone call. We went to a diner, ordered coffee, acted natural. No sign that we were being followed. Either our pursuers were very good, or we weren’t being pursued at all.
Clouds were creeping in by the time we reached the motel, staining the horizon lurid pink. Zara had picked a small, one-level block of rooms facing the road. If our pursuers wanted to do an overnight stake-out, they’d have to park on the road, or rent a room, either of which would give us a chance to identify them.
The woman in the little office had grey hair that concealed her hearing aids, and a wedding ring with dull, cracked stones. Signs littered her desk, pleading with visitors to rate the motel on Google, Yelp and Tripadvisor. She rattled off the rules—no smoking, breakfast orders complete by midnight, et cetera. I got the impression she thought we were having an affair. Zara encouraged that, standing on my left so she could brush her fingers against mine.
We paid for three nights. The woman got us to write down our licence plate and our fake ClearHorizon email addresses. ‘Enjoy your stay,’ she said finally, and handed over the keys to room four.
‘Can we take room seven instead?’ Zara asked. ‘Better view.’
The woman looked doubtful. There was nothing worth seeing in any direction. But she gave us a different pair of keys. I followed Zara to room seven, carrying the overnight bag she always kept in the trunk. I couldn’t tell if we were being watched—not without looking around in a way that would be suspicious. Zara unlocked the door, and I followed her in.
I used to clean motel rooms, so I knew more or less what to expect. A wall-mounted TV, a desk that doubled as a dining table, a closet with an ironing board and a tiny safe. A bathroom with a shower over the tub.
The room had only one bed, I noticed.
Zara was arranging the kettle and the coffee mugs, making sure all the handles were pointed in certain directions. It looked random, but it wasn’t. The kettle was pointed at the door, one of the mugs was perpendicular to the wall, and the other was parallel. Anyone who searched the room thoroughly was likely to check under those objects. If they put them down again even slightly wrong, Zara would know there had been an intruder.
I sat by the window, watching the parking lot through an inch-wide gap in the curtains. I waited for five minutes. Ten. Twenty. Pebbles of rain started to appear on the glass.
Finally Zara switched on the TV, flipped to a news channel and cranked the volume. She kept her own voice low: ‘Anything?’
I shook my head. ‘Best guess, they parked the second car out on the road and they’re waiting to see if we come out.’
‘Or there is no second car.’
‘That’s possible,’ I said, though I doubted it. ‘Can you call for backup?’
‘No.’ Zara didn’t elaborate.
I stood up and stretched, blinking to moisten my sore eyes. ‘So I guess we wait for it to get dark, then go see if anyone’s actually out there. If not, we can head back to the safe house.’ I sat on the bed, kicked off my shoes and unhooked my prosthesis. If I wear it for too long, sores grow on my stump.
‘Okay.’ Zara sank down next to me, close enough that our thighs touched. ‘What would you like to do while we wait?’
Zara couldn’t have been attracted to me, but she wanted me to think she was. Maybe she hoped that would make me easier to manipulate. I wondered how far she’d go to maintain the illusion.
It would be a bad idea to find out. For me, people fell into two categories. There was food, and then there was Thistle. If I ate Zara, I’d be out of a job.
Without looking at her, I turned up the TV even louder.
The news story was about the Reaper: an interview with the daughter of one of the victims, who was clenching her jaw and holding back tears, and the son of another, who didn’t hold them back, blubbering helplessly.
Zara looked annoyed. ‘Can you change the channel?’
I flipped past The Simpsons, Law & Order and some drama with a lot of staring. Eventually we settled on another news channel, but it was entertainment news, as though that wasn’t a contradiction in terms. There was a floor-length mirror next to the TV, and I could see the time reflected backwards on the bedside radio. I was watching that rather than the screen.
When the clock hit 19:45, Zara unzipped the overnight bag. No spy gadgets in there—just toiletries and quickdry clothes, the kind travelling consultants might wear. She tossed some clothes to me, and didn’t turn her back as she peeled off her shirt and pants, then took her time picking new ones.
