Qubit, page 9
The trio was soon out on the sidewalk, Clancy staring down Lock for good measure. Lock raised his hands in a gesture of innocence and Clancy went back inside. Lock turned to Lock and started rubbing his shoulders. “It’s so cold.”
Clancy reappeared, dragging Blue Eyes by his earlobe and then pushing him down onto the sidewalk. The bouncer turned to Lock and wagged a finger. “And don’t you be starting anything out here, or I’ll be calling the police.”
“You’re very good at this, you know that, Clancy?” asked Lock.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“You’re an extremely large man.”
“You hear me, Lock?”
“I feel like I’m in trouble.”
“Good night, Lock.”
“Am I grounded?”
Clancy turned silently to go back inside the bar.
“Good night, Clancy,” Lock yelled after him. He turned to his adversary, who’d picked himself up off the sidewalk and was making his way down the street. “And fuck you, Blue Eyes,” yelled Lock.
He felt Kafka leading him in the opposite direction towards his car. “It’s like he’s my dad,” he observed, following Kafka’s lead.
Kafka chuckled. “Your dad, eh?”
“Well, how I imagine a dad would be, anyway.”
Kafka patted Lock on the back as they reached the car. “Right.”
“You know, ‘cuz mine was never around. So I don’t really know.”
“I get it,” said Kafka. “It’s a sad fucking story. Now get in the car.”
Little India, Singapore
Tuesday, April 24th
Noon SGT (Singapore Time)
“All I want to know,” Vipul said calmly, “is how much you’ve taken?”
Paresh was wearing another brightly colored shirt, lending the moment a cruel mordancy. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face. The hairs on his mustache trembled as he breathed.
They were back in the room behind the restaurant where Vipul had spoken to his captains after his brother’s murder. Paresh was seated in a chair that Vipul had pulled away from one of the tables. Anand stood beside and just behind him. Off to one side was the broad-shouldered Sameer, the scar on his face twitching slightly.
“Nothing! I’ve taken nothing!” insisted Paresh, his voice becoming slightly hysterical.
Vipul took a deep breath, the scent of curry tickling his nostrils. He used his genuine fatigue and boredom to sell his act. “Paresh. Please. All I want is honesty.” He wanted to play to their perception that he was the weak younger brother. That was crucial for the effect he was going for. “I understand the circumstances. My brother, om shanti, is killed. There is talk. I know. I know how these things go.” Vipul smiled and placed his hand on Paresh’s shoulder. “I just need to set things right. That’s all.” He turned to Sameer. “You understand, don’t you?”
Sameer nodded eagerly. “Yes, of course.”
Vipul returned his gaze to Paresh. “Tell me. How much have you taken?”
“I’ve taken nothing! I swear to you! I swear on your father’s soul!”
Vipul winced. “Oh, don’t do that, Paresh. Don’t do that. Don’t you see? I know you’re lying. Why else do you think you’re sitting here now?”
“Who is telling you this?” pleaded Paresh.
“How much, Paresh?”
“Nothing! I swear! Please!”
Vipul straightened up and turned around as though thinking through a difficult situation. He caught a puzzled glance from Anand and had to hide a smirk with his hand. He turned and faced Sameer. “Kill him.”
“What?” asked Sameer over Paresh’s anguished moan.
“I said, kill him.”
“But he…how do we know…?”
“How do we know he’s stealing?” Vipul stepped forward and raised his voice slightly. “Is that your concern? Or are you also stealing?”
“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just—”
Vipul stepped even closer and half whispered and half spat into Sameer’s face. “Then kill this fucking chuho, before I have you both killed.”
Sameer’s eyes were wide as he turned to face Paresh.
“No! Sameer! Please!” screamed Paresh.
“You know we’ll take care of your family,” said Sameer. “It’s going to be all right. Just come with me.” He motioned Paresh toward the rear entrance.
“No,” said Vipul. “Here. Now.”
“Here? But we never—”
“My brother never told me you were all such a bunch of girls. Do I have to do this myself? Just do it. Get it over with, for fuck’s sake.”
“Sameer, please—”
“Shut the fuck up and die like a man!” roared Vipul, giving himself over fully to his imagined fury. He felt quite satisfied with the way his voice sounded. He glanced around the room to survey the impact. They were confused. They no longer knew who they were dealing with. Not even Anand.
Sameer stared at the floor for a moment before pulling a semiautomatic pistol from his jacket. He chambered a round and walked behind Paresh, who stood up and whirled around. Anand grabbed him and pushed him back into the chair. Vipul stepped back against the wall and folded his arms, as though bored, although, at this point, he was fascinated. Sameer placed the muzzle of the pistol against the back of his head. Paresh looked up at Anand, his eyes watering. Anand took a step back. “You know there’s no point in running, Paresh.”
Paresh nodded.
Sameer pulled the trigger.
The sound of the shot was deafening. Paresh fell forward onto the floor into a mosaic of spattered blood and bits of brain and bone.
“Clean this mess up,” Vipul told Sameer, trying to sound as if he was asking him to mop up some spilled tea. “And get rid of the body.” He turned to walk toward the door. Anand followed.
Outside, Vipul merged into the flow of foot traffic on the busy market sidewalk. He was relieved to see that the sound of the gunshot hadn’t attracted much, if any, attention. Perhaps it had been muffled, coming from the back of the restaurant. Vipul didn’t particularly care if Sameer was picked up, but that might have led to pointless complications for him and Anand.
Anand caught up to him, coming alongside. “How did you know he was stealing?”
“You told me.”
“What? I never said Paresh was stealing.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“What?”
Vipul stopped, causing a minor traffic jam behind them. A man with a parrot cursed him. Vipul ignored him. He turned to Anand, who had stopped also.
“Some of them were stealing. I could see it in the numbers. Like you said, they were testing me. Perhaps Paresh was stealing, perhaps he wasn’t. But any of them who were stealing will surely stop now, after Sameer tells them what just happened.”
Anand looked up, and his eyes seemed to focus on some distant point.
“Anand. Look at me.”
Anand’s gaze met Vipul’s. “I know. You’re thinking this is not how my father would have done it. And that is likely true. But my father wanted me to bring this godforsaken business into the twenty-first century. And I can’t do that wasting my time babysitting a bunch of cheats and proving to them what a man I am. If Paresh wasn’t stealing, then he was a necessary sacrifice. Part of the price we must pay to move forward. It’s important you understand this.”
Anand nodded, his jaw muscles rippling. “I understand.”
“Besides. For all we know, he was taking us for all he could.”
Tally Bar, Singapore
Tuesday, April 24th
11:00 p.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
Katya found Ong Goh at his usual table. He wore a smart blue suit this time with a dark red carnation. “Nice suit,” said Katya as she sat down.
“I’m so pleased to see you. But I have bad news.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. We had a nice chat with the deputy minister this morning.”
Katya arched her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Well, it means our collaboration may come to an end.”
Katya smiled. She’d spent the better part of several months developing a relationship with the deputy minister and convincing him to turn on his boss. If Ong Goh was suggesting they no longer had a reason to meet, it meant she’d finally been successful.
“Louie, a whiskey sour for the mysterious and beautiful woman across from me, please,” said Ong Goh to a waiter standing discretely a step away from their table.
“A soda water with lime is fine,” corrected Katya.
“Just as you said, the minister was taking payments from the Triad. Specifically from Li Mun’s agents in exchange for influencing policy. The deputy’s testimony will give us enough to get a warrant to tap his phones. He may even be willing to wear a wire.”
“Wonderful,” chirped Katya, trying to keep from shouting in celebration. “So what happens to the minister?”
“He’ll be allowed to resign. Or even better, to continue on, feeding us information about the Triad’s agenda.” Ong paused. “Which, of course, we would pass on to Haruo.”
“That’s what this is all about,” said Katya, smiling broadly.
Ong Goh took Katya’s hands in his. She was so accustomed to this, she didn’t notice his unusual earnestness until he began to speak. “Katya. As a man who has devoted his life to public service and to his country, in all seriousness—thank you. No one else will ever really know. No one else will ever be able to thank you properly. That is the nature of our business. So thank you.”
“You’re welcome!”
“And, now—”
“No, I won’t marry you.”
“This may be your last chance to catch this fish, Katya.”
Katya’s smile faded and her eyes drifted thoughtfully. “I have a question.”
“If we run away to Malaysia, they’ll never find us.”
“Good to know. Vipul—remember Vipul?”
“The fancy hoodlum who had his brother killed?”
“That’s the one. I’ve been keeping tabs on him in addition to Li Mun. And I’ve noticed that he’s been traveling an awful lot. Any idea what that’s about?”
“The Rathod family has its origins in Bihar, if I recall.”
“India?”
“That’s the one. Bihar is a rough place. Sicily of India, I’m told.”
“You think he might be going back to Bihar?”
“If they maintain an active presence there, why not?”
“Interesting.”
“If that’s interesting, you might be interested in a tidbit I picked up this evening. After you told me about his little coup a few months ago, I passed it along internally. Asked to be kept up-to-date.”
“And?”
“Rumor is, Vipul had one of his captains executed.”
“Power struggle?”
“Yes. Something tells me he’s not one to tangle with.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Those who do seem to end up dead.”
“You can say that about any gangster.”
“I suppose. But this is Singapore.” Katya noticed that Ong Goh stiffened and leaned his head back slightly as he spoke.
“Funny. Haruo mentioned the same thing. About it being Singapore.”
“That’s right. Murder is not really how things are done here. Too risky. Too much heat. How is old Haruo, anyway?”
“He’s well. Same as ever.”
“Give him a tip of the hat for me, will you, my dear?”
“Of course. Speaking of which, I’ve got to run.”
Ong Goh ran a finger deftly across his mustache and tilted his head. “Good-bye, my sweet Katya.”
Katya was going to miss this feeling of being inside the world of Casablanca. She rose, blowing Ong Goh a kiss, trying to be as stylish as he was. “Good-bye, Ong Goh.”
She felt as though she were dancing her way out of the hotel bar and to the valet desk. Maybe it had taken longer than some analyst in Langley had expected it to, but in the end they had uncovered incontrovertible evidence of Triad influence on Singapore’s trade policy, at the most senior levels of her government. It wasn’t as big as the Canadian case, but it was significant, certainly big enough for her to be able to take her pick of assignments.
She tipped the valet and hopped into her car. Soon she’d be stateside, looking for an apartment, catching up with old friends from college. She wanted to celebrate, but there was no one to call. Besides, she had to update Quartan at five thirty in the morning. Maybe she’d pop that bottle of champagne she’d been saving and call someone back home. It was mid-morning there, maybe someone would be able to take a few minutes away from work just to hear the news.
Of course, she couldn’t actually tell them the news. And she didn’t actually know for sure that she’d be coming home. Haruo still had her watching Vipul, but nothing had really come of that. In fact, Vipul had hardly been in the office, so there had been nothing to report. The cameras had recorded various comings and goings, but nothing the Agency was interested in. With any luck, Haruo would seize the opportunity to declare victory and shut down her surveillance on Vipul. Of course, there was this new information that Vipul had killed one of his own crew. She’d have to go back and see if she’d recorded anything interesting that could be tied to that.
As she pulled into the parking garage of her apartment building, she decided she would still enjoy the champagne—it would help her fall asleep, if nothing else.
8
* * *
Lafayette Park, Detroit • Lock's Apartment
Tuesday, April 24th
Noon EDT (Eastern Daylight Time)
“C’mon buddy, wake up,” said a voice.
Lock opened his eyes, aware only of blinding daylight and a syncopated pounding sensation. The pounding slowly resolved into a throbbing in his temples and something pushing on his shoulder.
“C’mon, man. I got you a nice, tall glass of water.”
“Coffee,” croaked Lock as he identified both the voice and the source of the pushing as Kafka.
“Coffee is for closers,” Kafka chided, quoting their favorite scene from one of their favorite movies, Glengarry Glen Ross.
Lock sat up slowly and took the glass of water. “Coffee,” he groaned, before taking several gulps of water.
“Maybe later.”
“My head hurts,” complained Lock.
“Liquor before beer…”
“My lip hurts.”
“Not surprised. C’mon, get up.”
Lock stood up uneasily, Kafka taking the glass of water and guiding him into the living room, where Lock collapsed onto the couch.
Kafka returned the glass of water. “Drink up,” he coaxed.
Lock complied, covering his face with his free hand. “Ouch. I got in a fight, didn’t I?” he mumbled from behind his hand.
“Yup,” confirmed Kafka.
ψ
Having eventually coaxed Kafka into brewing a pot of coffee, Lock sat on the couch in his living room, sipping from a blue mug emblazoned with the old English D of the Detroit Tigers. He watched Kafka slay a small army of zombies on his television. “Hey, thanks for getting me home last night,” he growled.
“Sure,” intoned Kafka.
“And…for coming by this morning. I’m feeling a bit better.”
“Yeah. Well. What are friends for?”
Lock slouched, resting the back of his head on the couch. “What the fuck am I going to do?”
Kafka was now taking advantage of a temporary lull in zombie attacks and diligently collecting supplies. “You got two choices,” he began without taking his eyes off the screen.
Lock looked up. “I do?”
“Either you walk away or you go back.”
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks. That really helped.”
Kafka ignored him. “If you walk, you get nothing.”
“Again, your insights are…” Lock’s voice trailed off. He couldn’t think clearly enough to come up with a fitting conclusion to the sentence.
“If you go back, you can get another advance. So that’s something.”
Lock found himself slowly being drawn into the methodical way Kafka’s avatar was collecting water bottles, medicine, and cans of food.
“I need ammo, dammit. Where’s the fucking ammo?”
“It’s not much of an advance, though. Another ten grand.”
“Ask for more.”
“Ask for—yeah. I suppose I could do that.”
“Ask for a hundred grand.”
“Damn.”
“If they won’t give it to you, you can still walk.”
“Yeah.”
The zombies were back. Kafka’s avatar had retreated to shelter behind a metal fence, but it looked like it might give way any second.
“Even if they do give it to me, it’s still not two million bucks, though.”
“True. It’s not nothing, either. Besides, if they do, who knows? Maybe they’ll eventually even give you the full amount. And if they don’t—die! die! die!—if they don’t, then you know you’ll probably never see—Jesus, where did he come from?”
“I’ll never see another dime from them.”
“Right. God damn, they’re everywhere.” Kafka’s avatar disappeared in a pile of zombies, and he let the game controller fall from his hands. He turned to Lock. “Have you asked yourself whether they’ll let you walk away?”
Lock tilted his head and eyed his friend sharply. “What do you mean?”
“You know. I mean, these guys are criminals, right? And you know who they are, what they look like…”
“I don’t know. I mean, of course, I’ve thought about it. But…they seem relatively harmless. It’s white-collar crime, you know? Kirin doesn’t look the sort of guy who even knows how to fire a gun.”
Kafka shrugged as the game restarted and his avatar walked through the empty streets of a post-apocalyptic city in an alternate universe. “I’m just sayin’.”
Lock gently ran his fingers across his split lip. “I thought he was threatening Sophie at one point, but I’m pretty sure that was all in my head.”
Clancy reappeared, dragging Blue Eyes by his earlobe and then pushing him down onto the sidewalk. The bouncer turned to Lock and wagged a finger. “And don’t you be starting anything out here, or I’ll be calling the police.”
“You’re very good at this, you know that, Clancy?” asked Lock.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“You’re an extremely large man.”
“You hear me, Lock?”
“I feel like I’m in trouble.”
“Good night, Lock.”
“Am I grounded?”
Clancy turned silently to go back inside the bar.
“Good night, Clancy,” Lock yelled after him. He turned to his adversary, who’d picked himself up off the sidewalk and was making his way down the street. “And fuck you, Blue Eyes,” yelled Lock.
He felt Kafka leading him in the opposite direction towards his car. “It’s like he’s my dad,” he observed, following Kafka’s lead.
Kafka chuckled. “Your dad, eh?”
“Well, how I imagine a dad would be, anyway.”
Kafka patted Lock on the back as they reached the car. “Right.”
“You know, ‘cuz mine was never around. So I don’t really know.”
“I get it,” said Kafka. “It’s a sad fucking story. Now get in the car.”
Little India, Singapore
Tuesday, April 24th
Noon SGT (Singapore Time)
“All I want to know,” Vipul said calmly, “is how much you’ve taken?”
Paresh was wearing another brightly colored shirt, lending the moment a cruel mordancy. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face. The hairs on his mustache trembled as he breathed.
They were back in the room behind the restaurant where Vipul had spoken to his captains after his brother’s murder. Paresh was seated in a chair that Vipul had pulled away from one of the tables. Anand stood beside and just behind him. Off to one side was the broad-shouldered Sameer, the scar on his face twitching slightly.
“Nothing! I’ve taken nothing!” insisted Paresh, his voice becoming slightly hysterical.
Vipul took a deep breath, the scent of curry tickling his nostrils. He used his genuine fatigue and boredom to sell his act. “Paresh. Please. All I want is honesty.” He wanted to play to their perception that he was the weak younger brother. That was crucial for the effect he was going for. “I understand the circumstances. My brother, om shanti, is killed. There is talk. I know. I know how these things go.” Vipul smiled and placed his hand on Paresh’s shoulder. “I just need to set things right. That’s all.” He turned to Sameer. “You understand, don’t you?”
Sameer nodded eagerly. “Yes, of course.”
Vipul returned his gaze to Paresh. “Tell me. How much have you taken?”
“I’ve taken nothing! I swear to you! I swear on your father’s soul!”
Vipul winced. “Oh, don’t do that, Paresh. Don’t do that. Don’t you see? I know you’re lying. Why else do you think you’re sitting here now?”
“Who is telling you this?” pleaded Paresh.
“How much, Paresh?”
“Nothing! I swear! Please!”
Vipul straightened up and turned around as though thinking through a difficult situation. He caught a puzzled glance from Anand and had to hide a smirk with his hand. He turned and faced Sameer. “Kill him.”
“What?” asked Sameer over Paresh’s anguished moan.
“I said, kill him.”
“But he…how do we know…?”
“How do we know he’s stealing?” Vipul stepped forward and raised his voice slightly. “Is that your concern? Or are you also stealing?”
“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just—”
Vipul stepped even closer and half whispered and half spat into Sameer’s face. “Then kill this fucking chuho, before I have you both killed.”
Sameer’s eyes were wide as he turned to face Paresh.
“No! Sameer! Please!” screamed Paresh.
“You know we’ll take care of your family,” said Sameer. “It’s going to be all right. Just come with me.” He motioned Paresh toward the rear entrance.
“No,” said Vipul. “Here. Now.”
“Here? But we never—”
“My brother never told me you were all such a bunch of girls. Do I have to do this myself? Just do it. Get it over with, for fuck’s sake.”
“Sameer, please—”
“Shut the fuck up and die like a man!” roared Vipul, giving himself over fully to his imagined fury. He felt quite satisfied with the way his voice sounded. He glanced around the room to survey the impact. They were confused. They no longer knew who they were dealing with. Not even Anand.
Sameer stared at the floor for a moment before pulling a semiautomatic pistol from his jacket. He chambered a round and walked behind Paresh, who stood up and whirled around. Anand grabbed him and pushed him back into the chair. Vipul stepped back against the wall and folded his arms, as though bored, although, at this point, he was fascinated. Sameer placed the muzzle of the pistol against the back of his head. Paresh looked up at Anand, his eyes watering. Anand took a step back. “You know there’s no point in running, Paresh.”
Paresh nodded.
Sameer pulled the trigger.
The sound of the shot was deafening. Paresh fell forward onto the floor into a mosaic of spattered blood and bits of brain and bone.
“Clean this mess up,” Vipul told Sameer, trying to sound as if he was asking him to mop up some spilled tea. “And get rid of the body.” He turned to walk toward the door. Anand followed.
Outside, Vipul merged into the flow of foot traffic on the busy market sidewalk. He was relieved to see that the sound of the gunshot hadn’t attracted much, if any, attention. Perhaps it had been muffled, coming from the back of the restaurant. Vipul didn’t particularly care if Sameer was picked up, but that might have led to pointless complications for him and Anand.
Anand caught up to him, coming alongside. “How did you know he was stealing?”
“You told me.”
“What? I never said Paresh was stealing.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“What?”
Vipul stopped, causing a minor traffic jam behind them. A man with a parrot cursed him. Vipul ignored him. He turned to Anand, who had stopped also.
“Some of them were stealing. I could see it in the numbers. Like you said, they were testing me. Perhaps Paresh was stealing, perhaps he wasn’t. But any of them who were stealing will surely stop now, after Sameer tells them what just happened.”
Anand looked up, and his eyes seemed to focus on some distant point.
“Anand. Look at me.”
Anand’s gaze met Vipul’s. “I know. You’re thinking this is not how my father would have done it. And that is likely true. But my father wanted me to bring this godforsaken business into the twenty-first century. And I can’t do that wasting my time babysitting a bunch of cheats and proving to them what a man I am. If Paresh wasn’t stealing, then he was a necessary sacrifice. Part of the price we must pay to move forward. It’s important you understand this.”
Anand nodded, his jaw muscles rippling. “I understand.”
“Besides. For all we know, he was taking us for all he could.”
Tally Bar, Singapore
Tuesday, April 24th
11:00 p.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
Katya found Ong Goh at his usual table. He wore a smart blue suit this time with a dark red carnation. “Nice suit,” said Katya as she sat down.
“I’m so pleased to see you. But I have bad news.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. We had a nice chat with the deputy minister this morning.”
Katya arched her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Well, it means our collaboration may come to an end.”
Katya smiled. She’d spent the better part of several months developing a relationship with the deputy minister and convincing him to turn on his boss. If Ong Goh was suggesting they no longer had a reason to meet, it meant she’d finally been successful.
“Louie, a whiskey sour for the mysterious and beautiful woman across from me, please,” said Ong Goh to a waiter standing discretely a step away from their table.
“A soda water with lime is fine,” corrected Katya.
“Just as you said, the minister was taking payments from the Triad. Specifically from Li Mun’s agents in exchange for influencing policy. The deputy’s testimony will give us enough to get a warrant to tap his phones. He may even be willing to wear a wire.”
“Wonderful,” chirped Katya, trying to keep from shouting in celebration. “So what happens to the minister?”
“He’ll be allowed to resign. Or even better, to continue on, feeding us information about the Triad’s agenda.” Ong paused. “Which, of course, we would pass on to Haruo.”
“That’s what this is all about,” said Katya, smiling broadly.
Ong Goh took Katya’s hands in his. She was so accustomed to this, she didn’t notice his unusual earnestness until he began to speak. “Katya. As a man who has devoted his life to public service and to his country, in all seriousness—thank you. No one else will ever really know. No one else will ever be able to thank you properly. That is the nature of our business. So thank you.”
“You’re welcome!”
“And, now—”
“No, I won’t marry you.”
“This may be your last chance to catch this fish, Katya.”
Katya’s smile faded and her eyes drifted thoughtfully. “I have a question.”
“If we run away to Malaysia, they’ll never find us.”
“Good to know. Vipul—remember Vipul?”
“The fancy hoodlum who had his brother killed?”
“That’s the one. I’ve been keeping tabs on him in addition to Li Mun. And I’ve noticed that he’s been traveling an awful lot. Any idea what that’s about?”
“The Rathod family has its origins in Bihar, if I recall.”
“India?”
“That’s the one. Bihar is a rough place. Sicily of India, I’m told.”
“You think he might be going back to Bihar?”
“If they maintain an active presence there, why not?”
“Interesting.”
“If that’s interesting, you might be interested in a tidbit I picked up this evening. After you told me about his little coup a few months ago, I passed it along internally. Asked to be kept up-to-date.”
“And?”
“Rumor is, Vipul had one of his captains executed.”
“Power struggle?”
“Yes. Something tells me he’s not one to tangle with.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Those who do seem to end up dead.”
“You can say that about any gangster.”
“I suppose. But this is Singapore.” Katya noticed that Ong Goh stiffened and leaned his head back slightly as he spoke.
“Funny. Haruo mentioned the same thing. About it being Singapore.”
“That’s right. Murder is not really how things are done here. Too risky. Too much heat. How is old Haruo, anyway?”
“He’s well. Same as ever.”
“Give him a tip of the hat for me, will you, my dear?”
“Of course. Speaking of which, I’ve got to run.”
Ong Goh ran a finger deftly across his mustache and tilted his head. “Good-bye, my sweet Katya.”
Katya was going to miss this feeling of being inside the world of Casablanca. She rose, blowing Ong Goh a kiss, trying to be as stylish as he was. “Good-bye, Ong Goh.”
She felt as though she were dancing her way out of the hotel bar and to the valet desk. Maybe it had taken longer than some analyst in Langley had expected it to, but in the end they had uncovered incontrovertible evidence of Triad influence on Singapore’s trade policy, at the most senior levels of her government. It wasn’t as big as the Canadian case, but it was significant, certainly big enough for her to be able to take her pick of assignments.
She tipped the valet and hopped into her car. Soon she’d be stateside, looking for an apartment, catching up with old friends from college. She wanted to celebrate, but there was no one to call. Besides, she had to update Quartan at five thirty in the morning. Maybe she’d pop that bottle of champagne she’d been saving and call someone back home. It was mid-morning there, maybe someone would be able to take a few minutes away from work just to hear the news.
Of course, she couldn’t actually tell them the news. And she didn’t actually know for sure that she’d be coming home. Haruo still had her watching Vipul, but nothing had really come of that. In fact, Vipul had hardly been in the office, so there had been nothing to report. The cameras had recorded various comings and goings, but nothing the Agency was interested in. With any luck, Haruo would seize the opportunity to declare victory and shut down her surveillance on Vipul. Of course, there was this new information that Vipul had killed one of his own crew. She’d have to go back and see if she’d recorded anything interesting that could be tied to that.
As she pulled into the parking garage of her apartment building, she decided she would still enjoy the champagne—it would help her fall asleep, if nothing else.
8
* * *
Lafayette Park, Detroit • Lock's Apartment
Tuesday, April 24th
Noon EDT (Eastern Daylight Time)
“C’mon buddy, wake up,” said a voice.
Lock opened his eyes, aware only of blinding daylight and a syncopated pounding sensation. The pounding slowly resolved into a throbbing in his temples and something pushing on his shoulder.
“C’mon, man. I got you a nice, tall glass of water.”
“Coffee,” croaked Lock as he identified both the voice and the source of the pushing as Kafka.
“Coffee is for closers,” Kafka chided, quoting their favorite scene from one of their favorite movies, Glengarry Glen Ross.
Lock sat up slowly and took the glass of water. “Coffee,” he groaned, before taking several gulps of water.
“Maybe later.”
“My head hurts,” complained Lock.
“Liquor before beer…”
“My lip hurts.”
“Not surprised. C’mon, get up.”
Lock stood up uneasily, Kafka taking the glass of water and guiding him into the living room, where Lock collapsed onto the couch.
Kafka returned the glass of water. “Drink up,” he coaxed.
Lock complied, covering his face with his free hand. “Ouch. I got in a fight, didn’t I?” he mumbled from behind his hand.
“Yup,” confirmed Kafka.
ψ
Having eventually coaxed Kafka into brewing a pot of coffee, Lock sat on the couch in his living room, sipping from a blue mug emblazoned with the old English D of the Detroit Tigers. He watched Kafka slay a small army of zombies on his television. “Hey, thanks for getting me home last night,” he growled.
“Sure,” intoned Kafka.
“And…for coming by this morning. I’m feeling a bit better.”
“Yeah. Well. What are friends for?”
Lock slouched, resting the back of his head on the couch. “What the fuck am I going to do?”
Kafka was now taking advantage of a temporary lull in zombie attacks and diligently collecting supplies. “You got two choices,” he began without taking his eyes off the screen.
Lock looked up. “I do?”
“Either you walk away or you go back.”
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks. That really helped.”
Kafka ignored him. “If you walk, you get nothing.”
“Again, your insights are…” Lock’s voice trailed off. He couldn’t think clearly enough to come up with a fitting conclusion to the sentence.
“If you go back, you can get another advance. So that’s something.”
Lock found himself slowly being drawn into the methodical way Kafka’s avatar was collecting water bottles, medicine, and cans of food.
“I need ammo, dammit. Where’s the fucking ammo?”
“It’s not much of an advance, though. Another ten grand.”
“Ask for more.”
“Ask for—yeah. I suppose I could do that.”
“Ask for a hundred grand.”
“Damn.”
“If they won’t give it to you, you can still walk.”
“Yeah.”
The zombies were back. Kafka’s avatar had retreated to shelter behind a metal fence, but it looked like it might give way any second.
“Even if they do give it to me, it’s still not two million bucks, though.”
“True. It’s not nothing, either. Besides, if they do, who knows? Maybe they’ll eventually even give you the full amount. And if they don’t—die! die! die!—if they don’t, then you know you’ll probably never see—Jesus, where did he come from?”
“I’ll never see another dime from them.”
“Right. God damn, they’re everywhere.” Kafka’s avatar disappeared in a pile of zombies, and he let the game controller fall from his hands. He turned to Lock. “Have you asked yourself whether they’ll let you walk away?”
Lock tilted his head and eyed his friend sharply. “What do you mean?”
“You know. I mean, these guys are criminals, right? And you know who they are, what they look like…”
“I don’t know. I mean, of course, I’ve thought about it. But…they seem relatively harmless. It’s white-collar crime, you know? Kirin doesn’t look the sort of guy who even knows how to fire a gun.”
Kafka shrugged as the game restarted and his avatar walked through the empty streets of a post-apocalyptic city in an alternate universe. “I’m just sayin’.”
Lock gently ran his fingers across his split lip. “I thought he was threatening Sophie at one point, but I’m pretty sure that was all in my head.”
