Chapter #12A Contract Fulfilled by: Seuzz   "Welcome to the United States, sir," you say, and put out your hand to President Nzingha as he bounds down the ramp from the private jet.
He's a small, thin man with large, worried eyes, and he looks around you and past you in a darting manner. "Is it not customary for a VIP to be here? Some kind of escort?" he asks in a nasal whine. "Why is my own chief of security the only VIP welcoming me?"
"Under the circumstances, sir, it seemed best—"
"Circumstances," he demands sharply, and now he does look at you. "What circumstances?" For a moment you think he's going to dash back onto the plane.
"I'm only referring to the last time you were outside Cabinda, sir. In London."
"London was very bad." He dances from side to side, and looks longingly at the armored limousine a few yards behind you. "Should we be standing out here?"
"This way, sir." With a sweep of your arm you point him to the limo, and he half crouches over as trots for it.
Yes, the explosive show put on by Nerio five months ago has left an indelible mark upon His Excellency. You get in next to him. The leather seats squeal beneath your buttocks.
"Don't get too comfortable sir," you say as the lights on the chase vehicles fore and aft start to flash, and the roar of a dozen motorcycles penetrates the thick surfaces of the limo. "We'll be passing through a hanger in a few minutes, and we'll be changing vehicles."
"Into the other limousine?" Nzingha cranes his neck.
"No, into the SUV on your left."
He swings around, and his face falls. "That?" he screeches. "Why do I not just walk slowly down the street and shout my name?"
"It's armored, sir," you tell him patiently. "And no one will be looking for you in it." You give him your most encouraging smile as he turns red-rimmed eyes on you; you wonder when the last time was he had a good night's sleep.
Darkness engulfs the vehicle as the motorcades pass into the maw of a cavernous hanger. When the limo has crawled nearly to a halt you slip out, dragging the president with you; he stumbles as his feet hit the concrete. You haul him by the sleeve into the back of the SUV. "Keep it slow, fellas," you mutter into your lapel mike to the pace setters in the lead. "Until we're outside."
Despite your assurances and the tinted windows, Nzingha slumps in his seat, and keeps his face averted from the outside world.
Not that there's much to see. The weather continues cold and grey; the buildings along the route are grimy; and the pedestrians—what there are of them—are darkly huddled bundles hurrying through a cutting breeze.
Five miles out of the airport, the motorcades separate. Nzingha hasn't relaxed in the meantime, and he tenses more tightly when you speak again into the mike: "Break down at the next intersection."
"Breakdown?" the president shrieks.
"Another psychological ploy, sir. Pre-planned."
"Why could I not stayed in the limousine," he whimpers.
Just as the next intersection looms, Andrews, who is driving, taps hard at the brake, sending the SUV lurching; as the motor races he continues to brake. Horns erupt around you. "What is happening," Nzingha demands.
"We're mimicking a vehicular breakdown." You crane your neck, studying the rest of the motorcade as it stops in the middle of the boulevard, snarling traffic.
"What is the point of this?"
"To show that this vehicle is not important, and that the rest of the motorcade does not need or want to remain with us," you reply. You're watching the dashboard clock and playing a pretended conversation in your mind. When you're confident the delay has been long enough but not suspiciously long, you tell the pacesetters to proceed. "Let's limp over to that parking garage, Andrews," you say. "We are wounded."
"We won't make it to the State Department!" President Nzingha shouts. "I demand that you call that limousine back—"
"I can't do that, sir," you say as Andrews swings into the three-tiered parking structure. "That will completely upset our itinerary. There is a State Department vehicle here to pick you up."
"Sir?" Andrews says from the front seat.
"That's right, an unannounced precaution on my part. There's a space just up there. Pull into it."
Andrews complies, even as he stares at you in the rear-view mirror.
"Wait here, sir," you tell the president. "I'll help you out after looking around." You put on a good show, swinging your head about as you cross behind the SUV. At the president's door you unbutton your jacket and knock at the driver's side window. Andrews lowers it in time for you to turn full on him with the silenced pistol you've drawn from your shoulder holster. You tap him twice in the face.
Nzingha, all uncomprehending, has just put one foot onto the ground when you do the same to him. You throw the gun—helpfully smeared with Isaac Banks's fingerprints—in after the late president of Cabinda, and close the door on him.
It's then a quick walk to the town car that you and Kips stashed here when you drove in to town. Once inside, you slip off Banks's jacket, bullet-proof vest, and shirt, and pull his mask from your face; when you recover, you shake Rene Huggins' hair from your face, for you'd shifted into her tattoo this morning before putting Banks's face back on. It's a bit more of a struggle to change into her hose, skirt and blouse, but you manage, and not fifteen minutes after fulfilling your assignment you drive out onto the bleak city streets.
But you're not home-free yet.
* * * * *
"Girl, you are in so much trouble," Ronnie the doorman mournfully coos as you brazenly waltz into the hotel lobby.
"They can kiss my ass," you retort. "I met my man last night."
"What man is that," he replies. "That big ol'— Morning, sir, help you with—" You sweep on across the lobby as Ronnie turns to help a lodger. At the front desk, Mel doesn't react even after you smile broadly at him. I guess "they" aren't so pissed that the front clerk would have heard about it.
You take the elevator to the twenty-second floor and let yourself back into the third suite, where you take a relaxed half hour to get your makeup on right. It's then down to the restaurant where you spend a good ten minutes haranguing the management with your low opinion of them, punctuated with long boasts about the foreign dignitary who has promised to carry you away to a life of luxury and international travel and excitement. "He's waiting for me up on the twenty-second floor," you archly declare as a parting shot.
Then it's back to the elevators. But you get off on the sixteenth floor instead, and after removing the DO NOT DISTURB signs from 1606 and 1608 you pack up what little remains of your gear. Only two things then remain.
The first is to put your palm under your left breast; the skin warms even as half of your scalp chills; when you turn past the mirror, the face of Paige Knotts—looking more than a little out of place in Rene Huggins' stylish wear—reflects back.
The second is to step into the bathroom, where Banks is still lying in the tub, looking bloated and ill. You check his pulse and under his lids before undoing his cuffs. Then you shoot him three times in a pattern that Diana has carefully associated with a fictional terrorist cell. Onto his chest you toss a packet of hundred dollar bills.
If anyone notices the sulky goth girl in the thousand dollar clothes, they don't say anything as you ride back down to the ground floor. Ditching the town car, you take the bus to the airport, where you kill six hours until it's time for your scheduled return flight to London. As you wait, you watch with interest as the news terminals break sensational reports of the assassination of an obscure African politician under extremely murky circumstances.
* * * * *
"We will of course hold a memorial service for Mr. Kipper," Professor Hyde-White says. His manner is very crisp; he doesn't bother to feign grief.
"We should have a party," you reply. "At the Harp." Now Hyde-White does look shocked, as does Julian Dey. "It's what he would have wanted," you add.
After a moment, they let a show of relief sweep their faces. "Ah. Yes, I suppose he was that sort," Hyde-White says in a vague way. "We won't, of course, be able to note his falling in any kind of official way—"
You settle back in your chair and let Hyde-White's whinnying drone play out.
It's been three days since your return from the U.S., and even then you're having this debriefing only because you were sick of them delaying it. After the first night's exhausted sleep, and one day where you could nervelessly come unglued in your flat, you'd begun to feel restless. The days after a job are always a let down. But after other jobs you could unwind with your partners, playing over the events with satisfaction and a sense of horseplay. Sometimes, you'd relax into tension-shattering orgies, shifting faces and sexes and orientations amid a tangle of limbs.
But this is the first job you've ever returned from alone.
"Ms. Knotts?" Hyde-White's voice cuts through your reverie.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
His lips compress. "May I remind you that you requested this meeting."
"Yeah, because I'm going crazy and I want some closure," you retort, not caring about the tactlessness of your outburst. "Tell me something that will take away the crazy."
They both stare back at you, mouths hanging open. Dey is the first to stir. "She needs a rest, Jamie," he murmurs to Hyde-White.
But your old boss twists his lips into a smile. "No. She needs another job."   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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