Genie for Hire (27 page)

“What about the murders?” Biff asked.

“Murders?” Jaeger asked. “Nobody told me anything about
murders.”

“That’s how Farishta and I come into this,” Biff said. “A
client who hired my agency was murdered by Igor Laskin. I want to make sure he
gets nailed.”

“I told you, Biff, as long as Laskin’s got credible
witnesses who put him somewhere else at the time the photographer got shot, the
best we can do is pull him in for the arms shipment. You knew that going into
this.”

“Yeah, but I thought…”

Jimmy shook his head. “Maybe if Petrov’s business falls
apart, those witnesses will recant. But that’s a big if.”

Farishta reached over and took Biff’s hand. “As long as he
is arrested,” she said.

Biff knew that all she cared about was getting her amulet
back, and if Laskin was taken into custody he’d have to give it up voluntarily,
making it fair game for her to retrieve.

“And you know this photographer was not so innocent,”
Farishta continued.

“You dance with the devil, sometimes he sticks his forked
tail right into your heart,” Jimmy said. “That’s what Sveta did.”

“Sveta?” Jaeger asked. “Sveta Pshkov?”

Jimmy turned to him. “Yeah. You know her?”

“She took pictures of my kids, every year, for their
birthdays. Someone killed her?”

“You or your wife always present when she took those
pictures?” Jimmy asked.

Jaeger cocked his head like he didn’t quite understand. “Of
course. They’re just babies.”

“Good for you,” Jimmy said. He explained to Jaeger what kind
of pictures Sveta had been taking, and the Customs agent looked green.

He left them in the conference room for a few minutes, and
Jimmy and Hector stepped over to the window to have a conversation out of
earshot. Biff almost laughed; Jimmy should have known Biff’s super-sensitive
hearing would pick up anything. He sat at the conference room table and
pretended to look over his notes, with Farishta by his side.

“You sure Biff can handle this?” Hector said in a low voice.

“This and more,” Jimmy whispered back. “He’s sharp, and he
knows how to roll with the punches. I tell you, sometimes I think the guy’s got
superpowers or something.”

“I’d still be happier if I had one of my men doing this.”

“Let me tell you something about Biff. When he wants to do
something, you’d best not get in his way. That’s all I’m saying.”

Jaeger returned to the room with a bag of gear. “Uniform
should fit you,” he said, handing the bag to Biff. “There’s an ID on a lanyard
that will get you in anywhere you need to go. Of course I’m going to need all
this back.”

“Of course,” Biff said, standing up.

“You’ll also find an ID and password on our system in there,
so you can log in tomorrow and track the incoming flight, make sure you’re here
in time. But just so you know, I set you up with very limited access—all you
can see is the info on this particular arrival. Otherwise we’d have a security
issue.”

“I understand. I was thinking of getting here a couple of
hours early, just to get the lay of the land,” Biff said. “I don’t have any idea
how early Laskin will show up so I want to be in place.”

“Good plan,” Jaeger said. He turned to Farishta. “Will you
be here, too?”

“I am behind the scenes,” she said, and Jaeger looked
disappointed.

Jaeger ushered them all back to the waiting room, and they
split up. “I hope this works,” Biff said to Farishta as they walked back to the
parking garage. “I wanted to nail Laskin for Sveta’s murder, but I’m going to
have to settle for putting him away for arms smuggling instead.”

“As long as Laskin is forced to give up the amulet, I will
be happy,” Farishta said. “Aren’t you also doing this to help me?”

He turned to look at her as they reached the Mini Cooper. She
looked very happy, standing there in her filmy blouse and harem pants. She
smelled great, too. “Of course, my love,” he said.

At least there was going to be some benefit to this
operation, Biff thought, as they drove back up the highway to his townhouse. He
was so focused on thoughts of how he could ask Farishta to show him her
gratitude that he hardly noticed the miles passing. He exited the highway and
navigated the local streets to his community. He pulled into his parking spot, so
eager to whisk Farishta into his bed that he was ready to pick her up and carry
her to the bedroom.

But as he hopped out of the car he noticed the white
butterfly hovering over the red double hibiscus by his front door. Table that
idea for now, he thought.

He opened the door and ushered Farishta inside. Raki
scampered along with her, and the butterfly followed. When Biff turned around
again, Syl had assumed human form once more.

This time he was wearing a billowy white caftan, with a
multi-colored scarf pulled around his neck. Raki was sitting up on his
haunches, staring.

Farishta looked from him to Biff, a smile playing on her
face. “I am Farishta,” she said, extending her hand.

In a grand gesture, Syl took her hand, bent low, and kissed
her fingers. “Charmed, I’m sure. I am Sylphanus 18344857, but you can call me
Syl.”

“You’re the sylph,” she said, nodding. She turned to Biff.
“My Bivas, I had no idea you were involved with a male spirit.”

“I told you, Syl is my business associate.” To the man in
white, he said, “Anything new to report?”

“Just wanted to check on my assignment for tomorrow. I’m
assuming you want me to follow Laskin?”

“Absolutely. Just be careful. These are bad guys.”

“Can we offer you some nectar, Syl?” Farishta asked.

“I don’t think we have…” Biff began.

“That would be lovely,” Syl said. “I’m positively parched.
Spending so much time inside is bad for my constitution.”

“I’m sure,” Farishta said.

Biff watched her butt move as she sashayed into the kitchen.
Then he motioned to the low sofas. “Have a seat,” he said to Syl.

Syl looked at the pattern of macaws and egrets in the fabric
and shuddered. “Birds.” He motioned toward an ottoman tufted in maroon silk.
“If you don’t mind…”

“Whatever makes you comfortable.” Biff sat on a sofa while
Syl lounged on the ottoman, which elongated as he watched to match the sylph’s
human size. Biff just shook his head.

Farishta returned with a gilt serving platter, looking every
bit like the Housewife of the Year in fifteenth-century Persia, still wearing
her sheer blouse and a pair of harem pants gathered at her ankles, just above
her pointy-toed silk slippers. Her black hair was piled up on her head, just a
few curly wisps straying. From the tray she handed an elegant glass vial filled
with yellow nectar to Syl. Raki got a small silver bowl of candied walnuts.

She handed Biff one of a pair of crystal wine glasses filled
with ruby-red wine. He noted that he didn’t own any of those things—the tray,
the glasses, the nectar, the nuts or the wine. Once again, Farishta amazed him.

“Tell me, Syl,” she said, lounging on the low sofa across
from Biff’s. “How long have you been a detective?”

“Oh, at least a week,” Syl said. “It’s so much more
fulfilling than air handling.”

“I’m sure.” She continued a mild sort of cross-examination,
and Biff realized she was jealous. That was sweet, and unexpected.

But he didn’t want to spend the whole evening chit-chatting
with the butterfly and the squirrel. He had plans for Farishta—private plans,
without spectators. Fortunately, Syl rose and stretched his long legs. “Sorry,
I must fly. Big party tonight at Greynolds Park. All the sylphs will be there.”

Biff rose. “I’ll walk you out,” he said. “Come on, Raki, you
too.”

The squirrel stuffed the last walnut into his cheeks and hopped
forward. Biff opened the front door, and Syl transformed himself back into a
butterfly and flitted off. Raki scampered up the hibiscus and took a flying
leap to the palm tree, his cheeks still stuffed with candied walnut.

Then Biff turned back to Farishta. She yawned. “Such a long
day. I think I am ready for bed.”

“For bed, yes,” Biff said. “Sleeping, no.” And then, as he
had planned, he scooped the beautiful genie in his arms and carried her
upstairs.

Biff slept in on Wednesday morning. He woke to see Farishta
walking into the bedroom with an elaborate breakfast on a gilded tray. The eggs
benedict, made with tiny sparrow eggs, were perfectly centered on miniature
English muffins, with home fries and bacon cooked just the way Biff liked, soft
and bubbling with fat.  She had even conjured up tall glasses of fresh-squeezed
orange juice.

“I could get used to this,” Biff said, sitting up so that
Farishta could place the tray on the bed. She wore a sports bra and tiny
jogging shorts, and she had pulled her hair into a long black ponytail.

“Should I say ‘yes master,’ like the silly genie on that old
TV program?” she asked.

“That would be nice,” he said, as she slid into bed next to
him.

“Only in your deepest fantasies, my Bivas,” she said, and
she reached over and tweaked his left nipple. He yelped, then laughed.

Just after noon he logged into the Customs website from his laptop
computer, using the ID and password Jaeger had provided. He verified that the
cargo flight had left Baku on schedule, and was expected in a few minutes
early.

He dressed in the Customs uniform, black slacks and a
short-sleeved white shirt with military-style epaulets and the Customs and
Border Protection patch on his upper arms. The words Department of Homeland
Security surrounded an eagle with wings outstretched.

He was admiring himself in the mirror when Farishta entered
the bedroom, already dressed in what looked like a stewardess’s uniform from
the 1960s—Tiffany blue pencil skirt and white blouse, with matching blue pumps
and shoulder bag. All she was missing was the cute little cap.

In case he needed an energy boost, he placed the lamp in a
small backpack and slung it over his shoulder. Then he drove down to the
airport once more with Farishta and Raki. He swiped his ID card to enter an
employee parking lot adjacent to the terminal. Raki jumped out of the car as
soon as Biff came to a stop, and hopped over to a skinny palm tree. Farishta
stood up, stretching, and Biff felt a stiffening in his lower regions, which he
resolutely ignored. He’d had plenty of time for fun with Farishta, though it
was one of her many talents that she always left him hungry for more.

“I’ll be watching the warehouse,” she said. “You will have
your cell phone, if I need you?”

“Yes. But if I tell you I can’t talk, that means I’m with
Laskin, all right?”

“All you have to do is listen,” she said, smiling. “You know
how to do that, don’t you?”

“It’s the number one secret to success with a woman,” Biff
said. “I learned that a few hundred years ago.”

He left the lamp in the backpack on the back floor of the
car, and strolled over to the employee door into the Customs area, where he slid
his ID through the reader. As he stepped inside, people he’d never seen before
nodded hello, and no one thought to question him or demand his ID. Funny what a
uniform could do for you, he thought.

He found Jaeger in his office. “Flight’s due in about an
hour. Let me walk you down to your position.” He led Biff downstairs and introduced
him to the two agents on duty. He explained that Biff was a special agent in
from DC to track a specific shipment, and showed him where to wait.

Biff spent the next hour watching the other two agents as
they processed forms. By the time the plane from Azerbaijan landed, shortly
after eight o’clock at night, he felt comfortable doing what he had to. He stood
at the plate glass window as the plane was unloaded, the pallets transported
into the warehouse.

His cell phone buzzed. “This is Bill,” he said.

“Bill! It’s Igor Laskin. Is my merchandise ready for pickup?”

“I’m watching it now. I’ll get started on your paperwork.
Meet me at the warehouse in ten minutes.”

He stepped over to the computer terminal and entered his ID
and password.

User not found. Retry?

Huh? Had Jaeger screwed something up? Biff entered the ID
and password again, this time realizing that what he had taken for a number1
was actually an exclamation mark.

He pulled up the manifest for the flight online, filled in
the arrival time, then indicated that the shipment comprised agricultural
machinery. The system automatically calculated the amount of the duty based on
the weight and the category.

He hadn’t realized how many items he had to fill in on the
manifest. Each one required him to search another screen for the right code,
the correct address, and so on. He was relieved when he could finally hit
print
.

An error message popped up indicating that the printer was
offline. He had to cross the room and turn it on, then try again. No wonder
everything in government took so long, he thought.

When he had all the forms, he left the building and crossed
the tarmac to the warehouse. A dozen crates labeled “agricultural equipment” in
English and Russian were stacked on a series of pallets in the corner. He
walked up to the first stack of crates and peered in through a chink in the
wood framing. A layer of primitive-looking scythes rested on a bed of straw.

Under that layer, however, stacks of Kalashnikovs nestled in
the straw. His extra-strong vision allowed him to see the serial numbers on the
guns without opening the crate.

He zigzagged across the warehouse floor past stacks of
pallets to the entrance to the waiting room. Laskin stood there looking at a
flyer on the wall, his back to the camera mounted just below the ceiling.

Biff greeted him, and the bodybuilder turned around to face
the camera. Get a good shot of him, Biff thought. Laskin’s skin was sallow and
there were bags under his eyes.
Not sleeping so well with a couple of
murders under your belt?
Biff wondered, but he didn’t say anything.