Hot Ice (25 page)

She was spooning ice into his glass. “I’m sure there are some Muslims who’re not like that. Some are peaceful.”

“Sure. The ones who’ve run out of ammunition.”

She topped off the glass. “Those men last night didn’t look like Arabs.”

“They weren’t.”

“Then who … ?”

He stood to step beside her and take the glass from her hand. “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do. You just said I saved your ass. In doing so, I killed a man, remember? Whatever you’re into, I’m in it too. I have a right to know.”

“First, what I’m into is confidential, my employer’s business. I can tell you the guy you shot was most likely former Spetsnaz, the Red Army’s assassination and special-ops boys. OK?”

“What would former Russian special ops be doing here in Washington?”

“Trying to make sure I never leave here.”

She poured the last of the Gaja into her wineglass. “And you’re leaving here when? Or is that off-limits too?”

Her tone had an edge to it.

“Tomorrow.”

“So, let me get this straight: You waltz into my life, I literally kill for you, and now you doff your helmet or campaign cap or whatever you Delta Force boys wear and say good-bye? The old love ’em and leave ’em?”

Jason would not have phrased it quite that way. In fact, it had been his guess that he’d be the one to be loved and left. Dinner last night had not been his idea. The woman had learned more than cooking from her former Italian mother-in-law; she learned the art of the guilt trip.

“I can’t very well expect to get paid staying here. What do you suggest?”

“That I come with you.”

For an instant, Jason was certain he had not heard correctly. “Come with … You’re kidding, right?”

Her face said she wasn’t. “Why not?”

Jason sat back down on the sofa, his drink forgotten. “First, you have no idea what you’d be getting yourself into… .”

“If it involves violence, I think I’ve demonstrated I can take care of myself.”

That answered any question about how Judith felt about killing someone. She wanted more, a thrill seeker. Do assassins have groupies?

“I can’t take care of the both of us… .”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to let me come along. Promise I won’t get in the way. I’ll have your back. Who knows, medical skill may come in handy.”

“Judith, I’m dealing with some seriously bad-ass dudes, here.”

“I know. I killed one of them.”

Not a trace of remorse. She would have had him mounted as a trophy and hung on her wall if she could have.

Jason started to say they really didn’t know each other well enough, realized that wouldn’t fly, and tried, “But you’ve got your job here.”

“And almost three weeks’ annual leave coming. I’m sure as hell not going to take it in Iowa. Look, Jason, I’ve served my time, done my duty to the Air Force and my country. I’m not complaining, but I can’t say it’s been a thrill, either. Someone like you would have no idea of what tedium is like. Then, all of a sudden, you come into my life, big and handsome. First man I’ve looked at twice in longer than I want to admit. I’m not inclined to just turn my back and walk away. I want to do something besides treating venereal disease and dispensing flu shots. I may never have a chance to do something exciting again.”

“Judith, this isn’t Disney World. You can’t just get off the ride and be finished. People get killed.”

“I think I learned that last night. What do you want, that I sign something relieving you of all responsibility?

Jason knew a truly bad idea when he heard one, at least one pertaining to operations. Taking a brief acquaintance into danger, a woman with no combat experience, would be like … like having Maria present. At least Judith wasn’t harping about the evil of violence. And Maria also, once upon a time, had saved his life.

A plan was beginning its birth process. Maybe Major Ferris, J., could be of use after all.

“Let’s talk about it,” he said.

The 777 popped out of the low-level clouds that were the detritus of Puerto Rico’s daily afternoon thundershowers. Jason’s window streaked with moisture that gave a distorted view of monolithic mega-hotels marching along the island’s north shore. It reminded him of Miami Beach, a sanitized American monoculture. In contrast, the walls of the historic fort and of Old San Juan cast dark shadows on the verdant green of the national park that memorialized Puerto Rico’s colorful past.

The tinny announcement of the necessity of seat belts and restoration of trays and seats to their original position elicited squalls from a leather-lunged child somewhere behind in the plane’s coach section.

Happily, Jason had secured a first-class seat earlier that day. Even so, commercial air meant he was flying unarmed rather than trusting a disassembled weapon to the vagaries of the airline’s baggage system. Having to explain to the local police why he had brought the Glock or learning it had been mishandled to Bangkok would be little help.

Tires shrieked on cement. Jason was shoved forward against his seat belt by the aircraft’s howling reverse thrust. As the big jet cleared the runway, he noted, not for the first time, that the Caribbean was the elephant graveyard of aviation. Half a dozen DC-3s were lined up in front of one freight carrier. The newest had rolled off the wartime assembly line in 1942, and, quite likely, dropped troops over Normandy or braved Burma’s Hump to bring supplies to a beleaguered Chiang Kai-shek, arms and equipment that would see action against Mao’s communist rebels rather than the intended foe, the Japanese. There were equally elderly C-56 Lockheed Lodestars and newer—but still ancient—blunt-nosed Beech-18s. Anything that could still fly and manage to skirt the edges of the FAA’s low profile was here.

The puddles on the taxiway were further evidence the afternoon thundershowers had already departed, retreating up the slopes of the rain forest, which Jason could see through the windows on the opposite side of the aisle. But the humidity, he knew, would linger like a wet blanket, smothering everything it touched in warm dampness.

That was one reason Jason took his time deplaning. He was in no hurry to enter the steam bath that awaited him outside. The other was to let as many passengers as possible clear the terminal before he passed through it, perhaps making it easier to spot anyone showing an interest in his arrival. He removed his single bag from the overhead bin and slung it over his shoulder by the strap. He sauntered past the Delta gates, past the T-shirt and fast food shops. He followed the stained blue carpet into the main terminal, where a combination of salsa music from portable radios and shouted Spanish filled the air. San Juan’s airport was the Naples of the New World. Passengers pushed carts stacked six or seven suitcases high. Small children, often four or five to a family, gaped with wide brown eyes from behind their mothers’ skirts, or, more often, pants tight as the skin on a drumstick. Puerto Rican women had an affinity for spike heels, low-cut blouses, and pants a size or two too small.

Jason stood still for a full minute, observing a crowd that swirled like the confluence of multiple rivers. No one seemed to show any particular interest in him. But in this organized confusion, he could not be sure. Deliberately, he made his way to the nearest men’s room, taking care not to look over his shoulder or give any other sign that he suspected he might be watched.

Inside the restroom, he walked down a line of stalls, choosing the unoccupied one most distant from the entrance. Inside, he replaced his shirt with a pastel-blue one from Brooks Brothers from his shoulder bag. The wrinkled one in which he had traveled went into the luggage, then he removed a faded baseball cap, which he pulled low over his forehead. The change wasn’t going to fool a careful observer, but it might divert an unwary watcher. Finally, he removed the shoulder strap of his bag to carry it by the handle, suitcase-style.

He had just cracked the stall’s door open in preparation to leave the restroom when two men came through the door, one behind the other. Despite the tropical heat outside the airport, both wore light khaki windbreakers, just the thing to conceal a shoulder holster. Large, with muscular jaws. High cheekbones and barely perceptible angled eyes gave them an appearance Jason associated with Russians, particularly the Russians he had seen on the tube platform in London, although the absence of a facial scar told him these were not the same men. They could have been employees of a local fitness club. Or professional wrestlers. Jason doubted either. Particularly since one had a bandage covering half his face. As if, maybe, he’d had an unfortunate encounter with a tire iron.

It had been too dark in the parking lot in Durham to observe facial features, but what were the odds of two perfectly innocent Slavic-faced men of approximately the same build, both of whom had injuries to the right side, being here in San Juan at the same time as Jason’s arrival? Not good. Not good at all.

He watched the pair wash their hands, using the mirror above the basins to survey the room. The one with the bandage fussed with his hair. The other examined his reflection’s skin, running a hand across his cheeks. Both of these activities allowed them to keep the room under surveillance without being obvious. What was obvious was that the pair had not come to the men’s room in response to nature’s call.

More likely, they were waiting for Jason to come out of one of several stalls with closed doors. Or for all the others to change occupants. Either way, they seemed to have all the time in the world, time in which Jason was going to have to figure out an escape.

Wait a minute, he thought.

Jason had the means of his own salvation. Reaching into a pocket, he took out his BlackBerry. Previously, since its inception in 1994, the island-wide 911 emergency service had suffered the same ills as so many other American cities: too many non-emergency calls and a thirty-five-minute average response time, plus language complications with operators whose English was less than perfect. Unlike, say, Washington, the response time here had been cut to an average of seven minutes by an effort at public awareness and elimination of non-emergency calls. And an idea novel to government: firing the incompetent.

The answer was 911. A call to the local number and the restroom would be flooded with police. Jason could simply walk out.

There was only one problem: The BlackBerry didn’t respond. Jason glared at the screen. He had a worldwide chip; the device should work. But it didn’t. The San Juan airport, or at least this part of it, was an electronic dead zone.

Carlos read the text message aloud before observing, “Peters has landed. It appears he is alone. He is by himself in the men’s room near the airport’s baggage-claim area.”

The older man, Pedro, held his frosty glass up in mock toast. “Uri’s team has an incentive to leave this man dead after the
polnyi pizdets
—er, fuck-up—in England.” He noticed his companion was empty-handed. “Have a drink to celebrate, my young friend!”

“Perhaps when we have news Peters has been dealt with. But you are right: not only Uri but Maksim. They say he may never recover full use of his right eye.”

Pedro tossed off the contents of his glass. “Once burned by milk, you will blow on cold water. Both Uri and Maksim will use more care this time.”

“And if they fail again?”

The older man was refilling his glass. “Then we have but to wait. Peters did not come to San Juan on vacation. He will be seeking us out.”

“And if he finds us?”

“He will, he will. We will make certain of that.”

“We want him to find us?”

“Would not the wolf prefer the lamb came to him?”

Pedro lurched toward the bathroom, leaving Carlos to gauge how much his friend had drunk by the frequency of Russian proverbs.

Jason questioned his wisdom in insisting Judith arrive on a separate flight. It would have been nice to have backup, someone who would come looking when he didn’t return from the men’s room. But what made him think Judith would have? She was hardly a trained operative, and he had no intention of utilizing her as one. Her role would be …

Well, if he could get to working his plan. Instead, he was stuck in a lavatory stall while two thugs, most likely ex-Spetsnaz, waited like a pride of lions watching some African water hole for the appearance of an unwary antelope.

Once they were aware of which stall he occupied, would they shoot? The flimsy door provided scant protection against bullets, but risk so brazen an act? Unlikely. The knives Jason associated with the Russian military group would draw less attention but were equally deadly in professional hands.

Except knives couldn’t kill at gunshot distances.

Jason undid his belt and coiled it around his right hand. He took a deep breath. He was only going to get this single chance.

What he had in mind would have had a better chance of success if the stall’s door swung outward. But it didn’t.

Opening the door as though preparing to exit, Jason feigned surprise when his eyes met those of the two men’s reflections in the brightly lit mirror over the sinks. In the split second it took for Jason to be sure he had been recognized, he slammed the door shut again and shot the bolt.

Below the bottom of the door, a pair of feet appeared. Jason could hear the metal groan as whoever was outside tested the latch.

Jason stooped, at the same time releasing the bolt with his left hand. With his right, he swung his belt so that it looped around an ankle outside the stall and slid back the door’s latch.

Not expecting either the release of the lock or the leather around his ankle, the man with the bandaged face stumbled forward. With his left hand now free, Jason grabbed the belt’s loose end and pulled with all his strength.

The intruder’s momentum forward was abruptly reversed, yanking his feet out from beneath him. He did a half gainer that would have scored a 10 by any panel of judges had he been in dive competition rather than a public restroom.