The Widow's Strike (25 page)

R
etro and I
left the
City of Dreams mall and entered the hallway that led to the reception desks of the Hard Rock. We’d dropped off Knuckles in front of the lobby and given Decoy and Blood the northern exit, all of us squeezing out any escape route.

I’d given instructions to maintain a very loose net, wanting to follow the general without spiking him. A tall order since just about everyone around was Asian. We might as well have been on a
Sesame Street
production of “one of these things is not like the others.” While not catastrophic, it would have been bad enough except that our target had laid out a pretty good trap recently, and I had to assume that he knew everyone from that day on sight. Since Knuckles hadn’t been in the surveillance that led to Kowloon Park, I was betting that he was still an unknown, which is why he got the lobby.

We passed the Hard Rock souvenir shop and I could see the corner of the lobby bar. I put my hand on Retro to slow him right when my radio came to life.

“Pike, Knuckles. Target just stood up. I think I spiked him.”

“Did he show recognition?”

“No. Two Aussies went to the bar, and he focused on them. When I entered, he stood. I think he’s just antsy.”

And well he should be.

“Which direction?”

“Coming your way.”

I said, “Retro, get inside the souvenir shop. Get your back to the window, out of sight. I’ll trigger when he’s past. Blood, Decoy, circle to the City of Dreams. He’ll exit that way.”

It was a risk, but I’d missed the entire countersurveillance trap the general had executed because of my ferry-ride fiasco, so I was betting I was an unknown as well.

Staring at some ridiculously overpriced watches on display, I caught the general approaching out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head and sauntered away, ostensibly window-shopping. I waited for him to pass. The seconds dragged out into a minute, and I had to move or look stupid.

I turned to enter the souvenir shop, the rotation giving me a glance down the hallway. The general stood in the middle of it, his hands clasped to his front, staring at me.

As I turned, he waved, drawing my attention.

What the hell?

I stopped and he waved again, then motioned for me to come to him.

So much for his not knowing me.

He abruptly did an about-face, walking to the table he had occupied before. He sat down and continued to stare at me.

This is certainly a new experience.

I suppose I should have scurried away like a roach, but really, what was the use? I was burned and no good for further surveillance, so I didn’t see any real harm in taking up his invitation. I figured I might find out something.

I walked over to him, seeing a bemused expression on his face. He said, “I wasn’t sure, but now I am.”

I sat, saying, “You’re good enough that it didn’t matter. You would have been sure the next time you saw me tracking you. I’m burned either way.”

“Well, now it appears we have a little situation. I’m assuming you know who I am, and because of it, I’m assuming you wish to take me somewhere unpleasant, which, of course, I can’t allow.”

I grinned. “You don’t really have a say in it. Try to leave and I’ll get you, whether you recognize the men about to pound your ass or not.”

“Why don’t you bring them here? Let them get some refreshments. I’ve been in their shoes before. I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”

“No thanks. I’d just as soon you didn’t see how many I have on the ground.”

A little dig to get him thinking.

I continued. “Instead, why don’t you just give up? Make it easier on all of us.”

“For what?” he said. “I’m just a carpet salesman enjoying Macau. I mean you no harm and will be traveling home soon.”

A line from Jennifer’s favorite movie,
The Princess Bride
, flashed in my head.

I said, “We are men of action. Lies do not become us.”

He looked at me like I’d just grown a horn, the stilted prose falling flat.

Oh well.

He pulled out a Samsung Galaxy phone, saying, “I’m assuming this is how you tracked me.”

He opened the back and removed the battery and SIM card, then dropped the phone into the water of the flower vase on the table.

He said, “There is only one way you will stop me, and that’s right now. I’m going to head over to that security man and ask him to escort me out of here. I will not mention you in any way, unless you alert your team and I feel in jeopardy. Doing so would only cause me issues.”

“You make one move to stand and I’m going to knock you out right here.”

“Really? And then what? You’re going to tell the police that arrive you’re a spy for the United States and I’m carrying a deadly virus? What will they think when they don’t find a virus on me or in my luggage?”

I said nothing.

“I’ll tell you what they will do: They’ll arrest us both. We’ll be locked down until China can sort it out, and that could take a long, long time. I don’t know about you, but I’ll be left to rot. I don’t mind. My mission is done. Will the US come for you?”

I thought of Knuckles and what had happened in Thailand. The tepid response of the Oversight Council.

I said, “Stopping you crazy bastards from releasing the virus will be worth it. Believe me, it will supersede whatever China does to me or my team.”

He said, “Crazy? Not any more crazy than what your country does. Or Israel. You try to destroy our ability to get the very same weapons you and your allies have. You’re the only one in history to ever use it, on innocent civilians no less, and I’m the one that’s crazy. But I don’t wish to debate the state of the world. I told you, I don’t have the virus. I’m done and headed home.”

So he passed it to the female.
I thought about Jennifer tracking her, wondering if she’d found a bed-down site. Praying she had, because I was leaning toward letting him go.

I had to admit, the guy had an enormous set of brass balls and a steel-trap mind. He’d thought through the entire scenario before he’d ever waved. If he hadn’t been trying to kill half the world, I would have admired his skill.

I said, “Okay. Go talk to your security guard. We’ll be meeting again, I’m sure, on terrain that’s much more favorable to me.”

He squinted, and I realized I hadn’t asked about the virus. About what had happened to it.
Giving away my hand.

He shifted to stand, and I clamped my hand on his arm in an iron grip. I leaned into him. “But before you go, I have to know where the virus is right this minute. If you don’t have it, it means you’ve set it to be released. Tell me where it is, or I’m going to get us arrested, right here, right now. I get the virus and you go free. Fair deal.”

He stared at me for a moment, then said, “It’s on its way to Iran. You cannot get it. You don’t want us to have nuclear weapons; well, now we have something better. You can have me arrested and beat me for further information, but it won’t alter that fact.” He stood. “Let your government know that. We have a weapon that is worse than the one they are trying to prevent us from building. Tell them to remember that.”

I watched him walk out the front door, talking to the security guard. I saw Knuckles watching as well, then he turned to me with an incredulous look on his face after the general had exited.

My phone rang, and I saw it was Jennifer.

“Tell me you got the bed-down. Give me some good news, because our side of things has been strange to say the least.”

What I heard clinched my stomach in a river of fear.

S
o it’s in
side me.

The thought made her feel queasy, the idea of the virus bubbling away in her bloodstream disgusting. But the mirror didn’t lie.

Elina leaned in closer, repulsed at what she saw: Her eyes were bathed in red, as if she had coated them in blood.

I look like a monster.

It had been a day and a half since her escape from the Venetian, and she’d begun to wonder if maybe her contact had been tricked. If the virus wasn’t real. She had stayed in her room as instructed and had followed the proscriptions about eating and drinking to the letter—scrubbing the room service plates and silverware with soap and hand-sanitizer before placing them outside her door—but hadn’t felt the least bit sick.

She’d used the time wisely, booking a flight to New York and applying for an electronic authorization to enter the United States in accordance with the instructions Malik had passed for the visa waiver program.

He had yet to contact her again, and she wondered if destroying her phone had been a good idea. She’d immediately done so the minute she’d left the Venetian, dropping it over the side of the bridge and into the lake as she crossed back to the Conrad. She knew she wasn’t as well trained as Malik, but she did have some history to fall back on. As she had fled from the supply closet, she had wondered how the woman had known where to find her and had remembered the assassination of Chechnya’s very first president.

In 1996, Dzhokhar Dudayev was killed by two laser-guided missiles while he used his satellite phone. Everyone knew the Russians had intercepted the call with a piece of magical technology, sending the missiles right to the source. She’d heard the equipment had been provided by the United States and, while running breathlessly across the bridge, had become convinced it was now tracking her.

She’d left a message in the draft folder letting Malik know, but he hadn’t responded. It didn’t worry her, because he’d said there would be no contact until necessary, and he’d check the e-mail account when he couldn’t dial the phone.

In truth, she wanted a response for reassurance. A reminder that what she was doing was just. The woman in the storage room wasn’t like the Kadyrovtsy
.
Bullying, sadistic men who tortured and killed out of sheer pleasure. Instead, the woman had shown kindness on the ferry, her smile something that would have been impossible to fake. It had been genuine, and Elina was convinced she was not the enemy.

And yet, the woman had tried to stop her, which
made
her an enemy. The thoughts were confusing, and Elina wanted to tamp them down. To forget.

She stared into the mirror, her red orbs burning back like the source of all evil.

* * *

After a fitful
night, tossing and turning while her mind wandered in the zone of half-awake/half-asleep, her subconscious running amok with the thought of the virus consuming her whole, she awoke before dawn and immediately went to the mirror. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she leaned in and saw they were clear. A trace of red, but no more than she should have had given the lack of sleep.

She took a deep breath and let it out. She wouldn’t need to rebook her flight. She could leave today.

She packed her things, ensuring she had her surgical masks and hand sanitizer, both a large container in her suitcase and a small one she could carry onto the aircraft.

Downstairs, she had the concierge flag her a cab, feeling conspicuous about the mask on her face. She stayed in the lobby, next to a pillar, swiveling her head left and right to spot anyone paying attention to her. Nothing stood out, but that didn’t tamp down the trepidation to any great extent.

It followed her all the way to the airport, a brick inside her stomach that made her nauseous, continuing to torture her right up until she boarded her aircraft. It finally left completely when the wheels separated from the ground. Twenty hours later, she landed at New York City’s JFK airport. She’d made connections twice in other cities and was physically exhausted, the close confines of the travel forcing her into uncomfortable positions to ensure she didn’t have contact with any other human beings. She’d been told that simply touching wouldn’t spread the virus, but she was taking no chances.

She exited the aircraft into the gangway, feeling the familiar sense of dread at what she would find outside the door: a homogenous mass of people she couldn’t understand. Instead, she was pleasantly surprised. JFK was nothing like the Asian airports.

For one, it was dirty and bordering on decrepit, reminding her of a Moscow subway. Unlike the airport in Hong Kong, with its crisp, almost sterile corridors, JFK was a hodgepodge maze of additions and add-ons, weaving seemingly incoherently.

For another, the airport was anything but homogenous. There were foreign nationals from all walks of life, wearing all manner of native clothing.

The first made her feel at home. The second let her fade into the crowd without a wayward glance. Together, they gave her more self-confidence than she’d felt in weeks.

She passed through customs and immigration without any problems whatsoever. She located her suitcase and took the airport tram to the rental car area at Federal Circle. She saw the Manhattan skyline in the distance, and she wondered what the city was like. The same as Hong Kong? Or Moscow?

What are the people like?
The question had more import than simple curiosity. It might help her decide a course of action. An idea began to form.

Stay one night here.
Why not? It was her life. She should be able to explore before reaching her target. She wasn’t on a timeline . . . as far as she knew.

She reached the rental agencies and obtained her car, being much more friendly than was necessary to the man behind the counter. Despite the mask on her face, he responded to her overtures, and soon enough, she had a hotel in midtown, along with directions. He gave her a free upgrade, and she left the lot driving a late-model Jeep Cherokee.

Her sense of giddiness at her newfound audacity quickly dissipated in the traffic, with drivers honking their horns, cutting her off, and giving her obscene gestures. By the time she reached the hotel on East Forty-Fifth Street, she was in a foul mood.

The valet took her vehicle, and she went immediately to her room, drinking a bottle of water and sitting on the bed. The fear she had experienced in Hong Kong hadn’t shown its face here. All she felt was anger at the rude treatment from every stranger she encountered. Most shouting in English that she could barely understand, which told her they weren’t from America.

This was a dumb idea. I should have just started my journey. I will find all I need to know on the trip.

She decided to spend the night and leave first thing in the morning. She definitely needed the rest either way. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized she hadn’t eaten for hours. It was seven at night here, but she had no idea what that meant in relation to when she’d left.

She exited the hotel and walked up Forty-Fifth Street. In front of her, just a block away, was a sign for an establishment called the Perfect Pint. It was a three-story pub and restaurant with a European flair. She saw an outdoor deck on the third floor and decided to give it a try.

Inside, she told the hostess she wanted food to go. The woman stared like she was disfigured but directed her to the bar on the second floor. She entered and found a gaggle of men, all sporting shirts and ties, with half wearing a shoulder bag.

Almost to a man, they stared at her as well. She realized they were looking at her face mask. It hadn’t stood out in the airport, but was like a neon sign in here.

In a loud voice, one of them said, “You got a disease or something?”

She knew they were drunk. She’d been around men who could hold much, much more liquor than these children and saw the signs even before she had entered.

She also knew the effect her eyes had. Caribbean sea blue, they were always something she could use, as she had in the rental car agency.

She smiled in the mask, knowing it would show above the fabric. And that the man would notice. She said, “No, I’m just paranoid.”

He guffawed at the answer and slapped his friend, smitten by the attention. She walked to the end of the bar and waved at the bartender.

She ordered a bottle of water and a plate to go, and then settled down to wait, watching the group of men. Studying. Should she kill them? If she released right here, would that be the right thing? What had they done, other than getting drunk and annoying her?

She watched and waited, seeing nothing that she wouldn’t have witnessed in a pub in Grozny. All the men did was shout and punch each other. She began to feel sick about her choice, knowing there was no return after the Rubicon she had crossed. She could kill herself, but she’d still be contagious. She felt the melancholy return, the same feeling she’d had when she’d learned of the death of her fiancé. A feeling of waste.

The Americans weren’t inherently evil. Much like her, they were simply unworldly. These drunks probably couldn’t have found Chechnya on a world globe.

A news story about Afghanistan came on the television behind the bar, talking about something called a green-on-blue attack. Apparently, it meant someone from the Afghan forces—working with the United States as an ally—had killed US personnel. The story detailed how a police officer, who’d been training with Americans in an academy in Kandahar, had shown up one morning and gone to the target range. When issued his arms and ammunition, instead of aiming at the targets, he began shooting at the Americans. He killed five before he was cut down by another Afghan policeman.

The story seemed to fire up the drunks, all of them screaming about what should be done. She heard the man who’d asked about her mask say, “Fuck those ragheads. We ought to just nuke the shit out of the whole place.”

His partner said something she couldn’t hear, and he became more agitated. “Bullshit, man! That whole Islam thing is a fucking cover. They want to take over our way of life. I’m telling you, we ought to kick every one of those Muslims out of here. We don’t, and we’ll end up getting killed by those sons of bitches.”

Another guy next to him said, “You got that right. My brother was in the Army in Iraq, and you can’t help those ragheads. He told me stories that are unbelievable. Now we got ’em shooting our own guys. After we’ve done so much for them. Makes me sick. Kill ’em all and let God sort ’em out.”

She heard the words and realized Malik was right.
So it’s true. They want to kill my people.

The man next to him said, “Yeah, maybe in Saudi Arabia, but I got a Muslim that lives next door to me. From Bosnia. He’s okay. He doesn’t spout all the ‘death to America’ stuff. He even drinks beer with me.”

The man who’d asked about her mask said, “That’s bullshit. A trick. I got a buddy in the Army who’s been to just about every raghead shit hole there is, and those bastards want a caliphate. They want to take over the world. Shit, they’re building mosques all over the damn place.”

When his friend showed a look of surprise, he continued. “I’m serious. If someone shows up here and says they’re Muslim, I don’t care where they’re from. They’re here to take over our way of life. They don’t believe in democracy. We should stop them now, before it’s too late.”

Elina was shocked to her core. She’d never heard such vehemence against her religion. She had assumed talk like that was just something the Russian Federation used to whip up support. Something that happened in every war. Now she saw the difference. The war was as Malik said. Much larger than her little fight in Chechnya. These men were making no distinction between the conflicts in Afghanistan and elsewhere. No distinction other than the fact that she was Muslim.

The statements enraged her. The man sounded just like the Kadyrovtsy.

If he were in Grozny, he’d be working at the battery factory. Torturing my family.

Her food arrived and she laid her prepaid card on the bar, then sauntered over to the group.

The ignorant man saw her approach and held up his hands. “Whoa, there. I don’t want to get sick.”

His friends laughed.

She pulled the mask down and said, “I could give you a little virus you’d love tonight.”

He put his arm around her waist, looked at his friends, and winked. “Only if it involves oral infection.”

The men giggled at the juvenile joke. She leaned in, inches from his face.

“Maybe it will.”

She kissed him fully, shocking him, his eyes springing open. A split second later, he was kissing back, shoving his tongue deep into her mouth, proving he was a man while his friends laughed and jeered.

She broke away and said, “You going to be here later?”

His face clouded from the drink, he said, “Oh yeah, I’ll be here. All night waiting on you.”

She picked up her food, kissed him on the cheek, and said, “I’ll come back later and check you for a fever.”

“Wait! What’s your name?”

“Elina. But my friends call me the Black Widow.”

The statement caused the men to stare at her in confusion. One man gave a forced laugh. He was soon joined by others, and the laughter grew until the man slapped her on the butt, now sure he was in on the joke.

She left the bar listening to the band of haters shouting and cheering.