Weaponized (4 page)

K
yle registers the newcomer first as shadow, then as a cloud in the mirror behind the bar, then as shoulders, and finally as a man.

Definitely Western and, Kyle figures, judging from the color of his skin, new in town. His face and hands are freshly burned, crustacean pink and red, and look painful to the touch. The man doesn’t yet have the obligatory tan. Even if you’re not trying for one, you get it. It’s part of the price of being here.

The guy is also
way
overdressed for Armand’s.

His suit is exceptional, white linen offset by a perfectly folded pink handkerchief. The suit looks custom-made but not by a tailor in the West, not someone used to dealing with a bulky body and this man’s height. The cut is a little too tight in the chest, and it’s a little too short in the legs. With his pouty, pillowed lips and swept-back hair, this newcomer would have looked at home during French rule sipping gin at a bamboo table with a rotating fan overhead.

Kyle squints.
Another Westerner? Too many in one day.

The man holds a Tumi briefcase in his left hand and casually loosens and tightens his grip on the handle.

He approaches the bar, takes in the tableau of Armand, Violet, and the kicking, squirming baby, and says: “Vodka. No ice.”

Armand puts his hand atop Violet’s, excuses himself, and approaches the stranger. “No ice?”

“What’s the point? This heat’s epic,” the man says as Armand goes for the bottle.

Violet parts her lips but doesn’t give him a smile, just a welcoming flick of the tongue. The man smiles at her. His teeth are magnificent alabaster squares ready to do his bidding.

“I’m Violet,” she says, unconsciously rearranging her long legs for maximum effect.

The man nods, another flash of teeth.

Armand places the drink on the bar.

The man lights a cigarette, clenches it between his teeth, tilts his head slightly so the smoke stays out of his eyes, and drops a bill on the bar. “Keep the change.”

As the man wanders away, both Violet and Armand look over to Kyle’s table. Each wears the same expression, the same dazed stare Kyle suspects he’s sporting as well.

Because this man, this stranger, looks uncomfortably like Kyle.

Similar height, give or take an inch or two. The same pronounced jaw. The same aquiline nose, dangerously close to becoming a beak but pulling back in time. The same eyes, green orbs with a coat of frost. The only big difference between them is their hair, both color and length. Kyle’s is lighter, and his current look could be called unintentional bohemian; the new arrival has a close shave and a triple-digit haircut.

The man approaches Kyle’s table, pulls out a seat, and settles in. “You look like you could use a friend.”

Kyle shakes his head, subtle but forceful. “Not really.”

“All right.” The man throws up his hands, called out. “
I
could use one. And I nominate you for the job.”

Kyle motions toward Violet with his head. “Looks like you already made one.”

“That’s not a friend. That’s someone looking for death.”

“Yours or hers?”

“I don’t think it matters. She just wants to set up a meeting.” The man crosses his legs, leans back in the chair. “I picked you because…well, you’re American. We search out our own kind, right?”

“That was the only requirement? You might want to think about shooting higher.”

The man laughs. “Also, you don’t look like you’re here working for an NGO. I don’t want to talk third-world politics, the evils of Western Imperialism, et cetera…”

“I see…”

The man raises his drink to his lips. Kyle sees a Patek Philippe watch, a chunk of gold for a bracelet, and what could be a wedding band. “Why are you here?” He takes a drag off the cigarette, then exhales, sending smoke through his nose like his adenoids are on fire.

“Vacation,” Kyle says.

There’s an uncomfortable subtext beneath the conversation, an almost hazy flirtation, as they both try to avoid bringing up the obvious.

You look like me.

The man brings his briefcase onto the table and quickly enters a combination; the top pops open. Kyle jumps back, his instincts hardwired to react to any unexpected sounds that could presage violence.

The man laughs and removes a ham and cheese sandwich from inside the case. It’s shrink-wrapped and looks so loaded with additives it could survive the apocalypse. The type of sandwich that’s the staple of international airspace.

The man holds up the sandwich like someone surrendering or confessing. “I’ve been out of the developing world for too long. My insides have gone soft against parasites.” He takes a bite of the sandwich, another drag off his cigarette. He’s always doing something with his mouth. “So, vacation?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m on business. I think I’ve got my card around here somewhere.” He starts searching through the various inner pockets of his linen suit. “I work in telecommunications. Southeast Asia is ripe for smartphones. Expendable income is up sixteen percent.”

Kyle’s interest is slightly piqued—is this a fellow tech guy, a brother in coding? “You an engineer?”

“Salesman. I work for a German telecom company. VodaFone. That’s
Fone
with an
F,
then
o-n-e
.”

“But you’re not German…”

“God, no.” The man gives up the search for his card. “American. I pursued the Germans for a position. American telecom companies have lost their fire. All fat off their monopolies. While they rub their bloated bellies, the Chinese and Germans are buying up the contracts to build infrastructure throughout the developing world. The action isn’t in the States anymore, and I adore the chase. I told the Germans, Look…turn me loose. I want to make all of you fucking
rich.
”

Kyle looks over his shoulder, not used to staying in one place this long. “That’s what it takes to make it in sales, I imagine.”

“That and slightly jaundiced scruples. You have no idea who you have to deal with in order to get a contract signed in some of these places. Warlords who a few years back were eating young girls’ hearts for power before riding off to slaughter. These same fucking lunatics now control the rights to half the infrastructure. And their idea of bargaining differs slightly from what they teach in MBA programs. But if we want to be competitive with the Chinese, we need to turn a blind eye to that, because the Chinese sure do.” The man raises his glass. “They don’t call them emerging markets for nothing.”

“You like getting sent all over the world?”

“
Love it.
Massively. I love to sell.” The man takes another bite of the sandwich, discreetly brushes some crumbs off his lower lip, and says: “Christ…manners. I’m Julian Robinson. My mother read the Forsyte Saga like the Bible. I’m the beneficiary of her Anglo lust.”

Kyle sees a way around giving up a name. “Could be worse. She could have named you Trevor.”

“Trevor’s my younger brother.” Robinson lights another cigarette. “So who are you?”

Kyle stares at the cigarette held between Robinson’s thumb and index finger. “Andrew,” he says. “I’m Andrew.”

“Andrew,” Robinson says. “And what do you do back in the States?”

“Tech support,” Kyle says. “Databases. Networks, mostly.”

“Deal with charts and graphs all day,” Robinson says. “I don’t know how you do it. Bores my tits off. The company sent me to an Excel course to learn how to keep better expense reports. I left after an hour and told them, You want me to sell or fill in boxes?” He brings the cigarette to his lips. “Been at it long?”

Kyle tries to avoid specifics. “Freelance. I float from company to company.”

“Like me,” Robinson says.

“Except I don’t sell anything.”

“Sure you do. You sell yourself. You sell
confidence
in you. We all sell something. Been doing it long?” he asks again.

“Floating? Or tech support?”

“Either.”

“Tech support…longer than I care to remember. Floating the past five years. Mostly New York.”

“Well, it sounds great,” Robinson says.

Kyle’s relieved, assuming the conversation is over and he’ll be rid of Robinson any moment now.

Robinson leans across the table. “For being complete bullshit.”

“Sorry?” Kyle says, stunned, tensing up.

“It’s okay, Kyle,” Robinson says. “I know who you are.”

Kyle starts to get out of his seat. Robinson holds Kyle down by his hand. “Hey. Hey. It’s okay, Kyle. It’s okay. I’m a friend. I’m here to help.”

The reassuring words don’t stop Kyle from trying to get loose. He looks to the bar, sees Armand giving Violet change for the jukebox.

“You’re going to make a scene,” Robinson says. “There’s no need for it.” He uses his free hand to raise the cigarette to his lips. “I’m a friend. I promise. Give me two minutes of your time. Two minutes.”

Kyle doesn’t sit back down.

“Two minutes,” Robinson says. “All I ask. Christ. You’ve got me asking for permission to try and help you—”

Kyle cuts him off. “You have
one minute.
”

Violet gets off the stool, a leggy princess born from a mushroom, and glides over to the jukebox. She’s taken off her shoes, revealing pink toenails and a ruby toe ring. She stops at the jukebox, selects some electro-pop, and starts dancing with herself.

Robinson shifts to keep both Kyle and Violet in view. “I couldn’t believe my eyes. I just got here few days ago. I stop in here for a drink and you’re at the bar talking to the big guy. Kyle West. In the flesh. At the end of the world.”

“You’ve already lost twenty seconds. Better get to the point.”

Robinson smiles. “The point is not what I want. The point is what I can give you.” He leans in closer. “In exchange for your passport.”

Kyle starts to get up again. “No. No thanks.”

“Wait. What I’m offering benefits us
both.
I need to get into Africa to close a deal and…well, I had an unfortunate mishap the last time I was there.”

“What kind of mishap?”

“Short version…due to a disagreement between myself, a finance minister, and a rebel warlord, there’s a warrant out for me in Congo. I’m persona non grata. They claim I stole five million dollars worth of coltan.”

“What’s that?”

“Mineral they put in cell phones.”

“Did you do it?”

“No,” Robinson says. “I’d never jeopardize my position there. But I’m a convenient scapegoat for a corrupt rebel leader lining his pockets. There’s no law there. There’s no way for a businessman to protect himself. I
need
to get back there.” He takes a drag off his cigarette. “I checked into it. There’s no extradition agreement between the U.S. and the Africans for you. I can’t get in there, but you…I mean, your passport can.”

“So you want me to give you my papers?”

“And I give you mine.”

“How long have you been following me?”

Robinson looks down at the table, decides to take another bite of his sandwich. “I haven’t. I’ve been waiting.”

“If you found me, someone else will too.”

“I haven’t noticed anyone else. And I’ve been careful to keep my distance.”

Kyle circles back to the point at hand. “So I give you my papers…and I get exactly
what
in return?”

“Name Raymond Kuo mean anything to you?”

Kyle nods. “Yeah. Kuo heads the subcommittee looking into whether Chandler used federal dollars to set up his system. He’s the guy who has me on contempt.”

“Kuo is up to his neck in bribes with the CCP,” Robinson says as he leans back in his chair to take in Violet’s dance. “He’s been passing them intel for years. Cyber stuff.”

“The Chinese Communist Party?”

“I do a lot of work with the Chinese,” Robinson says. “I’m good friends with a guy in the CCP. He owes me. Gave me very specific info on Kuo, because, well…Kuo is a pain in the ass to the telecom industry. My friend thought the info might come in handy for someone like me. Kuo controls a lot of regulation, throws a lot of weight around. Makes life difficult for corporations. Especially foreign ones trying to do business in the States. If I give you this info on Kuo, I guarantee you can go back to the States, no questions asked. If Kuo knows you’ve got it, this will all go away for you. No jail. No contempt. Nothing. Case dismissed. You can slide right back into your old life.”

Violet extends her arms toward Robinson, beckoning him to come join her. He holds up an index finger, signaling he’ll get to her soon. “A clean-document swap is always better than a forgery. Trust me. Always better to have real documents.”

Kyle’s trying to keep up with the specifics of Robinson’s plan. “And what the hell do you have on this guy in the CCP, he’s willing to hand you the info on Kuo?”

“The less you know about the CCP, the better. This guy’s a friend. A good friend. All
you
need to know is your freedom rests in my office in England.”

Kyle runs his hand through unruly hair, causing half of it fall over his face. “If this information exists on Kuo, someone like Chandler would have access to it. Why doesn’t he have it? Why isn’t he using it?”

Robinson replies in an eerie echo of Kyle’s earlier sentiments. “Someone like Chandler doesn’t need it. His testimony before the subcommittee is a show trial. The government looks inept. Chandler looks evil. Maybe they fine him a little bit and then kick the money back to him through a third source. Bottom line, ineptitude punishes evil and they keep using the program. They need to make it look like they’re punishing the guilty while they keep using
your
program.”

“I didn’t invent
that
fucking thing.”

“I never said you did. Believe me, we are totally simpatico on the topic of being fucked by the government. Our problem is the same. The rebel leader did the same thing to me that Chandler did to you. They used us. They took our trust and used us.”

Kyle lets Robinson’s words sink in, feels the beginnings of a slight camaraderie based on mutual misfortune, then cancels that emotion and reverts back to his normal state: paranoia. “Passing yourself off as me…that’s a hell of a risk.”

“My deal in Africa is worth, minimum, eight figures…
if
I can get there. It’s essential I get there. I assume it’s equally essential for you to get out of here.”