Double Down (7 page)

Suddenly the music turned off, and they could hear footsteps coming their way. Perhaps Birdsong had finished eating, or was taking his meal upstairs. Regardless, they stopped what they were doing and stayed stock-still, almost without breathing. They heard him open the closet next to theirs, the jangling of keys, and then the light was turned out. The front door was opened, then closed. They waited a bit longer, breathing very quietly, until they heard the sound of his car pulling out of the driveway. Then still, they waited a bit longer.

Finally, Mahmoud let out a sigh. “I could stay this way with you forever, Ms. Tyka,” he whispered against her skin. He could feel her intake of breath, then her body stiffening.

“Well, I think that would be a bit tough on the muscles, don't you?” she said awkwardly.

Feeling Tyka's armor rising back up between them, Mahmoud thought it best to let the moment pass. He gently set her down, handed her her clothes, awkwardly put on his own, and said, “Shall we continue to search? I did the upstairs before he came home.” Tyka dressed quickly, opened the door, and without a response led them back out into the darkened living room.

“Your call, Mahmoud,” she said. “But there's one thing I must share with you first.” Taking a key from her bra, she explained to him about Gabriella and the key in her apartment, and Mahmoud realized he was disappointed that what she had to share was about the case and not about her own feelings.
What was wrong with him?
This was potentially a huge step forward in the case that had consumed him for
years
. And yet here he was, struck dumb by wanting this woman to give more of herself to him than he'd already had. After a tense moment of silence, Tyka pressed on. “Did you find anything that looked like a lockbox or a locked cabinet upstairs?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I wasn't looking for that, but I would've noticed.”

“So what now?” she asked.

“Let's do the kitchen. That's the only space neither of us has searched since Birdsong came home. Then we should make a hasty exit.”

“Let's do it. With all due speed.” She turned to move forward, but then paused, her back to him. “And Mahmoud?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For taking care of me.” And with that she walked off to the kitchen before he had a chance to respond.

7

It was six p.m., and the Boss had briefed all the present members of the Bod Squad on the abuser-turned-pimp case. It reminded him of the first time he'd met Babs. . . . His team had been after a man involved in a Ponzi scheme, and her team was after the same man for leading a double life and abusing both of his wives.

The character currently on their radar wasn't much better. The Boss had gone over the details with the team and had dictated their positions. They were sitting around the one large table in the office, a one-of-a-kind reclaimed wood antique he'd gotten when he'd first opened the business. “Okay,” he said, looking out at everyone. They each had a copy of the file in front of them, and the table sported several open Chinese food containers. “Let's go over it again. William Nants, fifty-seven, started as a carnival barker, now runs something out of his barn called ‘the Carnivale,' which we think is actually a prostitution ring. We were tipped off by an anonymous lead—a woman who was reluctant to give her name. She said the women are abused and then sold to the highest bidder for the night. She contacted us after the Bee sent out some exploratory emails looking for leads. Bee, where the hell did you find this, anyway?”

Lisa Bee shifted in her seat and looked pleased with herself. “Aw, you know how I find leads . . . I'm like Melanie Griffith in
Working Girl
. I snatch things from the
New York Post
.”

The Boss laughed. “But how'd you get this one, specifically?”

“Well, Bossman, I was reading this article about Madonna and what she's up to now and there was this little side article about underground prostitution rings and about how many of them were in the D.C. area, right under the noses of the most prominent politicians. So I sent out some feelers and this is what I got.”

Now Jackson leaned back with a smile on his face and folded his hands behind his head. “What did I tell you, Bossman? My girl's got mad skills.”

“She certainly does,” the Boss replied. “Even so, this is a strange one. But look at it as a palate cleanser.”

“An amuse-bouche?” Susannah said with a wink.

“Exactly. So Jackson and I are going to attend this racket—it's men only—and Legs and Lisa Bee will take the van and do some recon nearby. It's apparently an eight p.m. show. We'll check it out and report back. Sound good?” Everyone agreed and began to get to their feet. “Legs, any word from Chas?”

The smile on Susannah's face quickly faded. “No, Bossman. Apparently he's not supposed to contact me until after he's met with Birdsong. I get it, but I don't like it.”

“He'll be okay, Susannah,” the Boss said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “If anyone's got
mad skills
, it's Chas. It'll turn out all right. I promise.”

‡‡‡

Chas had landed in Palermo in the afternoon and had checked in to his hotel. He had wanted to meet Birdsong as soon as possible, but Birdsong said he was unavailable until later on. Things kept getting pushed back until it was now midnight and he was on his way to what he figured was a local café. Birdsong had sent a cryptic text about where to meet in coordinates:
LAT
38.13,
LONG
13.37
. Chas was perplexed by this and thought an address would have been easier, especially since the text gave only part of the numeric code for latitude and longitude and was therefore terrifically unspecific. But one could rarely understand Birdsong's ways. He was a master of illusion: His status as a former pro soccer player gave him a perfect cover for why he traveled, where his money came from, and how he'd met a number of his contacts. Was it possible, Chas wondered, that this man was Baba Samka? Yes, sadly, anything was possible at this point. Chas just hoped it wasn't the case.

He arrived at the location to find himself on a wharf at the port of Palermo that extended into the water in front of him.
Bizarre.
Had he gotten it wrong? Within minutes, however, he saw Birdsong at the wheel of an approaching yacht. In the moonlight he could see the man's trademark curly blond hair and eerie light blue eyes, and the smile on his face.

Birdsong raised a hand and waved, pulled the boat up to the dock, and came out to meet Chas, extending his hand. “Hello, Chas. Always good to see you,” he said in his slight South African accent.

Chas shook his hand. “Thanks, Birdsong. I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me.”

“Shall we take a ride?” Birdsong asked, inhaling deeply and smiling his customary bright smile. “It's a beautiful night.”

“I'd rather we just chatted here,” Chas replied evenly.

“Well, I have some food in the fridge, and a fine wine. Easy enough for us to talk on board.”

“How about we stay here, if it's all the same to you.”

“It's my only offer, Chas,” Birdsong said, his smile gone and a severe look in its place. “Since you've asked me to help you, and the FBI as well, I suggest you do what I ask.”

Chas didn't think Birdsong would kill him here in Palermo—it seemed too obvious. And the FBI certainly knew his whereabouts; they were monitoring his phone for all calls and texts and had implanted it with a tracking device. But still he felt uneasy. He had his gun, his phone, and his wallet on him, but not much else. He didn't like this at all, yet he felt it was his only chance to get the intel.

“Okay, Birdsong. Let's go. I hope it won't take long.”

“Oh no, Chas. It'll be quick and easy. Just how the Mob likes it!” Seeing the look on Chas's face, he said, “I'm joking, old friend. Surely you don't think I'd kill you? Too . . . pat. Wouldn't you say? But do me one favor. Leave your weapon and phone on the dock. Wouldn't want to have an accident on the open sea, right?”

Now Chas really had cause to worry, but he needed to take the chance. Removing his gun and his phone, he handed them to Birdsong. Using a small key, he placed Chas's belongings inside a lockbox he'd attached to the dock and locked it, slipping the key into his coat pocket. “Easy as pie, right, Chas? Now we can talk in peace.”

Boarding the yacht, Chas looked up at the stars and thought about Susannah, praying he'd come back alive.

‡‡‡

The show had just begun at the Carnivale, and the Boss thought he might be sick. Jackson likewise looked ashen as they took in the scene before them. They were in a small Virginia town about an hour outside of D.C., in a back barn on an empty stretch of fields. They'd driven down roads that got smaller and windier with each turn. The community became more impoverished as they went; the number of small churches, old tractors, and malnourished horses increased the farther they veered off the beaten path. Jackson had driven, and kept quoting lines from the movie
Deliverance
. Susannah and Lisa Bee were creeped out by it, and the Boss had finally told him to cut it out.

They'd gotten to the show just before eight p.m. The Boss had spun a story that they were traveling through town and had heard about the show; William Nants was only too happy to let them come in for the low price of twenty bucks. Lisa Bee and Susannah were parked several yards away in the surveillance van FTP owned; they were listening in and watching the scene unfold through surveillance equipment from Doc Scrubs, the Boss's old friend. Doc Scrubs was a Baltimore heart surgeon who liked to tinker with spy gear; he frequently created devices that the Bod Squad made great use of. Right now Jackson and the Boss were wearing items from his “Slummin' It” line: the Boss had a pack of Winstons in the pocket of his T-shirt that had cigarettes inside and a camera up top; Jackson was wearing a ragged-looking bolo tie with a scuffed ram's head likeness in the center, the eyes of which recorded video as well.

The barn they were in felt a bit like a circus tent. Bleachers had been set up, and they could see cages and ropes, smell animals and beer, and hear a rowdy noise from the crowd. The Boss unintentionally pissed Jackson off by saying it was like a rodeo—Jackson was a huge rodeo fan, always had been, and hated that the Boss compared his favorite sport to the depravity they could sense in the air.

The Carnivale had begun. William Nants was a balding man with crooked yellow teeth. He wore an old jacket stretched over his large paunch, and his saggy neck looked like a goose's wattle. He walked with a limp and used a cane. Everything about him was repulsive. But nothing was more repulsive than the show he ran. It was like a burlesque, but a burlesque of enslaved, damaged, and aging characters. There was Marina, who was kept in a cage; Paola, who juggled beer cans wearing a torn bustier; and Kristina, who walked, poorly, on her hands. After their acts, they were auctioned off by Nants, who hawked his wares like he was selling toys. Their time was purchased for very little by the assembled men, and they were taken off into the back of the barn to satisfy the buyers. The Boss thought he might actually throw up as he watched this, and heard Jackson muttering epithets under his breath.

All the women were in bad shape, none more so than the headlining act, Nants's own wife. Rhoda Kurthovsky spoke with a Russian accent, had a hunched back from scoliosis, and was missing most of her fingers. She hobbled out to the center of the makeshift arena like a dilapidated horse, Nants whipping her on the way. She sang a Russian folk song, weeping the entire time. Thinking she might be a good source of information, the Boss won her for the measly sum of thirty-five dollars. Bile rising in his throat, he took Rhoda's offered hand and followed her into the back. Nants smiled broadly, his yellow teeth glinting, and said, “I hope you enjoy her as much as I have.”

What a vile man
, the Boss thought. And as he looked back at the assembled crowd, he wondered,
Who the fuck are these people? How can they be enjoying this? And how can Nants be given the proper punishment?
He'd get some information. Then he'd call Babs. She operated under the radar, often killing abusers, torturing them, or committing them to her own distinctive brand of vigilante justice. This man deserved no less than that.

‡‡‡

Fritz sat in her office in Quantico, chewing on the end of a pencil and trying not to smoke her way through another pack of Parliaments. It was about nine p.m., and it had been
hours
since she'd heard from Chas. At this point she was getting worried, not to mention frustrated and depressed. She'd been working for the FBI for thirty years, and never had she felt so sure: This was the case that would make or break her. It had been difficult for a woman to rise to the position she had; she'd given up a tremendous amount, and for what? Other women had husbands and children, or were retired already, living the good life, and what did she have? Admiration from those who surrounded her, a good position as the head of a counterterrorism unit, and a bagful of fading charms.
And
a sore back from spending the last week or so sleeping on her office couch. Or not sleeping at all. Truth was, she was far too old for this.

And yet . . . some part of her was still hungry for the chase, still revved by possibility and conquest of a foe. And she had never felt her heart beat quite so hard, her blood pump through her with such abandon, as they had with this . . . this case that had landed in her lap, confounded her, and excited her at every turn.

She started at the sound of a knock, then Rafael entered. With his bronze skin, searing eyes, and six-foot-plus frame, he wasn't bad to look at. A small bonus, given the rough shape she was in at the moment.

“Anything from Chas?” he asked.

“Not yet,” she said with a sigh.

“Well, I've got some news, but you won't like it.”

“Give it to me.”

“We've tracked his phone to a wharf in the Port of Palermo. No sign of him—just his phone.”

Fritz let out a breath and tucked her unruly hair behind both ears. Then she sat up straighter and pushed her glasses up with the end of her pencil. “And what are your instincts telling you, Rafael?”

“Well,” he said, “I hate to send my men in there if there's no reason to—then we run the risk of compromising his mission. But if something happens to him—”

“Yes, I know,” she said, finishing the sentence, “it's on us. And it's the last thing we want.”

“Right.”

She paused for a moment, then stood, straightening her blouse and buttoning her suit jacket. “Alert your men. I'm giving him thirty more minutes. Then we go in strong.”

“Got it.”

“And Raf?”

“Yes?”

“If they do go in, make sure they take Birdsong alive.”

‡‡‡

Chas was on Birdsong's yacht out in the middle of the Mediterranean. It had already been an extremely strange evening. Birdsong had driven the boat a ways out into the sea, though the port was still visible in the distance, then poured them each a glass of wine and laid out a midnight repast of roasted vegetables, antipasti, bread, and cheese. Chas found it most peculiar. . . . He felt trapped out in the middle of the water, confused as to who Birdsong really was and where his allegiances lay. He wondered if he was being poisoned, or if he was being fed his last meal before Birdsong threw him overboard. It was stupid to have gone with him, he thought, on a voyage that might very well be his last.

“Relax, Chas,” Birdsong said with a wink. “I assure you I'm not trying to kill you, threaten you, or seduce you. I am only interested in having privacy so that we're not tracked. You may report back to the FBI when we are done, but I do not wish to alert Baba Samka to this conversation if I don't have to.”

Chas shifted in his seat. It was time to lay his cards on the table. “Full disclosure, Birdsong. You must know we suspect you are Baba Samka. Surely that's obvious.”

At this Birdsong let out a long, loud laugh. “Yes, Chas,” he said. “I know exactly what you all think.”