Authors: Michael Crow
SO I’M ON THE JOB, BUT NOT FULL-TIME. AND NOT EXACTLY
concentrated, either, because just what the job is remains as grayly opaque as the billows of fog that rise up and roll over the cliff before every dawn, shrouding the house and grounds. Figures move through it, shapes waver in it, like images in dreams. The sun soon burns that away, everything material becomes sharp and precise.
There is a clear routine. I breakfast with Sonny and his three assistants; Sonny’s a cigarette-first man like me, while the others—Lee, Lee, and Park, no further ID given—chow on some kind of gruel, except for whichever one had night duty in the monitor room. That one gets a stew and rice and a beer. The assistants are silent in my presense. Sonny gives them a few orders my Korean’s not limber enough to follow, then he and I go off and give the house a quick patrol. After, we do the same on the grounds. Sonny always takes a huge, deep breath, sniffs, and shakes himself like a wet retriever the moment we’re out the door.
Mostly we orbit around Kim, once he’s up and about, but at a distance, always eliptical. Mostly we’re outside by the pool, watching Kim and Westley and Allison and Nadya and Rob sitting around inside, talking. They move anywhere, we trail them, closer but always out of earshot. I feel like a rookie patrolman, walking the smallest beat in the precinct, measureable in meters instead of blocks.
“This is boring me to fucking death,” I mutter on maybe the third morning.
“Ah, you get used to it, Mistah Prentice,” Sonny says. “Easy life, this. Or you one of those crazies, like to be in some goddamn firefight all the time?”
“Say half-crazy, maybe.”
“Firefights even half the time? Oh, that is full crazy, Mistah Prentice. Completely.”
He’s right, of course. But I see no advantage in adjusting his attitude toward me by agreeing with him. Let him think I’m some kind of juked-up maniac, under control for the moment but unpredictably explosive.
Then I get a little hit of mind-gaming, which is something at least. It’s midafternoon, mare’s tales streaming in the Pacific sky, me smoking out on the overlook where I was introduced to Kim, Sonny off taking a piss or something. There must be some kind of lull in the daily players’ huddle inside, because suddenly Allison’s beside me, forearms resting on the redwood rail, shoulder brushing mine.
“Hey, boss,” I say, not much enthusiasm evident.
She hears the flatness, but stays silent for a moment, looking out to sea. No usual clever Allison comeback. She’s still looking there when she says, “What’s your read so far, Terry?”
“No read at all, since I’m not in the loop,” I say. “Some impressions from the periphery, that’s it.”
“I’m always interested in impressions.”
“Are you? That’s never been my impression of you.”
“Lame, Terry. I liked it better when you were smart-assed and sharp. Have we left you alone with that Buddha too long? Are you losing your edge a little? Going contemplative?”
“You amaze me, Allison. So perceptive.”
“Poor Terry, feeling left out,” she says, glancing at me, smiling, then turning back toward the water. “Those impressions you mentioned. Care to cut to them?”
“Okay. Sonny’s a little disaffected. Thinks Westley’s probably bad news for his Mistah Kim.”
She faces me now, eyes to eyes. “He told you that?”
“Not in those exact words. But, yeah, he said it.”
“Any sense why?”
“He was Kim’s only security until the trips to the North started and Westley came around. Said Westley sees ghosts everywhere. Convinced Kim to ramp up his security. You know, I imagine, the extent of it here?”
“Three guys, the usual alarm system?”
“Take it higher, Allison. Take it up to spook-house level. Complete video coverage all the time, inside and out. I can sit in the monitor room and watch all your meetings. Plus perimeter defenses up to in-ground motion sensors. That I know for sure. Shit, there may even be claymores. Sonny said it was military-grade.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, and feature this: Sonny’s been baby-sitting Kim for seven years. Never once faced a threat, let alone had to take one out. He says if any damn ghosts do show up, they’ll be brought by Westley. And he doesn’t dig that. At all.”
“Not good,” Allison says. “Is he a threat? Could he turn on Kim?”
“Don’t you get it? He’s exactly the opposite. He’d take a bullet for Kim. Secret Service presidential protection detail–style. But he’d be smiling as he smoked Westley. On a nod from Kim. Or any of us, on his own hook, if he decides we’re endangering Kim.”
“Is this instinct only, Terry? Or do you have something more?” She’s at full attention now.
“Nothing more. Except I’ve known guys like Sonny all my life, zones cold and hot. Shit, I’m like Sonny. So I generally trust my instincts, even if you don’t. I’d likely be dead by now if I didn’t.”
“Trust isn’t the issue, Terry. It’s real-world possibilities based on hard intel I need.”
“Can’t help you out there, Allison. I’m just a contractor, on the wrong side of that big glass wall.”
Allison has a moment of what feels like intense internal debate. Her fists are clenched tight as they go, and she’s not even aware of it. She looks out at the waves, the hypnotic way they come on, line after line, to suicide at the cliff base. She looks back at me, searching my face and eyes.
“I think…” she starts, then pauses. “I’m thinking maybe it’s time you do need to know some things.”
“Yeah?” We both feel more than hear Sonny’s heavy tread on the planks behind us.
“Soon,” she says quickly, then turns, waves at Sonny as they pass, heads back to the house.
“Hey, she pretty good-looking. How come I don’t notice that before?” he says when he reaches me. Then he nudges me with a heavy elbow, laughs. “You got something going with her, Mistah Prentice? You bouncing her good or something?”
“I keep trying,” I say. “She keeps turning me down.”
“Ah, hate when they do that. Make a man crazy. You and me, we don’t get some soon, we probably pop!” He clutches his balls, laughs louder. “Me, I can’t wait to get back to Busan. Damned straight. Promise you, Mistah Prentice, you and me gonna have a lot of fun in Busan. Plenty girls never turn you down, Busan-side.”
“Believe it when it happens.”
“You can believe. No damn ghosts I’m talking about.”
Twenty-four, plus or minus one, Sonny off taking care of personal business again, me smoking on the overlook, and it’s Westley’s forearms resting on the rail. Quick work, Allison, I’m thinking, before the man even opens his mouth.
“Better view than the one you had last time we worked together, eh?” So says The Man Who Isn’t There. But he is. He was. He’d appear at every unlikely place in Sarajevo, this faint weird glow about him, as if he could stroll down Sniper Alley with complete confidence no bullet would ever touch him.
Have to credit Westley for wading through the shit, when he probably could have stayed comfortably behind a desk at Langley, or one of our embassies, punching our buttons by remote control. He was full field, all the way. Maybe I only dislike him because he’s smarter than me.
“Fuckin’ A,” I say now. “I could get to really dig this kind of life.”
“Don’t get too comfortable, too settled, Luther.” He’s the only one who’s never bothered with that Terry bullshit. “You satisfied with the security arrangements? You comfortable with your new Korean teammate?”
“Everything’s tight. This place is tight. We’re tight.
Though I won’t know that absolutely until there’s some action. And I can’t even speculate because nobody’s telling me shit about that.”
“Nothing’s coming, here,” Westley says. He sounds genuinely convinced of this, his tone has a superior surety I don’t trust. It feels too absolute. Or artfully deceptive. Experience says scratch overconfidence. “You may take this whole ride without even drawing once. Then you’ll owe me for an all-expenses-paid luxury tour of the Far East.”
“Such exotic destinations, too,” I say. “Why think of Phuket or Kota Kinabalu when you can have Pyongyang and the stunning beauty of Vladivostok, Russia’s sub-arctic Riviera?”
Westley makes small barks—his version of mild laughter. Now he’s going to give me some need-to-know, I’m thinking, when the barks stop suddenly as they started.
“I know you’re restless, bored. But we’ll be moving soon,” he says. “You’re off tonight. Why don’t you go out to dinner with Nadya and Allison?”
“Their idea? Or yours?” So where’s the information, I’m thinking.
“Luther, you think I’m getting slow, losing my touch?” Short, sharp barks again. “Nadya’s been radiating since that night at BWI. Give the girl a break, won’t you? I want her content, relaxed, happy. Keep her so. Not exactly rough duty, I imagine. If she didn’t regard me as a fossilized fart, I’d gladly fill in for you.”
“No idea what you’re talking about. We’re all business, total professionals.”
“Our teams are always professional.” He’s mocking himself a little. That’s a new one. “Anyway, she’s made reservations. And tonight’s the night. Tomorrow night Mister Kim is throwing a party for his local friends. He
always does this when he’s about to head back home, some sense of social obligation, I suppose. You and your big Korean colleague will be on duty. But out of sight. Invisible. You know the drill.”
“Right. No problem.”
“Good. Stay sharp tomorrow. Be any way you want tonight,” Westley says. He turns, walks quickly away.
Damn! He gave up nothing. Just neatly deflected me by revealing he’s conscious of that airport night with Nadya. The man’s uncanny. He knew about Mikla too, though we kept it as secret as we could—her parents were fairly strict Muslims—appearing together only when we were working. So now he throws up a little screen to take my mind off the fact that he decided Allison was wrong, that I have sufficient information for the task at hand. Pure Westley, devious bastard.
Suddenly I’m juked.
Allison did not tell Westley about Sonny. He’d have made at least an oblique pass on the matter, if he knew what I’d said. He’d want more. He’d need more. It was his nature, it was hardwired into him, he had the skills to get it from me. But he never even tried.
Allison did not tell him. I’m certain of this, down to the bone.
And I’m certain something’s off. Something major. An operational protocol’s been broken. Allison would never have held something like that back without powerful reasons.
But I don’t have any idea—not even enough data to speculate—what those reasons could be.
It’s Nadya who picks me up at Kim’s front gate around nineteen hundred hours. Just Nadya, who’s taken some trouble over her hair and dress, smiling like a Siamese cat who’s pleased as hell with herself.
“Where’s our chaperone? Where’s Comrade Allison?” I ask as I slide into the car.
“Our commissar?” Nadya laughs. Those canted blue eyes seem luminous in the dimming light. “Purged! She slandered a trusted apparatchik.”
“Yeah? Who would that be?”
“Why, me, actually. She called me a Trotskyite tart. It was my duty to denounce her to the Chekists. As any good Bolsheviki would.”
“Okay, Russki. That’s the
Pravda
version. What’s the truth?”
“Terry, darling! I’d thought you’d be rather pleased to have me to yourself. Your concern is beginning to make me rather jealous.”
“As a highly trained operative, I can’t wait to see you naked again. But deviation from norms concerns me.”
“Dialectics! And from a proletarian! Shocking, I must say.” Nadya huffs, then giggles. “Our oh-so-ambitious Allison, if you must know, begged off. She claimed she absoutely must work tonight.”
“And you believe that?”
“Well, of course! Allison would never allow a Russki slut like me to go out alone with you unless she had matters of highest urgency concerning national security to attend to. Quite dedicated, she is. As you know.”
I lean over, find her lips, give her the deepest kiss. “And I was so sad thinking there’d only be that one night.”
“Aren’t we the lucky couple, then?”
“For sure. Where are we going to eat?”
“Intimate little place. Nothing much in the way of food, but the atmosphere’s quite special.” She grins. “My cabin? Will that suit?”
It does, perfectly. Nadya’s a gift, her lithe little ballerina’s body a treasure. I’m really into her way of keeping
her eyes wide open and fixed on mine. It feels like a kind of superintimacy.
“Confess. Confess, you,” she murmurs.
“Anything,” I say.
“Then admit I’m the best. The best ever.”
“Yes. It’s true.”
“And say this is better than any fantasy you’re ever had about that Annie woman or any other girl in the wide, wide world.”
“You’ve erased all fantasies. Gone. Never had them. You are my whole world.”
“Hah! I do not believe this. You’re a revisionist dog. You need correction. I’m going to give you more correction. I am going to be very strict with you.”
And she is. I’m loving it, even if a nasty, naggy little suspicion that Nadya might only be on the job won’t vanish like every other thought or sense except the pure physical sensations she’s creating.
But even that bad thought’s reduced to the barest outline by her corrective methods. When she drives me back to Kim’s just past midnight—my Cinderella hour—I’m a wasted man. Who has the poor luck to bump into Sonny in the corridor just moments before I can reach my room and collapse onto my bed.
He looks me up and down, shakes his head in mock digust. “You some kind of disgrace, Mistah Prentice. No trusting you at all. Turn my back one minute, you sneaking off to bounce around that Allison girl. What you got to say for yourself?”
“I’m about incapable of speech right now.”
Sonny almost howls. “Skinny piece like her beat you up too much? Me, I’m disgusted. She really jump your bones, huh? You bettah get lots of sleep tonight. ’Cause you and me, we got a late night tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah,” I manage. “The party. No problem.”
“Never been a problem before,” Sonny says. “But never had that Mistah Westley around before. Eyes sharp tomorrow, you hearing that? No more bouncy-bouncy for you, I think.”