Weaponized (19 page)

Protosevitch is doubled over on the couch. “That’s the man I love. There he is. Just like Marseilles. This is just like Marseilles.”

Lara pulls Kyle down to the couch.

Protosevitch leans back, lights a cigarette, then tosses his pack to Kyle. “You forget yours?”

Kyle takes out one of the cigarettes. Why not? He’s already tried uncut coke. He’s never smoked before, so he thinks back to Neil, whom he affectionately calls the human ashtray, and tries to summon his essence. Kyle pops the cigarette in his mouth, lights it up, takes a long drag, and stifles the urge to simultaneously cough and vomit.

Protosevitch leans forward, cigarette in his mouth. “I was flattered when you wanted my help on this one. I hadn’t heard from you in a while. I thought you wrote me off too.”

Kyle drags on the cigarette, head swirling, drunk, stoned, semistupefied, but—and he hesitates to admit it—kind of enjoying the hell out of it. “Why?”

“Well. I’m damaged goods. Too hot for most.”

Kyle nods. “We all are.”

Protosevitch laughs, and Kyle makes out at least three gold teeth. “But you didn’t get kicked out of your country,
mon ami.
”

Kyle can’t help but smile. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

“They’ll never get rid of you. Baby, you are America. Only America could give the world Marilyn Monroe.” He sprinkles another line. “Because she was America. She bedded down with everyone but was furious when anyone called her a slut. That’s you. That’s all Americans.” He sucks up the line. “That’s why Islam hates you more than anyone else. It’s not just the foreign policy…it’s the promiscuity… the fact you dangle your sexy little pussy in the holy land, sell it to the highest bidder.” Protosevitch leans back, trying to make himself coke comfortable. “You’re just like Russia before we went down.”

“No,” Lara says. “I remember when it happened to us. The States are a democracy. It won’t end the same.”

Kyle interjects, speaking from a coke-fueled site of knowledge and passion, “You really think democracy will protect you from the state?”

Protosevitch raises his glass. “And this is from a man who knows. A man who has been
undermining
democracy for the better part of his life.”

Kyle sinks into himself. He’s high, he’s muddled, but Protosevitch struck a nerve. Undermining democracy. Christ, how much of Robinson does Kyle really have lurking inside? Was there a reason, outside of his looks, that Robinson chose him? Maybe he sensed some karmic kinship, something Kyle’s been hiding from himself all these years—a certain leniency concerning the foundations of freedom.

Protosevitch leans in closer and puts his huge hand on Kyle’s knee. Touching a normal human body is like palming a basketball to this fucking guy. “It does mean something to me that you came out of the cold to visit me. Even people without your…profile don’t take the risk these days.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No.” Protosevitch is adamant. “It means something. It means we are friends. And it pleases me that you are here in person to collect the fruits of having me as a friend.” He gets up, walks over to his desk, and selects a key from an overflowing ring. “I really outdid myself on this one, Julian. I was so sad at the thought of handing this over to one of your minions and not seeing the look on your face when you opened it.”

Kyle says under his breath, “The hell is he doing?” while Protosevitch opens the triple-locked bottom cabinet of his slate desk.

Lara’s response is a shoulder shrug. Kyle mimics her shrug, exasperated, and mutters: “That’s all you got?”

She shushes him, whispers, “Let’s see where it goes.”

Protosevitch drops back down on the couch, whistling, and places two medium-size flat-panel cases on the table. “These can take a beating. I know you’re gonna be working in tight quarters.” He raps atop the cases with a boulder-size knuckle. “Ethafoam interiors. Static control. Retractable handle. Even had them sprayed and powdered with chemical-agent-resistant coating.”

“Thank you,” Kyle says, hoping that’s the right tone.

Protosevitch can barely contain himself. “Open them up.”

Kyle’s positive there’s a fucking bomb in there, swears he hears it ticking. He knows it’s irrational, knows he’s still jacked up on coke and paranoid. He knows all these things, but he’s still convinced it’s a fucking bomb.

He closes his eyes, pops the release latch, and hears the top opens with a whisper-click.

The smell is the first thing that strikes him. The case is brand-new, freshly oiled.

His eyes flutter open. He breathes in through his nose. It’s not a bomb. Not at all.

Although what’s inside isn’t what he’d call a major situational improvement.

It’s individual silver sections of the
biggest fucking rifle
Kyle has ever seen.

“I picked it out myself,” Andrei says. “I knew you’d be working tight, so I had an engineer break it down into two small cases instead of one big one. That way you won’t get weighed down. Isn’t it beautiful? I mean, it is, right? Right?”

Lara pushes Kyle out of the way. She doesn’t to want to minimize his importance in the conversation, but she is lusting after this piece of hardware. She runs her hand over the collapsed stock and the suppressor. “This is British.”

“Right you are, my love,” Protosevitch says.

She puts the pieces inside their slots. “What’s the range?”

“Up to fifteen hundred meters.” Protosevitch turns to Robinson. “That’ll get the job done, right?”

Kyle has no clue. However, he’s hard-pressed to imagine a job that a gun like this couldn’t get done. “I’m certain.”

Lara runs her hand over the pieces, listing off the attributes in a mesmerized state. “Bolt-action…iron sights…twenty-five-by-fifty-six scope…adjustable bipod…it’s all here.”

Protosevitch leans back into the couch, his bulk swallowed by throw pillows. “Did I make you happy?”

Kyle has no words, can only nod, but he does so
enthusiastically.
He feels like that’s how one should respond to such a gift. Very enthusiastically.

Lara holds and balances the pieces in her hands. “It’s lighter than it looks.”

“Has to be,” Protosevitch says. “Guys have gotta be able to lug that around the desert all day.”

As Lara lusts and Protosevitch beams over his successful acquisition, Kyle’s stress decamps from his nose and sets up separate condominiums of pain all across his face. His jaw throbs; his eyes blink and tear. He can hear the blood beating in his ears.

Holy shit,
his whole face screams.
This is happening. A displaced Russian oligarch just gifted you a goddamn hand cannon.

Protosevitch leans into the two of them. He’s unable to stay in one position or, for that matter, one mood for more than thirty seconds. He seems to exist to destabilize. “For the thing tomorrow,” he says, “you need something else?” He nods toward the case. “You’re gonna want to be carrying something smaller than that.”

Kyle knows he needs to calm down, to get deep into character, because this is the opening he’s been waiting for. He has to make Protosevitch feel comfortable, feel like he’s having the kind of conversation he and Robinson have presumably had before. He tries to get the words out, but they stick on his tongue and roll out in a lexical blur.

Luckily, Lara intercedes. “Smaller than that, yes. But still heavy, right?”

Protosevitch smiles, nods toward Kyle. “Like you always say: A body is something to be wounded. They think that way. So must we. You go heavy.”

Kyle dives in, finds his voice. “What’s the head count tomorrow? How many you figure?”

“The courier.” Protosevitch raises his fingers. “Figure he’s going heavy. Then figure in his backup. No one travels alone with intel like this. It’s too valuable.”

Kyle wants to ask how valuable but knows better.

Lara interjects. “Numbers?”

“Not sure. Just him and backup,” Protosevitch says. “I wasn’t able to get backup numbers on such short notice. I’m sorry. I could only get profile and price.”

“No. No. It’s fine. Time is something we don’t have.” Kyle breathes in, takes a big risk. “Same location as you said?”

“Yeah. Siem Reap,” Protosevitch says. “Courier’s plane touches down, then he hops the boat to the harbor. You’ll find him once he lands. You got lucky on this one, Julie. It’s tough to shake someone down in an airport. Harbor’s gonna be much easier.”

“Time?”

“Same. Ten thirty. Morning,” Protosevitch says.

Lara cuts in. “Do we know if his backup is going to be local or Chinese?”

“It’s gonna be Chinese,” Protosevitch says. “No hired muscle from here is gonna make this guy feel safe enough. He’ll want his home crew.” Protosevitch leans back on the couch, lights a cigarette. “Now we gotta talk figures. The gun was bought and paid for. We’re good on that. But for this shit, now, I’ve gotta ask for cash. Whether or not you pull this off, you’re gonna be so hot afterward, I can’t be seen taking a transfer from you. I’m already on everyone’s watch list. It’s gotta be cash. Especially if you’re successful.”

Kyle nods. “You’ll get it.”

“I know I will,” Protosevitch says, with his first real hint of intimidation.

Kyle shares a look with Lara that radiates clarity of purpose.

Time to get the hell out of here and over to Siem Reap posthaste so they can crash Robinson’s deal.

Protosevitch looks pensive. “Julian…”

Kyle meets his gaze. “Yeah.”

“You that bored with living or something?”

“As in?”

“This job. You fuck it up, they kill you. You do it right, someone’s gonna kill you for knowing. It can’t just be the money.”

“You’re gonna talk to me about doing things for money?”

Protosevitch is almost insulted. “I never did anything for money. You know that.”

“Then why?”

“I never told you?”

Kyle shakes his head. “No.”

“I did it because…because no one stopped me.”

Kyle’s taken aback. Protosevitch sounds exactly like Chandler. The raging, near psychotic accumulation of power for no other reason than to see how much you can get away with taking.

Lara laughs. “Come on…getting rich has always been the secondary thing for you two. You’re both lucky enough to make money off the things you’d do for free.”

There’s total silence, until Protosevitch cracks up and points at her. “She’s right, you know. She knows us better than we know ourselves.” He laughs even louder. “She knows you too well, Julie. You’re gonna have to kill her one of these days.”

A
woman wearing striped pajamas leads Fowler up the twisting steps of the guesthouse. Most women in Cambodia wear these
pajamas,
and Fowler—even after spending the better part of a war here—still has no idea why. He also doesn’t understand the local women who go into the ocean fully clothed. It’s not custom. It’s not exaggerated modesty either. Not in a city where every third storefront offers a Bacchanalian catalog of bar-dancing and illicit carnality.

She opens up the room and silently leaves Fowler to his business. The floor-unit air conditioner has been switched off, and the room suffers for it. Fowler starts sweating before he even commences his search. He takes off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and abandons all thoughts of lighting a cigarette. There’s not enough space in the air for smoke.

He approaches the bed, rips off the covers, runs his hand under the sheets, then tosses the mattress onto its side. Nothing. He sinks to the floor, takes a look under the bed, bare except for a few Diet Coke cans among dust bunnies.

The nightstand is next. A Bible, some allergy medicine, green-tinted antacids in a plastic wrapper, and an extension cord.

Fowler’s trying to concentrate, to keep calm, but it’s hard, because this is his favorite part of the job. He built his career on being a soldier, but snooping, being a voyeur with a badge, that’s his passion. There’s nothing more thrilling than rifling through someone’s shit. And the best, the absolute apex, is when the site of your search is a woman’s apartment. But not for the reasons you’d think.

Women are so much
better
at hiding their secrets. They really make you work to find them.

No time for fantasy. Fowler’s got Andrew to focus on.

He moves into the bathroom, hits the lights.
Now, this is more noteworthy,
he thinks. The drain is clogged with thick clumps of brown hair. The sink’s surface and basin has a sandpaper feel, courtesy of beard growth floating in shaving cream.

Fowler turns, checks out the shower. The tub and drain are sticky with hair-dye residue. And the garbage can overflows with stained rubber gloves, tubes of dye, a comb choked with hair, and several worn razor blades.

Fowler digs into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and takes pictures of the scene.
Someone left here in a hurry.

Back in the bedroom, he runs his fingers along the wall, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. He stops at the picture of Buddha, studies it, gives the surrounding wall a couple of sturdy knocks, and then removes the Bodhisattva, revealing a small built-in safe.

There’s a combination lock on it, nothing serious, just a twist-and-pull kind of deal. But Fowler doesn’t have the time to crack it manually. He takes the butt of his gun, pounds the dial until it breaks, and then opens the safe.

Inside, there’s a few stacks of American bills in small denominations, and that’s it. Fowler’s disappointed. The adrenaline juice of discovery fading in record time.

He takes another look around.

Sitting on the desk is a laptop. Fowler approaches it.
Fucking strange,
he thinks. This room he’s in—Andrew’s room—this guy clearly thought he was coming back at some point. You don’t leave your laptop and cash behind if you’re pulling a permanent disappearing act.

Fowler hits the power key on the laptop, and the screen comes to life. But before any information displays, the computer asks for a password.

Thing is locked.

Fowler’s not a Luddite, but he’s certainly not a hacker. He unplugs the laptop from the wall outlet and takes it with him.