Weaponized (21 page)

F
owler walks into his office and is greeted by Rebecca, who’s sitting behind his desk, working on his computer, wearing his glasses perched on the bridge of her pert nose.

“Make yourself at home.”

She motions to his glasses. “How do you see out of these things?”

“Not all that well.”

“I cleaned off all the smudges. How did you read?”

“I pretty much didn’t.”

“I’ve got a few things for you to not read.” She hands him a sheet of paper.

Fowler squints like a mole trying to decide where to burrow.

“I’ll summarize,” she says. “It’s from Langley. Telling us Robinson isn’t worth our man-hours and to let the locals handle it. What do we do about it?”

“It reopens a long-standing question I’ve had about our employers: Are they criminal, or just criminally inept?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t recall receiving that letter. Do you?”

“Fowler…”

“They already tossed us here. What fresh hell are they going to invent to dump us in if we keep going on Robinson?”

“There’re always new hells.”

“So I retire and you go work in the private sector. What’s next?”

“You consider the matter settled?”

Fowler nods. “To my satisfaction. But you don’t have to take my path.”

“I would have happily jumped off, but then I found this.” She motions him to join her behind the desk.

Fowler stands behind her. She tilts the monitor so they can both see the screen. It’s the Web site for a German telecommunications firm called VodaFone.

Rebecca’s blown up a particular employee’s curriculum vitae, and, in true European fashion, the candidate has included a recent head shot on the first page. This particular résumé quirk is considered an illegal discriminatory practice in the United States; however, fortress Europe is clearly willing to cede the higher moral ground so it can hold on to the inalienable right not to hire old or fat people.

Rebecca zooms in on the head shot, shrinks the surrounding text, and blows up the photo. “Does he look familiar to you?”

Fowler squints again.

Rebecca shrinks the photo and blows up the text. The top of the résumé clearly reads:

Below the name is an address and a telephone number.

“How did you find this?”

“A couple thousand name and image searches, plus Google translate,” Rebecca says. “Mostly innate brilliance.”

“Very good.”

“I want a better compliment, Fowler.”

He puts his hand on her shoulder. “You’ve outdone yourself. Seriously.”

“I know.”

“Pull up everything you can about VodaFone. And go through the rest of Robinson’s résumé. Check out all those other companies he listed. See if they’re all legit, like VodaFone. See if any of them have had charges filed against them recently. I want to know how anyone employed by VodaFone could end up on a no-fly list.”

“What happened at Pang’s?”

“Besides him shooting at me?”

“We’ll get back to that one.”

Fowler’s surprised. “You don’t seem concerned.”

“Clearly he didn’t hit you.”

Fowler can’t argue with that. “Couple of things. The most important being, he told me the guy in that photo we’ve been showing around isn’t Robinson. Apparently, he’s a local guy calling himself Andrew. Another American. Guy went to Pang looking for documents a few months back.” He points to the computer screen. “About two days ago,
that
guy, Robinson, came into Pang’s club and had a huge streak. I get an address from Pang for this Andrew. I go check out his place. It’s cleared out—except in the bathroom, I find this.” He pulls out his phone, starts flipping through pictures of the bathroom’s tub and sink. “This Andrew was clearly making some cosmetic changes. I’ve got someone helping me try to identify him.”

Rebecca screws up her face. “Who?”

“No one. Just someone I use for help every once in a while.”

“Who?”

“What are you, a fucking owl?”

“Who?”

“Rick.”

“Rick…Internet-casino Rick?”

“Yup.”

“Ever since we busted him, he’s been e-mailing me inappropriate pictures.”

“He’s lacked strong male guidance in life.”

“I thought you had taken him under your wing—oh, never mind,” she says, realizing her error.

Fowler abruptly changes the subject. “I feel like our best play at this point is to call that number”—he points to Robinson’s CV—“and see what happens. See who answers and if he can tell us anything.”

L
ara stands before the closed curtain, naked, smoking a cigarette. The neon lights bleed through the fine fabric and flash over her torso in Khmer cuneiform. The standing air conditioner has flooded and is pushing out dust instead of cold air. The room is hot enough to arrest thought, but she still can’t slow down her mind.

Kyle, however, is fucked out, half drunk, also naked, and asleep on top of the sheet.

Lara ashes the cigarette, listens to the Dionysian sounds from the crowd outside, and reflexively leaps when her cell phone rings. She looks at the number, doesn’t recognize it, and darts into the bathroom so as not to wake Kyle.

“Hello,” she says, closing the door behind her. “Who’s calling, please?”

“I’m looking for Julian Robinson.”

“I’m sorry,” Lara says, sounding like a practiced gatekeeper. “Julian’s not available right now. Can I help?”

“Who is this?”

“I’m Julian’s personal assistant.”

“I’d like to schedule a time to talk with Julian.”

“His schedule is pretty filled up for the next few days.” She takes a look in the mirror, sees the dark half-moons under her eyes. “Are you calling regarding a preexisting account or to set up a new one?”

“New account.”

“Understood. And how did you hear about us?”

“Excuse me?”

“Personal recommendation? Professional recommendation? We like to keep track of these things.”

“Online. I found you online.”

“Okay,” Lara says, pacing around the small room and already running out of space. “And your name, please.”

“My name is Tom Fowler.”

“And this number that came up on my cell, is this the best number for Julian or myself to reach you?”

“It is.”

“Would you like to leave an e-mail address as an additional option?”

“No. The phone is fine.”

“Spell the last name, please.”

“Fowler.
Fowl
with a
w
and then an
e-r
.”

“Okay, Mr. Fowler. I’ll pass this message along to Julian. He’s traveling, so it may take a day or two for him to respond.”

“That’s fine. I’ll wait for him.”

Lara hangs up the phone, sits down on the toilet lid.

K
yle and Lara sit inside a rental car waiting for the ferry to dock.

A local man, obviously high, does a narcoleptic-downer dance, defying gravity by standing and falling at the same time.

A hot purple–crimson sky—like someone got stabbed behind the clouds and is bleeding through—douses the cityscape, composed of claptrap architecture and the steel spines and sternums of high-rises.

Lara opens her Walther, dumps the ammunition into her lap, and works the firing pin and safety to ensure maximum fluidity at a crucial moment.

Kyle knocks his knuckle against his front teeth. He’s in a jumpy, confessional mood. “Last night, you asked me…you asked how someone like me ends up working for Chandler. I told you I didn’t know, but I do.”

She finishes with the Walther, satisfied, and moves on to a smaller handgun.

“He said he understood what it was like to be a genius, to be special and not have the same perspective as everyone else.”

Lara’s not looking at him, but she’s listening intently while working the gun.

“He said it makes you lonely. Incredibly lonely. That being smart pretty much guarantees you a lonely life. I felt like he really understood. Later on, I figured out Chandler’s never been lonely. Not once in his life. He was just smarter than me and knew what I needed to hear.”

Lara’s finishes with the second gun, rolls down the window, and cups her hand to light a cigarette.

“You know, everyone’s got these grand theories about how the world works. The scheming, the politics, the espionage, the back rooms. And it’s all bullshit. I know that now. It’s just window-dressing.” He bangs against his front teeth again. “The only rule is survival. Base survival. And the root of survival is money. No matter how big you get, that’s all you think about. Someone wants what you have, and you need to keep it. Some people wear suits while trying to keep it, and others don’t. And that’s the only fucking difference there is.”

The strangled avian sound of the speedboat’s horn warns other crafts as it approaches the dock.

Lara nods. “Time to go.”

K
yle and Lara climb the concrete steps, move to the middle of the dock, and swerve around a growing throng waiting to either board the speedboat for the next ride or meet friends and family getting off.

The Mekong River surrounds them, water and waste speckled by the morning sun, like a corroded jewel box the color of snakeskin.

The guttural growl of the boat’s motor gets closer. Kyle sees the craft, sees topless tourists dangling over the bow or tanning on the deck, sees the captain—sporting a royal-blue hat with a gold crest—flashing the lights to get the fishermen to move out of his way.

Kyle and Lara scan the crowd for anyone resembling Robinson, trying to pick out faces in the constant stream.

Kyle turns to Lara. “Should we get closer?”

“Not yet. He’s not going to show until he has to.”

“What if he changed his looks?”

“I’ll know him anywhere,” Lara says.

The speedboat docks and the passengers disappear from the craft’s two levels. Some of them don’t feel like dealing with the rush and hop the rusted railings.

Tourists step onto the dock and continually take digital pictures, marking the end of their journey, wrapping up the narrative of their day trip.

Kyle starts to move, to inch closer to the crowd.

Lara puts her hand on his arm. “Stay still. Calm down. We don’t do anything yet.”

The crowd begins to thin, most of the people heading toward the parking lot. The cluster of new tourists makes its disorderly way onto the craft while the captain admonishes everyone:

“Slow down. Slow. Plenty of room. Let the other people off.”

Kyle’s able to see past the pocket of tourists to a Chinese man wearing jeans and a white windbreaker open to midchest, no shirt underneath. He’s making himself visible but not
noticeable,
lingering by the dock near a fleet of fishing boats.

“That’s got to be the courier,” Kyle says.

“Wait,” Lara says. “Wait for Robinson. He’ll be here.”

Kyle locks his eyes on the courier, who slides on a pair of wraparound sunglasses and turns his back from the breeze off the water to light a cigarette. Kyle looks at Lara. She’s not focused on the courier; she’s waiting on Robinson, and it’s going to be tougher than either of them expected. There are more Westerners here, more tourists, than they anticipated. Robinson’s not going to stick out as much as they’d hoped.

The courier drags off his cigarette, pulls a cell phone from the windbreaker’s pocket, and makes a call. The entire time he talks, he swivels his head left and right.

“Lara,” Kyle says. “The guy’s on the phone. He’s jumpy.”

“You’re jumpy,” she says.

“Robinson’s not going to show,” Kyle says. “And this guy’s gonna bolt.”

“Shhh…I’m handling it.”

“That’s got to be his man,” Kyle says. “It has to be.”

Lara pulls Kyle closer to the speedboat; the crowd has mostly boarded, and she can see the area around the courier better from this new angle.

The courier ends his call, pitches his cigarette into the Mekong. It floats among the discarded oil drums bobbing in the water.

The crowd finishes boarding, and the captain sounds the bell; just a few strays remain.

Lara and Kyle watch the courier, and he watches them from behind his sunglasses.

A pause. No one moves.

Lara looks over the landscape. She whispers to Kyle in disbelief, “Robinson’s not coming. He’s not…”

The speedboat pushes off from the dock; the captain sounds the horn to signal he’s backing up.

The courier checks his phone, punches a few keys, and begins to slowly stroll away.

Kyle’s adrenaline spikes. He actually feels heat in his veins, something boiling beneath his skin, forcing movement, bypassing his brain
. Don’t think,
his body says.
It won’t help you here.
But he can’t stop himself.

I’m sick of running as myself. I’m even sicker of running as Robinson. I’m ending this here. I don’t care what it costs.

“Fuck it,” he says to Lara. “I’m going to get him.”

K
yle sprints over to the courier, who has lit another cigarette and is making his way to the parking lot.

“Wait. Wait.”

The courier turns back, slides the shades lower on his nose, and stops.

Kyle reaches him and can tell from the guy’s facial expression that he feels exceptionally put out by this whole process.

“I’m Robinson,” Kyle says. “I’m Robinson. I had to be sure it was you.”

The courier doesn’t respond, just looks him up and down, like Kyle’s a disappointing blind date. “Money.”

Just keep him here,
Kyle thinks.
Just fucking keep him here. You don’t have to be definitive. Just say whatever it takes to keep him from leaving.
“The money gets transferred into your account after I have my product. It will be there once I’m satisfied.”

“Unacceptable,” the courier says. “The deal is for cash.”

“You’re right. You are absolutely right.”

“I know,” says the expressionless courier, chewing on his lower lip.

“It’s in the car,” Kyle says. “I’m parked right over there.” He points to Lara’s car. “Take a walk with me and we’ll finish this.”

“I’ll wait here. Bring it to me.”

“I’m parked right there.” Kyle points again for emphasis. “Just come with me.”

“I’ll wait.”

“I’m not carrying that kind of money out in the open.”

“Good-bye,” the courier says.

“Wait…you’re going—”

The courier walks toward the parking lot.

“Wait, man. Just wait,” Kyle says. “I want to finish this up. Just walk with me.”

The courier keeps moving. “It is finished.”

Kyle speeds up, crosses in front of the courier. “Come on. Just work with me.”

No answer, just movement.

Kyle puts his hand to the courier’s chest to stop him.

“Remove your hand,” the courier says. “It will be met with a response.”

“The money’s in the car. Just come with me.”

Before the courier can say no again, Lara’s there; she flips him around by the shoulder to face her.

“Give it to me,” she says.

“I told your associate the deal is done,” the courier says. “Protocol has been violated.” He fixes his sunglasses-shielded eyes on her. “Move.”

“Fuck this,” Lara says, and shoots him in the kneecap.

Kyle jumps back, shocked by the swiftness and rawness of Lara’s violence.

The courier is on the ground, gritting his teeth, spitting, cursing. Lara kneels, pats down his windbreaker and pants. “Where is it?”

He stays silent, spits at Lara’s feet, and then turns his head.

Lara puts her hand over the courier’s mouth, takes the butt of the Walther, and bangs it against the exposed, protruding bone of his leg.

Kyle turns away. The courier screams through Lara’s fingers.
“In my jacket. In my jacket.”

Lara fishes inside, grabs a flash drive, rises to her feet, and takes Kyle’s arm. They look like a happy couple casually walking away as Lara shoots the courier in the head without needing to look back.

Before the cordite echo has dissolved in the Mekong wind, suppressed gunfire erupts from the parking lot, the bullets narrowly missing Kyle and Lara. The shots are rigorously controlled and carefully selected but deafening and numerous nonetheless.

Lara shoves Kyle down, throws herself across him, and returns fire as she shields him. Kyle can’t put together the psychic disconnect in Lara. He just watched her kill someone, and now he’s watching her risk her life to save him.

“Well,” Lara says, “there’s his backup.”

The few remaining tourists scream and search for cover. Fishermen and dockworkers hide behind their wooden boats.

Lara looks up and sees where the shots are emanating from.

The courier’s backup guys are nestled between cars in the parking lot, and they’re firing directly down onto the dock.

Kyle lifts up his head to talk.

“Keep your fucking head down and follow me,” she yells as more gunfire erupts, and she moves them behind several plastic orange benches left for tourists who are waiting for speedboats.

While reloading her clip, Lara hands Kyle her car keys. “Go get the car. I’m going to hold them off here. I can’t win, but I can hold them back while you run.” She hands Kyle the loaded Walther, then pulls the second gun from her ankle holster. “Can you shoot this?”

“Never tried.”

“The Walther is a good gun. Just aim and pull.” A chain of shots rips up the orange bench, cracking the plastic seats.
“Go,”
she yells to Kyle. “Bring the car around and get me.”

While Kyle makes a stealth run to the parking lot, Lara provides flanking fire, unleashing a dozen shots and killing one of the backup guys in the process.

Kyle sees the end result of the shot. The guy she tagged sprawls against a car hood, blood seeping from his head, and then lolls to the ground.

Lara keeps firing to flush them out, to keep their attention off Kyle.

Kyle gets to the car, throws open the driver’s-side door, and steadies his hands. The two remaining gunmen take turns answering Lara’s shots—one shoots while the other hides behind a car, and then they switch. The gunfire sounds like pocket change shot from a cannon and embedding in steel.

Kyle starts the car, pumps the gas. He’s got to accelerate fast.

He straightens the side mirror and sees Lara. Her face is a serene blank, almost placid.
She seems calmest when everyone’s trying to kill her. She’s caught Robinson’s disease.

He guns the engine.

Lara hears it and, in response, lets off a sustained series of shots to distract the backup, taking out a second guy with a bullet to the temple that sends part of his brain out his ear in a gelatinous geyser.

The final gunman lashes out in retaliation and, mostly, fear, unloading a full clip into the bench Lara’s been using as a sanctuary.

The cheap plastic shield suffers so many hits that it goes airborne, does a lazy spin, and lands, leaving Lara exposed.

Luckily, within a matter of seconds, Kyle takes out a railing, slaloms the steps, and grinds to a semi-stop in front of Lara, allowing her to jump into the passenger side.

“Slide over,” she says. “I’m driving.”

While the car screeches across the lot, the remaining gunman makes a last-ditch effort to take them out.

But they’re moving so fast, his bullets miss the car and lodge in two parking meters, which erupt in a cascade of glimmering change. The stoned guy they saw earlier—still slouching but not asleep—makes a dash for the money while trying to avoid bullets.

Lara reverses straight across the lot. “Take the wheel,” she says to Kyle, then, keeping her foot slammed on the gas, she fires the Walther.

Kyle steers, and she strips off her blazer, then ratchets up a gear, takes the wheel back, and drives them directly onto the highway.