“What sort of problem?”
“It's not that he didn't like people. He just couldn't handle them. Some sort of phobia. You probably wouldn't understand.”
“Try me.”
“He would sweat, feel sick — look, I don't have time for this now.”
A people phobia. That didn't stack up against Dr. Spears's claim that she and Tanaka had been buddies. “Did he ever mention anyone aside from Professor Boyle at Moreton Genetics? A Dr. Spears, maybe?”
“Who? Not that I remember.”
Killing people in cold blood for a paycheck isn't easy. It helps if the killer is a psychopath, or a religious fanatic, or if the target has somehow been dehumanized. None of these profiles fit Rossi. But if she knew how her uncle had died and who'd helped him on his way… well, revenge was also a powerful motivator when it came to killing someone. And the CIA was a master at leverage — it would use whatever it could get. I watched her mate the barrel to the trigger mechanism with oiled proficiency. They came together with a click. Rossi was no novice.
“I thought Hellfire missiles were the preferred assassination weapon these days,” I remarked.
“Burma stopped throwing ordnance across the border at the refugee camps here years ago. Langley figured a bullet would be easier to hide.”
“I was told you learned your skills in the Marines.”
“Two tours in Iraq.”
“I didn't think the Marines used female snipers.”
“They don't, not usually. But then, I'm not usual.”
I didn't buy the Marines legend, although I was sure she would have all the right paperwork to support it. Nope, Rossi was a Company creation, through and through.
She slid a five-power day/night scope onto the rail, pulled back the bolt, cocking it, flicked the safety off, and checked the action. The firing pin smacked into its seat with a metallic ring that seemed to hang suspended in the darkness beyond the red spill of the flashlight. I watched her feed the magazine into its slot after checking each round.
“So what about all that crap you gave me about waiting for a Mr. Big?”
“There's only one Mr. Big here — Boyle. His is the only scalp the Company wants. You can't un-invent technology, Vin, which is why Boyle's secrets have to die with him.” Rossi stood. “No one wants this genie of his let out of the bottle. No one wants what he's selling in anyone's arsenal — not even ours, not anymore.” The rifle was almost as big as she was, but Rossi had its measure — resting it comfortably balanced in the crook of her arm, muzzle pointing toward the ceiling. “You're probably wondering what's going to happen here — to you.”
I was. “Now that you mention it.”
“In the morning, Ratipakorn's people will find you. You'll be handcuffed to the bed, which weighs a ton, by the way.”
“How does Chalmers think this will play when I get back to the States?”
“Think about it, Cooper. Boyle is already dead, remember? He died in the fire at the Four Winds. Deputy Station Chief Chalmers told me you were there when he took possession of Boyle's wallet. No one will seriously believe that whole mess in San Francisco was merely a smokescreen created by Pakistan's new revolutionary government to cover Boyle's disappearance. And no one will believe that he died twice, either. As for the North Koreans, they won't make a peep. And the Thais are on our side. Why do you think they're pulled back behind the ridge? Nothing happened here. This op is as black as it gets.”
Jesus, the damned wallet. I kicked myself for not putting it all together sooner. The lump of charcoal that was supposed to be Professor Boyle, his lightly charred wallet found beneath it. I'd known it wasn't Boyle from the start, but that wallet's presence had been a real puzzle. The Pakistanis couldn't have planted it there. That had to have been someone else's doing. Now I had a pretty good idea who that someone was.
“This operation falls under the subhead of mopping up.” Rossi pulled a ski mask over her head, stuffed two extra magazines into thigh pockets, and threw a small pack over a shoulder. “Gotta go. Duty calls.” The flashlight beam disappeared, and she with it. A handful of red and orange floaters drifted downward in the blackness. I strained my ears to hear her moving around, but heard nothing. I suddenly felt her lips brush light as a feather against mine, her breath sweet like cinnamon. “Bye, Vin,” she whispered. “It's been real.”
I saw the door open and caught her silhouette move against the black and grays of the night beyond the hut. The door closed and I was again dipped in total darkness.
“Fuck, shit, fuck!” I said, frustration dialing up the volume on those words so that they escaped louder than I'd intended. I rolled off the bed onto my knees beside it. I used my teeth to push the button on my watch, to illuminate the face. The time was 0505. The predawn light would soon throw a pink blush into the clouds.
The watch's illumination switched off automatically after ten seconds. I bit down on the button again, and used the glow to assess my situation. The bed's headboard was steel pipe, painted, with warts of rust poking through here and there. I used my weight to try to drag the bed across the floor toward me. It was a heavy fucker, but I was able to shift it a few inches. The legs squealed against the concrete floor like stuck pigs. The watch's blue glow went out. I sparked it up with another bite. I noted that the base and headboard were not bolted together. One slotted into the other, and the joins were caked in balls of rust. The light went out again, but I didn't need it on to know what I had to do. I pulled the bed out as far as I could from the wall. I got down low and lifted it up like I was doing a clean and jerk. After a couple of tries, I managed to get it up so that it pivoted around the legs on the far side, and held it on the balance point. Feeling with my fingers, I made sure the chain between the cuffs wasn't going to get hung up on anything and break my wrists when I pushed the bed over. When I was satisfied, I let it fall. The bed crashed hard against the wall and floor simultaneously, pulling me with it, and, despite my caution, practically jerking my arms out of their sockets. I toppled blind into a tangle of screeching metal, barking my shins and head-butting something with an edge on it.
I lay on the floor, dazed, listening to my breathing, tangled up with springs and braces, the copper taste of blood in my mouth from a cut somewhere on my head. The sound of crashing metal echoed in my ears and through my brain. Silence closed around me in waves and, when it finally arrived, the hum of a lone mosquito came with it.
Though surely no more than a minute had passed, a little morning light had managed to push through under the eaves and turn the room into a collection of shapes that shimmered like images in old grainy black-and-white photographs. Bottom line, I could now at least see the outlines of things. My wrists were still cuffed to the headboard, which had separated from the rest of the frame. I stumbled to my feet, feeling vaguely nauseated, and hoisted the headboard out of the wreckage.
FIFTY-TWO
I didn't have much time. Rossi was working with the dark. I had to get to her before the sunlight did if I was to stop her killing Boyle. I wanted him arrested and behind bars, not dead. The bush was coming alive with the sound of various unseen animals sparking up to embrace the new day. I noticed when Rossi had assembled the rifle that it was suppressed. Even so, it would still make a muffled crack when she sent a round humming toward Boyle's skull. So far, I'd heard nothing of that nature.
As I moved, I thought about where Rossi might set up. Logically, she'd take a position that'd provide an unobstructed view of the villa, as well as cover. That meant the high side of the valley. I had nothing else to go on. I worked my way around, climbing, hoping to stumble across her, wrestling the headboard through what was mostly scrub, alternately dragging, ripping, and carrying it through the dense foliage.