In one fluid motion, he slid himself over he edge, did a slow-motion somersault through his arms, hung for a split second, then dropped noiselessly to the balcony. He turned to face the windows, pistol drawn. He waited, stock still, for thirty seconds until certain he was alone.
The penthouse was accessed through three sets of French doors set at regular intervals down the balcony. He chose the one to his left. It was unlocked. He slipped inside. After spending the last hour sweating, the sudden chill of the air-conditioning on his face took his breath away.
The suite was done in earth tones, with gilded-frame mahogany walls, lush carpeting, and enough tapestries and artwork to stock a small museum. The fish tank, filled with a rainbow assortment of tropical fish, gurgled softly and cast wavering shadows on the ceiling.
He punched up the penthouse schematic on his OPSAT to get his bearings, then moved on.
HEfound Greenhorn snoring in the master bedroom. Splayed a few feet away on the double king-sized bed was a nude woman that Fisher assumed was the girlfriend to whom Greenhorn had sent the invitation. Greenhorn was dressed in white jockey shorts, a T-shirt that said EAT MY ONES AND ZEROS, and a white terry-cloth robe bearing the Burj al Arab’s crest. Despite being not yet thirty years old, Greenhorn looked ten years older, with his potbelly, pasty complexion, and mostly receded hairline.
Fisher walked to the woman’s side of the bed, and was about to dart her when he noticed a medic alert bracelet on her wrist. Ah, hell,he thought. If he were to dart or Cottonball her, there was no telling how the drugs would interact with whatever condition she suffered, and he wasn’t inclined to kill her simply because she was stupid enough to get mixed up with an idiot like Greenhorn. Besides, he consoled himself, she was all of five feet tall and ninety pounds. If she woke up, he’d deal with her.
He walked back to Greenhorn’s side. He removed a dart from the pistol, then bent over and scratched Greenhorn on the forearm. He stirred, then mumbled something, rubbed his arm, and started snoring again. The dose wasn’t enough to render Greenhorn unconscious, but rather dazed and docile for a few minutes.
Fisher gave the drug ten seconds to work, then removed his goggles and knelt beside the bed, one hand resting on the hilt of the Sykes Fairbairn sheathed on his calf. He lightly shook Greenhorn by the shoulder. “Mr. Greenhorn,” he whispered. “Mr. Greenhorn, you need to wake up.”
Greehorn groaned, and his eyes fluttered open. He turned and stared at Fisher through half-lidded eyes. “Huh?”
Greenhorn’s breath was a fowl mixture of peanut butter, gin, and halitosis.
“We have a phone call for you, Mr. Greenhorn. Come with me, please.”
Fisher helped him sit up, then stand up, then walked him out of the master bedroom, expertly frisking him as they walked.
“Who . . . who’re you again?” Greenhorn muttered.
“Abdul, Mr. Greenhorn, from security, remember?”
“Oh, yeah, okay.”
Fisher walked him to the opposite end of the penthouse to a seating alcove near the aquarium, then sat Greenhorn facing the aquarium, himself on the chair opposite. The backlight would cast him in shadow. Greenhorn slumped back into the couch and started snoring again.
Sam waited five minutes for the drug to dissipate, then pulled his chair forward until he was knee-to-knee with Greenhorn. He reached out and pressed his knuckle into the base of Greenhorn’s septum. The pain snapped Greenhorn awake.
“Hey . . . hey, what the, what the—”
Fisher gripped him by the chin, thumb pressed into the hollow of his throat. “Don’t make a sound.” He jammed this thumb a little deeper; Greenhorn gagged. “Do you understand?”
Greenhorn nodded.
“I’m going to take my hand away and we’re going to have a chat. If you give me the answers I want, you’ll live to see another day. If you raise your voice or move a muscle, I shoot you dead where you sit. Understand?”
“Yeah, yeah. Can I ask you a question?”
Fisher nodded.
“Did Big Joey send you? ’Cuz if he did, I’ve got the money, I just haven’t had a chance to—”
“Big Joey did not send me.”
“Then who?”
“Santa Claus. You’ve been a bad boy, Marcus. You’ve been playing in cyberspace again.”
Now Greenhorn understood; his eyes bulged. “Oh, Jesus . . .”
“Another good guess, but wrong again. Question one: Who’s paying for your vacation here?”
“I don’t know, I just got an e-mail.”
“From?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s your second ‘I don’t know.’ Three strikes and you’re dead. I’m going to start a story, Marcus, and you’re going to finish it. Here goes: Once upon a time you were hired to code a virus for someone. Now your turn.”
“Uh . . . uh . . . I was hired by e-mail, I swear. They’d already set up a Swiss account for me. I got a hundred thousand to start and another hundred when I delivered. You’ve got to believe me, I never dealt with anyone face-to-face.”
Fisher did believe him. “When was this?”
“Two months ago.”
“When were you instructed to come here?”
“A week, maybe ten days ago.”
About the time theTrego would have been heading to the U.S. But why, Fisher wondered, if Greenhorn’s employers were so worried about him being a loose end, didn’t they just kill him?
“No one’s contacted you since?”
“No. When I was told to come here, they said to just wait until I hear from them.”
“You’re sure the same person that hired you arranged this?”
“Yes.”
“Clever guy like you would keep details, wouldn’t he? E-mails, bank information . . . A little insurance.”
“Uh . . . come on, man, they’ll kill me.”
Sam drew his pistol and pointed it at Greenhorn’s forehead. “They’ll be late.”
“Jesus, okay, okay. Yeah, I kept some stuff.” Greenhorn reached into the pocket of his robe and handed over a thumb-sized USB flash drive. “It’s all there.”
Fisher plugged the drive into the OPSAT’s USB port, waited for the OPSAT to download the contents, then stuffed it into his arm pouch.
From the corner of his eye, Fisher saw something move. Gun still trained on Greenhorn, he slowly turned his head. Greenhorn’s girlfriend, now clad in panties and nothing else, padded across the room, rubbing her eyes. She saw Greenhorn and stopped. Fisher, still in shadow, lowered the pistol, leaned deeper into the couch.
“Hey, Marcus,” she said, voice raspy. “Whatchya doing just sitting here in the dark?”
“Uh . . . you know, just looking at the fish. Couldn’t sleep.”
She took a step toward him. “Want some company?”
“No, babe, that’s fine. Go on back to bed.”
“Okay . . .”
She turned back toward the master bedroom, then stopped. She turned back. She looked at Fisher, then blinked a few times and cocked her head.
Ah, damnit,he thought. He had no desire to kill some woman Greenhorn had dragged into his mess of a life. He thumbed the pistol’s selector to DART.
Greenhorn said, “Sweetie, just go back to bed, I’ll be there in a minute.”
She continued to stare at Fisher, blinking, trying to decipher what her still-fuzzy brain was registering. Fisher was about to dart her when she opened her mouth and started screaming.
22
WHATcame out of her mouth wasn’t as much a scream as it was a shriek so piercing that Fisher was momentarily taken aback. In that split second, the woman turned and ran, nimble as a jackrabbit, around the fish tank and toward the door. “Help, help!”