Maybe being sentinel meant going toe to toe with Rasalom.
Not a comforting thought. Rasalom had been creepy the first time Jack had met him, but the second time he'd been downright scary. So much more powerful—walking on water, paralyzing with a gesture.
How am I supposed to stand up to that?
The whole hero thing made him queasy. He wasn't a hero. He didn't want to be a hero. Okay, for Gia and Vicky and the baby he'd be a hero if the need arose, but as for the rest of humanity… he didn't want that responsibility. Couldn't handle it. He was just Jack. Just a guy.
Even worse was the knowledge that his life was no longer his own. Every move seemed scripted. Even this morning. The Oculus had come right out and said it.
You were led here for a purpose—to join us.
Was that the way it worked?
But how? The creeps just happened to snatch the niece of a regular at Julio's, a guy who was sure to ask Jack for help. So he gets involved. And because of that he crosses paths with the yenigeri. They all play cat and mouse for a while, culminating in Jack's arrival at the warehouse.
You were led here for a purpose—to join us.
Led by whom? Did the Ally use Otherness types to do its work, or was it the Otherness pulling the strings? Would his involvement with the yeniceri somehow disrupt whatever unity they had—there didn't seem to be a whole hell of a lot of that as it was—and lead to the death of the Oculus?
It made him dizzy.
Why me? What's so special about me?
The BQE was stopped dead, so he took surface roads. While waiting at a red light he turned on his phone and found a message from Abe. He had more news. That meant they needed another face to face.
Two in one day. Wow.
10
"All you've got to do is get yourself to South Florida," Abe said. "From there everything will be taken care of."
During the few hours they'd been apart Abe had accessorized his wardrobe with a mustard stain on his white shirt and a sprinkle of powdered sugar on his black pants.
"Can you be a little more specific than 'taken care of? What's going to be taken care of and by whom?"
"My Balkans contact. We'll call him Mischa for now."
"For now?"
"With his real name, of course I trust you. But him, I don't know. I've vouched for you but that doesn't mean he'll want you to know the name his mother gave him. If he does, he'll tell you. If not, it's Mischa. Professional courtesy."
"Gotcha. All right, I'm down in South Florida. What next?"
"Before you go I'll be given the number of a slip at a marina in Palm Beach. You go there first thing Tuesday morning and the owner of the boat in said slip will take you across to the Bahamas and drop you off on West End, one of the out islands."
"How far is that?"
"About seventy miles. Hell be piloting a sport fisher that can make the trip in three hours."
"Deja vu."
"Yes. Reminds you of a similar trip you made with your brother last month, I'll bet. Only this is much shorter."
Right. Bermuda had been 650 plus. After that, seventy was around the corner.
"From said island you'll be ferried into New Providence where one of Mis-cha's associates will sneak you aboard a cargo plane."
"Not in a crate I hope."
"Not so bad as that, but a pretty stewardess you shouldn't expect. Brown bag it if you want to eat."
"Seems kind of roundabout, don't you think? Why don't I just call the Ashes and have one of them fly me straight to the Bahamas?"
"Because this is the way Mischa wants it done. It's the procedure he uses for moving certain commodities back and forth between here and Sarajevo or Kosovo. Everyone knows their parts. Like a well-oiled machine it works. He doesn't like to mess with a winning formula."
Jack shrugged. He understood. Perfectly.
"Okay. It's his show. The plane takes me to Bosnia-Hurtslikegonorrhea. Then what?"
"Not so fast. You're expecting a nonstop? Don't. The first plane takes you to Nouakchott International Airport."
"Jeez. Where the hell is that?"
"Mauritania."
"Swell."
"Less than an hour you'll be there. Then it's onto another cargo plane to Sarajevo. That's when you'll be crated up. Another of Mischa's associates will get your crate through customs and truck you to a warehouse where you'll meet Mischa himself. And that's when you'll pay half the fee."
And a hell of a fee it was.
"He's agreed to take Krugers, right?"
"Yes. Of course." Abe smiled. "They're as good as gold."
"Ha-ha. How long am I there?"
"A day, two at most. Mischa will settle you into your new identity, get you through immigration, and you will fly to JFK tourist class on Bosnia Airlines."
"And that will be it."
"That will be it."
"Next week I'll be Mirko Abdic."
"Next week you'll be Mirko Abdic."
Something squeezed in Jack's chest.
11
A customer for Abe's real line of merchandise came in so Jack left them to their dealing. His headache had faded but still nagged him. His stomach felt sour.
This called for a beer.
He was halfway to Julio's when his cell phone rang: the man himself.
"Julio. Just on my way over."
"Maybe you shouldn't, meng. One those gun guys from last night showed up."
Jack stopped walking.
"The big one or the smaller?"
"Smaller."
Davis.
"What's he doing?"
"Just sitting at the bar, drinking a draft. He let me pat him down. Say he don't wan' no trouble. He's clean but I dunno. I look outside, don't see nobody, but maybe you better stay away."
Hell with that. Julio's was his hang and he wanted a beer in Julio's.
"See you in a few."
If it had been Miller he might have thought twice, but Jack had sensed a core of decency in Davis. Question was, what did he want? Talk? Okay, Jack could talk. He still had questions.
But just the same, certain precautions were called for.
He made a slow approach to Julio's, checking all the cars and nooks and crannies. But he didn't stop there. He ambled a block past the front door, still checking.
No one. At least no one he could make.
As he stepped inside he spotted Davis at the bar. He wasn't in his suit and was just polishing off his draft. Without breaking stride Jack tapped him on the back and motioned him to follow. He led him to his rear table where he assumed his usual back-to-the-wall position, eyes on the door. Davis pulled out a chair opposite him and dropped into it. He thrust out his hand.
"Cal Davis."
Jack shook it. "Jack. What are you drinking?"
"Stella. Didn't expect to find it on tap in a dive like this."
Dive… Julio would have liked that. He worked hard keeping his place a dive. And Davis had passed the first test: He didn't drink Bud or—God forbid—Bud Light.
Jack signaled to Julio for two Stellas, then leaned toward Davis.
"I hear you want to talk."
"Yeah." He ran a hand across his short blond hair and put on an affable smile; Jack didn't know how real it was. "Interesting morning, huh?"
"Very. What do we talk about?"
The beers came then and Davis lifted his in a toast.
"To lots of interesting mornings."
Jack had a sense that Davis was trying to soften him up, charm him. Jack wasn't in the mood for charm.
"Interesting is personal. And it's something of a curse to the Chinese."
Another smile. "Touched"