“Yeah, sweetie.”
“I’m going to enjoy you the most.”
Amy watched one of Molly’s delicate hands shrink into a tight little fist. Then it smashed her in the eye.
She staggered back. Confusion set in before the pain. Wait. What had just happened?
Did Molly Lewis just punch her in the—?
Again.
And again.
Left hook, right jab. Classic boxer combo.
Amy’s head buzzed with pain, now, finally, radiating from her skin deep into her skull. Her butt bumped up against the front of her own desk. She needed to keep standing. She needed to start defending herself. That much was sure. But what was going on here? Amy lifted a hand, but Molly slapped it aside and then jabbed her in the throat.
Amy started choking.
She slid to the side and put her hands to her throat, as if she could undo the damage manually. But Molly had done something. Something very bad. Amy couldn’t even scream.
Two minutes before, Molly had been alone in David’s office. Everyone had scattered to the rest of the office, to see if their boss’s crazy talk was actually true. To see if the elevators would come. If the dial tone would be there. If their cell phones would work.
Of course they wouldn’t.
Molly had helped David disable them all.
David, a week ago, promised, “You help me; you and I walk out of here. We’ve got new identities waiting for us.”
Later, Molly had found the memo. The faxed hit list.
With her name on it.
Liar.
So she decided to cut a deal of her own.
Molly walked down the hallway and into David’s office. In the corner, where the south-facing windows met with a solid oak bookcase, was a security camera obscured by the wood and dry-wall. It had been positioned so that it could scan not only the entire office, but the face of David’s computer screen. David knew this. It was company policy.
Molly looked up at the security camera and flashed it a tight little smile. She held up her left hand, palm out.
And raised her index and middle fingers.
It wasn’t a peace sign.
It was an announcement.
THE MORNING GRIND
Management is nothing more than motivating other people.
—LEE IACOCCA
Thirty-five hundred miles away …
… in Scotland, near the sea, in a quiet section of Edinburgh called Portobello, a red-haired man in a black T-shirt and neatly pressed khakis crossed the street. He was holding a pharmacy bag stocked with tissues and Night Nurse. He’d felt awful all morning. Maybe a solid dose of medicine would head it off at the pass. Summer colds were the worst.
This summer, too, was the worst. Freakishly warm for Edinburgh. Plus, there was a hot, greasy drizzle in the air, which did little to cool it. By the time he returned to the flat, he reckoned, his T-shirt would be soaked with sea mist and sweat, and he’d have to change. He kept only a small valise of essentials; he didn’t bring piles of T-shirts like McCoy, his surveillance partner, did. The man packed like the Apocalypse was around the corner.
The red-haired man, who called himself Keene, had almost reached the bottom of the road when he bumped into a man walking his dog. Wee thing—the dog, that was. It had only three legs. The owner had two, but looked haggard, if finely muscled.
“Sorry, mate,” Keene said.
The man just smiled at him. And not in a particularly warm way.
Keene stepped out of the way, then watched the little three-legged dog titter and bounce after its master. A lot of work, walking uphill in the drizzle with only three legs.
Upstairs, Keene embraced his partner. His lip brushed against the stubble on his cheek; he could smell the intoxicating aftershave. Then Keene told him about the dog.
“I’ve seen that dog,” said McCoy. He was American. He’d barely turned to face Keene. Instead, he was focused on a bank of computer screens: a desktop and three laptops. “It creeps me out.”
“I’m putting on some tea,” Keene said. “Would you care for a cup?”
Some tea and Night Nurse might make the afternoon tolerable. Keene planned on asking McCoy to take over for the next few hours. Keene had been at it through much of the morning. His eyes felt like there were grains of sand floating around in there.
“No, but you can fetch me a can of Caley.”
“Sure.”
McCoy was a drunk.
“Did I miss anything?” Keene asked.
“You missed everything.”
“What do you mean? Nothing’s supposed to be happening in Dubai for at least six hours.”
“No, not there. Back in America. Remember? The Philadelphia thing?”
“Girlfriend.”
“Right.”
“What time is it there?”
“Half past nine. So far, our girl is doing exactly what she said. You should have seen the look on Murphy’s face. I can run it back for you later.”
“Sure,” Keene said. No thank you.
Girlfriend, who until about thirty minutes ago was just another low-level operative, had contacted McCoy a few days ago with an intriguing proposaclass="underline" Give me a chance to show you my talents. McCoy had been impressed she even knew how to find him. It was enough for him to kick her proposal upstairs and receive clearance to follow it up.
Girlfriend wanted a promotion. And she wanted to demonstrate how much she deserved it.
The employees in the office were slated to die anyway, she’d argued.
Why not let her try?
McCoy told Girlfriend: You impress us, we give you the way out and a new job. If not … well, nice interviewing with you.
Girlfriend accepted.
Keene, though, was more concerned with Dubai and this summer cold that seemed to be taking root in his head. It was never a good idea to focus on more than one operation at a time. That kind of juggling invariably led to mistakes.
But there was no stopping McCoy, who was enamored with this Philadelphia thing. So Keene had to pretend to be enamored, too. It made things easier.
Keene put on the kettle and took a green earthenware mug down from the cupboard. Wait. McCoy’s beer. He opened the fridge and snatched a can from the bottom shelf. That was the extent of McCoy’s weekly contributions to the pantry. Everything else he consumed was takeaway. Usually Thai or Indian.
He handed the can of Caley 80 to his partner, who was looking at one of the monitors with glee.
“Will you look at that,” McCoy said.
On screen, Girlfriend—who looked a bit mousy, if you asked Keene—was holding up a peace sign.
“Number two, coming right up.” McCoy popped the top of his beer, then started thumbing through a stack of papers on the desk. “You’ve got to love her style.”
“Hmmm,” Keene said. “As in Murphy was number one?”
“Right.”
“Remind me again what this Philadelphia office does?”
“Financial disruption of terrorist networks. Or something like that. Bunch of geeks using computers to erase the bank accounts of known terrorist cells. I’m not too familiar with it myself. I’m a human resources guy.”
“Oh, is that what you do?”
“Shhh. She’s moving.”
They watched as Girlfriend allowed herself to be led to another office. McCoy leaned forward and tapped some keys. A separate fiber-optic feed picked her up on the second screen. They watched another woman—a well-scrubbed, bright-eyed American with shoulder-length hair—try to comfort Girlfriend.
And then they watched Girlfriend start to beat the woman savagely.