We all make choices.
As we walked, the crowd moved imperceptibly away from us. Neither Fi or I projected much of a good-time vibe, and that was good. If they got too close to Fi, she was liable to crack tear gas on the floor just to see the expression on their faces.
We passed the serpentine reservation desk, and I looked for Star but didn't find her, either. Forever must have come to a close. Or maybe she got that job modeling at Abercrombie. Or maybe Natalya had her killed for knowing my name. All were possibilities, none that I could ruminate on now, the music pounding in my ears, adrenaline pushing me out the door to the pool area, where the people nearly having sex at the bar looked positively Amish by comparison.
The infinity pool worked alive with movement, men and women writhing to the same nameless beat from inside, huge amps spreading the dusty bass into the air. Servers whose only bit of indulgence was a strip of fabric over their nipples moved through the crowded tables, stopping every few steps to drop off drinks, pick up glasses, and bend over suggestively in front of men and women wearing even less clothing.
"It smells like sex out here," Fiona said. "We should stay. Get a room."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Maybe we'll come back for lunch one day. Your mother never did get to eat that day, Michael."
I spotted Natalya the moment we entered the pool area. She sat at a round table just adjacent to the rear bar, a nice crowded locale, but with a fine exit as well, since the bar backed up against the low shrubbery separating the hotel from the ocean. It wasn't beyond reason to assume there was a boat out there, waiting. But it was impossible to see, since the beach was covered with people, some just gawking at the crowd inside the Oro, others simply sitting in the cooling sand, watching the water.
Natalya was alone at the table, but I counted three Longstreet men on a first-floor balcony-smart-and three men who looked like, well, Communists, with their pale skin and inability to find a beat, trying to look natural at the far end of the bar. They were wearing shorts and white T-shirts, their sunburns practically glowing through the fabric.
"In and out," I said to Fiona. We were only steps away.
"My pleasure," she said.
I looked up into the sky. I didn't see any large spy satellites, so that was nice. But I did see Sam, right where I knew he would be. Or, rather, I saw the light inside Sam's room.
Natalya stood up when she saw us. "Michael," she said, professional charm oozing from her, "it's such a pleasure." She leaned toward me and gave me an air kiss on either cheek. Putting on a show.
"Hello, Ms. Copeland," I said, figuring, You want a show? We'll give you a show.
She turned to Fiona and tried to give her the same air kisses. "Touch me," Fiona said, "and you'll be eating out of a feeding tube. Respectfully." Fiona wasn't much for shows.
"By all means, have a seat then," Natalya said.
"Yes, I have opium to buy and sell to little kids," I said, as we sat down. "Wish I had more time to chat. But I'm sure you understand."
Natalya frowned. Visibly frowned. "I thought once we were done here, the three of us could be sociable. All in the game, isn't it? It's not me you're mad at, Michael. In the same situation, you would have done the same thing."
"There wouldn't be a same situation," I said. "I would have killed you. Money means nothing to me."
Natalya picked up a glass of water from the table and took a sip. There were two other glasses and a pitcher, but I'd already told Fiona that Natalya liked her poisons.
"Apparently," Natalya said.
"And this isn't a game," I said. "You threatened my life. Fiona's. My family's. So you'll excuse the lack of my desire on our part to let bygones be bygones. Save 'Auld Lang Syne' for New Year's and all that. Plus, I count six guys ready to shoot me."
"Perceptive," Natalya said.
"Realistic," I said.
Fiona reached into her purse to pull out her Black-Berry, and all six men moved forward, which caused Fiona to stop midreach. "Care to tell your pit bulls to sit and stay?" Fiona said.
Natalya gave both groups of men a nod, and they shrank back to more relaxed positions. It took her a few moments, but Fiona eventually accessed Hank Fitch's Dominican account. "Where to?" she asked.
"If you don't mind?" Natalya said, indicating the BlackBerry. "I just want to make sure what you say is happening is happening."
"Be my guest," Fiona said and handed her the BlackBerry. Natalya looked over the information, which was mostly just several zeros and a three. It was all legitimately in the account-of course, Hank Fitch didn't really exist, his account consisting of falsified documents on every turn-and the money certainly existed. It had been transferred from the accounts of White Rose Partners-in a legal, traceable transfer, though one that was certainly being monitored now by all sorts of agencies-into Hank Fitch's account, and it would now be transferred, legally, into an account held by Natalya. Of course, she'd be smart enough to have a shell set up somewhere, but that wouldn't matter.
"You've done nice work, Michael," Fiona said.
"I get good rates in the Dominican," I said. "You should consider keeping your money there."
"I've always preferred Nicaragua," she said and handed Fiona a slip of paper with her account information.
"Wait," I said to Fiona. "Tell me one thing, Natalya. Out of courtesy for the game. Who is your source?"
Natalya leaned back in her chair and exhaled. "You know I can't tell you that, Michael. He'd stop being my source."
"Three million dollars doesn't buy you what it used to," I said.
"The American dollar is weak," she said, but there was something eating at her. "I can tell you this. You're doing yourself no favors in this drug business. Get yourself a job. Get away from whatever answers you need to be searching out. Because my source has been in your government for a long time, Michael. Longer than both of us. And he says you're as culpable in that weak American dollar as anyone."
"I haven't done what my dossier says," I said. "So you tell Yuri that the Cold War is over. Tell him to cash his checks and come back to the Motherland. Tell him…" A flashing light caught the corner of my eye.
Sam telling me it was now, which meant Dixon Woods was in the building. A little early. Not surprising.
"Just tell him," I said.
"I'll do that," Natalya said, but I saw her looking over my shoulder. She must have caught the light, too, though she didn't seem alarmed. Must have thought it was just a light, nothing more.
"Are we done rattling sabers, Michael?" Fiona asked.
"Go ahead," I said.
In just a few keystrokes, three million dollars passed from the account of Hank Fitch into the account of Natalya Choplyn. We waited silently for the confirmation from both banks, and when it came, I heard Natalya give out a thick sigh. She turned and waved away the men behind her from Longstreet, who shrugged and went inside their room. Three guns down.
She then looked at the three men at the bar and nodded once. There was a grave look on her face, one I hadn't seen before, and I realized that those men weren't guarding her-they were watching her, making sure that she did what she was supposed to do, that the scales were evened. Natalya Choplyn's life was saved, though not for long.
"They have your kids?" I asked.
"No," Natalya said. "No. Of course not. It's not like that anymore, Michael."
"It isn't?" I said.
Natalya didn't answer.
"You don't even have children, do you?" Fiona said.
"We should celebrate," Natalya said.
"That's the laugh, Michael," Fiona said. "I think she fooled you. I can tell she's married, certainly, that round of fat around her chin. It's disgusting, really, letting yourself go like that, Natalya. But she's not stupid enough to actually procreate."