Braun jumped to the site. Its URL was a wild mix of numbers and letters, not the kind of site that someone would ever accidentally stumble upon. He entered the password.
The site opened. It showed more pictures of Mila, shot from the same camera. And the text, in five different languages: $1 MILLION US FOR THIS BITCH. I WANT HER ALIVE. Braun stared. This was the gold standard of hit contracts. A million dollars was usually a sum reserved for leaders of state, heads of organizations. Braun himself had spent CIA dollars to kill a Rwandan warlord for Special Projects for a hundred thousand. A drug kingpin in Ecuador for twice that amount. Braun had his own address book he could call upon when regular CIA personnel were not an option.
Who was this woman and who had the deep pockets to off her? He glanced at the last update: a month ago, a single message. Contract is still open. An email address, another blind one.
He sent an emaiclass="underline" Is contract still open? I have a lead on an associate of hers but I need to know I’m dealing with someone who can guarantee payment.
He closed the email account, the website. He erased the browser history. He left the internet cafe and went and ate lunch, standing up in a narrow student-geared pizza joint, chewing on a thick slice, drinking a Coke.
A million dollars. The terms of the reward preferred that she be alive. That complicated things.
Braun ate his lonely pizza, then walked home and sat in his leather chair, and thought about Novem Soles, and Mila, and how he could collect that million dollars.
13
Las Vegas
It’s not everyday that you a) inspect a new business you own, and b) make plans to meet a kidnapper there. Happy partiers filled The Canyon Bar, escaping the tourist-swollen casino hotspots, searching for revelry and the next place you wanted to be seen.
I was planning how to capture a woman who’d stolen my child.
The Canyon was not a tourist trap bar like so much of the Vegas nightlife scene. I’d noticed in the first hour there this evening that the servers and bartenders were extremely capable; attentive, engaging, focused. Of course, when I’d come around and introduced myself to the staff they might all have switched to best behavior, but you can’t hide sloppiness in the running of a first-class drinking establishment.
I’d seen one server gently talk an indecisive customer out of ordering a chocolate martini and into a handcrafted Old-Fashioned: a real drink for a real person. The decor was high-dollar: carefully sculpted beams of wood undulated along the curving walls, the tables were of polished granite, the chairs covered with faux rare animal hides. The Canyon was a destination bar for those too cool for the Strip or who wanted a break from the casino nights and the nerve-numbing rattle of slots, dice, and chips. The crowd was youngish, a mix of more daring visitors and well-heeled locals. There was a dance floor, small, and the DJ was mashing classic Massive Attack with the latest hip-hop star’s word play and drum beat.
I watched all this from the security cameras mounted in my office on the second floor of the bar.
I scanned the crowd. I knew Anna’s face, from the security photo and the passport photo we’d acquired: tall, dark hair, a beauty mark near the curve of her mouth. But those were elements easily changed. I didn’t see anyone who fit her description in the crowded club.
But I did see a face I knew, apparently a recent arrival. There she was, Mila, sitting at a back table, her hair dyed auburn now (or wearing a good wig), flirting with some thick-shouldered guy who wore a well-tailored gray pinstripe suit. His face was familiar, and that worried me until I recognized him – a guy who once played tight end for the New York Giants. Dude probably thought he was about to get Vegas-lucky. Mila wowed him a champagne-fueled smile, although the wine in her flute appeared to be untouched. His was empty. He refilled and guzzled his twice while I watched. I guessed she was conducting her own surveillance, observing every face that came and left the bar. She had to be careful, now that the Company had resumed its interest in me.
I went downstairs to a corner booth that I’d reserved for myself. I wore my hosting clothes: a pinstripe suit, a white shirt, a gray-silver tie. In your own bar, you have to look better than a lawyer. Sharper. And the jacket hid my Browning pistol and my slacks hid my knife, strapped to my calf.
Mila got up, whispering something that was (I am sure) most promising to her male camouflage, but came over and sat at my table.
‘I understand I am to be your wife. Every time I play this role, there is trouble.’
She’d taken a later flight than me – best if we didn’t travel together. She flew under an assumed name. But no one tailed me at the Vegas airport; I made sure.
‘I like the auburn,’ I said.
‘Thank you.’
I could see the Giants ex glaring at me, waiting for her return. ‘Why did you sit with him?’
‘I generally ignore your American football. I thought maybe he was a bodyguard for Anna. I have talked to all the large, muscular men here.’ She surveyed the crowd. ‘Thin pickings. She might send a woman.’
‘You don’t have to work the crowd for long. We just need to get Anna up in the office, then we force her to tell us where my son is.’
‘Simple,’ Mila said.
‘I see no reason for this to be complicated.’
‘You are always such an optimist,’ Mila crossed her legs, inspected her fingernails. ‘This woman, Anna Tremaine, she tells you the name of the couple who bought your baby. Great. What do you do with her then? Lock her upstairs for a few days while we go collect your son?’
I raised an eyebrow.
‘You will have to kill her, Sam.’
‘Your bloodthirstiness is really not appealing.’
‘Truth is often very ugly, like the orange dress of that woman at the bar,’ Mila said. ‘An upstairs office is not built to keep a hostage for the long term. And you can’t let her go. She will warn whoever bought Daniel so they can run.’
‘You have Mr Bell stashed away back in New York.’
‘No. Mr Bell’s very small brain has been plucked. He is back with his family, and now he is in our pocket when we need him. He is a puppet on the string for me.’
‘He knows we killed two men.’
‘Yes, so he wants to stay on my good side.’
I let the sounds of the party rise and fall around us. ‘I have a plan.’
‘I am eager to hear this brilliant strategy.’
‘I’ll hand Anna over to the CIA. She can tell them all about her employers.’ It was certainly better than handing Mila over to them.
Mila seemed to sense the direction of my thoughts.
‘What would you do to get your son back?’
‘Anything.’
‘Anything covers so much.’ She glanced across the bar at her neglected conquest. ‘Oh, your American football player, I left him uncomfortable with anticipation. He does have a nice thick neck, though. I like a thick neck. Nice to hang onto.’
‘That neck is not supporting a large brain.’
‘Ha, brains.’ Mila gave me a sideways glance. ‘Brains do not matter so much as heart, Sam.’ She pounded her chest with her little fist.
‘Look. We get Anna Tremaine upstairs to finalize our purchase. After she talks, I load her up with an anesthetic and we leave her locked up in the apartment. We find where Daniel is and I go get him and you keep an eye on her.’
‘And then what?’
‘We give her to August Holdwine and Special Projects and she can tell all she knows about Novem Soles.’
‘I have missed the exciting announcement where you have rejoined the Central Idiot Agency,’ Mila said. ‘I thought you worked for me.’
‘And what does the Round Table do with her, Mila? You just told me I’d have to murder her. Am I supposed to think you won’t?’
‘I’m hurt.’
‘The CIA won’t.’
‘Ah, yes. She will be their prisoner who goes on trial? No. They will make a deal with her. Protect her to talk. To tell what she knows. This is the way the world works. She sells your baby, she gets a plea bargain. A new life tucked away on the other side of the planet, in Sydney. I sometimes think half of Sydney must be people hiding from the rest of the world.’ She picked up my bottle of Pellegrino water, took a sip.