All In (5 page)

The Boss jumped in. “Let’s keep going, Mahmoud. When Jackson starts talking about his tiger, I like to make a hasty exit.”

“You and me both, John,” Mahmoud said with a smile. “And don’t make your exit too hasty . . . we need to give you all the info so you’re up to speed. All right, last but not least, me and the lady assassin. Our main task is to connect to our contacts worldwide and try to get to the bad guys before they get to Susannah’s father. We’ll ask Gabriella for her help in dealing with the Italian syndicate and the French offshoot; Jackson and Ms. Bee will deal with hunting down the local Moroccan contingent; and Ms. Tyka and I will hunt down the head of all of them. That is, if it is all right with you, Ms. Tyka? I have great need of your talents in both espionage and gunplay.”

‡‡‡

TYKA SHOOK HER
long blond hair and shrugged. She was happy doing anything as long as it utilized her expertise. Having to spend time in the company of this slick, pretentious joker was not what she would have chosen, but so be it. “I’m happy to help in whatever way you need. And
gunplay
is a bit of a patronizing word, no? Guns are not toys. And I take my work very seriously.”

“Of course,” Mahmoud responded instantly. “Forgive me, Ms. Tyka. It was inappropriate. What I meant to convey was how much I admire your exceptional skill set. You make what is difficult appear nothing more than child’s play.”

There was a moment of challenge between them. It had been a very long time since anyone had challenged Tyka, and she hated it and was turned on by it both in equal measure. The rest of the Bod Squad looked on with curiosity and amusement. Tyka blinked and nodded, choosing not to give him the satisfaction of a verbal response. Then Mahmoud continued, “Good, then it’s settled. We will all go our separate ways, using John and Ms. Fingers as our guides both in the states and locally. Any questions?”

The Boss cleared his throat. “Mahmoud, you’ve mentioned the head of this ring several times, but I don’t see any of his stats in the paperwork. Can you give us a bit more information about him?”

‡‡‡

MAHMOUD’S DARK SKIN
turned ashen, and his expression turned to one of disgust. This was the topic he hated the most, but it was necessary to give them all the intel. “Forgive me, John,” he said. “I try to reference him as little as possible, though he is the linchpin of the whole operation. He goes by many names but is known to my people as ‘the Silence,’ because when he wreaks death upon an area, he leaves a silence in his wake. He is a criminal mastermind masquerading as an ordinary man.” Mahmoud took a pause, willing himself to remain in control as he went on. “Responsible for the slaughter of my parents and sister in the Casablanca bombings of 2003, the Silence was also behind the Madrid bombings the following year. He has been involved in countless other terrorist attacks, as he orchestrates the meetings of terrorist groups that have become so ubiquitous in the Casbah. In addition, he has been the silent partner—pun intended—in a series of crimes: He was connected to Enron and WorldCom; was a great profiteer in the massive white-collar-crime schemes of Allen Stanford, Jérôme Kerviel, and Bernie Madoff; and was instrumental in the art heists in Paraguay in 2002, at the Paris Museum of Modern art in 2010, and as far back as 1990 at the Gardner Museum in Boston. Despite his prolific crime history, we’ve never seen a picture of him, don’t know his real name, and can’t find a lead that doesn’t run dry. He is the world’s greatest mystery and is often perceived to be something straight out of modern-day folklore. That’s probably where he gets the name we call him, the name I have been given that seems to open the most doors.”

“What is it?” the Boss asked, all the members of the Bod Squad listening intently, ready to fight their newest foe.

Mahmoud took a deep drink of water. Then he cursed under his breath. “I never utter his name,” he said quietly, “as I believe it brings bad luck. I prefer to call him BS—an odd coincidence that it’s the same initials as your new Bod Squad. I tend to think this is a sign of promise that we, the forces of good, will vanquish this evil foe. Anyway, I will say his name once, but I must ask you all to never speak it again unless absolutely necessary. I believe all of our lives, especially the life of Susannah’s father, depend on this.”

“They got it, M,” Jackson said. “Tell them what we know, and we’ll do initials from here on out.”

Mahmoud appeared slightly nauseated for a moment, then stood up straighter. “It is an amalgam of folklore and Arabic with a twist. I first heard it after the death of my family in 2003. It was told to me by an undercover agent who was disemboweled in the Casbah days later. His name means something like ‘Father Happiness,’ a perfect piece of irony for such a dark demon.” He took a breath. “He is known to us as Baba Samka.”

5

WRAPPING UP ANOTHER DAY
working his post at CIA headquarters in Langley, Robert Smith smiled as he read the latest report from Gabriella Marconi, his own private mole. He was five-seven, balding, in his mid-fifties, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. His suits were utilitarian, his small apartment in Capitol Hill was unremarkable, and on paper he was little more than a CIA instructor and department head who occasionally traveled internationally for work. In other words, Robert Smith was nondescript.

No one would guess that this man was Gabriella’s lover.

They had been having an affair for many years, ever since they met at Quantico during her training. Gabriella was born into the Marconi crime syndicate but turned on them after Bruni murdered her father. Robert had been her instructor on the firing range, and she became his instructor in the bedroom. They felt it was the perfect trade.

Robert pushed some pencils around his desk and smiled. He would get her back here ASAP. Just as soon as she tied up some loose ends in Sicily. And speaking of tying up loose ends . . . he had some new restraints he wanted to try out, and satin sheets that made him feel like a king. He’d fuck her six ways to Sunday when she returned. He’d do whatever she asked. And maybe he’d learn something new in the bargain. Robert sighed. Her mission would take a while. So for tonight, a TV dinner and another episode of
White Collar
would have to do the trick. Smiling, he signed a few more documents and sent Gabriella a romantic text:

Hope to c u soon

Then he got himself ready to leave for the night.

‡‡‡

TYKA WAS SWEATING,
and uncomfortable, and confused. She was trying to deal gracefully with Mahmoud, but everything he did was throwing her off. They’d flown to Egypt and were currently traveling by camel, something she’d never done before and never wanted to do again. Her legs were chafed from rubbing against the camel’s rough hide despite the sleek spandex pants she wore, and the sun beat down on her back. Though she wore a veil around her face and a sun hat, nothing could keep her from roasting in this infernal heat. And frankly, if she had known how they’d be traveling, she wouldn’t have worn stilettos. Particularly not ones with a fragile gold heel that looked just as chafed as her inner thighs.

She turned to look at Mahmoud, who was wearing a dark gray suit and didn’t seem to have broken a sweat. “Excuse me,” she said, anger bubbling up inside her and frothing out, “but I can’t understand why this was necessary. Couldn’t we have taken a Jeep? Or a plane? Wouldn’t that have been quicker?”

Mahmoud shot her a dashing smile and looked her up and down. “Well, Ms. Tyka, I suppose we could have. But then I would have missed out on this delightful opportunity to see you on camel-back. Quite a turn-on for those of us from this part of the world, you see.”

Tyka huffed and turned back around. She would wait until they were back in civilization. Then she would take him out. No, that was ridiculous. She didn’t need to kill him, for chrissake. A little humiliation would do just fine.

What was it about Mahmoud, anyway? He was making her hackles rise. At least they were in the open desert and not in a closed space. This she could deal with, even if she was chafing her thighs. Tyka had a paralyzing fear of crawling through small spaces, and had since she was a girl. In 1990, when Tyka was six, the Ukrainian parliament had just begun ruling, and the country was on the verge of civil war. Her mother had been a spy and collected valuable information from diplomats in the French government; then she had become a double agent. Thinking she was safe, she returned with her daughter to Ukraine. But when a new parliament began to rule, certain documents were unearthed that implicated her; she was to be persecuted, rightfully, as a traitor to the Ukrainian government. Thankfully, she had contacts in the Ukrainian Secret Service who alerted her to get out. She knew if she could get back to France, they would be granted asylum.

They traveled out of Ukraine and to a safe air base through a series of ancient tunnels that ran beneath the city, called the Odessa Catacombs. It took them a month and a half of walking and hiding within the secret corridors, which hadn’t been turned into a tourist attraction. They did not speak aloud the entire time, and they fed on a diet of rats and insects, drinking dirty rainwater that leaked down into the murky and labyrinthine corridors. Since that time, Tyka had found that tunnels, or any enclosed spaces, caused her to panic.

So she’d deal with the desert, the hot sun, camel hide, and Mahmoud’s slick pretensions any day.

“Would you like some water, Ms. Tyka?” he asked with that same amused grin. “It looks like you are a bit warm.”

“I’m fine,” she shot back, turning to look at him with a sneer. “And I really don’t find this amusing. Not only that, but it feels like you have compromised our mission just to watch me ride a camel.”

“Don’t underestimate me,” he said in a voice that was considerably more serious. “This was the only way for us to get where we need to be without alerting any suspicions. Surely you don’t think I’m that desperate. I assure you, if I wanted to watch beautiful women riding camels, it wouldn’t be difficult.”

Tyka turned back around with a shrug. She’d bide her time. They’d do what they needed to. And as soon as possible, she’d get as far away from him as she could.

‡‡‡

AJ HAD SET UP
an awesome version of mission control in the dining room of Mahmoud’s villa, if she did say so herself. She was pleased with her work, having established a global network on the fly in no time flat. This was what she excelled at, and suddenly, being asked to do the most difficult setup imaginable, she could feel the cells of her body come alive, the neurons within her firing quicker, electrical currents moving from her brain all over her skin. She was so excited about her own personal genius that she was drinking red wine and smoking a cigarillo while blasting a tune that reminded her of her youth: Judy Garland singing “Almost Like Being in Love.”

Mahmoud was right. It was one hell of a speaker system.

Finding a moment of peace for the first time since the interrupted wedding, AJ lit up a second cigarillo and continued to revel in her talents.

‡‡‡

LISA BEE WAS TRYING
to run a brush through her hair and failing. It seemed to be turning into bright red dreadlocks. She was standing up because she thought she’d fall asleep if she sat down. So she was not only standing but sashaying from side to side. She hadn’t slept for a while, and in addition, it had been a really emotional time. She was about to give up and pass out when she heard Jackson say from behind her, “You look like you’re hoppin’ to go. Ready, L’il Bee?”

She turned to glare at him, and he looked down at the ground like he’d been punished. Hell, she didn’t want to be angry with him; he was just acting so strange all of a sudden. And now she was stuck with him for the next few days, or however long this was going to take. And then she was pissed about being pissed: The person who normally calmed her down was now annoying her. “I’ll be ready in a couple minutes, Jackson. I’m just really tired—I gotta sleep at some point, don’t you?”

“Ah, you know me,” he said with a cautious smile. “I never need to sleep.”

“Well, some of us actually do.”

“You want me to make you a coffee? I can make you a strong one.”

“That’ll be great,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll be down in a few.”

“Hey, Bee,” he began. “I’m really sorry about what happened before. I just got kinda thrown off. Yeah, so I wanted to talk to you about—”

“Cool it, Jackie,” she said, cutting him off. “Whatever it was, I’m glad it’s done. Let’s just keep our eyes on the job, okay?”

“Okay,” he said after a pause, looking uncertain.
God, this was so unlike him!
“Sure. So I’m relying on you to keep me on task here—we gotta go be the eyes on the street, and we’ll be undercover as two friends enjoying a night out.”

“That’ll take a lot of work.” At his downcast eyes, she added, “Jackie, I was joking.”

“Oh, right,” he said with an awkward laugh. “Sorry.”

“Love being quicker than you are,” she said. “It only happens about once a year. Okay, so I just need to look over the paperwork that Mahmoud prepared so I know what’s up.”

“
I
prepped the paperwork, Bee,” Jackson said shortly, crossing his arms and looking a bit put out. “It’s what I’ve been working on for the last few months. Mahmoud’s a great partner, but
I
did all the legwork. We’re working together. But make no mistake: I’m the one in charge. Finish getting ready. I’ll go make you a coffee.”

As he took off, she wondered if she’d insulted him somehow. Weird. What was up with him? And why was his attitude pissing her off even more? Tying her hair back in a ponytail, she put on some lipstick and grabbed her purse, making a mental note to find out what was going on with him ASAP.

‡‡‡

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON
in D.C., and the Boss had just landed at Dulles International Airport. He was at a loss, not quite sure whom they were tracking or why, knowing there was someone to save, someone to capture, and several someones to hide from. But he was lost. Normally, Fritz gave him the intel and he organized the plans. Now he was just a point person, a point of contact, an administrator over someone else’s case. Though he could seem easygoing, he wasn’t. Though he appeared unflappable, sometimes life got the better of him. And though he worked hard to project a type B persona, he was very solidly type A. He wanted to be in control. And he hated that he wasn’t. He’d been pissed off enough to leave and come back to his home turf. Now, at least, he could run a few cases solo while he waited to see what transpired. But since he was alone, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his team had been taken away from him.

There was only one person who could help when things got rough. There was a lady in his life, a woman he loved more than he loved working cases, more than he loved classic films. He’d been under her spell since they met ten years ago on a shared case, one in which a man who was involved in a Ponzi scheme was also leading a double life. They’d met then, and instantly had a connection. But their relationship had taken place in secret, in the dark, in hidden corners. She said it was because of her work, that she couldn’t be attached to anyone. That it would be “bad for business.” He agreed but secretly wondered if she were with someone else, or if she just wasn’t into it like he was.

He’d remained single all this time, hoping that one day they could be together. But who was he kidding? Babs Worthington was the toughest, smartest, coolest cat in the business. She was a lone ranger, a brilliant investigator who hunted alone, surrounded by a team comprised exclusively of women. Sometimes she called him when she needed an extra pair of eyes or backup on a tough case. And sometimes he called her for the same. But mostly, he called her to talk, because the truth of the matter was that she was the only person on earth who could even him out.

She answered on the first ring, and he could hear the sound of her lighting one of her customary Marlboro Reds. She inhaled deeply before saying, “What is it, Johnny? You sound stressed.”

“How can you hear that I’m stressed? I haven’t said anything yet,” the Boss responded, but he already felt more at ease, just hearing her voice.

She laughed, low husky laughter that warmed his insides. “I can hear your silence, Johnny. It sounds . . . tight. What’s up? New case?”

“Yeah, you could say that. Mind if I bend your ear for a bit?”

He could hear her stretch out on that creaky old twin bed she’d never get rid of. Babs lived in Maryland and operated out of her home, though it felt more like a bunker than a house. “I just got home from one fuck of a case. Rough one, Johnny. Almost called you in for backup. But I put him away. Shot him point-blank through the heart. He earned it, for sure. Sleazy fucker. Earth’s a bit lighter without him on it.” She paused to take another drag. “So go ahead, sweetheart. Make my day.”

The Boss felt his shoulders drop. He wished he were lying in bed next to her, having a Scotch while she had her smoke, watching her run her fingers through her cropped black hair, watching her mind work. But talking would have to do. He started from the beginning and told her every detail until she was able to set him straight. Talking to Babs was like breathing fresh air. Now he was ready to get back to work.

He hailed a cab and put a call in to Fritz. It was time for him to get back to the office, run a case, get his game back. He’d reinvent his business now that everything had changed and transform it into one hell of an operation. The space he had been given was room to create anew. He was an excellent entrepreneur, and he was ready to take things to the next level.

“Fritz?” he said when she answered. “It’s John. Time for us to meet.”