Any Minute Now (14 page)

“I don't fuck everyone who asks, only the ones I like. I'm not a whore.”

“Women as well as men?”

“Sometimes. Sure, why not?”

Julie chuckled softly, as with a shared secret. She stared into Sydny's glittering eyes. “I want to see you again.”

“What you want is to find the power inside yourself.”

“That's what I mean.”

“Then of course we'll see each other again.” Sydny walked her over to the car. The rear door opened. Julie's heart thudded as she ducked her head and slid into the backseat. At once, the door closed behind her and the car took off.

The driver kept his eyes fixed on the road and on his side mirrors. He did not once even glance at her. Well trained, she thought. Then she turned her attention to the figure wedged into the far corner of the seat, his face deliberately in shadow. Though she couldn't see his face, by the shape of his torso she knew he wasn't her boss. Who, then?

All at once the figure moved and in the strobing illumination from the passing streetlights, a strong, rugged face appeared.

“Good morning, Julie,” Whitman said.

Julie, trying to regain her equilibrium, found events running over her like a Mack truck. “I don't know what to say.”

Whitman shook his head. “You were just doing your job. I'm here now because I want you to tell me what Hemingway's idea was, because I don't have a clue. What were you doing at The Doll House?”

“She told you about me.”

“Everything she knew. I intuited the rest.”

Julie watched his face go from shadow to light and back again as they traveled through the dark and silent city. “Just tell me one thing. Was everything Sydny said to me an act?”

“Sydny genuinely likes you.”

Julie blushed and turned away. For the moment, she could not bear to see how he was looking at her, how he might be judging her. “But I lied to her. Repeatedly.”

“She thought that took guts.” He paused for a moment. “She sees something in you.”

Julie ducked her head. “So she said.”

“I would take that at face value, if I were you. Sydny's an extraordinary woman.”

“Can I tell you something?” Her eyes at last engaged with his. “When I'm with her she makes me feel … alive.”

“Mission accomplished,” Whitman said with a chuckle. “Now tell me what you were doing at The Doll House.”

Julie settled herself, hands overlapping each other in her lap. “Hemingway called me into his office, said he had a line on this stripper named Sydny who worked at The Doll House, a place he knew you frequented. He knew she was your favorite dancer.”

“He knows more than I thought.” Whitman rubbed his chin. “What did he want you to do?”

“Talk to her, ‘woman to woman' as he put it. See if I could find out what you're up to when you're off duty.”

Here's what I've been doing in my off hours, besides visiting Flix, Whitman thought: finding out that Ibrahim Mansour is nothing more than a punk running a wildcat cadre he claims is affiliated with al-Qaeda, which none of my private back-channel contacts can verify. In other words, he was a soft target: an easy win for NSA, currying favor with POTUS on the defensive domestically. But he brought up none of this to her, instead saying, “What could Hemingway be suspicious of?”

“On the surface, it would seem that after the blown mission, he's looking at everyone, including you. But I'm thinking, actually, he's after Luther St. Vincent.” She cocked her head. “You're St. Vincent's bȇte noire, so Hemingway thinks. Is that right?”

“Tie this all up for me, would you?”

Julie swallowed hard. Being between Hemingway and this man was an exceedingly uncomfortable place to be. “This is just a guess, you understand.”

“I'm listening.”

“Hemingway was hoping I'd scrape up some dirt on you to use as leverage. He wants to force the issue. He wants you to take out St. Vincent for him.”

“Hands perfectly clean.”

She nodded uncertainly. “Like I said—”

“It's a good guess,” Whit said slowly as she chewed over the scenario. “My world is full of pricks.”

There was a small silence, which ended when Whitman said, more gently than she could have imagined, “One thing. Why in the world would Hemingway send you?”

“I asked him that myself. He told me he thought a civilian like Sydny would respond better to someone like me, who wasn't a trained field man; that a field man might spook her.”

Whitman was about to say that her boss was full of shit, when she piped up.

“But you know I kind of liked it. I mean I was a little scared, but he called me into his office.”

“So you said.”

“But the thing is—the odd thing—is that he asked me to close the door behind me. That's SOP for agents, but he's never, ever done that with me before. When I'm in his office the door is always open.”

“What d'you make of that?”

“Well, naturally I was flattered, and thrilled when he gave me this assignment. At last, I thought, he's giving me a chance to be of use to him, instead of just being a drone pushing papers.”

“What was it that changed your mind?”

“Frankly, you. Your presence here—you picking me up—has made me rethink the entire episode. It's why I asked you if Sydny was lying. I was wondering whether she belongs to Hemingway, whether this was a clandestine way of having me re-vetted.”

“Put your mind at ease on that score,” Whitman said. “Sydny belongs to no one. She's my friend.”

Julie bit her lower lip. Something was nagging at her, and she wondered whether she could trust Whitman. A deep connection ran between him and Sydny that made her envious of Sydny. Why couldn't she have that? What was wrong with her? She intuited that Sydny held the answer, perhaps the answer to everything. If Sydny trusted Whitman then so could she. Her gut told her to go ahead, and she did: “There's something you need to know. It has to do with this Lebanon mission.”

Whitman stiffened, a darkness coming into his eyes. “Explain, please.”

“Hemingway told Cutler that taking another run at Seiran el-Habib is now off the table.”

“Right. He's slipped the intel leash; no one can find him. Cutler told me.”

“Yes, but it isn't the truth.”

“What?”

“Seiran el-Habib is exactly where he has been, in that villa your team assaulted.”

Whitman couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Then why would—”

“An action directive from POTUS via NSA, to bring in a major success.”

“Bringing Seiran el-Habib in
would
be a major success.”

“Except that the crisis in Lebanon has taken precedence.”

“Is this something you have verified independently or are you just parroting what Hemingway told you?” Cutler had sold this very same line to Whitman.

Julie's silence spoke volumes.

Whitman sat back against the cushion. “Capturing and wringing Seiran el-Habib for intel would give POTUS more airtime than any target we could find in Lebanon,” he said. “They're all lying. The question is why.”

At that moment, the car slowed, pulled into the curb, and stopped. “You're home.” Whitman opened the curbside door. “A piece of advice, Julie. Never let them see what you're thinking.”

“That's so basic. Keep a poker face.”

“Believe it or not,” Whitman said, “there are agents—the great ones—who can read a poker face, or at least infer from it some things better left secret. No, what you want to show is emotion.”

“What emotion?”

“It doesn't matter, as long as it's not the one they're expecting. It's simple misdirection—a form of sleight of hand, the illusionist's most intimate companion. You see what I mean?”

“I do, and I'm grateful.”

“One more thing. Pushing papers, as you put it, has two sides. Those papers contain important information. Information is power, Julie. Give that notion a thought.”

She nodded. “I will.” She hesitated as she was about to clamber over his legs.

As if intuiting her thoughts, he said, “What is it?”

“I should tell you…” Her head swung away as she stared out the side window. It was suddenly very quiet inside the car. Her head swung back and her eyes engaged with his. “I've been sleeping with your boss.”

Whitman seemed not to react at all. “You're not surprised?” she asked.

Instead of giving her a direct answer, he said, “You're Cutler's conduit?”

“You could say that.”

“That sounds about right.”

“What does that mean?”

“Have a good think before you decide to continue, that's all I'm saying.”

She opened her mouth to say something, then decided against it.

“Okay, then.” He grinned and said in his best Hollywood Western accent, “Now git along, little doggie.”

As she climbed over him, he added sternly, “This never happened.”

She stood on the pavement and glanced back at him. “What never happened?” She gave him a complicit smile, still digesting everything he had told her. She caught a crescent of his face in half-light, before the door slammed shut and the car, nosing out into the silent and deserted street, continued its mysterious journey through the city.

Her mind still buzzing, she crossed the pavement, went up the stairs to her building. Behind her, the eastern sky had turned the color of an oyster shell.

 

13

St. Vincent came for Orteño at eleven a.m. and transported him back to the Bethesda Institute of Mary Immaculate. Once again, Sister Margaret met them in reception and led them down the various corridors to the conservatory.

Lucy was sitting in the same chair but she was no longer playing cards. She held an iPod and was apparently listening to music through a pair of earbuds. As before, St. Vincent took up position by the door and Sister Margaret retreated back down the corridor. Neither of them had said a word to Orteño; it was clear to him that she did not approve of taking his niece off the meds prescribed for her by the in-house psychiatrist.

Flix sat down opposite Lucy, waited until she pulled out the earbuds, and then, smiling, he held out a small box wrapped in gaily colored paper. “I brought you a present, Lucy.”

She studied him as if he were a postmodern painting, trying to make sense of the scrawls and loops. Wordlessly, she took the box, unwrapped it with steady hands, and peered inside. She took out a necklace that held a cameo.

“That comes from Marilena, your mother,” Flix said hopefully. “It was given to her by your great-grandmother in San Luis Potosí, just before Mama Novia died.” He pasted a smile on his face. “You know, San Luis Potosí, where Mama Novia comes from, where she returned to die, was a very important city, Lucy. It was the capital of Mexico, not once, but twice in its history.”

Lucy said nothing, stared fixedly at the cameo in the palm of her hand.

Flix felt a sudden rush of anxiety. He had to stop himself from leaning toward her; he did not want to alarm her. “It's beautiful, no? Do you like it? It comes from your mother with love.” That last part was untrue. St. Vincent had enjoined Flix from telling his sister anything about her daughter other than that she was alive and well. Marilena had given the heirloom to him years ago in hopes that it would encourage him to get married.

“My mother never loved me,” Lucy said without taking her eyes from the cameo.

Flix felt that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach again. His heart broke, both for his sister and for his niece.

“What has happened to you, Lucy?” The question was out of his mouth before he could stop it. He was sure he'd made a terrible mistake, that she would stand up and walk away, but he was wrong.

She looked up at him. Her coffee-colored eyes were clear as a spring brook, and there was an animation behind them, the sign of a mind at work without being dulled insensate by chemical cocktails.

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,
Tío
.”

Tío
. She called him Uncle. “I want to know,
guapa
. Why don't you try me?”

This produced in her the barest hint of a smile. “I remember how you used to call me
guapa
.”

“Because that's what you always were to me—what you still are—beautiful.”

“Yes, well—” her eyes clouded over, the hint of a smile fleeing for its life, “nothing beautiful happened to me.”

“Tell me.”

“What's wrong with your right shoulder,
Tío
?”

He smiled inwardly; it was a good sign that she was noticing things outside herself. “I was shot.”

“Shot?!” She was clearly shocked. “Why?”

“I was overseas, in a war zone. It's part of my job.”

“To get shot?”

“Possibly, but hopefully not. This time something went wrong.”

“You're okay?”

“I'm fine,
guapa
. Really. I'm at the end of rehab. I'll be deployed within a day or so.”

“For how long?”

“Not long. These deployments are usually forty-eight hours or so.” Short but intense, he thought. “When I get back I'll take you out of here. We'll go together to see your mother.”

“No!” Lucy closed the cameo in her fist. “I don't want to see her.”

“But why not?”

Lucy looked away. The fist enclosing the cameo trembled perceptibly.

“But,
guapa
, she loves you.”

Lucy's head swung back, and she looked at him with eyes brimming with tears. “Did you ever ask yourself why I ran away?”

“You fell into a bad crowd, got hooked on drugs, and—”

“
¡Basta!
” she cried. Enough! “She told you that.”