The Gift of the Dragon (11 page)

“I do.” Faith nodded. “So you hired an assassin who turned on you and stole a tablet from his target. Do you have a name for this former employee of yours?”

“Callan Grant,” said Northwin.
 

She noted Trevor looking hard at her when Northwin said the name. It took all her training not to blink. She had heard some about him, mostly very bad. He was on the FBI’s “unwanted” list: people the Agency actually wanted badly but didn’t want the public to know about. The “unwanted” were generally worse than the public “most wanted.” But then, the name Faith Parcy could be found on a few lists also. She kept her expression blank when she said, “Never heard of him.”

Northwin humphed. “No reason you should. He’s a bottom feeder. Very good at what he does, but not an
honest
man.”
 

Faith crossed her arms. She could take Callan on and win; she knew she could. The job should be worth more than half a million, though, and there seemed to be something unspoken going on between these two. She shook her head. “Sorry, no way.”

Northwin glanced at Trevor, who nodded.
 

“Either way, we have this for you.” He handed her an envelope.
 

Faith reached out a suddenly shaky hand. She felt that if she took what he offered, she would be stuck working on the job despite her qualms.
 

Trevor said. “Faith, this is just for you—no strings. Consider it an additional payment for the Mishari thing and a consulting fee for meeting with us today.”

She took the envelope and looked inside.
 

“That is a check for half of what my friend here promised you. It’s yours. If you decide to help us, we'll give you the other half, plus all expenses.”

“No.”
They are acting as though a quarter million was a tip. That’s a sign I can read.

Trevor spoke then. “Please, Faith, really, take it, there are no conditions.”

“Oh, I'll take it, but when I bring you the tablet, you will give me another two million.” Looking closely, she noticed no shock in their eyes. They expected this.
Should have asked for three!
“Plus expenses.”

Northwin said, “Well played, Faith. I'd say this new partnership should be sealed with another toast of that highland agave juice.” Trevor refilled their glasses. Northwin drained his and then leaned to the window and drew back the curtain.
 

“Now, I need to get back down to Miami tonight.”
 

Faith had not looked out the window for a while. She started to see the signs for Reagan Airport.

“It’s been good to meet you. I eagerly await the successful completion of this business.” Northwin reached out a hand, and Faith took it.
 

“Thank you, Mr. Northwin. I won’t let you down.”

Northwin smiled. “Please, Faith, call me Laird. We shared good tequila! We should use first names.”

Faith smiled. “Sure, thank you for the job… Laird.”
 

Northwin let out a booming laugh. Trevor broke in. “Fantastic to see we are all on a first-name basis, Mr. Laird Northwin. Now, you do have that flight to catch?”

Northwin winked at Faith. “Ah, yes. Trevor, my faithful little troll, keeps me regular, right on time. Hey, keep the faith, Faith!” Laughing at his own joke, Northwin swept from the car and slammed the door.
 

“Ah,” Faith said, grinning at Trevor. “Alone at last.”

Trevor looked uncomfortable. “There is one other thing.”

The car hit a pothole as Trevor spoke.
 

“You are out of your mind, Trevor! I’ll get your tablet back, but I won’t sleep with Callan Grant to get it!”

“I understand your feelings, Faith. I really do.”

“No, you don’t understand, Trevor. When was the last time someone asked that you seduce a target to get her to do what you want?”

“Look, I am not saying you need to sleep with Grant to get the tablet. I’m just saying that he has been known to be attracted to women with your… qualities.”

Faith stared out the window. The car rolled slowly through rush-hour Washington traffic. They were driving past crowds of pedestrians in Farragut Square. Even through the thick glass window, she could hear a trumpet playing Amy Winehouse’s "You Know I’m No Good," with the band in the park. Needing some fresh air, she tried to find the control to lower the window, but the sleek black leather armrest revealed no hint of such a mundane thing. Looking down at her empty glass, she realized she had downed five shots of fine, strong tequila before five o’clock. The late afternoon sun shone bright and hot on the bustling crowd that spilled out onto the sidewalks. Faith shut the curtain and leaned back into the seat.

“Why is it that women get treated this way? That you think the only way I can pull this off is with my body?”

“Well, Callan Grant is dangerous. That’s not to say you are not also dangerous. We fear, Northwin and I, though, that our goal might get crushed between Scylla and Charybdis.”

“What?”

“Sorry. A rock and hard place. I’m not saying which one I think you are.” Trevor sat back as if she were going to hit him.
“For many years, women were held down by men. They discovered their own special ways to get things done.”

“Don’t lecture me on women’s history!”
 

“Thinking too much is sometimes dangerous, Faith. Despite all the history or because of it, women possess a special ability.”

“Stop saying special!”
Where does this little… troll! Where does he get off lecturing me as though I’m a schoolgirl?

“The ability to distract men, to seduce them, to find the holes in their shells. You know better than I do how powerful that can be when directed. This is especially true in your area of expertise. Men will be staring at your legs while you are drawing your gun. And you are very much Callan’s type.”

 
“You are a
disgusting
little jerk, aren’t you?”

She sat back in her seat, elbows on the armrests, fingers enlaced, staring at Trevor.
If I release my fingers, I might break him in half before I can stop myself!

“I am little. I’m almost precisely half a man. The better half, I tell myself.”

Trevor pulled out his iPhone and showed it to her. “This is Grant. He’s almost freakishly decent looking.”

Faith tilted her head back, looking down at the phone.
Yeah, as I thought: FBI’s most unwanted numero uno.
“You are sick, Trevor.”

He handed her the phone.
 

“There are more photos. Some of him in his suit.” Trevor leered. “If I were of your sex, I’d take the job. Hell, if I could have your legs, I might well switch my sex.”
 

Trevor’s voice softened. “Avoid what is strong, and attack what is weak.”

She recognized Sun Tzu.
 

“Grant has been hard on operatives we have sent to recover our property. Several of those he’s killed. He’s not a nice man, Faith. I’m giving you a weapon against him.”

“So he will think he can seduce me, especially if he thinks I was sent to spy on him?”

She saw Trevor take a deep breath. “Our profile strongly suggests that he’ll make it his mission in life. Unlike his other victims, you will know what he’s doing.”

Faith realized she had no real choice. Her company tottered on its last legs. She could not return to the FBI with Stoddard in charge. Stoddard had also closed doors at private military contractors, and she knew Stoddard’s displeasure kept away decent customers. Northwin clearly didn’t worry about Stoddard, and that meant that, for now, Faith needed to stick with him. Or apply for the other job she qualified for.
Barista!

“Callan Grant is as bad as they come, Faith.” Trevor said this with an urgency that surprised her. “We all have our problems. I would sleep with Callan if it would give me functional legs. For you, maybe using your looks will save your life, and it’ll definitely be good for your business.”

The car started moving again. Faith finally found the window control and lowered it. She heard the jazz band playing Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car,” with a lilting beat over steel drums. The line about starting from zero echoed in her mind.

She watched the young kids and suited professionals grasping water bottles and dancing to the music.
 

“I wish I could be like that, just dancing… not a goddamn problem a song can’t take away.”

Trevor
 

Trevor let his breath out softly. She had taken the job. He even felt better about her chances of survival.

Trevor thought that she had been angrier at the end because she came to trust him some during their afternoon of driving around Washington, drinking expensive tequila. Gran Centenario could have that effect. Sometimes his father berated him for his expensive tastes. Well, some things were worth it. The idea to talk to Faith about Callan’s weakness came from his father. Trevor grinned inwardly. His father, one of the richest men in the world, wanted to leave nothing to chance. However, he would surely lecture Trevor that he could have accomplished the task with a twenty-dollar bottle of liquor!

After dropping Faith off at her Columbia Plaza apartment, Trevor McAlister sipped his tequila and lost himself in his Kindle, reading Candide yet another time. Each time through, he found another reason to enjoy Voltaire’s sarcasm as well as the erratic, fast-moving plot. Sometimes Trevor thought the daring Monsieur Arouet somehow, centuries ago, saw a vision of twenty-first century life, with its speedy vitality mixed with a strident, almost fanatical devotion to spectacle.
A vision or a premonition.

The Escalade smoothed out the bumps in the road nicely as it pulled back into Reagan National and back up to the passenger drop-off area it had recently left. Trevor sent a text, “Mission Accomplished,” to Blunt after dropping Faith off, so that he would know to finish his drink at Cibo Bistro in the airport and head back to the drop-off area.

Then his phone rang. He looked at the screen and sighed. Words on the iPhone’s screen informed him that Franklin McAlister was calling him. “Why, it is dear old dad. Good to hear from you!”

“Trevor, we should tell Faith that the Sangerman girl is alive, and that she is with Northwin on Endurance.”

“Why would we tell her that?”

“I told you.”

“The trap you and Laird are setting. You expect her to tell Grant all this?”

“I expect her to succeed. You chose her, after all. You know I like contingencies, though.”

“Seems like a rather large contingency.”

“Son!”

Franklin raised his eyebrows. “I’ll make sure she gets the message,” Trevor said.

“It should come from Laird.”

“You mean Ned Blunt disguised as Northwin?”

“Yes, she thinks he is her employer and you only the errand boy. Now that she has met ‘Northwin,’ we cannot bring the real Laird in.”

“Of course not. I'll tell Blunt the errand boy needs him to don his costume once again. I rather think he enjoys it. It gives him a chance to order me around.”

“Excellent.” Franklin hung up.
 

“I love you too, fatha deah,” Trevor said as he put the phone away.

Ned Blunt strode to the curb as the Escalade pulled up and stepped in as soon as Trevor opened the door.
 

“Mr. Blunt, it seems I need you to dress up as Mr. Northwin once more and impart some new information to our dear Faith.”

“So mission
not
accomplished?”

“Like the former President, I’m afraid I spoke too soon.”

“So once more into the breach,” said Blunt, leering.

“Just keep your breeches to yourself, Ned. We need Ms. Parcy to carry out this mission. I know how she looks, and I know she looks at you as if you are more than a hired scoundrel.”

“Ah, come on, Trevor. I see you as the handsome one here.”

“What you see is a cripple. If I'd been born poor, I'd be living in poverty, greeting people at Bigmart. If I got lucky.” Trevor raised his glass, looking at the color of the Gran Centenario through the light. “But I’m a McAlister, of the Apple Creek McAlisters. Things are expected of me. My father is Chief Operating Officer of the company that owns more land than any other individual or group. Also a founder and major shareholder—and Sam Sangerman's right-hand man, confidant, and partner.”

“He had Sangerman killed, though.”
 

“After saying Sangerman went mad. Life is full of mystery and strangeness. Now, my sister has married Robert Brandon, who became CEO of Apple Creek after Sangerman, and Brandon owns fifty-one percent of the shares. His son, my dear nephew, will be CEO after Robert dies. So I'm uncle to the someday-greatest landowner in the world. It’s all very exciting.”

“Why are you telling me all this? I work for you, not Brandon.”

“I’m telling you because I’m a cripple, someone you feel sorry for, and I want to rub in the fact that, broken as I am, I am also rich. Rich rich rich. It is stupid and dramatic, I know. It’s also all I got. Well, that and more than a few shots of tequila.”

 
“Okay, boss, I’ll play. How did Brandon get that many shares?”

“There was a clause stating that if Sangerman left no heirs, his shares would be allocated by the current CEO. Robert Brandon was never the sort to give to Peter Moore what Robert Brandon could take for himself. Have to keep the whole
thing
wrapped up, you know.”

“Surprises me your father went along with that deal.”

“Brandon marrying my sweet sister Ayn was the price. I’m not sure Robert has found it as inexpensive a promise as he first thought.”

“Sangerman had a son and two daughters.”

“Yes, and they tragically died soon after their father, or so it was said. Now, it looks as though one survived.”

“If Alice Sangerman is alive, what happens?”

“She could go to court and try to reclaim her inheritance. Or she could hunt down those who killed her father and brother and avenge them. Or both. While I applaud and cheer her pluckiness at surviving, it is not a thing that makes people named McAlister dance for joy. Not even me.” Trevor slapped his useless legs.