Thirst No. 3 (11 page)

“It is true. There’s no reason for us to meet.”

I shoot his right kneecap with my silenced pistol. A .45 is a powerful round for a handgun, but it cannot compare to the armor-piercing bullets Claudious Ember and I were using a few nights ago. Marko lets out a muffled cry and drops to one knee. His wound isn’t fatal—nor will he lose the leg—but he’s bleeding freely. I speak to him in a sympathetic tone.

“I know what you’re thinking, Marko. It doesn’t matter what you tell me, I’m going to kill you. You’re also thinking that if you hold out a bit, then break down and give me something,
anything that’s useful, I might at least spare your family. To be blunt, all of this would ordinarily be true. But you’re wrong to think I’m an assassin and someone has hired me to kill you. I hate professional hit men, and when I cross paths with one, I usually kill them. Also I’ve studied your family, and your wife and children, and they appear to love you, although they would be hurt to know what little love you’re capable of.”

“I care for my family,” he says, breathing heavily. He does think I’m going to kill him.

“Fine. Right now—before your wife gets worried and comes looking for you—I want to talk business. Tell me the name and address of your broker.”

He hesitates. “Rita Centrello. She lives in New Jersey, a small town called Olive. 2112 Oates Drive. She’s an old broad, in her seventies, harmless as a fly.”

“Mafia?”

He shrugs. “It’s not like you think.”

“If you warn her that she’s going to have a visitor, I’ll come back and kill your family. Understood?”

“Sure.”

“IIC. Have you heard of them?”

He hesitates. “Yeah. Before Randy, they gave me a contract for a woman in the Bay Area who worked for them. Michelle Ranker. They’ve given me regular jobs over the last five years. Always paid top dollar. It made Rita and me wonder, you know. To be blunt, Rita doesn’t know anything about them.
Believe me if you want, I don’t care. But I asked Michelle what their big secret was.”

“Right before you killed her?”

“Hey, she was in a talkative mood. She told me she’d tell me if I promised not to kill her. What the hell. She didn’t understand how this business works. I told her what she wanted to hear and she swore to me that IIC was working for the Antichrist. That they were preparing the way.”

“How?”

“By making truckloads of money. She said they were spread all over the world, and had controlling shares in more companies on Wall Street than you can imagine. But she said no one knew about them, not really. They were strictly behind the scenes.”

“How do they make their money?”

“I asked her that. She babbled on about something called the Array.”

“What’s the Array?”

“I don’t know. She started crying then, begging me not to kill her. I got impatient and hit her. That was a mistake. She started talking crazy stuff. The kids, she said, she was the one who paid the kids. A hundred bucks a month, that’s all IIC paid them.”

“Who were the kids?”

“Beats me. It sounded like they were a bunch of normal kids. They weren’t psychic, and they knew nothing about the
stock market. But Michelle did say they were all from the third world. She acted like she was their mother. She said she made sure they got their checks each month. But then she started sobbing. She said that was her big mistake, that she had talked about them once in public. That’s why they had sent me to kill her. She got real hysterical at the end, I don’t think anything she said was reliable.” He pauses. “You’re not just busting my balls? You really might let me go?”

“You sound like Michelle.”

“Don’t screw with me.”

“Relax. Did you question any of IIC’s other contracts?”

“No.”

“Did you question Randy?”

“I wanted to, but he had a gun. I had to move fast.”

“Was he your last hit?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have a contract for another?”

“Yeah. It’s IIC-related. The . . . well . . .” He doesn’t finish.

“You were going to mention the file. I want to see that file.”

He speaks with force. “It’s in a vault in my office. Go in there and you’ll run into my wife or my kids. I can’t risk that.”

“I can be in and out in a minute if you give me the combination to your vault. And I can promise they won’t see me.”

“No one can promise that.”

“See how easily I hid from you? Mr. Marko the Magnificent. Tell me what I want to know. This is a deal breaker.”

He sighs. “The vault’s behind a painting behind my desk. Sixteen right. Nineteen left. Three right. Four left. Then spin the dial clockwise three times to clear it before you try to open it. Otherwise, it will trip an alarm and tip off Rita.”

“You sound like you care for the old broad.”

“She’s been good to me. We’ve been good for each other.”

“Do you work for any other brokers?”

“No. I make enough with Rita.”

“Good. Because Randy was your last job.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“I’m very serious.”

“What if I promise to turn down all IIC jobs from now on?”

“Promise all you want. But know if you leave town in the next thirty years—for any reason whatsoever—I’ll hunt you down and kill you and everyone in your family. If you doubt my sincerity, test me and take a drive to Cedar Rapids next month. Your son will be dead the next day.”

“These conditions are highly unprofessional.”

“I told you, I’m not a professional.”

“You can’t set up a wall around this town.”

“I don’t need a wall, just a few informants. Besides, you saw how easily I found you. It’ll be just as easy to track you.”

He considers. “I was thinking of retiring anyway.”

I hear truth in his words. “The kids?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me what Michelle meant by the Antichrist.”

“How should I know? She was raving. She knew she was about to die.”

I can’t argue. “I’m going to give you two names: Lisa Fetch and Jeff Stephens. If you hear of a contract that’s been put out on them, you’re to alert me immediately.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“A large check.”

“I prefer cash.”

“Fine. Call this number.” I have him memorize a private phone line I keep for such purposes. “Are we clear about everything?” I ask when we’re done.

“I still don’t want you in my house.”

“That’s the least of your worries. You’ll see a light go on in my car when I’m about to leave. It’s parked at the end of your driveway. Don’t speak to your wife until I’m gone.”

“I can’t believe you’re going to let me live.”

“Miracles never cease. Two last points. Did you see any data files Randy had in his possession? Ones that related to IIC?”

“No. But I was given strict instructions to destroy his computers. He had six.”

“What kind of security does Rita keep?”

“She lives with her boys—the three youngest: Mad Max, Slim, Fats. They’re not professional. They catch you and they’ll skin you alive. Please, if they do catch you, don’t . . .”

“Don’t mention your name, I got it. How’s the leg?”

“I’ll live.”

“That’s right. You’ll live in Fairfield until the day you die. Capisce?”

“Capisce,” he agrees. Then he asks, “May I ask a question?”

“Yes.”

“Who the hell are you?”

I stand in the dark and begin to move away.

“Someone you don’t want to meet twice,” I reply.

Back in Cedar Rapids, in the airport parking lot, I study the file I stole from Marko’s house. The contract is on a seventeen-year-old girl from India named Shanti. She was born in Madras but now lives in San Antonio, Texas. There’s a picture of her in the file. That’s what catches my attention first.

Shanti’s face is horribly disfigured.

Apparently she was the victim of a crime that has become all too popular in my home country. Forced into a marriage arrangement when she was but a child, she tried to get out of it two years ago, when she was fifteen. Her suitor-to-be didn’t approve of her decision. Instead of being a gentleman and letting her go, he bought two car batteries, drained the sulfuric acid into a steel cup, and threw the corrosive liquid in her face. Clearly, if he couldn’t have her, he didn’t want anyone else to have her.

From the photo, it is obvious Shanti is blind in the right eye, and her file states she has only limited vision in the left. I find it hard to study the picture and not feel sick and angry.
Half her face has been melted away. The file contains her street address and a note that says,
The mark is helpless, devoid of security of any kind.

Yet the file contains another note.
It’s important Shanti be killed as soon as possible
. It makes me wonder.

I have suddenly lost interest in Rita and her boys. Inside the airport, I alter my return ticket so that I’ll arrive in Texas in the middle of the night.

The next morning, I sit outside Shanti’s house in a fresh rental and contemplate how I should approach the girl and her uncle, Shivam Garuda, who appears to be her sole guardian. Since I don’t have time to cultivate a friendship with the girl, a blunt introduction seems best. I have a fake FBI badge that my contacts in the agency will back up, should the uncle call and check on me. I’m now Special Agent Jessica Reese.

The house is small, with at best two bedrooms, in a poor section of town. I have arrived early enough to catch the uncle before he leaves for work. I don’t imagine Shanti will answer many questions without him present. According to Marko’s file, she’s alone from nine in the morning until six at night every day. Her injuries keep her from attending school.

I do a sweep of the area before I knock. There don’t appear
to be any assassins near the house. Why should there be? IIC has assigned the job to Marko, the best hit man in the country. When I do knock, Shanti’s uncle is quick to answer.

“May I help you?” Mr. Shivam Garuda is only forty-five but looks older. He’s extremely thin, to the point of malnutrition, with white hair and a bump on his spine that forces him to bend slightly forward.

“Hello. My name’s Jessica Reese. I’m with the FBI.”

I’m wearing a black pantsuit and skillfully applied makeup, both of which make me look at least in my mid-twenties. But it’s the tone of my voice, the way I flash my badge, my whole manner, that makes me appear older. Mr. Garuda studies my badge closely.

“What can I do for you?” he asks, guarded.

“I’m here to speak with your niece, Shanti. But I understand you’re her guardian and wouldn’t mind if you sat in on the questioning.”

“What is this about? Is Shanti in trouble?”

I nod sympathetically. “She may well be in trouble, but not with the U.S. government. Please, if I could come in and have a few minutes of your time, I think we might be able to help each other.”

My tone reeks of sincerity. Plus, I look harmless. He relaxes a notch and lets me in the house.

“Shanti is sleeping. Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”

“Not at all.”

“Would you like some tea?”

“Tea would be nice. Thank you.”

He brings me up a cup of warm chai and heads for the back of the house. The taste brings back old memories. On the wall are paintings of Lord Krishna—as a child, with his mother Yashoda, and as an adult, playing his flute for the gopis. Of course, I knew from their names that the Garudas were probably Hindu, but it warms my heart to see they worship the same God as myself. If only they knew that I once met Krishna . . .

Mr. Garuda reappears a moment later. He looks uncomfortable. “My niece is getting dressed. She won’t be long. But I want to warn you—”

I interrupt gently. “I’m aware of her condition.”

He’s relieved I know but nevertheless nods sadly. “She was the prettiest girl.”

“I’m sure she was.” I pause. “Has she had reconstructive surgery?”

He gestures to his poor abode. “It’s all I pray for. But right now, there’s no money for doctors.”

“I understand.”

Shanti appears a few minutes later, wearing dark sunglasses and a simple white dress. In person, her disfigurement is even harder to bear. The acid did not just take the right eye but also her right nostril and a large portion of her right cheek. A large gap extends away from her mouth, revealing stained molars and a mass of scarred gum tissue.

Yet she doesn’t hesitate to take a step forward and shake my hand.

“My uncle says you are Special Agent Jessica Reese,” she says.

“Call me Jessica, please. You’re Shanti?”

“Yes.” She gestures. “Have a seat, make yourself at home. This is exciting for me. I watch
X-Files
reruns all the time, but I never dreamed that I would one day be visited by a real-life FBI agent.”

Like most educated Indians, her English is excellent, but unfortunately there is a faint hissing sound to Shanti’s words. It’s due to the large hole in her cheek, and perhaps nerve damage to her tongue. Otherwise, I’m sure, she would have a delightful voice. I vow right then I’ll get her the finest plastic surgeons in the land, once I know why the IIC wants her dead.

I chuckle at her remark. “This might surprise you, but that show is one of the reasons I became an FBI agent.”

“Have you been one long?” Mr. Garuda asks. I’ve done my best to make myself look older, but he’s sharp-sighted and no fool.

“I’m only two years out of the academy in Quantico. You may have heard of it. It’s back in Virginia. Before I graduated, our instructors used to joke that all the newbies would be sent off to Texas. It turned out I was the only one.”

“You must feel isolated,” Shanti said.

I shrug. “Sometimes.”

“Have you made any new friends?”

These are questions I should be asking her, the poor dear.

“None that I would take home to Mother,” I say with a smile. Then I change my tone, getting serious. “I should explain the purpose of my visit. I must warn you ahead of time it will shock you.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” Shanti asks innocently.

“I’m sorry, I wish I was here with good news.” I lift up the file I took from Marko’s house and pass it to her. “Shanti, can you read?” I ask.