message, deleted it, then sat back in his chair and stared fixedly into space as the information hit home.
Margaret Baker was dead.
All thoughts of the Caribbean, the marlins, and the tequila were long gone. The arrogant smile vanished, replaced by an expression of deep contemplation. He sat there for a long while, setting his hands in the familiar church-and-steeple configuration, tapping the forefingers together as he considered what to do. One part of him was tempted to disregard the matter altogether. Huge odds, he thought. Huge. Bigger than huge. But another part —the cautious and conservative part that remained restless until all contingencies had been accounted for —demanded otherwise. And there was another factor involved now, an unexpected emotion he was not accustomed to dealing with —fear.
He got out of the chair, retrieved a phone from his overcoat, and went into the private bathroom. The phone was connected to a government satellite and used a virtually impenetrable 256-bit encryption formula. It was unavailable to the public and issued only to high-ranking members of the intelligence community.
He locked the door, turned on the exhaust fan, and tapped in a number.
3
EDWARD BIRK lay on his back with the silk sheets pulled up just above his waist. He stared mindlessly at the ceiling, hands tucked behind his head.
The woman lying next to him, a tiny Asian thing with a perfect tan, was on her stomach, head turned the other way. Her black hair fell in sheets over her shoulders and piled up on the pillow. Somehow the posture did not strike Birk as befitting a woman of such natural beauty. Then again, neither did the snoring. She was as light and delicate as a bird, but she snored like a sailor. He found this distasteful and also a bit pathetic when he recalled how she had carried herself with the untouchable air of a starlet the night before.
He got up and pulled on a pair of drawstring pajama pants. The only light in the room came from the vertical crack between a pair of heavy curtains on the opposite side. Morning sun, Birk thought. Or was it afternoon? A glance at the digital clock on the dresser resolved the issue —12:44.
He went into the bathroom and switched on the light. The first order of business was a quick self-appraisal in the mirrored shower door. He was unable to pass any reflectivesurface without taking a glance. He knew he was handsome, and he loved the sight of himself. Excellent build, short brown hair, green eyes, sharp facial contours. The only flaws were the scars on his torso, both front and back. There were several knife wounds, two roughly circular bullet scars, and multiple cigarette burns on his back courtesy of the alcoholic mother who was long dead. His father hadn’t left marks; he’d been too smart for that. Only bruises, which would fade. Birk didn’t know where the old man was these days and didn’t care. The only person he cared about was the one staring back at him now. He put his usual smile on the male-model face —a barely detectable rising of the mouth on one side, designed to taunt, to project arrogance. It said that he was pulling one over on the rest of the world and was pleased about it. He loved that look.
He thought about shaving. Then he decided it wasn’t necessary and instead reached behind the vanity light to retrieve a plastic baggie. There were several pills inside, plus a small bottle of clear fluid, a syringe, and a packet of white powder. He took out one of the pills and swallowed it without water. Carefully rewrapping the bag and returning it to its perch, he gave no thought to sharing any more of the stash with his guest. That would be a waste. It had been used as bait to get her here in the first place, and it worked —she came, and she had served her purpose. If she wanted a fix now, she could get her own. He sat on the toilet and closed his eyes.
He emerged fifteen minutes later and was relieved to discover the room
Margaret Baker was dead.
All thoughts of the Caribbean, the marlins, and the tequila were long gone. The arrogant smile vanished, replaced by an expression of deep contemplation. He sat there for a long while, setting his hands in the familiar church-and-steeple configuration, tapping the forefingers together as he considered what to do. One part of him was tempted to disregard the matter altogether. Huge odds, he thought. Huge. Bigger than huge. But another part —the cautious and conservative part that remained restless until all contingencies had been accounted for —demanded otherwise. And there was another factor involved now, an unexpected emotion he was not accustomed to dealing with —fear.
He got out of the chair, retrieved a phone from his overcoat, and went into the private bathroom. The phone was connected to a government satellite and used a virtually impenetrable 256-bit encryption formula. It was unavailable to the public and issued only to high-ranking members of the intelligence community.
He locked the door, turned on the exhaust fan, and tapped in a number.
3
EDWARD BIRK lay on his back with the silk sheets pulled up just above his waist. He stared mindlessly at the ceiling, hands tucked behind his head.
The woman lying next to him, a tiny Asian thing with a perfect tan, was on her stomach, head turned the other way. Her black hair fell in sheets over her shoulders and piled up on the pillow. Somehow the posture did not strike Birk as befitting a woman of such natural beauty. Then again, neither did the snoring. She was as light and delicate as a bird, but she snored like a sailor. He found this distasteful and also a bit pathetic when he recalled how she had carried herself with the untouchable air of a starlet the night before.
He got up and pulled on a pair of drawstring pajama pants. The only light in the room came from the vertical crack between a pair of heavy curtains on the opposite side. Morning sun, Birk thought. Or was it afternoon? A glance at the digital clock on the dresser resolved the issue —12:44.
He went into the bathroom and switched on the light. The first order of business was a quick self-appraisal in the mirrored shower door. He was unable to pass any reflectivesurface without taking a glance. He knew he was handsome, and he loved the sight of himself. Excellent build, short brown hair, green eyes, sharp facial contours. The only flaws were the scars on his torso, both front and back. There were several knife wounds, two roughly circular bullet scars, and multiple cigarette burns on his back courtesy of the alcoholic mother who was long dead. His father hadn’t left marks; he’d been too smart for that. Only bruises, which would fade. Birk didn’t know where the old man was these days and didn’t care. The only person he cared about was the one staring back at him now. He put his usual smile on the male-model face —a barely detectable rising of the mouth on one side, designed to taunt, to project arrogance. It said that he was pulling one over on the rest of the world and was pleased about it. He loved that look.
He thought about shaving. Then he decided it wasn’t necessary and instead reached behind the vanity light to retrieve a plastic baggie. There were several pills inside, plus a small bottle of clear fluid, a syringe, and a packet of white powder. He took out one of the pills and swallowed it without water. Carefully rewrapping the bag and returning it to its perch, he gave no thought to sharing any more of the stash with his guest. That would be a waste. It had been used as bait to get her here in the first place, and it worked —she came, and she had served her purpose. If she wanted a fix now, she could get her own. He sat on the toilet and closed his eyes.
He emerged fifteen minutes later and was relieved to discover the room
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