dead silent; the snoring had ceased. But then the girl launched into a fresh wave after a combination backfire grunt and full-body jerk. Shaking his head in irritation, Birk shuffled through the dimness toward the vertical light line. He slid the glass door aside and stepped out onto the balcony. It was a calendar-beautiful day, the sky shimmeringand cloudless as the ocean washed gently against the beach several stories below.
There was no one else within view, perfect weather notwithstanding. Nor did Birk expect there to be. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where people brought their dogs to catch Frisbees or where Brady Bunch families took their kids on vacation. This was where you came to get narcotics, cheap liquor, or a gun with its serial number sanded off. Half the condos in the complex were empty and would likely remain so until the property owner declared bankruptcy and the place was demolished. It had been built, Birk was told, in a halfhearted attempt at gentrification some years back. When the political landscape shifted, the effort perished. Developers lost their shirts, the outgoing government apologized and meant it, and that was that.
Leaning against the rail with his hands folded, Birk thought about what he would do today. There was no formal plan; he didn’t make plans if he didn’t have to. One priority, though, is to get this girl out of here. He tried to remember her name. Sunni? Suri? Something like that. A fake, he was sure. He’d never met a prostitute willing to give a real one. But then he never gave his, either.
Whatever her name, she had to go. He was hungry and didn’t want company while he ate. This evening he would hunt down a new prospect. One for every night of the month was the goal. So far he was on eighteen —more than halfway there.
As he stepped back inside, his cell phone twittered. He found it in the pocket of his faded jeans. At first he didn’t recognize the number —maybe a random, computer-generated call from a solicitor. Then he remembered —it was part of an alert system he had set up. He cursed softly.
Grabbing his leather blazer from the back of a chair, he went into the bathroom again, locked the door, and turned on the overhead fan —exactly as he knew the caller would have done only moments before. He removed a second phone from inside a secret pocket in the blazer’s lining. It was thinner than most, had no brand name or caller ID, and could only vibrate, not ring. He had been given firm instructions to carry it at all times and make sure it was always fully charged. Two extra batteries had been supplied to make certain of this. He had also been told of the punishment he would receive if he ever failed to answer.
He thumbed the Answer button and brought the phone to his ear.
“Yes.”
“Three rings.”
“I was in the other room. I’m alone, and the phone was sitting on the bed while I was shaving.”
“Try to avoid that in the future.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is very important.”
“Okay.”
“You have to go to Dallas. Get there immediately, and check into the Grand Hyatt, 2337 International Parkway. There will be a room reserved under your operative name.”
Birk felt the urge to laugh but held back. Operative name . . . In this case, that would be “Brian Clarke.” Generic, easily forgotten. The man on the other end had given it to him long ago, and the irony was Birk didn’t even know his name. In spite of being on his payroll for years, Birk knew virtually nothing about him. But he paid on time, in full, and very well. That was good enough.
“When you get there, you will find a dossier on thewoman, along with all the equipment you’ll need. Then you’ll receive further instructions.”
“Right.”
“And you’ll get your usual fee once the job is done.”
“That’s fine.”
It was more than fine, but Birk wasn’t about to admit that. He had just under half a million left in the Singapore account, which
There was no one else within view, perfect weather notwithstanding. Nor did Birk expect there to be. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where people brought their dogs to catch Frisbees or where Brady Bunch families took their kids on vacation. This was where you came to get narcotics, cheap liquor, or a gun with its serial number sanded off. Half the condos in the complex were empty and would likely remain so until the property owner declared bankruptcy and the place was demolished. It had been built, Birk was told, in a halfhearted attempt at gentrification some years back. When the political landscape shifted, the effort perished. Developers lost their shirts, the outgoing government apologized and meant it, and that was that.
Leaning against the rail with his hands folded, Birk thought about what he would do today. There was no formal plan; he didn’t make plans if he didn’t have to. One priority, though, is to get this girl out of here. He tried to remember her name. Sunni? Suri? Something like that. A fake, he was sure. He’d never met a prostitute willing to give a real one. But then he never gave his, either.
Whatever her name, she had to go. He was hungry and didn’t want company while he ate. This evening he would hunt down a new prospect. One for every night of the month was the goal. So far he was on eighteen —more than halfway there.
As he stepped back inside, his cell phone twittered. He found it in the pocket of his faded jeans. At first he didn’t recognize the number —maybe a random, computer-generated call from a solicitor. Then he remembered —it was part of an alert system he had set up. He cursed softly.
Grabbing his leather blazer from the back of a chair, he went into the bathroom again, locked the door, and turned on the overhead fan —exactly as he knew the caller would have done only moments before. He removed a second phone from inside a secret pocket in the blazer’s lining. It was thinner than most, had no brand name or caller ID, and could only vibrate, not ring. He had been given firm instructions to carry it at all times and make sure it was always fully charged. Two extra batteries had been supplied to make certain of this. He had also been told of the punishment he would receive if he ever failed to answer.
He thumbed the Answer button and brought the phone to his ear.
“Yes.”
“Three rings.”
“I was in the other room. I’m alone, and the phone was sitting on the bed while I was shaving.”
“Try to avoid that in the future.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is very important.”
“Okay.”
“You have to go to Dallas. Get there immediately, and check into the Grand Hyatt, 2337 International Parkway. There will be a room reserved under your operative name.”
Birk felt the urge to laugh but held back. Operative name . . . In this case, that would be “Brian Clarke.” Generic, easily forgotten. The man on the other end had given it to him long ago, and the irony was Birk didn’t even know his name. In spite of being on his payroll for years, Birk knew virtually nothing about him. But he paid on time, in full, and very well. That was good enough.
“When you get there, you will find a dossier on thewoman, along with all the equipment you’ll need. Then you’ll receive further instructions.”
“Right.”
“And you’ll get your usual fee once the job is done.”
“That’s fine.”
It was more than fine, but Birk wasn’t about to admit that. He had just under half a million left in the Singapore account, which
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