Severance Package by Duane Swierczynski Page B

only a small valise of essentials; he didn’t bring piles of T-shirts like McCoy, his surveillance partner, did. The man packed like the Apocalypse was around the corner.
    The red-haired man, who called himself Keene, had almost reached the bottom of the road when he bumped into a manwalking his dog. Wee thing—the dog, that was. It had only three legs. The owner had two, but looked haggard, if finely muscled.
    “Sorry, mate,” Keene said.
    The man just smiled at him. And not in a particularly warm way.
    Keene stepped out of the way, then watched the little three-legged dog titter and bounce after its master. A lot of work, walking uphill in the drizzle with only three legs.
    Upstairs, Keene embraced his partner. His lip brushed against the stubble on his cheek; he could smell the intoxicating aftershave. Then Keene told him about the dog.
    “I’ve seen that dog,” said McCoy. He was American. He’d barely turned to face Keene. Instead, he was focused on a bank of computer screens: a desktop and three laptops. “It creeps me out.”
    “I’m putting on some tea,” Keene said. “Would you care for a cup?”
    Some tea and Night Nurse might make the afternoon tolerable. Keene planned on asking McCoy to take over for the next few hours. Keene had been at it through much of the morning. His eyes felt like there were grains of sand floating around in there.
    “No, but you can fetch me a can of Caley.”
    “Sure.”
    McCoy was a drunk.
    “Did I miss anything?” Keene asked.
    “You missed
everything.”
    “What do you mean? Nothing’s supposed to be happening in Dubai for at least six hours.”
    “No, not there. Back in America. Remember? The Philadelphia thing?”
    “Girlfriend.”
    “Right.”
    “What time is it there?”
    “Half past nine. So far, our girl is doing exactly what she said. You should have seen the look on Murphy’s face. I can run it back for you later.”
    “Sure,” Keene said.
No thank you.
    Girlfriend, who until about thirty minutes ago was just another low-level operative, had contacted McCoy a few days ago with an intriguing proposal: Give me a chance to show you my talents. McCoy had been impressed she even knew how to find him. It was enough for him to kick her proposal upstairs and receive clearance to follow it up.
    Girlfriend wanted a promotion. And she wanted to demonstrate how much she deserved it.
    The employees in the office were slated to die anyway, she’d argued.
    Why not let her try?
    McCoy told Girlfriend: You impress us, we give you the way out and a new job. If not … well, nice interviewing with you.
    Girlfriend accepted.
    Keene, though, was more concerned with Dubai and this summer cold that seemed to be taking root in his head. It was never a good idea to focus on more than one operation at a time. That kind of juggling invariably led to mistakes.
    But there was no stopping McCoy, who was enamored with this Philadelphia thing. So Keene had to pretend to be enamored, too. It made things easier.
    Keene put on the kettle and took a green earthenware mug down from the cupboard. Wait. McCoy’s beer. He opened the fridge and snatched a can from the bottom shelf. That was the extent of McCoy’s weekly contributions to the pantry. Everything else he consumed was takeaway. Usually Thai or Indian.
    He handed the can of Caley 80 to his partner, who was looking at one of the monitors with glee.
    “Will you look at that,” McCoy said.
    On screen, Girlfriend—who looked a bit mousy, if you asked Keene—was holding up a peace sign.
    “Number two, coming right up.” McCoy popped the top of his beer, then started thumbing through a stack of papers on the desk. “You’ve got to love her style.”
    “Hmmm,” Keene said. “As in Murphy was number one?”
    “Right.”
    “Remind me again what this Philadelphia office does?”
    “Financial disruption of terrorist networks. Or something like that. Bunch of geeks using computers to erase the bank accounts of known terrorist