David Ellis - In the Company of Liars

Shiels is behind his desk, a number of files open before him. He gestures to her to close the door, which she does, her heartbeat escalating.

“I see you got confirmation on Doctor Lomas’s debt.”

“Yes, sir.” But she assumes this is not the reason for her visit. Her little field trip yesterday only confirmed what they already knew about Doctor Neil Lomas.

Shiels takes a breath. “Agent, I just got a call. Muhsin al-Bakhari is making plans to go to Sudan in June. First of June, we’re hearing.”

“Yes, sir,” she says evenly, before the breath leaves her.

Muhsin al-Bakhari.They could not have hoped for anyone better.

“Haroon just booked a flight to Paris for the first of June,” he adds.

“So Haroon’s going to connect from Paris to Sudan,” she gathers.

Shiels nods. “He’ll do it when he gets there. He wouldn’t be dumb enough to book that flight now. I figure, he’ll land on June first. Spend a night in Paris. Book a flight for the third.”

Shiels knows whereof he speaks, having worked in the Middle East for years with the CIA. He knows how the Liberation Front operates, as well as anyonecan know.

The gravity of what McCoy has heard settles upon her. On both of them. Unbeknownst to him, Ramadaran Ali Haroon is going to lead the United States to the Liberation Front’s operations commander, its number-two guy, Muhsin al-Bakhari. The brains behind the entire operation.

“When Haroon gets to the airport here,” says Shiels, “he’s going to be flagged. They’ll call us.”

“Sure. Of course.”

“You have to be the one who answers that call, Agent McCoy. You have to be sure he gets on that flight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Work him over. Basic questioning. Quiz him.”

“Understood, sir. I’ll be on the call that day.”

“Good.” He nods at McCoy. “That’s all, Agent.” He turns to a file on his desk, then looks up again at his subordinate, who has not moved. “Something else, McCoy?”

“Only-” McCoy clears her throat. “I was only thinking, sir, that there might be some casualties. Some innocents.”

“Lose a few to save a lot.” Shiels sighs. “I don’t have a better answer than that.”

And McCoy didn’t expect a better answer. She knows the rules. Anyone playing with fire-whatever team they’re playing on-knows the risks. Ram Haroon. Allison Pagone. Sam Dillon. Mat Pagone. Not to mention-

“Needless to say,” says Shiels, “let’s get this right.”

It’s a small high-rise on the West Side. Ten units, five on each side of the skinny, dilapidated building. McCoy has spent more than her share of time on this side of the city; she worked in controlled substances when she started out with the Bureau. Tough gig. She hated it, especially taking the users into custody. You typically busted the users to get to the dealers, but that didn’t mean the addicts walked. It was preferable, no doubt, to take them in and try to rehabilitate them, but she could never shake the unease of putting cuffs on people who were in the grip of addiction.

And now she’s back. Back on the grimy sidewalks, back by the small-loan shops, the convenience stores advertising phone cards and cigarettes on the metal fencing that covers their windows, the broken-down automobiles lining the curbs. She sees too many youths running around for a school day. The streets are pocked with deep potholes, the traffic signs are painted with graffiti. A car alarm is going off the next street over. She hears two women yelling at each other in a low-rise above her, through a closed window.

So many problems, it’s suffocating to even consider where to begin.

“I’m going,” McCoy says, turning her face toward the collar of her leather jacket. She doesn’t work undercover, but this is hardly a stretch for her-jeans and a baseball cap-and she wants to have the conversation personally. She’s not as out-of-place on this particular block; many parts of the West Side, contrary to popular opinion, are racially heterogeneous. The whites around these parts are heavily ethnic, first-generation Eastern Europeans, mostly, along with Koreans, Latinos, and African Americans. So she doesn’t fit in precisely, but she’s not off by much.

McCoy takes the length of the street, then turns at the crosswalk and moves to the east side of the avenue. An Asian grocer is sweeping the sidewalk outside his place. A young, very pregnant woman in a wool cap is waddling toward her.

McCoy blows a bubble with her gum. The heels are a bit uncomfortable but it fits the scene, so she works it as best she can. She gets the attention of one boy, an African American kid sitting on a stoop, playing with a deck of cards that rests on the step below him. It’s not much of an ego boost; the kid looks about thirteen.

Still, she winks at him for a response.

“Lookin’ good, my woman,” he says in a squeaky, preadolescent voice.

Good. She has just about passed him and continues on a step or two, before turning back and facing the boy. “Hey, handsome,” she says, working the gum some more. A little flirtation does wonders on a kid this age. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Oh, man,” he squeaks. He lifts the deck of cards, then proceeds to drop three of them on the step between his feet. He shows her one card-the three of clubs-and starts shuffling the three cards around with rather amazing speed and agility. “Tell me where it lands, pretty lady.”

McCoy chuckles for his benefit and takes the opportunity, while he works his trick, to inventory the boy. A flashy Starter jacket with hood, gloves sticking out of his pockets, leather high-tops, an open cigar box by his feet that holds a few dollars and some change. He’s keeping a little in the box-singles and a few quarters-to make the game look low-stakes. The rest is probably in his sock, but that’s of no concern to her.

Of concern to her is the gym bag to his immediate right.

The boy stops, shows his palms, and looks up at McCoy triumphantly. The three cards are lined up next to each other between his feet. There is no money involved here. He’s just showing off.

She leans into him. “What’s your name, kid?”

The boy smiles at her, showing thick gums, white teeth. “Jackson,” he says. “Tell me which card’s the three of clubs, pretty lady.”

McCoy leans in, still closer. “I don’t gamble, Jackson,” she says quietly, evenly, no longer smiling. “I’m an FBI agent. You’re not in any trouble,” she adds, raising her hand preemptively, as she sees the boy begin to adjust his position, angling himself to the right. “But you will be if you reach for that bag.”

McCoy gestures over her shoulder. “See that guy turning the corner right now? Two o’clock.”

The boy looks over, undoubtedly seeing Harrick emerging from around the corner.

“He’s my partner. If he sees you try to signal Jimmy in any way, we’ll lock you up.”

The reference to Jimmy, she figures, is as meaningful to the boy as her threats. She is telling him that she already knows what is going on upstairs.

“Put your hands on your face, Jackson,” McCoy says. “Do it now.”

The boy complies eventually, slapping a hand on each cheek. He doesn’t seem particularly worried. Closer to sulking.

McCoy takes his gym bag and opens it. She doesn’t find a weapon and didn’t expect to. She lifts a hand-held radio out of his bag and puts it in her jacket pocket. “What’s he paying you, out of curiosity?”

“Twenty bucks a pop.”

“What’s a pop? Half a day?”

“Seven to one, lady. Damn.” The boy shakes his head. He has just lost one of his day jobs. The other one, which apparently starts at one, involves the card hustle, but not here. Jackson probably hits the train station, the bus terminal, somewhere downtown where the white folks don’t so much mind being hustled by such a cute little guy.