Greg Rucka - Alpha

“I’ll see what I can do about getting a dedicated interpreter assigned to the group,” Bell says.

Howe smiles slightly, nods, relaxing. There’s both a sense of relief and a vague disappointment coming from him, as if he has, perhaps, been cheated of battle. As if this is a fight Martin Howe has joined many times, and will do again. Bell knows the feeling, and it softens him immediately to the teacher.

“I’m in my office or on the grounds all day,” Bell says, turning back to Amy. “I’m easy enough to find if you need anything. Just ask anyone in a blue blazer, they’ll direct you.”

“I think we’ll be okay, Jad.” She smiles thinly at him, then turns to where the class is clustered perhaps ten feet from Nuri. Amy raises her arm, flaps her hand loosely, immediately catching their attention. Before she’s even begun to sign, they’re surging forward, unable or unwilling to contain their eagerness. Howe gives Bell another grin, thanks him once more, then moves to join Amy as the group begins to follow her. She’s taking the northeast pathway that Bell indicated, and that, at least, makes him feel a little better about things.

Athena shoots a glance back over her shoulder at him as they depart. Gives him another one of those smiles, signing quickly, small gestures.

Thank you Daddy I love you.

See you later Gray Eyes.

Her smile blossoms broader, and then she turns away, heading into the Wild World.

The man who employs the Uzbek does not like video, and does not like voice, and does not like e-mail or text. The man who employs the Uzbek would be happier if all communications could be carried out in person, face-to-face, at the time and place of his choosing. The man who employs the Uzbek understands that there is little by way of privacy left in the world, and that there are always people listening.

Yet he also understands that sometimes concessions must be made. This communication with the Uzbek is one of those times, because of all the work this man does, of all the plans and plots and gambits in motion, this one, in the United States, in California, is the most daring, the most bold. And already, by far, the most lucrative.

So he makes the concession, and sits in front of a laptop computer in a rented apartment in Paris that has been acquired for this communication and this communication alone, and watches as the Uzbek’s face appears on his screen. The video is one-way, as is the audio. The Uzbek will speak, but the other man will not. He will type, so that there will be no misunderstandings, and so that his own voice, in silence, will be loud.

At readiness?

The Uzbek answers in his flawless English. “We are.”

I have no information on the investigation into the man our boy eliminated. That drew attention.

“Without question, but the investigation is centered outside of the location. He was smart about that.”

Smart would have avoided the incident in the first place.

“It was bad luck.”

Someone was looking. Someone in the line was not as discreet as they should have been. This is not tolerated.

“A job on this scale, someone somewhere is going to notice something.” The Uzbek shifts in front of the camera, uncomfortable. Encryption leaves pixelated blocks that drag a fraction of a second behind his movement before resolving again. “I can confirm that security on this end is intact and absolute.”

I know.

The Uzbek says nothing.

The problem arose at the source. It has been dealt with, but the damage is done.

“Are we calling it off?”

No.

The Uzbek nods.

The client’s result is not our result. The client’s result is incidental, as you know.

Another nod.

The client, however, is restless, and must be assuaged. I wish you to speak to him.

The Uzbek’s expression does not change, which does him credit. “Is that necessary?”

I require it.

A nod. “Very well. I shall arrange it.”

Explain to him that this is the last time I will accept such a request. Explain that to him quite clearly, please.

“Of course.” A thin smile. “It will be a pleasure.”

Restrain yourself. I am not done with him yet.

“Of course,” the Uzbek repeats.

How is the boy?

The Uzbek raises a hand, adjusts his glasses, taking the moment to collect his thoughts. “He thinks he’s in love.”

Yes, the girl.

“Do you want me to act upon that? That will require more men, but I could…” The Uzbek trails off, leaving the implication open, unsaid.

No. Moving against her is coercion, and coercion will break faith with the boy. You have insurance in place.

“As instructed, yes.”

Then that is enough. Let him use the girl for his own motivation. We need not do anything.

“Very well.”

This is the last communication before action. Inform me upon completion. I look forward to your good work.

“Thank you.”

The man who employs the Uzbek, who pulls the strings to Gabriel Fuller and sixteen more men in Southern California-and hundreds, thousands of others around the world-pauses, his fingers hovering above the keys of the laptop. He considers. He smiles to himself.

You’re welcome.

These have been busy weeks for the Uzbek.

This last month alone, he has slipped unnoticed in and out of the United States four separate times to coordinate delivery and reconnaissance with operatives in Eastern Europe, South America, and the Middle East. He’s seen to the paperwork, both legitimate and otherwise, for the operation; he has handled the recruitment for not one but two separate operational elements, of which Gabriel Fuller’s is the second, and, frankly, the easier to direct. For the first, he was forced to work via a cutout to preserve anonymity, and this in turn has demanded an even greater vigilance to prevent directions from being misinterpreted or, worse, the exercise of initiative. To this end, he has received the package, the parcel that began its journey some 120 kilometers southwest of Tehran and traveled halfway around the globe, transferred from courier to courier until it was ultimately delivered into his own hands this past Friday morning. He has slept little, eaten poorly, traveled too much, and killed two people, murders that he judged necessary, even vital, to maintain the security and integrity of this operation.

None of these things is as difficult, for him, as dealing with Mr. Money, the client. Mr. Money, a man who doesn’t like him and a man whom he does not like. Mr. Money, who demands things he has no right to demand, and threatens things he is foolish enough to believe he can control, and who has met the Uzbek’s employer and master only once, and feels that entitles him to more. He does not understand that meeting him once was a gift. He does not understand that meeting him a second time would end with his own death, and that no amount of wealth in the world would prevent that.

“I didn’t get where I am today by not knowing what the people working for me are doing, goddamn it.”

He says this to the Uzbek on Wednesday, the day before the Uzbek is to meet Gabriel Fuller at the DoubleTree Spectrum hotel. Mr. Money says these words to the Uzbek in Dallas. Mr. Money had wanted to meet at a restaurant a handful of blocks from the Southern Methodist University campus. The Uzbek had refused. The requirement of needing to communicate in person-and all communications at this level were only to be conducted in person, because that was truly the only way to be certain beyond doubt that they were not observed or overheard-meant that the Uzbek was racking up frequent-flier miles. And each trip meant another set of papers burned, all so Mr. Money could feel that he was still vital and involved in what he had put into motion.