Greg Rucka - Critical Space

"Her life was worth saving."

Now it was her turn to drink water and not respond.

I shook my head and looked off the patio. The breeze was moving palm fronds and branches, as if they were waving me either to come closer, or to make a discreet exit. It was getting warmer as the day progressed, but in the shade of the patio, surrounded by the concrete and tile, it remained comfortable.

"You killed three men in Dallas, Texas, ten days ago," I said. "Video surveillance caught you leaving the scene."

"No I didn't." She said it with conviction and almost surprise.

"There were pictures, Alena. Three men – Ortez, Montrose, and a third whose name I don't remember. All had been shot. There was a picture of you leaving, driving a car out the gate."

"It was not me. The photograph was a fake."

"Sure."

"I have not been to Dallas in over three years. Who showed you these pictures?"

"It's not important."

"I did not do it."

I looked at the trees some more, felt her looking at me. I said, "Tell me about Oxford."

"He is like me."

"Another Russian?"

"No, American, I think. Maybe British. I'm not certain who trained him, but he is from the West. What little I know about him suggests a military and intelligence background."

"I heard he specializes."

"Scandal," she confirmed. "He uses sex, it is the way he stages his bodies. But it means nothing, it is simply a kind of job, one that takes its own special planning, the way a bombing or a poisoning takes special planning. He knows what I know."

I had to wonder about that. It could be as simple and straightforward as she made it sound, staging bodies the way other people move their furniture. But I doubted it. Someone who kept returning to the sex angle was probably someone who liked playing with naked bodies. Maybe Drama wasn't a monster, but I wasn't willing to extend the same faith to Oxford.

"Is there a history between you two?" I asked.

"No."

"And you're sure he's coming after you? You've confirmed that?"

"Yes. I have sources."

"Sources like Dan?"

"My sources say Oxford is looking for me. I take that kind of threat seriously, so I checked."

"But you don't know who bought the hit?"

"No."

"And you're sure it has been bought, that he's not doing this on his own?"

"Oxford would not undertake such an operation for free. Pro bono, as you say. To kill me, he would demand a substantial payment."

"How much?"

"Four million dollars, at least. More, perhaps."

"How long has he had the contract? Or whatever it is you folks call it."

"Job. I call it a job. Just as you call it."

I was silent.

She took a green orange from the bowl at the center of the table and began peeling the skin. The bowl was white porcelain, with two thin, sky blue stripes running around its center. "He has had the job only a month or two."

"If he was in New York looking for you, he knew you were in the U.S. That means he's close."

"New York is a clearinghouse." She was removing the skin from the orange as a single piece, using only her fingers, trying to keep it from tearing. "It is the place to acquire everything, from equipment to people. Everyone goes through there. New York means nothing."

"Does he know about this place?"

She hesitated.

"Does he?"

"He knows about the connection between you and me, about Pugh. I'm certain he's read Havel's book." She looked up from her work with the orange. "It will take him some time, but he will find me here."

"How much time?"

She finished removing the skin, coiling it on her empty plate. She offered me a wedge of the orange, and when I shook my head, ate it herself, her eyes wandering to the water. She was quiet long enough for "Girl" to end, and John and Paul's harmony on "I'm Looking Through You" to begin, and it was clear she was thinking about it, considering how she would search if the positions were reversed.

"At least three months," she said, finally. "Possibly four. Maybe longer. I do not think any less – he would have to have extraordinary luck. It will cost him a lot of money. He will start by establishing what occurred between you and me and Ainsley-Hunter, then attempt to recreate your route. He will try to track the equipment I used. The rifle would be the weakest link, and with time, it would lead him to Brighton Beach. There he will learn about the Scarab, and he will know we took the boat. He will calculate the range of the vessel, and then he will begin a methodical search of all those places where we made landfall, where we refueled. He will lose us for a while once he reaches the Caribbean. He will have to move from island to island, carefully, because he will believe he is close, and he will not want to show himself. It will take him at least six weeks before he narrows his search to the Lesser Grenadines. He will lose us again at Kingstown, realizing that was where we left the Scarab. It will take him at least another week before he reaches Bequia.

"But once he reaches Bequia, it will not take him long at all. The island and the population are both small, and it will take him less than a day to locate this house, to verify that I am here. Then he will withdraw and plan.

"And then he will kill me."

"And me."

"Yes." She ate another wedge of the orange, holding it on the pads of her fingers. "He will be surprised you are here, because he believes you are dead, that I killed you, and that your body is rotting at the bottom of the Hudson River. He cannot conceive that I spared you. He will not expect you here."

"But he'll spot me during the surveillance," I said.

She finished the orange, dropping her right hand and allowing Miata to lick the juice from her fingers. "There is an optometrist in Port Elizabeth, we will get you contact lenses. You will cut your hair and dye it. You will grow a beard. With the sun, the tan, it will make recognition difficult."

"You're getting ahead of yourself," I said. "I didn't say I was staying."

This silence lasted long enough for Rubber Soul to end.

"You should leave here," I told her. "Keep moving."

"Movement is exposure."

"So you're just going to wait until Oxford shows up? And then kill him?"

"If you can think of another way to stop him, I'd be quite interested in hearing it."

I ignored that. "Do you have any idea how he'll come at you?"

Again, she gave it some thought before answering. "He will want to verify the kill with his own eyes. Pistol, probably. It will be close work, inside the critical space."

That was both surprising and distressing. Jeppeson's attempt on Lady Ainsley-Hunter had been inside the critical space, and I'd gotten her out of that with dumb luck and nothing else. I doubted there would be anything dumb about Oxford's try when it came. Survival would hinge on reaction times, how quickly I could spot the threat and respond, how quickly Drama could do the same.

"He can get that close?"

"I can," she said simply.

You're thinking about this, I realized. You're considering it seriously. You're out of your miserable little mind.

She was petting Miata's neck, waiting for me, as if she could see me teetering on the brink.

"Most principals, they hire a BG because the BG knows something they don't, namely how to keep them alive," I finally said. "They're buying that knowledge far more than they're buying the body. They normally get their money's worth. But this is different, this is a whole different level of play. This isn't lunatic-in-the-crowd stuff, this isn't some overzealous fan. This is a professional killer. That's your territory. You have knowledge I don't."

"Some of the knowledge, yes."

"Which makes me think that I'd be cannon fodder for you, nothing more."

"I have already said that I will teach you what I know. I will teach you everything."