Greg Rucka - Critical Space

"She taught you how to snipe, did she?"

"No," I said. "Sniping's woman's work."

"Well, let's talk about man's work, then. What do you want to do about the alarms?"

"I picked up some stuff at Radio Shack. Tomorrow we can wire a panic button to whatever room we're putting her in. Other than that, I'm not sure what else we can do."

"Be nice if we had Corry for this," she mused.

"And Dale for the vehicles, but we don't. Which room do you like for her?"

"The second bedroom upstairs, the one between the master bedroom and the smaller bathroom. You and I can take the beds on either side, she'll be covered."

I moved my head to indicate the flight of stairs. "Be trouble if we have to get her out in a hurry."

"Atticus," Natalie said. "If we have to get her out in a hurry, odds are none of us will be leaving alive anyway."

"We'll ask her what she wants."

Natalie looked past me, back into the kitchen. "You have any idea what they're talking about?"

"Probably me," I said.

"Oh, that's egocentric."

"Maybe. But I heard Dan use my name, and I don't think it was in passing. Not sure what the relationship is there."

"Not sure what the relationship is, here," Natalie pointed out.

I started to respond when, from the kitchen, Alena called, "Dan's going to go back into the city, get things ready for tomorrow."

Natalie and I stepped back into the kitchen, saw that Dan was already on his feet. He looked at me and asked, "If that's all right with you?"

There was no condescension in his tone at all.

"That's fine," I answered. "Thanks."

" 'Tasha says you'll pay me tomorrow."

"I'll have the money by the afternoon."

"That's good, then."

He adjusted his coat, glanced at Alena, then made his way out of the house. Natalie turned and followed him to the door, locking it after he left, staying at the window until his car was out of sight. I pulled out one of the chairs at the table and sat down with Alena.

"How do you feel about being upstairs?"

"The stairs will be difficult, but I'll manage. It will be fine." She set her crutches aside, propping them against the table. "Dan says you were unhappy with him."

"Not with him. There are problems with the house, it's not ideal. But it'll serve."

"He says I changed you."

"You did."

"He says I made you like me."

"That I'm not so sure about. But at least I'm no longer addicted to caffeine."

She smiled, but didn't laugh. "When is Fowler coming to speak with me?"

I was only a little surprised. "He's waiting for my call."

"Tonight would be best."

That was more surprising. "I thought you'd take some convincing."

"No, it was to be expected, and if you had not already contacted him, I would have asked you to. I will give him information."

"Like?"

"Oxford has certainly been hired by the same people who told you I had killed in Dallas. They lied to you, hoping you would make their jobs easier. They hoped I would contact you, and that you in turn would contact them. They most certainly planned to then forward that information to Oxford, helping him to narrow his search. Since they are Oxford's employers, only they can end the contract. But if I give information to Fowler, information embarrassing to those people, Fowler will share it with his superiors, and that will force them back into hiding."

"Nice plan if it'll work. Do you think it'll work?"

She shook her head. "But it will complicate things for Oxford at the least, perhaps buy us more time. Understand, I will speak to Fowler only because we can use him."

"He doesn't want to arrest you."

"I'm glad to hear that, because I won't allow it to happen."

"I'll make sure he understands," I said. "You don't have to worry about Scott, he's a good guy."

"Another of your friends."

"He's a good friend."

"I noticed that only Natalie agreed to help you."

"Dale and Corry are still my friends."

"And yet they are not here."

She shut her eyes, tired. It occurred to me that her leg was giving her a lot of pain. She opened her eyes again, then leaned over to where I was sitting and put her lips lightly against my cheek.

"Call your friend," she said.

She talked to Scott for almost three and a half hours, from shortly after midnight until almost four in the morning. They stayed at the kitchen table, Alena drinking juice and Scott mainlining coffee, and he filled page after page of his notebook with what she said. Mostly she gave him histories, incidences where she knew an assassin had been hired for a job, and she gave him enough facts, enough names and dates, explained enough about how such a contract would be carried out, that Scott could take the information and fill in the rest. She never implicated herself, though at least one of the assassinations she told him of was the execution of General Augustus Albertus Usuf Kiwane Ndanga. She told him about tradecraft, things she hadn't even shared with me, explaining to Scott the sorts of things he should look for if we wanted to tie Oxford to the people who had hired him. She explained contact protocols, cutouts, dead drops, authorizations.

Half of Scott's questions were about money, and he asked Alena to explain how payments were made, how an organization would arrange the funding for such jobs, how the transfers would be handled, in general, how she – and presumably others of her profession – handled their finances. In this she was more forthcoming, all things considered, and when she told Scott that, in fact, she didn't actually handle her money herself, he was incredulous.

"You actually trust it to someone else?"

"Of course. To a bank, in fact."

"A bank?"

"There is no other way," Alena answered. "Suppose I require a rental car, or a hotel room. I would need a credit card, one that is not only legitimate but also matches the identity I am using. A trustworthy banker can supply all of that."

"How does that work?"

"The majority of my money is in a trust with a safe and very private bank, and there is a man who handles the accounts for me. That man receives instructions from me to do certain things."

"Like?"

"If I need a credit card, I tell him to authorize an account payable from my trust in the name I require. If I am renting a storage unit in, say, Queens, he is told to write a check to the firm on the first of every month until ordered otherwise. Like that."

"So this person theoretically knows who you are, he could be used to find you."

"He knows the identity of the holder of the trust," she replied. "He has only met that woman on two occasions. He is well paid, Agent Fowler, extremely discreet, and he has ascertained enough about how I make my living to remain careful."

He stopped focusing on his notepad for a moment to look at her. "You threatened him?"

"I never have needed to."

I spoke up. "Does Oxford use the same procedure? A banker and a trust, like that?"

"Not the same, but almost certainly similar."

"How much money do you think he has?" I asked.

She considered, adjusting her weight slightly and frowning down at her left leg. "Probably more than I do. I'd guess – and this is only a guess – in excess of twenty million dollars."

"How often do you think he contacts his banker?"

"Fairly frequently. Certainly he makes contact whenever a payment is expected, in order to confirm delivery."

"Do the people who have hired him, do they know who the banker is?" Scott asked.

"No. They would be asked to transfer the money to dummy accounts and the like. The banker then handles the rest."

"So the contractor or contractors can't contact Oxford through the banker?"

"No, though whoever has hired him, they must have a way to contact him, and vice versa. In most instances this would give him power over them, but not here – if he is tied to a government agency, working with someone in Langley, say, then he is their employee, beholden to the organization."