Ridley Pearson - Choke Point

Grace locates her underwear on the carpet and shakes it vigorously before stepping in. Her bra is next. Strapping it on. Bending forward, adjusting. She feels surprisingly safer. She searches her purse for a tube of Vaseline while she studies the man in bed. The clock reads 1:33 A.M.

She uncaps the Vaseline without looking. Approaches him cautiously, not quite trusting the combined effect of Rohypnol and ketamine. Asleep yet awake. Paralyzed yet conscious. As the drugs began to take effect she was able to milk him for the VPN password, which he gave up freely. He will have no memory of that—of any of the past hour—in the morning. No memory of her. Possibly, even, the hotel bar. Getting Rohyped turns the Etch A Sketch upside down and shakes it, hard.

She swallows away her fear as she confronts his open, blank eyes. For a moment she wonders if she’s killed him, but then the throbbing of a neck vein convinces her otherwise. Smearing the Vaseline across his open eyes does not bother her the way she imagined it might. Without the ointment he would suffer permanent eye damage. She reminds herself she’s helping him. There’s something sadistically pleasing about that, causing her to smile ruefully. With the Vaseline smeared across both open eyes the man looks frightful. He was no Romeo to begin with, but this clouded-eye look is hideous.

Sitting at a reproduction leather–topped desk, she attacks his laptop like the digital predator she is. Her fieldwork has increased steadily since a Shanghai op that took her out of her desk chair—though technically, this job is unrelated to a paycheck. It’s off the books.

Cloning a large data hard drive can take forty to ninety minutes. But she can’t pass up the opportunity. Strictly speaking, all she needed was the password—access to the mutual fund’s corporate server. But the contents of the CFO’s laptop offer the possibility of a rich prize. Possible leverage over the man down the road: the kind of sordid thing Rutherford Risk thrives on.

She raids the minibar for a bottle of vodka. Wipes it down and places the empty in her purse for good measure. Can barely take her eyes off Mr. Smear-n-Off where he lies in bed. Expects him to sit up and march toward her like a zombie.

She downs another vodka quickly and preserves its bottle as well, leaving nothing to chance. After consideration, she keeps the drinking glass as well.

At some point, she redressed in the form-fitting mini that won his attention in the bar. Her head feels as if it’s stuffed with gun cotton, and her mouth is dry. She cautions herself to leave the minibar alone; she must remain lucid. At 102 pounds, only a very little booze can push her into la-la land.

She fusses in front of the bedroom mirror, peeks out occasionally at the tiny, flashing blue LED on the external drive. Still copying. Checks Mr. Smear-n-Off. He hasn’t moved a centimeter. Her throat tightens. She feels sorry for him. Guilty. Swallows it away. This op represents job security; Dulwich will owe her for this. John Knox will thank her.

This is progress.

A steaming demitasse is delivered the exact moment Knox sits down. The waiter says nothing. All prearranged. All trademark David Dulwich. Although never technically a spook, the man could give the CIA a run for its money. Knox notices the burn scar beneath the man’s collarbone. It immediately calls up the smell of diesel fuel mixed with cordite. At the height of the extended Iraq war, a VBIED explosive took out Dulwich’s truck. Knox dragged the man from a flame-ripped truck cab across packed sand while shrapnel whistled past his ears. No medals were awarded; they were working for a private contractor, a resupply and transportation firm based out of Kuwait. Dulwich rarely mentions the debt that hangs between them. But he lives it. In his current job, Dulwich manages field operations for a private security firm, Rutherford Risk. When opportunity arises, he offers Knox the choicest work. Short term. High pay. What are friends for?

“A phone call or an e-mail would have done just fine,” Knox says. He resists the fieldwork. He has a brother who relies upon his good health.

“I’m goofing with you. So what?”

“Don’t.”

“It was harmless.”

“Not for the kid if I caught him.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

Knox lifts his travel belt, studies the razor cut first, then unzips the pouch and carefully searches the contents.

“You’re getting careless, if there’s anything in there of value,” Dulwich says.

“I’ll let you know when I want your advice.”

“Testy.”

“There’s a certain look to a buyer like me. A role to play. I’m trying to run a business here.”

“As am I,” Dulwich says. “Besides, you’re done with that. Castanets? Incense burners? You? Please.” Eschewing the showiness of an aluminum briefcase, Dulwich draws a camouflage backpack into his lap and withdraws a folded International Herald Tribune . He pushes it across the table at Knox as if it were toxic.

“That’s a week old,” Knox says, having not touched it. “Already read it. Thanks anyway.” He suspects a photo is folded into it, or a contract, or both. He wants the money—desperately—and Dulwich knows this, but Knox has to play like he doesn’t want or need it, and Dulwich plays along. A long-standing friendship, this.

“Our client is Graham Winston.”

Knox works the miniature spoon against the rock sugar at the bottom of the demitasse, impatient for it to dissolve. Good things take time to develop, he reminds himself. Women, for one. There’s a stunner under the shade of the café’s torn awning who has now looked his way three times. His imagination is sometimes a liability. He forces himself to focus on Dulwich, which is not easy.

Knox doesn’t need to ask which Graham Winston. Instead, he has to try to be a step ahead of Dulwich and figure out the angle. Without consulting the newspaper, he’s at a loss, so he concedes a round to Dulwich by pulling the newspaper low into his lap in order to shield any possible contents beyond news. He wonders how he might have looked right at something, yet not have seen it. How transparent is the obvious? This is more than a game, it’s part and parcel of his survival. He knows it. Dulwich knows it. Retention is ten-tenths of the game. He knows when he sat down there were six people at tables behind him. Four coffees, two teas. He knows that’s the fourth furtive look the attractive woman has given him, and it’s starting to bother him. He knows he read this paper and yet can’t recall the last time Graham Winston’s name appeared in a story. Knox took a chance.

“An interest of his, not a direct mention.” He unfolds the paper. No added contents.

“Correct.”

“A cause.”

“More like it,” Dulwich says.

Graham Winston is famous for supporting causes: Greenpeace; Human Rights Watch; Doctors Without Borders.

Knox supports Starbucks and Anheuser-Busch, Victoria’s Secret and Apple.

Knox doesn’t read every article in every edition. He skims. He headline-hops. He absorbs. Read the lead. Follow the jump. He likes newspapers. Mourns their passing.

“‘Little Fingers, Big Problems,’” he quotes.

“Who says you’re stupid?”

“Careful.”

Winston turns causes into headlines, and though he comes across as self-aggrandizing, is nonetheless someone Knox can tolerate. In this instance, their stars align; Knox’s predisposition against the servitude of women in general, and young girls in particular, fuels his interest in Winston’s cause. He doesn’t allow Dulwich too close a look at his face, doesn’t want him to pick up on the fact that this is work he would do pro bono if asked.