'Depends,' she said. 'Are we stopping by the Hotel Oro first to exact some bloody revenge?'
I figured I had two choices here. Tell the truth or lie. The problem in dealing with Fiona is that either response was likely to end up with violence. Fiona didn't think fondly of Natalya, to say the least. She never really appreciated knowing anything about anyone I'd ever been with who wasn't her; tended to react poorly upon meeting these women, tended to react with escalating anger, then violence, then protracted gun battles and high- powered explosives. Best-case scenarios involved the pulling of hair.
Gut punches performed with brass knuckles.
Car bombs.
Certain treaties being revoked.
This situation? The threats against her? The threats against me? Well, that was the sort of deal that would take some massaging, particularly if I wanted her to help me, which I would. Eventually. Not quite yet. But soon.
'That turned out to be nothing,' I said.
'Did you know that I have perfected the Palestinian hanging technique?'
I took a bite of lamb and peppers, and chewed thoughtfully. 'This really is excellent.'
'What is so interesting is that you don't even really hang. It's more like death by crucifixion, minus all of that awful martyrdom. A slow, excruciating death.' Fiona took the fork out of my hand, stabbed a chunk of gristle that I'd pushed to one side of the plate, and then ate it, smiling all the while. 'This is lovely. You're right.'
'Fi…' I said.
'Of course,' she said, 'I've been reading quite a bit about this new torture technique they're testing now in Pakistan. It's really very revolutionary. You take a conventional hot box and you throw in a live electrical wire. As the humidity in the room rises from the prisoner's labored breathing, the air actually turns electric. Like a lightning storm in a room. Only done it on rats thus far, but I'd be willing to bet that a human would make it work spectacularly.'
'Fi,' I said, 'listen. I handled the situation. Everything is going to be fine. A little issue of mistaken identity. But I cleared it up and everyone involved is sorry that you were ever in jeopardy. They'd even like to buy the guns.'
'That's so sweet,' she said. She reached over and touched my cheek and I thought, Huh, I didn't think that was going to work. Especially that part about the guns. That was a real stretch. How am I going to make good on that? And then I realized that the touch Fiona was giving me was actually gaining in intensity, that she was now actually gripping my face, was digging her thumb into my jaw. Was sort of affecting my breathing.
'Fi,' I said, but it came out sounding more like flea because my jaw wouldn't open and my tongue's movements were impeded.
'Natalya Choplyn? Really, Michael? You're lying to me about her again? I have to hear it from Sam?'
I liked it better when Fiona and Sam didn't get along, kept secrets from each other, used me only as a sounding board for complaints and threats. For the better part of a decade, it was one of those points I knew would remain fixed. For the first month I was back home, I was fairly certain Fiona would shoot Sam, provided Sam didn't dime her to one agency or another, foreign or domestic. There was an incident several years ago-money was lost, bullets were fired, flesh wounds were had-that left both feeling, well, distrustful of each other.
Things have changed.
Having them in cahoots makes things far less predictable, far more personally painful, at least as this situation started to present itself.
I could have just grabbed Fiona's arm and flipped her over her chair, pinned her to the ground, put an elbow to her throat and told her to believe me, but I didn't have time to have an entire afternoon of acrobatic, angry, vengeful sex with Fiona. Not that I didn't want to. Not that I probably didn't need to. But that I couldn't. Vows have been made: Keep things less personal. More professional. The fewer nude exchanges the better. I knew better than to engage Fiona physically. It never ended well emotionally and I've been trying to be more neutral there.
Search for ennui.
Find inertia.
Avoid foreplay at all costs. And fighting with Fiona was better than a dozen roses, diamond earrings and a steak dinner combined.
'I was going to tell you,' I said. It came out sounding a lot like I was going to kill you, so Fiona let go of my face. An expression of eager anticipation glossed over her. I swiveled my head around and reset my jaw. I have to admit, she did look pretty cute when she was ready to really hurt you. 'First,' I said, 'I want to remind you that when Natalya and I had our… summit… you and I were not you and I. And that you and I are not you and I.'
'Oh, yes, I recall,' she said. 'That was one of your sabbaticals.' She picked up my plate of food, which I wasn't finished with, walked over to the sink and scraped it all into the garbage disposal.
'Fi, do you want to know what's going on, or do you want to fight about things that happened in the last century?'
'I'm listening,' she said. 'I am also passing judgment, but don't let that stop you from spinning your little yarn.' I told her everything there was to know. I didn't even leave out the part where Natalya told me I was looking good… except I tweaked that a bit to say she'd just complimented me on my suit and asked where I got my sunglasses. All the while, Fiona kept her back to me and pretended to clean her kitchen. As I neared the conclusion, I saw that she'd actually taken out several guns and was lining them up in an orderly fashion aside the drain board. The way the sun cut through the windows in her place made them shine across the room, so that I was nearly blinded by Fiona's passive-aggressive nonchalance.
'What do you propose to do?' Fiona asked.
'Well, first thing, I guess I need to find out why someone in our government is trying to get the Russians to kill me or have me tried for treason, or just pegged as a drug kingpin, none of which seem like great outcomes. And then figure out how to get Natalya to accept that I haven't done what I'm accused of. And, then, if all else fails, see where to get my hands on whatever vig she's in for. Or…' I paused and thought about it. 'Or I guess I figure out how to get rid of her.'
This brightened Fiona's mood considerably. 'Why don't we just jump to the last choice?'
I explained, again, to Fiona that this was a person with kids. With a husband. With a life. That I couldn't just leave a trail of bodies around me wherever I went. Plus, I had the impression that Natalya had… changed. At least incrementally. I told Fiona, 'When I said get rid of her, I didn't mean via a bullet to the back of the head and then a watery grave.'
'I envisioned a threshing machine. No bullet at all. Very little residual evidence.'
The truth was that I was prepared to do what I had to if she came at me.
Or my family.
Or Sam.
Or Fiona… again.
'Let's see where the Gandhi approach takes us first.'
'It's nice you could have such humanistic feelings for a person who would have had me killed had I not been ten times more intelligent than she is,' Fiona said. 'Does she still have that awful hair? I recall her having awful hair and a very sinewy body. Or at least that's how she looked through my rifle scope. Terrible hair and truly repugnant taste in men.'
When you're planning to infiltrate a hostile environment, it's important to take into consideration important factors: topography, weather, special equipment needs, disposition of the enemy, need for air support. You want to know the mind-set of the people you'll be dealing with so that you won't be surprised by the choices in logic they make. You want to know how to escape if everything collapses.
You want to avoid Coral Gables.
Specifically, the Alhambra Plaza, home to a pink stone Hyatt Regency and a complex of high-end office spaces and busy courtyards designed to make you feel like you're in Italy on the muggiest day in history. Coral Gables was one of the first planned communities in Florida, which means there are plenty of places for tourists to walk around with wall-eyed wonder at the shops and restaurants, for college students from The U to ride their bikes drunkenly down the wide paseos, and for four-way stops that bottle traffic while drivers consult their maps. A simple clue: Home is to the north. When you hit Canada, stop.
Palm Life's offices occupied the top floor of the Alhambra Plaza and were a testament to the power of pink.
