'Ma,' I said. 'Please. Go outside. If you see flames leaping from the windows, call nine-one-one.'
For approximately the third time in her life, my mother actually did what I asked her to do.
'You could be nicer to her, Michael,' Fiona said. 'She made you a lovely dinner.'
'If nothing blows up,' I said, 'I pledge I will spend the rest of my life trying to be a better person. Could we get this done?'
Once we were a reasonable amount of space away, Fiona gathered up the yarn until it was taut. She yanked the yarn and split the envelope in half. Nothing went bang. We waited another thirty seconds, in case there was a secondary trigger set to a timer, and when nothing happened we went back into the bathroom. I bent down and picked the package up and pulled the contents-wrapped a second time in plastic, most likely because they knew I'd try to submerge the package in water first-out through the bottom. I then shook the package out over the toilet, just in case there happened to be a dose of anthrax for my troubles.
I opened the package up. There were several glossy, professional-quality photos and a stack of black-and- white photos as well. Today, if you can't get a decent photo of someone from surveillance, you either have early onset Parkinson's, which causes you to shake uncontrollably, or you like kicking it old school with a Polaroid, just to show technology isn't needed if you're savvy, which makes you a useless dinosaur who should be burned versus those who do their job, do it well and lose everything anyway.
We went into the dining room and spread everything out on the table. Out the window, I could see my mother standing on the sidewalk smoking. It was always a strange experience being back in my childhood home as an adult, doing things completely unrelated to the person I was when I lived here as a child. If I closed my eyes and just relied on my sense of smell and the sounds whirring in the background-the smell of cooked meat, old cigarette smoke, damp coffee grounds, the hiss of the refrigerator, the cycling of the dishwasher, the slow turn of the overhead fan-I could easily imagine myself eight, nine, ten years old.
But here I was, fixed on a photo of me and my mother not eating lunch at the Oro.
'A nice establishing shot,' I said.
'Two hundred years of espionage and they can't think of anything better?' Fiona said.
She spoke too soon. The next photo was of me talking to a passel of Jamaican drug runners on a dock in the Glades. It was from the air, but you could still see me. Could still see the drug runners. Could make out their boat. Another one with heroin smugglers, ex-Special Forces guys who nearly killed Sam. Again, from high above. There were more just like this. Over a dozen. All from the air.
'How long have they been tracking you?' Fiona said.
'Long enough.'
'Drones?' Fiona asked.
'Maybe. Looks more like satellite. See the resolution? That's five, maybe six inches.'
'Whose?'
'Could be Russian,' I said. There was a photo of me with Philip Cowan, the man I thought had pulled my original ticket, moments before he was shot. 'Could be ours. Could be the Chinese, for all I know.' There was a photo of me in Little Haiti, meeting with a drug dealer. Another with a member of a notorious Colombian crime syndicate. 'Jesus. They've got me with every known drug dealer in Miami. The close-ups, those could be FBI, but this overhead work? With this clarity? It's not like someone was flying a kite with a camera on it. Jesus.'
Fiona was silent. Never a good sign. I continued looking through the pictures. There were shots of Nate at the dog track. Nate at the jai alai stadium. Shots of Nate unloading what looked to be an entire rack of men's suits from the back of a semi. Shots of Nate doing just about everything I imagined Nate did in his free time when he wasn't helping old ladies do their taxes and going door to door selling encyclopedias for the blind.
Nate.
My little brother.
The bane of my existence at his worse.
My brother, finally, finally, when at his best. It's been the process of teaching him that being at his best is the choice to make. We have the same parents, so I understand how difficult that decision must be.
'What does this all mean?' Fiona asked, though I suspected she already knew.
'That I'm not just burned,' I said. 'If they want to build a case that I'm running drugs, or at least facilitating such, as they like to say, there's a good amount of evidence. Enough that the Russians are using it to pressure Natalya, maybe make her kill me, or make it impossible for her not to kill me. If I'm Natalya and I get this intel, you know what I think?'
'That you lied to her yesterday,' Fiona said. 'That you've got plenty of reasons to shuffle anything off on her if it means saving your own ass.'
'Exactly,' I said.
'Now can I kill her?'
'No.'
'She'd never see it coming,' Fiona said, but already we both knew that wasn't true. If someone had satellite images of me, there was an above-average chance that she could get a muffled recording of this very conversation if someone, somewhere, thought it pertinent for her to have.
What I didn't understand yet was what any of this had to do with Nate, why they'd even bother mentioning him after I got this message.
I went back and looked at the photos of Nate. The differences between Nate and me are easily boiled down: He has always been obvious. Took chances when he didn't need to. Played the tough guy when he really wasn't one and got beat down for his troubles. And now? Now that I was home? Was it my job to keep him safe? To keep him from his own screw-ups? I couldn't be blamed if he acted according to his nature, which was to act before thinking.
Which, I supposed, they knew as well. Whoever they were. The odds were good that Nate would just open his mail, provided the return address wasn't from a collection agency, and that a few seconds later he'd be missing his hands, or his face, or both.
At the bottom of the stack of photos was a Post-it with a phone number on it.
An 800 number.
'That's nice,' Fiona said.
I punched the numbers into my phone. 'Yes,' I said. 'Thoughtful. I keep my brother alive, but they pay for the phone call.'
The phone rang three times before it was answered. 'Hotel Oro, how may I direct your call?' the operator asked.
'I'd like to speak to the Russian Mafia,' I said.
'Pardon me?'
'KGB, please,' I said. 'Or ex-KGB. Whoever is available.'
'I'm sorry, sir, but-'
'Ms. Copeland, please,' I said. 'If you're unsure who that is, just ask if anyone there has a scar on the back of their neck from a knife fight. It didn't keloid, but you should be able to see it if no one cops.'
'One moment please, Mr. Westen,' the operator said, because it's impossible to get good help anywhere these days, and then Muzak filled my ear.
'I've been put on hold,' I said to Fiona.
'A true lack of disrespect,' Fiona said.
My mother walked back inside, saw us sitting at the table and sat down next to Fiona. 'Were you just going to let me stand outside all night?'
She shook out another cigarette and lit it off the end of the one in her mouth.
'Yes,' I said.
She started fingering through the photos, picked up one of Nate and stared at it. 'What's he doing with all of those suits?'
'Ma, I'm on the phone and this doesn't involve you,' I said. I tried to gather up the photos, but my mother kept snatching them from me.
'What does Nate need a suit for?'
'He doesn't,' I said. As soon as I'd grab a picture, my mother would snap it from me. 'It's been Photo- shopped. It never happened.'
