“Do it now,” Omidi said, speaking for the first time since the African entered.
“In good time.”
“Not in good time. Now. They’re of no use to us. Keeping them alive is an unnecessary risk.”
The African waved a hand dismissively, obviously wanting to savor the sensation of having Howell completely at his mercy. “I said in good time. I’ll use the whites to keep the spirits alive. To show my people that no one can stand against my magic.”
“We have an agreement. We—”
“An agreement? How do prisoners that
“I’m the one who gave you their location. It was my source in the American—”
“
He grabbed Sarie by the hair and pulled her to him. She was smart enough not to fight but drew the line at hiding her hatred.
“And now I have the woman. Maybe I don’t need you anymore, eh, Mehrak?”
It was clear that Omidi understood the weakness of his position. Bahame was a mystic and a psychopath, but he had enough of an understanding of biology to know how useful Sarie could be in making the parasite a more practical weapon.
“Perhaps we could strike a bargain for her,” Omidi said.
Bahame looked vaguely insulted. “She isn’t part of our deal and I can make use of her myself.”
“Of course you are right,” Omidi said, his tone softening into something that approached subservience. “But we have the facilities to put her skills fully to use. Certainly there is room for negotiation.”
The African nodded. “There’s always room for negotiation between good friends. Come, let’s drink and we can talk of this more.”
47
The crunch of icy gravel sounded impossibly loud as Randi walked toward a small cabin tucked into the woods about ten miles from the nearest asphalt. The drive there had offered no opportunity for escape, and the situation wasn’t getting any better. Her captors were a good ten feet behind her, one thirty degrees left and the other thirty degrees right, staying close to the tree line.
The chances of her making a break and getting to cover without catching a bullet seemed to be hovering somewhere between slim and none. It would have been an easy shot for someone half as good as the people covering her. But even if by some miracle they did miss, that left her running unarmed through the snow in heels and a skirt.
Randi stopped at the front door and glanced back, unsure what to do. The woman, who looked much more sleek after shedding the elaborate foam belly, motioned her inside.
The trees were tantalizingly close, and Randi focused longingly on them in her peripheral vision before reaching for the knob. At this point she just had to keep breathing long enough for someone to make a mistake. Not a great strategy, but the only one currently available.
There was a green-wood fire crackling to her right as she entered, and she couldn’t help reveling for a moment in the heat coming off it. The galley kitchen at the back of the cabin was separated from the main living area by a granite-topped island, and there was a man standing next to the sink working on something she couldn’t see. He was a little less than six feet tall, with thinning hair and a suit that apparently had a healthy fear of irons.
“Randi,” he said, glancing up at her. “I’ll be right with you. Pour us some wine.”
There was a carafe on a coffee table near the fireplace, and she examined the odd way the light played off it and the two glasses next to it. Plastic. A quick sweep of the room confirmed that any object more dangerous than a soft cushion had been removed.
The man came around the counter and slid a plate of cheese and fruit onto the table before settling into one of the sofas surrounding it. “Please. Sit.”
He didn’t look even mildly athletic, but behind his glasses his eyes were sharp — a little sharper than she would have liked. The intelligence didn’t just reflect there; it glowed.
Still devoid of options, she took a seat across from him and poured. He reached for a glass and took a careful sip, nodding approvingly. “I was afraid it might be a little past its prime, but I’m happy to say I was wrong. Please don’t let it go to waste. If I wanted you dead or unconscious, you already would be.”
It was hard to argue with his logic, and she put the plastic glass to her lips. Credit where credit was due. The man knew wine.
“First let me apologize for the melodrama. You’re being watched by a surprising number of people, and not all of them are from my organization. We had to make the switch quickly enough that no one would notice.”
“Your organization?” Randi said.
The man frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude. My name is Fred Klein.”
Randi took another sip of wine, processing the name impassively.
“Can I assume you’ve heard of me?”
“There was a Fred Klein who worked for a while at the CIA and then spent years at the NSA. After leaving there, though, I don’t know what happened to him.”
“Oh, he did a bit of this and that — finally culminating in our meeting.”
“I see,” she said, not bothering to hide her skepticism. She’d never met Fred Klein personally, and there was no way to confirm this was him. It was an intriguing claim, though. He had a serious reputation in the intel community, and the suddenness of his resignation from the government had led to more than a little speculation in the circles she ran in.
“You left Jon Smith a message a few days ago,” he said. “I mentioned it to him and he was concerned.”
Smith. Still popping up in the oddest places.
“It was nice of him to be worried, but it was just a personal call about my sister. Do you know where he is? I’d like to connect with him.”
“Unfortunately, he and I recently lost touch.”
“That’s a shame. Well, I’ll try to catch up with him when he gets back. Thanks for the wine. Any chance I could get a ride home?”
Klein smiled and stabbed at a piece of cheese with a toothpick. “Do you know where Jon is?”
“No idea.”
“So I should just chalk it up to coincidence that you booked a ticket to Cape Town for tomorrow?”
“My compliments. You’re extraordinarily well-informed.”
“I have to admit to a little luck on that one. I’ve had occasion to do business with the same Czech forger you used to have that passport made. But, unfortunately, Jon’s no longer in South Africa.”
“No?” Randi said, unwilling to reveal anything herself, but perfectly happy to let Klein — or whoever he was — talk.
“He caught an internal flight to Uganda four days ago.”
“Really?” she said noncommittally. “How interesting.”
Klein sank back into the sofa.
“Perhaps we should change the subject for a moment. The reason I knew about the message you left Jon isn’t because we’re watching
“Me? Why?”
“Because there are people high up in our government who have been interested in you joining our little family for some time now.”
“Exactly what people and what family is that?”
Klein studiously ignored the first part of her question. “I work for an organization called Covert-One.”
“Never heard of it.”
