than she, hearing aids visible in both ears. Athena glances to him, sees her father looking, looks away, and Bell is wondering just who this boy is when Amy puts a hand on his arm.
“I did everything I could,” she says quietly. “But we couldn’t just up and cancel without a good reason, Jad. It wouldn’t be fair to the class.”
Bell feels the tension return as if pouring from a pitcher into his breast. He forces a smile on Amy, puts his hand on her back, steering her a half dozen steps away from the group. She allows it, puzzled, then looks past him to where Nuri is speaking with Howe, and through him, to the class. Going through backpacks quickly, handing out the CELEBRATION! buttons for everyone to wear.
“So who’s she?” Amy asks.
“Shoshana? She works with me. Listen.” Bell faces her, head bent, and Amy looks up at him, and if it were twenty years ago, the next thing he would say would be “I love you” and then he’d be kissing her. But it’s not, it’s Saturday morning, closing on the end of summer, and there’s been nothing from Ruiz, and Chain still hasn’t found whatever the hell it was that got Vesques killed, and, for that matter, neither has Bell.
“Listen,” he says again. “Stay together today. Don’t let anyone wander off. Pay attention when you’re on the rides, know where the exits are.”
“We always do.” Amy searches his expression, frowns. “Is this your normal paranoia or something else?”
“It’s me asking you to do this thing, that’s all it is.”
“I’m thirty-nine, Jad, I think I know what I’m doing. I know it better than you do, in fact. This is no different than running a classroom or taking them on any other field trip.”
“I’m not questioning your abilities, Amy.”
“Sure sounds like it.” She stares at him, the frown gone, mouth turning to a hard line. Bitterness and the memory of countless fights are swirling up between them, they can both feel it, and Bell can’t even remember what the fights were about, but the sense of deja vu is profound, and saddening.
“We all set?” It’s Howe, coming up on Bell’s periphery, his head inclined ever so slightly forward, almost solicitous. “Everything good?”
Amy, still glaring up at Bell, says, “Everything’s fine, Marty.”
“Good, great!” He stops beside them. “They’re acting like colts in a stable, we should get moving.”
Another moment’s pause, awkward, and Bell knows that Athena and her class are watching them now-Nuri, too, most likely. He drops his head, breaking the stare with his ex, sighs before straightening up again, turning to look at Howe. “It’s going to get busy today. If I were you guys, I’d hit the near attractions first, the Wild World stuff. The animal shows are best in the morning, before they get tired. Then maybe loop around the park counterclockwise. You make it up to Lion’s Safari by ten or so you’ll have a lead on the rest of the crowds, at least until around noon.”
Bell gestures, pointing to one of the pathways that snakes away from where they’re standing, to the northeast, skirting around Wild World Live! Howe follows the direction of his arm, nods, then checks the map in his hand. The standard park visitor’s map. Nuri probably handed them out with the badges, Bell thinks.
“I’m not seeing anything here designated for the deaf, no services,” Howe says. “When we planned the trip, the website said there were services.”
“The website’s correct. Just check in when you come off the line wherever you are, and as you enter, there’ll be a Friend there. Let him or her know what you need.”
“Multimedia on a lot of these rides.” Howe taps the map. “If they’re not captioned, I’d like an interpreter.”
“The park utilizes reflective, handheld, and even open captioning, depending on the attraction. Just let the Friends there know, they’ll take care of you.”
Howe looks up from the map once more. “I was under the impression we’d have an escort, actually. An ASL interpreter.”
Bell takes a second, thinking about this man, wondering if he’s pushing because he thinks he can or because he thinks he must. If this man, Howe, is a sincere advocate for his students, trying to secure for them the best WilsonVille experience that he can. Bell thinks that if he’d spent the last ten years as a father and not a soldier, he would know the answer.
“I’ll see what I can do about getting a dedicated interpreter assigned to the group,” Bell says.
Howe smiles slightly, nods, relaxing. There’s both a sense of relief and a vague disappointment coming from him, as if he has, perhaps, been cheated of battle. As if this is a fight Martin Howe has joined many times, and will do again. Bell knows the feeling, and it softens him immediately to the teacher.
“I’m in my office or on the grounds all day,” Bell says, turning back to Amy. “I’m easy enough to find if you need anything. Just ask anyone in a blue blazer, they’ll direct you.”
“I think we’ll be okay, Jad.” She smiles thinly at him, then turns to where the class is clustered perhaps ten feet from Nuri. Amy raises her arm, flaps her hand loosely, immediately catching their attention. Before she’s even begun to sign, they’re surging forward, unable or unwilling to contain their eagerness. Howe gives Bell another grin, thanks him once more, then moves to join Amy as the group begins to follow her. She’s taking the northeast pathway that Bell indicated, and that, at least, makes him feel a little better about things.
Athena shoots a glance back over her shoulder at him as they depart. Gives him another one of those smiles, signing quickly, small gestures.
Her smile blossoms broader, and then she turns away, heading into the Wild World.
Chapter Eight
The man who employs the Uzbek does not like video, and does not like voice, and does not like e-mail or text. The man who employs the Uzbek would be happier if all communications could be carried out in person, face-to- face, at the time and place of his choosing. The man who employs the Uzbek understands that there is little by way of privacy left in the world, and that there are always people listening.
Yet he also understands that sometimes concessions must be made. This communication with the Uzbek is one of those times, because of all the work this man does, of all the plans and plots and gambits in motion, this one, in the United States, in California, is the most daring, the most bold. And already, by far, the most lucrative.
So he makes the concession, and sits in front of a laptop computer in a rented apartment in Paris that has been acquired for this communication and this communication alone, and watches as the Uzbek’s face appears on his screen. The video is one-way, as is the audio. The Uzbek will speak, but the other man will not. He will type, so that there will be no misunderstandings, and so that his own voice, in silence, will be loud.
At readiness?
The Uzbek answers in his flawless English. “We are.”
I have no information on the investigation into the man our boy eliminated. That drew attention.
“Without question, but the investigation is centered outside of the location. He was smart about that.”
Smart would have avoided the incident in the first place.
“It was bad luck.”
Someone was looking. Someone in the line was not as discreet as they should have been. This is not tolerated.
“A job on this scale, someone somewhere is going to notice something.” The Uzbek shifts in front of the camera, uncomfortable. Encryption leaves pixelated blocks that drag a fraction of a second behind his movement before resolving again. “I can confirm that security on this end is intact and absolute.”
I know.
The Uzbek says nothing.
The problem arose at the source. It has been dealt with, but the damage is done.
“Are we calling it off?”
