Will wondered if that was somehow related to Brandon’s request for the Bayer file. He had never provided Will with any explanation for the agency’s various interests and Will had never bothered to ask. “Any idea why?”
“Ours is not to reason why, only do and die, yes?” He smiled. “I don’t think they honestly expect substantial information from us; it’s the evidence of our industry that counts. The key is to appear tireless and eager, to keep the action moving, keep the eye busy. We’re like those Puerto Ricans with the three-card monte games up in Spanish Harlem. It’s exhausting, really. Brandon’s people used to be much more generous. But now the money’s tight and they’ve got us sweating for every franc.”
Will nodded. “The U.S. is spending more in Indochina now.”
Oliver gave him a funny look. “Your friend Brandon tell you that?”
“Not too hard to figure it out from the papers,” Will lied, not wanting to draw any more attention to his relationship to the agency. “With France pulling out, makes sense that we’re going to have to go in there to keep things stable.”
Oliver smiled. “You know, they call Saigon ‘the Paris of the East.’ I’ve never been there, but I’m fairly certain I prefer the original.”
Across the room, Ned switched off the desk lamp and tucked the camera into her coat. “I’m done.”
Will pointed at the camera. “You’re not taking that, are you? I told you, it will be traced back to me.”
“I need something, Will. I haven’t got enough to make payroll at the journal right now and I desperately need that embassy cash.” Oliver buttoned up his jacket and reached for his overcoat. “I’m happy to make a trade, though. We can give you twenty-four hours. Find us a good tidbit and I will give you Ned’s film from tonight. Fair enough?”
“Not really, but I don’t see that I have much choice.”
“Yes, well, apologies again.” Oliver grinned. “Of course you know it’s all toward great and noble ends. And I am sorry for that bruise; at least it won’t be a bad black eye. Take some aspirin and knock it back with some scotch, that should do the trick.” He gave a half-salute farewell and followed the other two out the door.
Will listened to their footsteps disappear down the hall. Once he was sure they were gone, he got up and locked the deadbolt. He was surprised to find his initial anger already dissolving into some milder form of irritation. Why wasn’t he more upset with the three of them? Shouldn’t he be furious? Somehow Oliver’s apologies, combined with his bemused and detached manner, made it hard to take the odd course of events seriously. The entire evening simply seemed preposterous. He walked over to the bar and refilled his drink, rubbing his sore jaw as he looked around the room. Lionel Hampton’s mallets were bouncing across “Stardust” on the stereo and a few LP albums were spilled out across the table, empty cocktail glasses sat on coasters, a few hats lay on the floor, and the last of Boris’s Gitane was still smoking in the ashtray. In the past two hours he had been assaulted, tied up, and blackmailed, and yet his apartment looked no different than if he had been hosting a few friends for drinks. Perhaps that was why he wasn’t so angry, he thought. Maybe it had been nice to have company come over.
XIII
Elga pulled her head up from the sink and wiped the bits of vomit from her lips, sick with dizzy anger, her breath puffed full of hysterical rage. What a goddamned gutted sour fish, she thought, what stinking putrid marrow. That bitch. That horrible bitch. Zoya had led them here, she knew it, her bowels screamed and gargled this truth to her. Why? When they had first appeared at the door, panic’s hammer had struck hard at Elga’s tired heart. Policemen! In her home! What were they asking? Why? Their presence kicked her mind spinning, and now she could not remember much of what they had said, the echoes and static of their questions buzzed about her skull like honey-drunk bees. In her tangled thoughts, the policemen’s words were clotted and mottled, wet bits of sonic matter that clogged her brain. She tugged at her ears, trying to unstuff the meaning. Her stomach cramped and she retched again, spitting gray and green into the basin. Think, think, get their faces back; when she tried to imagine them she only saw big sturgeon fish burping fat bubbles underwater. She slammed her hand on the counter, trying to remember. It was hard, the nosy policemen’s questions were slipping away, like silver coins rolling off a sinking deck, every phrase drowning in the murk. She grabbed and grasped at the words before they went. Yes. Wait. There it was, it was the clock, the shit of a clock. Damn the little mite. The clock had been a snare. Zoya had given her the clock, like a piece of cheese baiting a trap. That bitch, that serpent, that double- crossing fork-tongued asp. Ah, yes, that reminded her.
Staggering up, she moved at a stumbling, sclerotic pace, fumbling over to the shelf where she pushed the books and vials about till she found the glass jar she was looking for. She dumped the teal powder on the counter by the sink, pulled a thin silver tube out from a pot of spatulas and mixing spoons, then leaned over and snorted up the dry dust of the snakeskin. Her head kicked back as electricity sprayed chaotically inside her head, bringing her heart racing fast to life.
Refueled and regaining focus, Elga supported herself against the doorframe and steadied her legs. The small rooms were choked with a dusty smoke that curled slowly in the weak light, filling the air with the sulphur stink of rotten eggs. After so long, she thought, to have so little, less than nothing. She glanced down at the empty police uniforms lying limp at her feet and the sight brought her small satisfaction. She grinned grimly to herself. Stupid trespassers, they were on their own now. Scum toads. She spat out more gray, and scratched the small, thin whiskers at the end of her chin.
With the snakeskin in her blood and the anger pulsing through her veins, she had enough to push her on. She crouched down and stared at the uniforms. So how did these two get here? Where did they begin? They must have followed her from the antiques shop, that was the only path that made sense. Logic was hard for her, more difficult every day, it seemed, but her mind could still follow a path and keep focused; it took effort but it worked, so long as she had some purpose, some goal. She imagined Zoya’s head severed from her body, lying sideways on the pavement like a dropped melon. That did the trick, now Elga had her motivation. She made clicking sounds with her tongue and the sniffing rat came scurrying out from below the couch, joining her as she began searching through the pockets. Where was it? What was here? She found a black wallet. The rat emerged from deep in a pocket with keys in its mouth. “Good, Max. Wonderful.” She emptied the cash out of the wallet and pulled herself up from the floor, sucking in her soured stomach to keep from heaving again as she reeled over to the bureau. Opening a drawer, she pulled out the old pistol. “Come.”
Moments later, standing in her doorway with a stuffed satchel on her shoulder, she spoke a few sharp words that sealed her apartment safe from thieves and prying eyes. Then she locked up and headed off, still woozy and unsteady. A passing man in a plaid suit glanced over his spectacles at her, and she held back a hiss. Chart a course, she thought to herself, the way the sun sets its path across the sea, then follow it—or sink and drown. A few steps behind her, the rat scurried along the lip of the storefronts’ gutters. She had only taken what she needed for now, yet her load was heavy and made her stagger with effort. She tried not to knock against the passersby. Her mouth was set open, her breathing raspy and hard, and her eyes had to squint to keep focus. Every spell takes its toll.
She turned left at the corner, past the bookstore and bakery and on up the hill. Three blocks up and she was close. She sniffed deeply—snot gargled in her nose—she wanted an odorous clue, but the air was empty of meaning . Step after step, passing Citroens and Peugeots, she eyeballed each one quickly as she went. Keep looking, she scolded herself, it’s here, those policemen would not have walked, they would not have taken the metro, she kept searching. She reached the antiques shop but staggered past without stopping. They would have come in a car. But where was it? Where? She circled around one block. Then another. There, finally, she spotted the police car, parked like a turtle sleeping in the sun, waiting to be cracked open for its meat. She tried the key and, sure enough, it worked. As she got in behind the wheel, the door still ajar, she sighed with an ancient relief. The rat hopped in behind her. She put the key in the ignition. Wait, she thought, wait. She put her fingers to her temple and felt a balled-up thought pulsing there, ready to be opened. There is no time—but there is always time. She looked down at Max; the rat stared up at her from the passenger seat. Yes, she thought, a loose thread to cut. She pulled herself up out of the car and started again toward the antiques shop. The rat waited behind.
One minute later, the dull sound of a shot rang out. Three minutes later, she climbed back into the car with
