Central Intelligence Agency
“Kaya,” I said, and looked back down at the card. “CIA. Nice touch.”
“Believe it or not,” Nolan said, “it started out as a speech-enabled text error. Hard
I don’t know why I was surprised. “So the CIA are the ones running Gobi?”
“Gobi,” he said. “That’s cute. What’s she call you-Pokey?”
“You know she goes by that name.”
“Yes,” Nolan said, “but I prefer Zusane Elzbieta Zaksauskas.” He brought out a thick folder and opened it on the table, next to his wineglass. Inside I saw whole stacks of black-and-white photos, handwritten reports, official documents, and photocopied receipts stapled together, flickering in the firelight from behind us. There were a few pictures of me in there as well, surveillance pictures from our night in New York. Nolan flipped past them without comment until he reached a page of vital statistics. “Born September twenty-third, 1988, Karmelava, Lithuania, twenty-four years old, various aliases, weapons and combat training, blah-blah-blah, whereabouts currently unknown.”
“I know where she is.”
“Right.” Nolan hardly raised an eyebrow. “Not to burst your bubble, junior, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t jump right up and offer to blow you for that information on the spot.”
I frowned. “So… what? If you don’t think I can help you, why did you agree to meet me?”
“First rule of poker, kid. Look around the table for a sucker. If you don’t see him, it’s you.”
“I’ve already figured that out.”
“In fact, the only reason you’re even sitting here tonight is that I wanted to be sure you actually exist. You know, they have a running bet on you back at Langley? None of the analysts could believe one guy could have such spectacularly shitty luck with women.”
He tossed another surveillance photo across the table and gave me plenty of time to look at this one. It was a shot of me and Paula from early October, walking hand in hand outside Film Forum in New York. We’d just come out of a showing of
“Paula Daniels, age twenty-four,” Nolan said, “born Paula Monash, an American citizen who grew up in Dubai.” Paula was twenty-four? And Monash? I was still looking at the picture, trying to figure out where I’d heard that name before, as Nolan kept talking.
“Paula’s father, Everett Monash, was an American financier working alongside George Armitage in the UAE. She turned eighteen and got into the family business.”
“She told me her dad was a record producer.”
Nolan was in the process of sipping wine and almost snorted it out his nose. “My. God.” He coughed and cleared his throat. “How is it you are still alive?”
I looked at the crime scene picture from yesterday-or was it two days ago? — of Armitage’s body splayed across the Venetian piazza in a pile of broken glass and spilled wine. Even in black and white it was pretty gruesome, like a big pan of lasagna had fallen on him.
“Why did you have Gobi kill him?”
“If you’re asking why we picked Zaksauskas for the job, you of all people should know that. The girl’s born to kill. If you’re asking why we targeted Armitage…” Nolan steepled his fingers in front of his lips, parsing information carefully. “Let’s just say that he and his checkered past presented a problem that our government couldn’t afford to deal with publicly-and he did need to be dealt with. We’re talking about a guy who helped sell Stinger missiles to Kurdish separatists for pocket change, and now he thinks he’s Richard Branson? Sorry, no. So back in August, one of our analysts happened to read that college essay you wrote online, and your crazy little European chick seemed like a perfect bet for cleanup duty.”
“Wait.” A wave of nausea rolled over me, and I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. “You picked Gobi because of me?”
“It was a great essay, kid. Vivid prose. Felt like I was there.” He must have seen my face, because he shook his head. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up about it. You didn’t know. Once she takes care of Paula, we’ll be all finished with her.”
“You know she’s got my family.”
Nolan went quiet, all smugness gone.
“Paula. She’s got my parents and my sister.”
“As of when?”
“Yesterday at least. Paula had pictures of them on her iPad, in some room somewhere.”
“You’re sure that she’s the one who did it?”
“If she didn’t, she’s associated with whoever did.”
“You have any proof?”
“I told you,” I said, “I saw the picture. There’s a video file too, where my mom and dad are talking about her.”
“You have that file?”
“No. It was on her iPad.”
“And where’s the iPad?”
“It got blown up in Zermatt.”
Nolan grunted. “I’ve noticed that happens a lot when Zusane Zaksauskas is around.”
“We’re talking about my family,” I said. “My parents. And my sister. Why would I possibly make something like that up?”
He didn’t bother answering the question. “And you have no idea where they might be?”
“Somewhere in western Europe. They’re in a room with no windows and no furniture. Other than that, no.”
“Well”-Nolan didn’t look happy-“we’ll look into it.” Even he must have realized how lame that sounded, because he straightened his posture and attempted to rephrase the statement. “We’ll make it a top priority. Meanwhile, we’ve got a tight hold on the asset, so everything’s stable, temporarily at least. Once she takes care of Paula, she’ll be back.”
“The asset?” It took me a second to figure out what he was talking about. “Are you talking about Gobi?”
“Who else?”
“You’re talking about her like she’s some kind of brainwashed sleeper agent.”
Nolan snorted. “Kid, you’ve been watching too many movies.”
“Then how can you be so sure she’ll be back?”
“Money isn’t the only reason people do things.” Nolan shrugged. “Our doctors give her eight to twelve months tops.”
I stared at him. For a second the tavern around us was so quiet that all I could hear was the fire snapping and popping in the hearth.
“What?”
Nolan’s eyebrows twitched. For the second time, he looked interested in the conversation.
“What, you didn’t know?”
And he showed me the last item in his folder.
36. “Bullet with Butterfly Wings” — The Smashing Pumpkins
I’d never seen an MRI image before, but I recognized a human brain when I saw one. Nolan pointed to a white spot toward the front of the picture, just above the eyeballs.
“Glioblastoma multiforme,” he said, “stage three. Temporal lobe, they say. Aggressive as shit, the way I
