Dead or Alive

troops would be slowed, if not jeopardized. Worse still, Britain’s arms-reach attitude had in turn emboldened the Iraqi government, whose calls for a U.S. departure had gone from polite but firm to strident and belligerent, a trend American citizens could not help but notice. First our closest ally, then the very people we’d shed blood to rescue. Having run his campaign on the promise to disentangle the United States from Iraq, Kealty was slipping in the polls, and some of the TV pundits had gone as far as accusing Kealty of stifling the withdrawal to put pressure on Congress, which had itself been wishy-washy on some of their new President’s pet projects.

The fact that their request to enlist the Brits in following the Peshawar-map angle was denied shouldn’t have surprised Mary Pat, a veteran of more intragovernment political squabbles than she could remember, but it did nonetheless. This damned cave was the best lead they’d had on the Emir in years. To see it slip through their fingers over what amounted to a presidential tantrum was infuriating. Of course, it didn’t help that their DCI, Scott Kilborn, was himself a weasel.

Mary Pat shook her head and sighed. “Too bad Driscoll lost his prisoners.”

“A little water inhalation tends to loosen the lips,” Margolin said.

A popular view, Mary Pat thought, but of little use in the real world. She was neither squeamish nor such a Pollyanna that she thought torture did not have its merit, but generally those techniques fell far short on producing reliable and verifiable information. More often than not, it was a waste of time. During and shortly after World War Two, MI6 and the OSS got more information from captured German generals with a game of Ping-Pong or checkers than they did with a pair of pliers or electrodes.

The “ticking bomb” scenario so casually batted about was a near myth. Most plots against the United States since 9/11 had been broken in their infancy, as the bad guys were recruiting, or moving money, or putting logistics into place. The image of a terrorist with his finger hovering over a button somewhere while the good guys tried to squeeze info from his compatriot was beyond rare, a Hollywood concoction, and bore about as much similarity to real-world intelligence work as James Bond did. In fact, there’d been only one instance of the “ticking bomb” during her entire career, and John Clark had settled that in a matter of minutes by breaking a few fingers and asking the right questions.

“Cliches are cliches for a reason,” Ed had told her once. “It’s because they’re usually so true, people overuse them.” As far as Mary Pat was concerned, when it came to interrogation, the cliche “You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar” was dead right. Morality was only one facet in the pros-and-cons argument. What really mattered was effectiveness. You do what gets you the best results. Period.

“So,” she said to her boss, “back to square one?”

“No fucking way. That old friend across the pond you mentioned… Give him a call, have an informal chat.”

Mary Pat smiled but shook her head. “This is what they call a job killer, Ben.”

He shrugged. “You only live once.”

Melinda was pleasantly surprised to see him again. He’d taken her out for a drive to see “John” a week before. He had paid nicely and done nothing overtly kinky, and all that was fine with her, especially the money part.

This guy-well, he was properly turned out, or what passed for it here. It was unusual for her to appear in public this way. She was a call girl, not a streetwalker, but this hotel had a particularly fine dining room, and the maitre d’ knew and liked her. A freebie took a girl a long way in her business, and truth be told, he was a decent chap, married, like so many of her clients, and therefore dependably nice. Well, almost dependably. You could never be sure, but men in his position, the ones who lived around here, generally knew what the rules were. And if that failed, she still had Little Mr. Colt in her purse.

Eye contact. A knowing smile. He was cute, this procurer. A very short beard, like something Errol Flynn might have worn in a pirate movie. But she wasn’t Olivia de Havilland. She was prettier, Melinda thought, not the least bit self-consciously. She worked hard to stay slim. Men liked women whose waists they could encompass with their hands. Especially the ones with nice tits overtop of them.

“Hello,” she said pleasantly. A smile that was merely friendly on its face, but the recipient knew that there was much more that came behind the smile.

“Good evening, Melinda. How are you this warm evening?”

“Just fine, thank you.” A little teeth with the smile.

“Are you busy this evening?”

“No, not at the moment.” More teeth. “I never did get your name.”

“Ernest,” he replied with a gentle smile. The man had a certain charm, but of the foreign sort, Melinda thought. Not European. Somewhere else. His English was okay, some accent… He’d learned English in a different place. That was it. Learned it well, and… and what? What was different about him? she wondered. She started cataloging him more fully. Slim, taller than she, lovely dark eyes, rather soulful. Soft hands. Not a construction worker. More a money type, this Ernest, which was surely not the name he’d been born with. His eyes were evaluating her. She was used to that. The How good is she in the sack? look. Well, he had reason to know she was pretty good. His boss had not complained, had even overpaid her. She was used to that. Yeah, she was that good. Melinda had lots of repeat customers, some of whom were known to her by their real names-or what they said were their real names. She had her own names for her regulars, frequently related to their dick size. Or color, in this case, she thought with a suppressed chuckle and a not-suppressed smile that Ernest might take for himself. That was something she did almost on instinct. In any case, she was already counting the money.

“Would you like to come with me?” he asked, almost shyly. Men knew by instinct-the smart ones anyway-that shyness is a major turn-on for all women.

“I’d like that.” And being demure worked just as well in the other direction. “To see your friend?”

“Perhaps.” His first mistake. Ernest would not be displeased to sample these goods himself. Filthy whore though she might be, she was a good lover, with much practice in her trade, and his drives were the same as those of most men. “Would you please come with me?”

“Surely.”

It was only a short drive, rather to Melinda’s surprise. A place right in town, an upscale condo with its own underground parking garage. “Ernest” got out of the car and gallantly opened the door for her. They walked to the elevator bank, and Ernest hit the button. She didn’t know the building, but the outside was distinctive enough to remember the image of it. So John had a place in town? More convenient for her, and for him? she wondered. Or maybe he remembered her fondly. That happened quite a lot in her experience.

“John” was standing at the entrance to the kitchen, holding a nice glass of white wine.

“Well, hello, John, what a pleasant surprise,” she said in greeting, with her best smile. It was a particularly good smile, sure to warm the cockles of a man’s heart, and the other cockles, too, or course. Then she walked over, kissing him sweetly before taking the offered glass. Then a tiny sip. “John, you have the best taste in wine. Italian?”

“Pinot grigio,” he confirmed.

“They do the best food, too.”

“Is your ancestry Italian?” John asked.

“Hungarian,” she admitted. “We do good pastry, but the Italians do the best veal in the world.” Another hello kiss. John was a little odd but a really good kisser. “How have you been?”

“Travel is such a problem for me,” he admitted, falsely at the moment.

“Where did you have to go?” Melinda asked.

“Paris.”

“Do you like the wine there?”

“Italian is better,” he replied, a little bored with the conversation. She wasn’t here for her talking ability. All women had that, but Melinda’s talents went to other areas. “You are nicely dressed,” he observed.

It comes off quickly enough, she didn’t say. She selected her business clothing with that in mind. Some men like their women nude, but a surprising number liked the partially clothed quickie: skirt hiked up, bent over a table or couch, bra on but tits out… John liked on-the-knees oral, too, something she didn’t mind as long as he didn’t get carried away. “Just something I threw together. So this is a nice apartment.”

“It is convenient. I like the view.”