Twice a Spy_ A Novel - Keith Thomson [83]
The other locked his rifle on Drummond.
“It’s his weapon!” Charlie said, regarding the door through which Stanley had exited. As soon as the words left his lips, he felt foolish because they didn’t prove a thing.
“Slowly set it on the floor and tap it to me.”
Charlie lowered the Glock an inch at a time. “Listen, we have proof that we’re being framed.”
He looked at Drummond, now being frisked by the other marine, probably the unit’s superior officer given his graying hair.
“Yes, that young man wanted to kill us!” Drummond said of Stanley, with so much indignation that it rang false.
The marines exchanged a dismissive glance.
“Let me just tell you guys one thing, while we have the chance,” Charlie pleaded.
The superior said, “Sir, it would help if you would refrain from speaking now. When we return to the American consulate, you’ll have a full debrief by the CIA.”
Charlie set the gun down. “You’ve got to understand, ‘debrief,’ in this case, is a euphemism for ‘execution.’ ”
The younger marine knelt and snatched the gun. “Please stand, slowly, and face the bar with your arms and legs outstretched.”
Charlie complied. “Just listen, for posterity if nothing else: The proof of everything I’ve been saying is on Korean Singles Online-dot-com.” He received a shove in the small of the back. “Go to Suki-eight-three-five’s page, magnify the left earring—”
The older marine sighed, seemingly in frustration. “Sir, we’d prefer not to have to sedate you.”
A short, chubby man in a suit and tie barreled down the stairs.
“Chief Corbitt,” both marines said by way of greeting.
Charlie looked up at him with a glimmer of hope.
Corbitt looked past them at the lower deck and gaped at the smoldering wreckage. “Holy merde,” he said.
Pointe Simon pulsated with a variety of music and chatter, a good deal of which was pickup lines, Stanley supposed. He stepped into the relative quiet and cool of the sort of bar no one bothered to name—it went by 107, its number on one of the little streets in the maze near the ferry docks. Neon distillery promotions cast red and purple on the frayed bar island and the establishment’s two dozen patrons, a mix of locals and travelers on a budget. Although 107 served no food, it smelled vaguely of hamburger.
He spotted an attractive brunette sipping a drink. She wore a slinky floral-printed cocktail dress, the sort sold at the tourist bazaar at the ferry docks, revealing a lithe figure. Most anyone would guess she was a young American or Euro tourist bent on a night on the edge.
Settling onto the barstool beside hers, Stanley asked, “What do you think the chances are that I’ll meet my wife here?”
“A sure thing,” she said, leaning over a salt-rimmed margarita and kissing him on the lips. Recognition code, safety code.
This was Lanier. First name or last, Stanley didn’t know. Probably pseudo anyway. Rumint had it that she’d authored the Ayacucho hit, notable not because she trekked a hundred miles alone through Peruvian jungle and snuck past two hundred Shining Path Senderistas, but because she’d put the whole op together during a half-hour taxi ride from the Lima airport.
“So how was your day, honey?” she asked.
“I’ve had better.”
She regarded the mirrored rear wall, which offered a view of the whole place. Turning back to him, she asked, “So what the fuck went down on the boat?”
“The old man kicked a Croc while I was firing and wrecked my shot. I mean, a Croc!”
“How about that?” She spread a cool, comforting hand over his. “Just another one for the list of You Never Damned Know.”
The bartender slid Stanley a tall glass of something redolent of rum.
“What would you have done?” he asked.
“Don’t know. Spilled the milk. Maybe not spilled the milk. Either way, what we have is Hadley in brain surgery. Doesn’t look like she’ll make it, but even if she does, we’ll see to it that she doesn’t. So all is far from lost.”
“What about the other two?”
“The night, as they say, is young.”
Stanley had been trying to devise a way to get at the Clarks. “FBI’s flying down an excessive number of agents