Jackie rolled his eyes.
Hector leaned close to Jackie’s ear. “I have a job for you. I need you to kill two people.”
“All right.”
“Do you know New Orleans?”
“I can find any place if I got a map.”
“Use the GPS in the rental car. You’ll be killing two women. One in her late fifties, Margaret Pritchard, and the other a younger woman, Joanna Vochek. They’re at this hotel, this suite number. I need it done silent and fast. Both may be armed. Pritchard is a fool but Vochek isn’t. They’re expecting me; they’ll be getting you.”
Jackie studied the address, put it in his pocket.
“Pilgrim and Forsberg are in New Orleans. We don’t know where.”
Jackie blew an irritated sigh. “What if Pilgrim and Ben know where you’re headed?”
The corner of Hector’s mouth jerked. “They don’t. They couldn’t.”
“Never say couldn’t.”
“Then my new colleagues in the Cellar will be happy to kill them.”
Behind them, the clock chimed midnight.
Khaled’s Report—New Orleans
I can’t sleep. I hear snoring coming from the other rooms, but I cannot settle my thoughts. My mind is too full of worry. Later today I begin my work, and I must do it perfectly. With no room for error, no mistakes. It is strange to think of a job this way.
Tonight I saw on the news more coverage about the attack on the Homeland Security office that had not even officially opened yet in Austin, by a group of Lebanese men. I could feel everyone in the room tonight watch me when it was announced they were Lebanese, as though I brought a contagion of incompetence with me. Perhaps I am imagining it; reading so much into every reaction, because I am aware of the constant lie that my life is about to become.
A lie until I die. It is an odd, discomfiting feeling, one that works into your bones. I feel like tonight is the last night forever of the life I knew. Before I thought my very identity—who I am at heart—changed when I was recruited. That my uselessness ended then, and I became hopeful and useful all at once. But tonight is truly the end of my old life, and the beginning of another for me.
I lay awake, feeling the change in my bones.
39
“I really need your help,” Ben said with a tourist’s awkward grin. The night clerk at the Hotel Marquis de Lafayette flexed an automatic, customer-centric smile in response. But any murmured request asked past midnight probably meant vice was involved. Ben could see the clerk steel himself against a polite inquiry as to where one might locate the pricier hookers.
“Yes, sir?”
“My wife called someone staying here last Monday. I’d like to know who that someone is.”
“Sir, I can’t release our phone records.”
“I’ll pay you two hundred dollars.” Ben kept his smile friendly.
The clerk blinked. “Sir. I could lose my job. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
“I understand. Five hundred dollars.”
“Sir. Please.” The clerk reddened with embarrassment.
“Cash,” Ben said. “No one will ever know. But I have to have that phone number. My children. My wife wants to take my kids from me. I had an affair. So did she, but she didn’t have the guts to confess to it.”
“Sir, respectfully, I don’t want to know . . .”
“My kids. I can do shared custody but I can’t lose them from my life. Help me level the playing field. Please. Six hundred dollars. If you don’t need the money, you must have family here that could use it. I know how hard things have been since Katrina.”
“Sir.” The clerk wet his lips. “I’m not sure I could even give you enough information to help you . . .”
“She called at 11:09 A.M. Spoke for twelve minutes. You should have a record of the incoming call. Which room it was routed to and who was in that room. That’s all I need.”
“Sir. Pardon my question. How do I know you don’t mean ill to whoever she called?” This question followed a long sigh, low in the throat. Wrestling with the ethics. Calculating how much six hundred cash would buy. The clerk was maybe twenty-two and wore a plain wedding band on his finger.
“I swear I don’t.”
“I . . . I . . .”
“Six hundred. You’re not doing a bad deed. You’re helping yourself and you’re helping me, and trust me, I deserve a little help right now.”
“I’m not sure I can even get the information . . .” The clerk glanced over his shoulder. “My manager . . .”
Ben slid three hundred-dollar bills to the clerk. “Here’s half. The rest when you get me the records.”