Evans raised his hands to hold him off. “And if by some miracle I manage to do this? What then—you kill me and dump me in the Everglades?”
“Is there anything in my past behavior that leads you to believe I would kill for no reason? You know damn well that shopkeeper in Dushanbe was a bomb maker. That he strapped bombs to kids.”
They sat staring at each other for several moments, Evans breathing heavily.
“There are big issues on the line—not just national defense, but the future of the human race, and I’m convinced you can point us in the right direction. Someone has hijacked at least part of the national security apparatus, and I think it’s related to the multibillion-dollar autonomous drone bill being fast-tracked through Congress. How do we find out who?”
Evans looked horrified. “Oh, man! You’ve got to be shitting me. These are not people I want to tangle with.”
Odin raised the gun again. “I’m going to make you do the right thing, even if it kills you.”
McKinney nudged it aside. “He’s going to help us.”
“This is why you shouldn’t get involved in the underworld, Mort. What’s to stop me from letting them know you helped us, even if you haven’t? I could just pick up your phone and speak over the line in my voice. That should do it.” Odin reached for the receiver.
“Don’t!” Evans slid the phone away. “What you’re asking is hopeless, but I’ll see what I can do. But we can’t do it here. I need access to real equipment.”
* * *
McKinney glanced around the huge condo with its tall windows and wide view of the bay. It was a penthouse unit in a quasi-Mediterranean twenty-story tower on Bayshore Boulevard. The condo was new and looked relatively unlived in—there was no clutter or dirty dishes. It was coherently, if a bit enthusiastically, decorated. There was an L-shaped sectional sofa on a zebra carpet, wide expanses of wood floor, a full bar, mirrors, brushed steel lamps, urns, bold modernist paintings that said nothing, but loudly, as well as petrified blowfish and other bric-a-brac on shelving units that McKinney couldn’t quite map to the urban cowboy who presumably owned it.
Once he’d conceded defeat, Evans didn’t put up much fuss about being hijacked by Odin. He seemed resigned to his fate. McKinney had followed Evans’s Jaguar in her domestic rental car, watching as he chatted constantly at Odin sitting in the passenger seat. Now Evans seemed almost jovial, humming to himself as he fixed a drink at the bar just off the living area.
“Want anything, Professor?”
She shook her head.
“I make a mean mai tai.”
“I said no. Thanks.”
“Suit yourself. You know, you’re pretty cute, in a tomboyish sort of way. What kind of chick joins CIA, anyway?”
“I’m not CIA. Let’s just stick to business, Mr. Evans.” She joined Odin, who stood at the glass wall overlooking the glittering water of the bay. “Do you really think this goombah can get us access to anything?”
Odin remained poker-faced. “No, but he can get us to the people who can. I’m just waiting for him to make his move.”
This surprised her. She glanced over her shoulder.
Evans worked a silver martini shaker, then tapped the top on the edge of the bar, deftly pulling the halves apart. He poured through a strainer into a chilled martini glass.
Odin spoke while facing the window. “You’ve gone up in the world, Mordecai. How much did this place set you back?”
“A million five—only half a million more than it’s worth now, which actually passes for real estate acumen in Florida nowadays. But I don’t give a shit. Zion’s doing booming business.” He took a sip and let out a satisfied “Aaaahhh.”
“Interesting that your company has no website—given your mad technical skills.” Odin turned to him. “What does Zion Group do exactly?”
“We work under contract to public relations firms. Boring stuff, but it pays well.”
Odin just stared at him. “I’m not going to ask twice.”
“Jesus, Odin. Chill out, man. I just didn’t want to bore your hot little friend here.”
“Cut that shit out right now. The professor’s smarter than you. Now tell me what Zion’s a front for.”
Evans held up his hands. “It’s not a front for anything. We—”
Odin gripped the edge of a mango-wood shelving unit dotted with vases and small sculptures.
“Oh. Come on, Odin—”
He tipped it over and it crashed across the floor, shattering the edge of a glass coffee table.
“What the hell, man? I paid somebody to buy that.”