Burn (Story of CI #3) (20 page)

“I wanted to interrogate you here,” he said, “because it’s so much nicer than some little hotel in Fez, and Timbuktu is just not private enough. You have to admit this house is quite nice.” Lázaro took a swig of wine and repositioned himself in the armchair.

This house was freaky as hell.

“So I just let you continue on with your plans to travel to Mali,” Lázaro went on. “I also had to meet my boss here. To pick up a package. And now you’re going to tell me everything you know,” he said crisply. “No more stalling.”

Wara felt herself gulp. “I don’t really want to tell you everything I know, because when I’m done, what’s to keep you from tossing me out in the desert with a bullet in my head?”

Lázaro looked pissed. The bridge of his nose had begun to simmer beet red. “We’re not in the desert,” he said. “We’re in Bamako.”

Wara was surprised that he offered up that little tidbit. Bamako was a huge city, full of pay phones and a US embassy. She'd have a much better chance of escaping him here than in Timbuktu.

She decided to give him something in return. If she didn’t, she was thinking Lázaro was probably serious about his threat to try to remember by kissing her again. After all, that was what triggered his memory in the first place.

Wara felt herself shivering. “Ok. Well. The truth is, we definitely don’t work in the same organization. I work with CI, which sends people around the world to work with education.”

Lázaro nodded. “Which is why the people you work with, like Boyfriend, walk around armed. Every teacher should carry a large weapon.”

He was being sarcastic. “You can’t try to help kids in a place like Timbuktu without a little security,” Wara shrugged. “The only time I’ve worked in the same organization as you,” she added, “was when we worked at church camp, Lázaro.” He was so not going to believe this. Lázaro would probably just shoot her now. “You were the lead counselor for the fourth graders. You were good at it, because you knew everything about the outdoors. The kids loved you.” Wara’s voice grew hoarse.

Lázaro blinked at her and she saw his scarred fingers dig into the armchair. “You’re lying,” he said in that blasted British accent.

Wara snorted. “Uh-huh. As if I could even make up a story like that."

“And where was this church camp.” He tasted the words “church camp” like someone might say “underground nuclear test facility run by aliens.”

“Bolivia. I was working as a missionary there.”

Lázaro lowered his legs from the footrest and crossed one knee over the other, regarding her, paler than usual. The smugness that always dominated his face was smudged into something crooked and less confident. The gray cap slipped down a little lower, almost covering one eye.

“And am I from…Bolivia?”

“No,” Wara clipped. She was going to hold out telling him where he was from and how to find his family. She had to hang on to something until she made a plan, because like Alejo had told her back in Morocco, once Lázaro had his information he had no reason to keep Wara alive.

Plus, the more information he had, the more memory Lázaro might get back. And when he remembered Wara and what she did to him, she was toast.

In many ways, she would totally be ok with the bullet in the back of her head out in the desert right now. But there was another part of her that was just plain scared by the thought of facing that here, now, with Lázaro.

Self-preservation and all. Even when self totally, utterly does not deserve it.

Lázaro was waiting, not very patiently. “You were studying tourism in Bolivia,” Wara told him. “I don’t know where you learned English, but when I knew you we always talked in Spanish. You had just started going to church, wanted to ‘turn your life around.’”

She couldn’t help it. Wara snorted and rolled her eyes.

A bead of sweat snaked down Lázaro's temple, rode down his cheek and bumped over the scars below his jaw line. There was a long pause. Lázaro was doing that thing where his eyes darted back and forth, just like he was reading the past off the freaking wall behind Wara’s chair.

"Santo Dios!"
he finally groaned.
“Mierda!”

Lázaro pushed the wool cap up out of his eye and bit off a few more Spanish curses. "I really do speak…Spanish? They wouldn’t tell me anything. Even my name.” He was speaking Spanish now, haltingly. Lázaro hunched over and dug his fingertips into his chin. “I think I remember something…it’s about church. Wood pews and loud singing and a dirty red carpet down the center. Damn it! I think I remember walking down the aisle and giving my heart to Jesus!”

And that was when the doorbell rang. The sound actually launched Wara a good inch out of her plush chair. It wasn't a screeching buzzer like she might have imagined in this place, but a resounding ding-dong that echoed off the plaster ceilings.

Wara slapped a hand to her heart, trying to breathe again. Lázaro was glowering at the sitting room door, still pretty pale. Wara had no idea what he was going to do with that memory. It must be the church he went to in Cochabamba, where he decided to try and turn his life around.

Obviously the whole altar-call thing had been a very life-changing experience.

Or not.

"He's here," Lázaro croaked. He was speaking proper English again, on his feet and marching towards Wara's chair. "My boss is here, dear. If you know what's good for you, you'll come with me and stay out of sight until I call you. He is the one who wants you dead."

THE DOORBELL OF LÁZARO MARQUEZ’S crumbling colonial mansion from hell donged again. Lázaro snatched up Wara's crystal glass and yanked her clean out of her chair. He limped when he walked, but he seemed pretty strong for a guy with burns over a significant portion of his body.

She wondered where would be the best place to kick him so she could get away, where he was weakest. Probably in the sore ribs he’d mentioned.

She wondered if she actually cared enough to try to make a break for it.

"Brush off your chair when you stand up," Lázaro ordered. "There, just like that." He pushed her aside and ran a hand briskly across the bright fabric, smoothing out the dents Wara's butt had left in the plush red.

"By the way," he said, "there's something you should see."

Lázaro made a point of pulling up the black sweater to expose his navel and a weapon strapped to a holster in the hollow of his back. It looked like a Skorpion, a light, submachine gun bad guys were always carting around in this region.

The scarring was much worse inside his clothes. Silvery ridges ran around most of his hips and lower back. The sweater still covered his rib cage and she couldn't see how much of his chest had been burned.

"This is so you don't cause trouble," Lázaro winked at her, still showing skin. "I'm talking about the gun, of course. I'm assuming your full cooperation, however. With my questions, that is."

Wara didn't even have time to flush at his sleazy double meanings. Lázaro dropped the sweater and gripped her upper arm, shoved her empty glass into her hand. "Down the hall, dear," he clipped at her. "The boss is waiting."

"Let go of me!" Wara snapped. The guy had a grip like serpent fangs.

"Whatever you say, but hurry it up. You don't want to be here when he comes in."

Wara kept pace with Lázaro, happy to have his hands off of her. They marched down a wide hallway lined with warped photographs in gilded frames frosted with dust. The hallway was very dim and cobwebs fluttered on the breeze as Lázaro and Wara stalked by. Their feet left thick footprints in the dust.

Lázaro pushed her through an open doorway. The room was pretty dark, lit only by a lamp in the corner, a white shade on a base of twisted horns from some long-dead animal.

"My office," Lázaro said. "Security's in here, so if you want you can watch any room in the house. Listen in on my conversation too, if you really want to. If you value your life, be a smart girl and wait here til I come to fetch you. No phone or internet, though, so don't waste time trying."

He left her standing there barefoot on a fluffy rug. The door that closed Wara in was hefty and lined with something silver and electronic. Obviously a newer addition to this old African colonial house.

She was probably locked in here. Not that Wara was really ready yet to bust on out and run into the visitor that clearly had Lázaro on edge.

Even if she got out of this house, who was she going to call for help? She had betrayed her entire team. And Rupert.

What she had done was never going to go away.

She closed her eyes slowly, then opened them, anchoring a palm against the cold door.

Finally she made herself get a grip and walk across the rug. Thick strands of cotton pulled at her bare toes like pillowy quicksand. A hulking desk sat smack at the center of the office, wreathed in shimmery computer screens. Wara set the empty glass he was holding on the desk and sat on the brocade armchair, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the screen images in the dark.

There was a street scene, in tones of black and pea green. It still looked like Africa. Lázaro was probably telling the truth about Bamako. It was the only city close enough to Timbuktu, yet large enough that Lázaro could hide himself with her in the urban sprawl.

The next image was a courtyard, probably just inside the outer wall, separating the street from the house where Wara was sitting. The other screens showed rooms, empty except for the now-familiar parlor with its creepy red chairs, drained now into tones of gray. Lázaro's back moved into view of the camera as he poured a glass of water for a stick-thin guy making himself comfortable in the chair Lázaro had been using before. Wara leaned closer to the flat-screen, taking in the newcomer's light skin and mop of curly hair. He had some pretty substantial eyebrows and a ginormous nose. The guy didn't look a day over eighteen.

And he was obviously really disgusted by Lázaro's spread of wine and figs. Wara tapped the screen of the parlor to turn up the volume.

"I've told you a thousand times not to drink that devil's brew," Eyebrows frowned. Wara saw his eyes flit over to the wine bottle again and his lips twitched. She'd thought Eyebrows was just a kid, but there was authority in that accented English that made him seem much older right away. The guy obviously had no qualms about bossing Lázaro, killer for hire, around. The attitude towards the wine told Wara that Eyebrows was probably a serious Muslim.

Lázaro did not serve himself more wine. Neither did he sit. He parked himself next to the other red chair, leaning one hip against the side. He looked nice and stressed. "I hope you brought me something," he said, looking Eyebrows' way but not meeting his eye. "I've had a really bad day."

Eyebrows raised his chin, raking his eyes coolly up Lázaro from feet to head. "You seem to be in pain, my friend. I've brought you enough for now. But the deadline still stands; I'll need results by Wednesday."

"I'm going to Timbuktu tomorrow. I know for a fact the girl went there with her boyfriend.”

As soon as Lázaro said Timbuktu, it all clicked. The guy downstairs was Alexei Tsarnev; now Wara recognized him from the briefing back at headquarters. This was the guy Alejo said was there when the school blew up. And Tsarnev was the one who wanted her dead?

It was because Lázaro had failed to kill her before. That’s what Rupert and Alejo seemed to think. Lázaro’s new boss needed him to prove himself.

The fact that Lázaro worked for Tsarnev really wasn’t a good sign. Her brain was just too overwhelmed to let herself realize why.

Lázaro was still talking to Alexei Tsarnev. "I couldn't begin my trip, of course," Lázaro said, "without the drugs. Hard to do a job when one is doubled over in pain. I hate to not be feeling my best."

Wara watched as Lázaro bared his teeth at Tsarnev in a smile. He did look in pain. Now that Lázaro mentioned it, Wara could see the way his leg was bent at an unnatural angle while one hip bore most of his weight against the chair. His jaw was squared and tense.

The scarring Wara had seen under Lázaro's sweater had to burn.

Strangely, Tsarnev’s lips twitched into a freaky, gray-toned smile. "I brought you something today, to help you get the job done." Tsarnev stood up and pulled a silver case from a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He clunked it onto the coffee table, rattling the plate of figs. Water startled over the lip of the crystal pitcher and wet the cookies. "You understand, this is on condition there will be no more screw-ups. The girl was supposed to be gone last week. This week, we need you to move on to your second screw-up."

Tsarnev scoffed, leaning back into the chair and crossing one long leg over the other. Wara noticed the guy was wearing outdated dark jeans and what appeared to be leather boat shoes. His sweater was a light cardigan, buttoned up to the V-neck. Under the dark eyebrows, the skinny guy was scowling. "I'm tired of paying you to fix mistakes, Aslanbek," he said. "Do you see my point here, the way your shoddy workmanship is starting to make me worry? You are supposed to be finding me my multi-million-dollar prize. Not still fixing past mistakes. I told you about the intelligence leak; word about the prize is getting out. You need to find it for me, immediately! Do you understand, Aslanbek?”

Amid the ringing in her ears, Wara realized Alexei Tsarnev was standing, picking up the silver case and tossing it onto the chair next to Lázaro. "Get the job done. Clean up. This week. Fix the mistakes, then find me what I’m looking for. Or this will be the last of this you see for a very, very long time. I don't pay for incompetence."

Wara suddenly felt very, very small.

She was here with Lázaro, a guy taking orders from a terrorist and getting paid in drugs. And she was here because she chose to be here. She chose it when she drugged Alejo, who was only trying to save her.

And in some ways she chose it years ago when she spent the night with the guy she met at church camp.

She was here, in his house. Helping him. Scarfing down his water and fruit. There was no way she could go back to Alejo now, not after what she'd done.

Like it or not, she was on Lázaro’s side now.

Even if it killed her.