The Counterfeit Agent (12 page)

“He contagious?”

“That’s always a risk.” Duke paused. “We can play without him.”

“I’m not thrilled, but I’ll defer to you. If you’re sure.”

Was he sure? He would be killing one of his own men. Not to defend himself. Not even from lust or anger. Simply to smooth the path for yet another murder. “I’m sure. What about on your end? Are you close?”

She hung up.

—

Now Duke just had to get rid of a trained assassin. Duke would have one chance at him. If he missed, he could be sure Nuñez wouldn’t.

Duke spent the night drinking cold coffee, considering plays. First he leaned toward sending Nuñez to do a job outside Manila. Hong Kong, say. Split him from the team. Ask Salome to hire guys to kill Nuñez there, make the body disappear. No doubt she had connections in Hong Kong. She’d found Duke there easily enough.

But the play was way too obvious.
Hong Kong? Why me? Why now?
Nuñez would take off. Before he did, he would tell the rest of the team that Duke was after him, and why.

Duke could also try to arrange something sly in Manila. A hit-and-run. A botched mugging. But even if Nuñez survived for only a few hours, he would tell the police what he knew. And nobody would believe Nuñez had died in an accident, no matter how well Duke sold it.

As dawn approached, he fell asleep. When he woke, he saw a third way. The more he considered it, the better he liked it. He called Salome, explained what he needed.

“You’re sure this is best?”

“Yes.”

“All right. You’ll have it tomorrow.”

She hung up. If she could get him everything that fast, she must have a second team running surveillance on him and his guys. She was even more paranoid than he’d imagined.

The package came the next afternoon. Thinner than he’d hoped. A dozen photos, bank statements, a flash drive with a few soundless video clips. The B-team must be just one or two men. Even Salome had limits. No matter. The “evidence” would be enough, if he presented it the right way. And to the right person.

He called Bram. “You alone?”

“Sure.”

“
Roja.
Now.”
Roja
was his apartment. “Come by yourself, don’t tell anyone.”

Bram arrived fifteen minutes later. With his short haircut and square face, he looked like what he was, dumb muscle. What Duke needed. Anyone else would have shredded the story he was about to spin.

“We have a problem. And you’re the only one I trust enough to tell.”

Duke laid the photos on a table. Long-lens surveillance of Nuñez in Panama City, sitting with a fortyish man in a short-sleeve blue silk shirt and linen pants. Duke neither knew nor cared who the other man was.

“You know what you’re seeing?”

“Eddie.”

“And a guy he owes a million dollars. Named Carlo.”

“Huh.”

“Nuñez told me he was clear of the cartels. He didn’t tell me he had to buy his way out. He borrowed money from this guy. Four hundred thousand at two and a half points a month plus a buck a year. You know how that works?”

Bram shook his head.

“Costs him ten thousand a month, every month. Then, if he doesn’t pay the whole nut back by the end of the year, they add another hundred thousand.”

“Ten thousand dollars a month? That’s crazy.”

Duke nodded.
Poor Eddie.
“He’s stuck now close to a million.”

“Eddie can take care of himself. I’d take odds on him over this guy.”

“Maybe one-on-one. But they’re looking at his family, too. Eddie’s got one move left. Tell Carlo what he’s been doing with us.”

“But we have nothing to do with Panama.”

Trust Bram to raise the one objection Duke could answer. “Our activities are of interest to various intelligence services, Bram. Which makes information about them valuable.” Duke made sure to lay the sarcasm so thickly that even Bram would understand the sneer in his voice.
Don’t argue. Trust me and do what I say.
“Long story short, Eddie came to me, said if I don’t get him square he’ll have no choice but to try to settle this on his own. Which means giving us up.”

“Eddie always seemed straight to me.”

“This kind of hole, you can’t know what someone will do.”

Bram’s eyes backed into his head until they were as small and dull as jellybeans.

“You want me to show you how we know he’s paying Carlo?” Duke grabbed a marker, started drawing boxes on the whiteboard, throwing in names of banks at random. Boxes and lines always intimidated.

“It’s all right, then. I get it.”

“I knew you would.”

“Now what?”

“We deal with it. It’s my fault. I never should have brought him in.”

“Eddie?” Bram scratched his chin, a parody of deep thought.

“It’s my call.” An old trick. Take away the subordinate’s authority, and with it the moral responsibility.
My decision. I’ll face the consequences.
Duke waited for a final nod from Bram. “Good. We need to move tonight—”

“But—”

Duke steamrolled the objection. “Call Nuñez. Tell him you’re worried about him. You want to meet him somewhere no one will suspect. A karaoke club. Tonight. Late. Suggest the Lucky Jack.”

“Is that around here?”

“Santa Mesa. I’ll give you the address.” Santa Mesa was a dingy neighborhood east of Quiapo. Duke had scouted clubs there the day before, looking for a place that had private rooms and no security cameras.

“He’ll go for it?”

“Don’t overthink it, Bram.”

“What if he wants to meet somewhere else?”

“Has to be there. Somewhere no one will see you.”

Bram called Nuñez, repeated Duke’s lines word for word. Nuñez seemed hesitant but eventually agreed. Probably he viewed Bram as too dumb to fear.

—

Across the street from the Lucky Jack Karaoke Special Club was a run-down six-story building filled with massage parlors that made no effort to hide their real business as brothels. At nine p.m. Duke entered the chipped concrete lobby, made the mistake of riding the elevator up. The cab stopped twice without explanation.
On the way down, I’ll take the stairs.

After a three-minute, sixty-foot ride, the doors opened onto a weirdly well-lit corridor. Duke walked inside the Little Flower Massage Spa, explained he wanted overnight use of a room with a window that overlooked the street.

“All night? Big man.” The madam was a stout unpleasant woman who wore cat-eye contact lenses. She led him into a room directly across from the entrance to the club.

“Perfect.”

“One girl, two girls?”

“No girls. No sex.”

“No sex, still pay. Three hundred U.S.”

He handed over fifteen twenty-dollar bills. She counted them twice, held them close to her nose like they might be fake. “Like to listen, huh?” He ignored her until she left. He set his phone alarm, turned out the light, lay on the floor. He wasn’t taking a chance on the massage table. Probably bacteria from four continents in its seams.

His alarm woke him at eleven. He left the room dark, stood by the window. He should have been nervous. He’d never killed anyone. But he was ready. He saw now the devil didn’t come shouting for your soul. He touched your shoulder and told jokes until you gave it to him on your own like a guy buying a friend a drink.

Fifteen minutes later, Nuñez showed. He wore a green windbreaker, three-quarters unzipped. Duke could just see the faint outline of the holster tucked inside his waistband. He looked around, walked inside the club. He emerged a few minutes later and stood outside, smoking. Nuñez didn’t smoke. Basic countersurveillance. He looked around for about two minutes, then stubbed out the cigarette and disappeared into the club.

Bram showed up at one minute to midnight. As Duke had ordered, he wore a T-shirt and shorts, no place to hide a weapon. He walked into the club. Duke left the massage parlor, hustled down the fire stairs beside the elevator. He held a cheap nylon bag in his left hand. Inside the bag, a 9-millimeter Sig with suppressor already screwed to the barrel.

The emergency lights were burned out on the last two floors and he had to grope his way down the stairs. At the bottom, he grabbed the door handle. It refused to give in his hand. Locked. He should have checked after he decided not to take the elevator. Why hadn’t he made sure?
Stupid.
He slammed it with his shoulder, but it stayed locked.

He grabbed the pistol from the bag, put the tip of the suppressor an inch from the door jamb, pulled the trigger twice
.
The suppressor quieted the shots to an asthmatic puff, an old man blowing out candles. Duke dropped the pistol back in the bag and turned the door handle again. This time it opened.

No biggie.
He’d lost a minute or two. The delay might even work to his advantage. Bram and Nuñez were probably just sitting down in the private room. He walked across the street. The club had a front room twenty feet long. A bar ran along the side and an eight-foot-tall projection screen hung from the back. The private rooms lay along a corridor that ran from the back of the room to the rear of the building.

The club was mostly empty on this weekday night. Madonna strutted on the projection screen as a half-dozen drunk Filipino guys shouted lyrics:
When you call my name, it’s like a little prayer, down on my knees . . .
Three transvestites watched from the corner, wearing long dresses, careful makeup. Demure. Behind the bar, a lighted board indicated which rooms were taken and which available. Perfect. Only three rooms were in use: 1, 6, and 8. “Ask hostess for room,” a sign beside the board said in English and Tagalog. “CC required.” The hostess sat beside the entrance to the corridor. She looked about fourteen. She reached for Duke as he walked by.

“I’m looking for my friends—”

“Price per person—”

“No worries. I’m not staying.”

He brushed her hand aside, walked through a beaded screen. The corridor was blacklit. Ghostly white numbers hung above the rooms, five on each side. The doors had narrow glass slots so people walking by could peek inside. Duke didn’t plan to press his face to the glass, an excellent way to get shot. He pulled open the door of room 1, found a transvestite and a Chinese man in a suit making out to the tune of “Rumour Has It.”

In room 6, he found three women sitting side by side by side on the couch, eyes glazed, too drunk to sing. Which left room 8. He reached into the bag for the nine, pressed his finger against the trigger. Nuñez was a fast draw, but even John Wayne couldn’t pull quicker than a guy with a pistol already in his hand.

The metal was cool against his finger. He stepped down the hall. No waiting. Aim and fire. He pulled open the door to 8—

Found himself looking at four uniformed Philippine National Police officers. Three hookers, too. The cops weren’t happy to see him. Two yelled in Tagalog. The one nearest the door lurched up—

“Sorry, sorry—” Duke shut the door, turned away. Were Nuñez and Bram in the bathroom? In one of the supposedly empty rooms? He couldn’t hang around to find out. The cops might not bother to come after him, but if they did, they’d find the pistol.

He’d thought his plan was solid. The karaoke noise would hide the suppressed shot. He and Bram would take Nuñez’s identification, shove him into a corner of the private room. By the time the waitress found the body, Duke and Bram would be gone. He’d tell the team that Nuñez had disappeared. Bram would keep his mouth shut, and in a few weeks Duke would deal with him, too.

Now he had trouble. He’d figured on shooting Nuñez soon after Bram showed. He hadn’t given Bram a cover story for Nuñez, or warned Bram what Nuñez might say. Just:
Sit with him, I’ll be right there.
Now, though . . . what was Nuñez saying?
Veder was screwing his old girlfriend in Lima, this is revenge, the agency will figure it out . . .
Even Bram would be able to see that Nuñez’s story made more sense than Duke’s half-baked lies about a Panamanian loan shark.

The hostess walked toward him. “Sir—”

“Coming, sure—” He looked in the men’s room, the women’s just in case. Empty.

“Now.”

Duke doubted she would let Nuñez and Bram in a room without paying. By the book, this one. He followed her out. One of the transvestites was up, a surprisingly sweet rendition of Whitney Houston,
And ayyyyyy will always love youuu,
arms spread wide.

No Nuñez. No Bram.

They were gone.
How? Think.

Nuñez waited up front. Bram came in, and Nuñez steered him away from the private rooms.
Let’s walk. We can talk easier outside, this place gives me a headache, let’s get some air.
Nuñez was a pro. Like a pro, he’d changed the terms, made sure he wasn’t rat-cornered in a karaoke room with one door. He’d hustled Bram outside while Duke was stuck on the stairs.

“Sir.” The hostess again. He wanted to set her on fire. “You stay, buy drink.”

Duke turned to leave. Then realized. Nuñez wasn’t caught in a dark room anymore. Duke was. His watch said 12:10. Bram and Nuñez had been gone for seven or eight minutes. Time for Nuñez to see Bram had set him up. Time for him to take Bram out. He was holding, Bram wasn’t. Though Nuñez might let Bram live, figure that Duke used him.

Either way, Nuñez would want Duke. Duke could practically see him. Crouched low behind a car on the street. Standing in the alley around the side of the building, pistol low at his side. Expecting Duke to run out, looking for him and Bram. Patient. Quiet. He could wait all night. Duke wondered if he could convince the cops in room 8 to escort him out. Yeah, right. What would he tell them?
This man, he’s an assassin that works for me, but I double-crossed him and he knows it . . .
They’d laugh. And drive him to the nearest mental hospital.

Panic poured into Duke’s stomach like a spigot he couldn’t shut off. He remembered his last night at the 88 Gamma. The floor manager had tapped his shoulder as he stared at a square mile of empty green felt.
No more chits, sir, we’re sorry, no more.
He was a coward, he saw that now. He thought he was a killer, because he worked with killers. But he was a middle-aged bureaucrat named Glenn—