The Last Minute (39 page)

‘This is not a job for you. This is my son’s life at stake. We are not negotiating.’

‘All I want to do is to help you.’

‘Sure. And if you get info on Nine Suns, then all the better … ’

‘What is this ransom, Sam? You owe me. You know you owe me.’

I put an elbow down on the table; I rested my head against the heel of my hand. ‘They want me to kill an informant who is
attempting to surrender to Special Projects. He has information that could gut Novem Soles. I broke up his surrender to the
CIA. But someone else is hunting him; I’ve killed three assassins already who tried to get to him before I could’ – now I
raised my gaze to meet hers – ‘and all three of them asked me about you.’

‘Me.’ Her expression was unchanged. Poker players should have bowed to it in respect.

‘Yes. Someone wants to collect the price on your head.’

This silenced her.

‘You and I have a common enemy, Mila.’

‘Tell me what you’re thinking, Sam.’ She said it low, soft, the way you might to a lover lying next to you in the warm bed.
The thought of Mila that way jolted me.

‘Sam,’ Mila said, ‘what is it Americans say? Let us kill the two birds with the one stone.’

The Last Minute’s lights were low when Braun stepped through the antique doors. He scanned the room. A dozen people at the
bar, mostly corporate types in suits having a drink at the end of the day. One knot looked like financial types, another like
publishing types. The financial suits were stiffer and all the way
across the room he heard a woman bray a laughing comment about how to get kids to read. Fifteen tables, half of them occupied.
An old lady sat at a piano, playing languid, soft versions of Louis Armstrong standards.

No sign of Sam Capra. Or the woman Mila. He noticed a tall black man in an impeccable suit, behind the bar. Manager on duty,
he decided. Or, considering the man’s stately authority, a partner in the business.

He could play this two ways. Either march up and announce he was looking for Sam Capra, or sit and wait. But he had no other
lead, and he had no one else in New York to send against his enemies. Sam Capra had killed them all.

Braun sat down at the bar, in the dead zone between the two loud groups. He ordered a Harp lager. He took one sip of it, didn’t
touch it again. He didn’t much like alcohol and he didn’t often drink. It was a waste; a lowering of necessary defenses.

He could see the range of tables, the front door, if he kept his eyes to the mirror at the bar. He sat and he looked ahead,
in his particular quiet. The groups on both sides laughed and talked and for an odd moment his own loneliness made him sad.
It was strange to watch people with friends; their laughter, their openness filled him with unease. He had long resigned himself
to his own company. He got up from the bar and retreated to a corner table. He watched the laughing women and silently hated
them. Anyone you let close might have had a knife ready to slide along your throat.

Lindsay, for instance. She’d tired of him, she’d left him. She’d run away, and after all he’d done for her. Bad, bad girl.
Friends were too much trouble.

‘Is everything all right, sir?’ The tall black man in the suit stood at his table. He had a very slight Haitian lilt to his
voice.

Braun brought a polite smile to his face. ‘Yes, fine.’

‘I just noticed you took one sip of your beer and then left it. Does it taste all right?’

Awfully observant for a bar manager, he thought. ‘Yes, it’s fine. Thank you. I just got lost in thought.’

‘Is there anything else I may get you, sir?’

‘Uh, perhaps some food. Is there a menu?’

‘Of course, one moment.’ The tall man smiled and left him to his beer while he got a menu.

Braun waited. He wasn’t hungry but food was good camouflage. He watched the door.

‘Two birds,’ I said.

‘Yes. End both threats without jeopardizing your child.’

I waited.

‘You and me, we capture the informant. We don’t kill him. We take what information he knows. Fake his death, if need be. Use
that information to mount a rescue operation of your child. This seems clear to me as a superior solution.’

‘Leonie is very reluctant to defy them.’

‘That is good to know.’ Then she slapped me, hard. I took it.

‘You bloodied their noses before. They have no reason to give you back your child.’

‘If they kill Daniel I will never ever stop hunting them,’ I said. ‘I will burn them down. They know this.’

‘They’re not afraid of you. They respect you. But they don’t
fear
you.’

‘My problem,’ I said. ‘We will stay out of each other’s way.’

‘This is not the Sam Capra I know.’ She laughed and it broke something inside me. I could almost hear the snapping of my heart.

‘I’m not risking Daniel’s life for your agenda, Mila.’

Mila said, ‘If you betray us, I’ll kill you.’

Her threat made me blink. ‘What? How the hell did you get back on that track?’

‘You need a guarantee that your child will be delivered to you after you kill the informant. I don’t intend to be the sweetener
in the deal.’

‘I would never betray you.’

Now she stared at the floor, then her gaze met mine. ‘Really? Not even to save your son?’

‘Mila. Don’t even go there. Even if I offered them you, that is still no guarantee I get Daniel back. All I can do is what
they’ve asked me to do.’

‘Why use you to eliminate this threat?’

‘I don’t know. Because I can get close to him.’

‘Why? Because you’re ex-CIA? Because August will let you get close? Not any more.’

‘Because they have my son and they want to put him to good use. I don’t know.’

‘And what happens next, after you dance to their tune and they still want you to dance. I told you, they will never let you
go.’

‘I do this, that’s it.’

‘No. You and I must come up with a way that saves Daniel
and
breaks their hold on you.’

I said nothing for fifteen seconds. I counted them out. It takes about fifteen seconds to weigh up alternatives and make a
decision in a heated conversation when you decide to capitulate. Undercover work is 90 per cent acting, only 10 per cent observing.
She needed me to be someone and I was going to be who she needed me to be, the man she wanted to see standing in front of
her instead of the screwed-up brawler who just wanted his son back.

‘What’s your way?’

She jerked her head toward the closed door. ‘First, tell me who is the charm school dropout?’

‘Leonie. She’s an information broker; she hides people who need to vanish. She lives under a false name because she’s hiding
from a guy named Ray Brewster; he’s tied to the killers who are hunting you. She’s done false documentation for Anna’s kids,
so Anna grabbed her kid to force her to help me find Jack Ming.’

‘So since she
hides
people, they thought she could
find
Ming.’

‘Yes.’

‘They have both your children.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sleeping with her?’ This was asked with a very slight tilt of the head. She gave me a look best described as halfway
between horrified and amused.

Mila’s bluntness: thank God you can’t bottle it. ‘None of your business.’

‘Which means yes. And we have another complicating factor.’

I so did not want to have this conversation with her. ‘We were exhausted and … upset.’

‘A woman would have to be.’

I shook my head, gave a weak laugh. ‘Is this what my life is
going to be like once I find my kid and I’m working for you, still? Reporting on every detail of my life? Forget that.’

‘I wanted to know.’

‘Why?’ Then I thought: wait, she can’t care what I do. Who I sleep with. She’d never shown the remotest interest in me, or
in anyone else. She was all ice except when she had a target. Then she was fire.

‘You forget that we – my employers and I – have made a big investment in you.’

‘Mila, go to wherever you go when you’re not riding my ass. Go on a vacation. I’ll either call you when this is all done or,
if you don’t hear from me, you’ll know I’m dead. You don’t understand our situation. What it’s like to have a loved one taken
and be at risk.’

She gave me a sad look. ‘No one could understand your unique pain.’ And something in the air shifted between us. ‘You asked
me why there is a price on my head.’

‘I think it’s your endless charm and witty banter,’ I said.

She nodded toward the computer. ‘I wrote it down for you. You read it. Then you decide whether or not to trust me with your
child’s life.’

Sam:

This is what happened, this is how I came to be.

– Mila

Harp
, Moldova

(My little town was named for a harp. Do you like that? But I do not play)

Three years ago. The children are done with their work and have escaped into the bright sunny afternoon; I mop up paint smears
and bits of torn paper. The art supplies are a gift – from one of the families that runs Trans-Dniester, the sliver of Moldova
that has declared itself free of the country. Aunt and Uncle say quietly at the Sunday lunch table that the whole region is
ruled by crooks and outlaws. Not just crooked politicians but actual criminals – smugglers and Mafiya and drug lords who pour
poisons west into Austria and Hungary and north to Moscow, Kiev and St Petersburg.

But let me be blunt: what do I care where the paints and papers come from? They are an extra to help my classroom. The children
benefit and I don’t care if a Mafiya bought crayons to ease his conscience. The towns of northern Moldova can barely afford
to heat the school in dismal winter; I won’t turn up my nose at free school supplies.

You are making a better Moldova, darling girl, Aunt tells me, and I want to shrug. No, I’m earning a paycheck and not having
to be like my sister Nelly, casting her lot out into the distant world. I am a homebody who likes quiet.

After I gather up the scraps of supplies that can be used again, I take a rag and I dust the small TV, the old DVD player,
the worn and loved books on the shelf. All again from the largesse of the criminal kings of Trans-Dniester, Uncle would say.
But the machinery does not do evil and the books take no sides.

I dust and think Nelly would do a better job. Nelly the sunny one, Nelly the smiler, Nelly the adventurer. Nelly had shown
me the brochure six months ago – the employment agency, based out of Bucharest in neighboring Romania, happy women in drab
uniforms making military covers on hotel beds, serving food to smiling diners, filing papers behind a spotless desk with a
computer resting on it, its plastics unyellowed by age.

‘See, they need secretaries and waitresses and maids and nannies,’ Nelly tells me. ‘You could get a job with a computer that’s
new.’

I glanced at the marketing brochure. Moldova is the poorest country in Europe. These places all look better, sunnier, more
hopeful. ‘I don’t want to move to Italy or Turkey or Israel. I don’t speak their languages.’

‘But your English is good. They’ll always pay extra for English.’ Nelly bites the eraser on her pencil. ‘At a hotel I might
meet a traveling businessmen from the West. Maybe America. A nice guy with a good job. Americans like eastern European girls.
The supermodels have done at least that for us.’

‘Americans don’t talk to maids,’ I say. I better spoil her
dreams right away, yes? That’s what a good sister does. I hand her back the brochure. A hot beat of fear probes my chest at
the thought of Nelly hundreds or thousands of kilometers away, working a job that gives her no time to come home.

‘I could send money back to you and Aunt and Uncle,’ Nelly said.

‘No.’

‘Well, I am not asking for permission.’

‘Why start now?’ I say and do a sister’s roll of the eyes.

‘Natalia went to Turkey and got a good job. There are no jobs here.’

‘School teaching? Remember?’

‘You better teach them well because they’ll have to leave Moldova to get a job,’ Nelly said.

And three weeks later, Nelly is gone. Teary hugs at the train station. She is taking a train to Chisinau, then onto Bucharest.
Then a plane to Tel Aviv.

‘I’ll write everyday,’ Nelly says, hugging Aunt and Uncle at once and looking over their heavy shoulders at me.

‘No you won’t,’ I say. Nelly has always been the crier, not me. I am not about to start. But my heart shreds so much it turns
into confetti.

‘I will!’ Nelly promises. ‘I’ll be bored. And I’ll have to write to send you money.’

‘Borrow the traveling businessman’s BlackBerry,’ I joke. ‘And send us an email.’ I have seen BlackBerries in movies. No one
in Harp
owns one.