It was turning out to be a pretty lousy week. Leticia had spent a long night on a dirty blanket in an abandoned abattoir in Cheung Sha Wan, near the Rambler Channel, that she’d rented from a weaselly meth addict for 120 Hong Kong dollars, about 15 US. The meth addict, with big, bloodshot eyes, told her the story of a water buffalo that had literally cried for its life upon arriving there for slaughter, disturbing the workers so deeply that they set it free to live with the monks at the Tsz Wan Kok temple. Since closing twenty years ago, the ugly building had fallen into decay, concrete cracking and water seeping through the roof.
But it had been a place. A place for her to sleep and heal from the bullet that had grazed her in that alley. She’d met the other abattoir residents—six in all, hooked on meth, heroin, or GBH, and one of them, maybe fifteen, kept a paper bag with him at all times for huffing glue. They smelled of urine and smoke. That first morning, she paid the huffer to go to the pharmacy and buy bandages and alcohol. After cleaning and wrapping her wound, she settled on a dirty blanket and went through the clues she’d taken from Mrs. Gary Young: a small bundle of cash, a credit card under the name Sharon Young, and a phone. She powered it up and found that there were no phone numbers in its contacts, and the only nonsystem app was Nexus Messenger—which, given its famous encryption, made sense. When she pulled it up, there was only one contact, labeled “DC.”
Ah, shit.
As she toyed with her options, the huffer, eyes alighting on the phone, asked if he could touch it. She said no and sent him on his way. She pressed the button to connect with “DC” and heard the tinny wah-wah ring of all Nexus calls. Then it was picked up, and a wary female voice said, “Hello?”
“Want to tell me why you’re trying to kill me?”
“Leticia,” the woman said, and Leticia felt a pang of familiarity. “You’re well?”
“I’ve been better. How’s Sharon Young?”
“She’s at Queen Mary, intensive care. They say she’ll pull through. But you did hurt her. Bad.”
Leticia closed her eyes, the familiarity of the voice suddenly coalescing: It was Joan, the recruiter for Tourism. From that drunk eternal night in Tromsø. Fuck. “Listen, Joan,” she said, “I’d like to know why you’ve targeted me.”
“Have I?”
“Yours is the only number in Sharon’s phone.”
“Yes,” Joan said. “I guess we have targeted you.”
“Why?”
“You must have stepped on someone’s toes.”
“Come on, Joan.”
“You remember how it used to be, don’t you? You get an order, you follow through. Doesn’t matter why. It’s just Tourism, Jake.”
Was she really making jokes? “Then let me talk to someone who does know.”
“Afraid I can’t do that,” Joan said, then went silent a moment. “Tell me: When did you start working for Milo Weaver again?”
“I’m not working for Milo Weaver. He tracked me down in Wakkanai. Wanted to talk to me. That’s it. A conversation.”
“About…?”
“None of your business.”
Silence again, and Leticia wondered what Joan was doing in DC. Was she in the bath? Sitting in a parking lot? It didn’t matter, did it?
“What I need,” Leticia said, “is for you to keep your hands off of me. We don’t have to be friends, but there’s no need to be enemies.”
Joan hummed reflectively. “Well, that’s not really up to me.” She cleared her throat. “How about this: How about I make some inquiries and see what’s possible?”
“How’s that going to help?”
“Well, I can make the argument that we tried to recruit you, and that what you did there in Hong Kong proves you’ve still got it.”
“So you’re offering me my life if I reconsider your offer.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
“Fuck you.”
Joan laughed. “I’ll do my research over here, you have a think, and then call me back in twenty-four. How does that sound?”
“Sounds like a shitty deal, Joan, but I’ll call.”
After hanging up, Leticia had a think, then called to the huffer. He grinned stupidly, showing off his missing teeth. “I’ve gotta go,” she told him.
“Okay.”
“I’m going to Macau,” she said. “Can you remember that?”
“Macau,” he answered, grinning.
To make sure he remembered, she asked the huffer for detailed directions, then got him to walk her all the way to the bus stop at Kwai Shing West Estate. She even followed the path, only deviating at Mei Foo Station, where she hailed a taxi to reach Hong Kong International. If it worked, when Gary Young reached the abattoir, the addicts would send him to Macau. The question was: How soon would they realize she’d flown out of Hong Kong with her last clean passport, Wanda Kumalu of South Africa?
It didn’t really matter—her course was set. She didn’t want to cross to the mainland; since limping out of China ten years ago, she’d successfully avoided returning to Xin Zhu’s domain. In Europe she could cross borders without anyone being the wiser, and that was something she needed now. She was able to get the last seat on a KLM flight, and she purchased a connecting flight from Amsterdam to Budapest just in case they decided, over the thirteen hours she was in the air, to plant someone at Wanda Kumalu’s destination.
Her seat was in the rear, where the engines were noisiest, but she didn’t mind. She changed her bandage in the bathroom, then curled up and fell quickly asleep.
In Amsterdam, she checked for shadows, though she didn’t know if she had it in her to discover them anymore. Hong Kong had nearly killed her, after all. Well, so be it. At the Enterprise counter she chose a Suzuki Vitara SUV for 150 euros a day, and only by the time she was on the road heading south toward Düsseldorf was she finally able to relax her aching shoulders. And that, of course, was when she realized it was time for her to make another call. Her twenty-four hours were up.
She powered up Sharon Young’s phone. Opened Nexus, tapped “DC,” and put it on speaker. The tinny wah-wah, and then:
“Leticia, so glad you called back.”
“Of course, Joan.”
“You’re not in Macau.”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel good,” Leticia told her, and listened to a full five seconds of silence until:
“I have good news.”
“Do tell.”
“First, I need to know something.”
“Shoot.”
“What were you doing in Wakkanai?”
Leticia hesitated. This was the question she had been waiting for, and there was only one right answer. But which was it? To know that, Leticia needed to know why they had latched on to her. Did it have to do with Wakkanai? If so, was it about the Chinese developer she’d never found, or was it about Milo Weaver? Had they known, before she did, that he would come recruiting? And if Milo was their real target, then why had they let him go? A chill went through her as she realized she didn’t actually know if they had let him go. She’d watched him leave the hotel from her third-floor window, but maybe they’d gotten him before he reached the airport.
So the question was: Which excuse for Wakkanai was the one they were looking for?
She said, “I told you already.”
“Milo Weaver, yes. But is that why you went to Wakkanai in the first place?”
“He wanted to talk, but I didn’t want us to be seen. Obviously I’m not as good as I thought, because you were already onto me.”
Silence. Not long, maybe four seconds, but enough to know that Joan didn’t believe her.
Motherfucker.
“Okay, Leticia. Thanks for that. Let me tell you the good news now.”
“I’m on the edge of my seat.”
“Well, we have decided that you should live.”
“That is good news, Joan.”
“Caveats, of course.”
“Of course.”
“We’d like you to reconsider joining. Did you have a think?”
“I did. And I have to admit I’m curious now.”
“Is that so?”
“But I’ll have to hear more.”
Another brief silence, then: “How about this: I’m flying to Zürich tomorrow. Can the department buy you dinner?”
“That sounds terrific, Joan. It’s a date.”
Once they’d settled the details of a seven o’clock dinner at the Kronenhalle restaurant, Leticia hung up and pulled over to the side of the road. She took a breath, trying to steady herself. Joan, and the Department of Tourism, hadn’t cared about Milo. His appearance had been interesting, sure, but for some reason it was her they’d been watching. Little Leticia Jones, who had come to Japan to track down a Chinese businessman connected to Boko Haram and hundreds of disappeared schoolgirls. And their date at the Kronenhalle, she felt sure, was nothing more than a way to get Leticia to a known place, so Joan could finally finish what she’d started.
Nothing was going her way this week. What the hell was she going to do?
Zürich, then. She powered down the phone and removed the SIM card. The fastest route lay straight ahead, through Düsseldorf, but Joan had already tracked her direction. So she took out the Enterprise atlas and charted a new route, westward through Eindhoven, just in case Joan had already sent someone to lie in wait for her.