Chapter #8Old Friends in New Positions by: Seuzz   "About time, Sullivan," Captain Lamarque snaps when you step into his office. He jerks his chin at his guest, then catches himself. "This is Ray Sullivan," he tells the mountain of muscle who's standing by the window. "Sullivan, this is Isaac Banks."
"Zack, to his friends," Danny says from the chair where he's relaxing.
"Of which you can never have too many," says Banks, and extends a great, strong paw toward you.
You take it, and let all of Sullivan's horrible racist thoughts skitter under your skin and behind your eyes, where Banks can see them. This needs to be the perfect imposture, even if it creates problems here at the start. But if Isaac Banks spots any hesitation in your handshake, or any flintiness in your eye, he doesn't show it. Instead, he smiles very warmly, and squeezes your hand gently in his.
He's gotten even bigger, if that's possible, since you last saw him. Or maybe he just seems bigger because he's more frightening now that he's defected from Fane. But at six foot four he towers even over the tall man you're impersonating, and his wide, sloping shoulders are like the foothills of small mountains. You feel your lips going a little crooked, and turn away.
"So I take it I'm assigned to this detail too," you ask the captain.
"You don't gotta be, Sullivan," Lamarque says. "If you gotta problem—"
"I don't got a problem," you retort. "I just don't see any tea and cookies, or whores and blow, laid out like this is a social occasion—"
Lamarque starts to turn purple. Banks laughs gruffly and easily.
"—so I assume this is business, and the business is that I'm being assigned to this detail."
"That's for Banks to decide," Lamarque snaps. "Though Danny's the one who suggested it, and we know how queer you two are for—"
"I like it," Banks says in an amused rumble. "I think we'll get along great."
The silence of deep surprise wells up, swallowing the room.
"We got a corner we can jaw in? Privately?" Banks asks when no one else speaks.
You and the other two cops exchange puzzled glances. "Something wrong with my office?" Lamarque asks.
"Nothing's wrong with," says Banks. "But Sullivan doesn't sound like the kind to stand on diplomatic niceties, and your job, Captain, is to be the local diplomat?" He raises his eyebrows.
Lamarque flushes, and with a snort stalks to the door. "Don't mind me," he says. "It's not like I haven't got work to do here." He slams the door behind him, and Banks laughs.
He doesn't say anything immediately, though, and just stares down at his knuckles, and idly plays with a gold ring holding a large ruby. "As long as you're being undiplomatic, Sullivan," he finally says, and raises a gleaming eye to meet yours. "Is there something else you want to get off your chest?"
Mm. This isn't going quite like you'd expected. But Banks has taken the "racist cop" bait, and now you're stuck playing that line. You fold your arms. "Cap'n says you're American."
"That's right."
"Ex military?"
"Yes."
"Ex Special Forces?"
"In the ballpark."
"Deltas?"
Banks laughs. "Like you think you know shit, Sullivan."
You glare down at his shoes, and swallow the gob of spit instead of lobbing it at him.
"But don't feel bad," Banks continues. "Just 'cos you get your clichés off the TV and movies—"
"But you're working for a foreign big shot now," you snap. "An African big shot."
"Uh huh."
"Somethin' wrong with this country?"
The air freezes. "Not a thing," Banks says softly.
"So you just decided to turn merc."
"If I wanted to be a mercenary," Banks says, and his silken tone turns even smoother, "I know places that'd pay me a lot more money."
"So it's what, idealism? Peace Corps with a gun? Or is it tribal loy—?"
"Why are you so interested?" Banks's voice is now barely audible.
"I'm not. I'm being undiplomatic."
Banks stares at you, then throws his head back in a laugh. "Indeed you are, and it serves me right. Please continue to be undiplomatic, Sullivan," he says, and shows a wide smile of flashing white teeth. "I have a job to do, and I can't do it if people pussyfoot it with me."
You shrug, and lean back against a desk.
"I understand that you will not be impressed with the man I am protecting," Banks says. "He is only the president of a small African country, but I take his safety very seriously. There have already been five assassination attempts against him—"
"The fuck?" Barone sits up very straight. "Who'd this guy piss off?"
"It's an unstable part of the world," Banks says after a fractional hesitation. "Cabinda is a new country—"
"What are the chances they'll bring their fireworks here?" you demand.
Banks stares at you a very long time, with a very direct and appraising gaze. "Five assassination attempts," he repeats. "Three of them on foreign soil."
"You mean 'foreign' or 'outside the country he's president of'?" you ask.
"Jesus," Barone mutters.
"Outside Cabinda," Banks says. "Once in the United Kingdom, so I wouldn't assume the United States is out of bounds for his would-be assassins."
"And who are these guys, again, even though you haven't told us?"
"Mercs," Banks says. "You know. Guys who sell their consciences for money."
"Well, fuck me," Barone says after an awkward pause. "It's a job, so we'll give you everything you need, Zack."
* * * * *
Everything he needs turns out to be easy to manage. High security at the airport when Nzingha arrives, including an armored motorcade to act as decoy while an unmarked service vehicle actually whisks him to his meeting with the under-secretary. The plan would trouble Ray Sullivan—it seems too cute by half, and at least twice as dangerous—but you figure it will work well for the plans you have for Nzhingha's visit, so you go along with it. The business end of the meeting is quickly wrapped up, and a more relaxed atmosphere takes over. Banks warmly agrees when Barone suggests meeting at a bar early in the evening, for dinner, drinks and debriefing after you and Barone start to get things moving on your end. You all shake hands again.
But as you and Barone start to leave, you feel yourself breaking character slightly in the doorway. Really, you should just walk out, but a hard tickle on the back of your head causes you to turn around and glance at Banks. He's standing at the window, one hand balled up into a loose fist, the ruby ring flashing in the winter sun. He's staring at it with a tight smile.
You suppress a shiver, and close the door behind you.
"Christ," Barone mutters at you. "There's being undiplomatic, Ray, and there's being—"
"He liked it."
"He was amused by it, that's all." His voice drops to a barely audible mutter. "What was that about, Knotts?"
You turn a blank face on him. "Who do you think you're talking to, Danny?"
"You know who. Why'd you talk to him that way?"
"To rile him up. So you could calm him down." You return Barone's stare with a level one of your own. "Call him and arrange to meet him early. I'll get the dingus out of the Metro."
Danny's brow darkens with worry. "I don't think he was that upset."
"Then tell him you are, because I started mouthing off after we left him. But come on, we got security arrangements to put in place."
* * * * *
You leave an hour early, with the excuse that you need to scout out the route for the motorcade, and take a patrol car to the station where you stashed the bag in a locker. No need to check it, of course. You know exactly what it contains. You do check your cell phone for the time, though, as you walk toward the exit. Thirty minutes to get the bag to Kips. Probably another twenty to forty minutes for him to get Banks alone. Are there any good bars near Banks's hotel? You should hang out close, to be on hand for when Kips calls.
Your phone rings even as you're staring at the screen. The number is blocked, but you answer it anyway. Somehow, you're not surprised when it proves to be Banks, but his request does surprise you. "I'd like to meet you now, if you can," he says. "My hotel?"
"Lemme call Danny and see if he can make it," you say, temporizing.
"Just you and me, Sullivan," he says. "To clear the air."
Now you do feel a pinch. Did Kips call him yet, to set up the meeting you were planning them to have? Is that what this is about? Or is it something else, some whim of Banks's? Perhaps you did piss him off more than you'd intended.
On the one hand you'd like to stick to your original plan, and deliver the mask to Kips. But you've got it with you now, and Banks has made the invitation. Impulsively, despite a queasy feeling, you agree to his request.
* * * * *
He doesn't meet you in the lobby, nor does he meet you at the elevator. Your heart is beating when you knock on his door. But he smiles easily as he lets you in. "Is this a sleepover?" he teases when he sees the suitcase in your hand.
"Wife and me are on the outs," you improvise. "This place is too rich for me, but—"
"Well, let me take it from you." There's a slight tussle as he grasps the handle; but you release it rather than make a scene.
While holding the bag, he gestures you into his suite.
And as you pass him, he drops the bag and grasps you firmly from behind. "Been a long time, Prescott," he softly laughs. "How you doin', cupcake?"  You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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