Backfire
Page 72
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Xu remembered as clearly as if it had happened today when he’d gotten a call from Cindy more than eight months ago, hysterical, screaming—Lindy was dead, that it wasn’t her fault he’d been called in by some sort of incident response team and they’d questioned him about accessing private networks that Lindy knew he hadn’t accessed, and he’d accused her of calling up the Stuxnet program on his computer. She’d called in Clive, and he’d held Lindy down while Cindy had poured the poison down his throat. Idiots, both of them, asking to be caught, and they had, of course.
All his superiors in Beijing had wanted was to have him steal the information and leave the country, with no one the wiser, if possible. They blamed him that a high-ranking American cyber-intelligence officer had died. They made it clear they wanted no more killings, and so he’d made a deal with the Cahills, hired Milo to keep them quiet, gotten O’Rourke in line, and waited.
Until everything went to hell. O’Rourke had panicked, ready to spill his guts to that damned judge when he’d suspended the trial. He’d fixed that problem, but he still couldn’t be sure how much Judge Hunt knew, or suspected.
From the moment he’d slit O’Rourke’s throat, he’d been on his own. From that point on, the Chinese would be more likely to have him killed to prevent his arrest than to help him. Perhaps if he succeeded tonight, the Chinese would see he’d acted in their best interest as well as his own.
It will be all right, Xu, you’ll see, it doesn’t matter that those silly kids are making fun of you, my darling, that just makes them stupid. And his mother had rocked him when he was small, and he’d believed her, but he’d started to feel a simmering rage, a rage that seemed to encase him like a tunnel, and he knew he wanted to kill them all for mocking him. When Xu was fourteen, one of the bullies with a brand-new driver’s license had died in an auto accident, or so it was ruled. He remembered his mother had looked at him as if she knew what he’d done, but she’d said nothing. But he remembered now, she was watchful, always watchful after that. He’d been more careful with the other two bullies.
Xu shook his head, wondering why he’d think of his mother now, wondering, too, if she would rock him now, tell him he was smart, that he’d figure his way through this fiasco, and everything would be all right. Had she known then he would kill again? And again?
As for his father, he was grateful to the loser for two things—he’d forced him to learn Mandarin and had sent him to Beijing to visit his grandfather before the old man dropped over dead during Xu’s last visit when he was seventeen.
He looked down at his watch again, saw a streak of blood on his left wrist. How could he have missed it? He scrubbed his skin until the dried blood flaked off. Was it Milo’s blood, or the woman’s? What was her name? Pixie, that was it, like some lame rip-off of Tinker Bell.
No matter. Soon Billy Cochran would be dispatching Clive Cahill to hell. He knew Cochran as an angry man who’d killed before, a three-time felon set to transfer out to San Quentin in the morning. Cochran had very little to lose, and was enough of a veteran inmate to know how to kill Clive without being caught. Cochran had been eager enough to accept the offer Xu had made when he’d visited him—he was leaving an aging grandmother who needed money badly. Cochran was vicious enough and would feel no remorse, but there was always the question of whether he could pull it off. He’d been caught three times, after all. Xu wished he could do it himself, but it wasn’t possible.
Nine-twenty-nine—one minute until Cochran killed Clive. Xu himself had set the time. That was when the TVs were turned off and the prisoners were herded to the showers before they returned to their cells for the night.
Nine-thirty exactly. Cochran should be smoothly slipping his shiv into Clive’s back to penetrate his heart, and he’d fall dead without a sound, leaving trails of his blood to mix with the water going down the shower drain. Cochran would be gone in the morning, and there was no missing that fool. Xu looked through the big window into Morrie’s Deli and thought about a corned beef on rye. He realized he hadn’t eaten all day, but not yet, not just yet.
Cindy’s death might be more problematic, and a pity, really. He thought of the last time he’d had sex with Cindy, what a delight she was as she slid her fingers beneath her thong and shimmied it down her legs. Yes, a pity. Once, a long time ago, he’d thought they might work together again.
The best he could find was a scared little Asian woman, maybe five feet tall, and one hundred pounds. She’d spoken to Cindy to gain her trust; he’d made sure of that. He’d found Lin Mei himself, out on bail, and he’d found she had a little boy. She didn’t have Cindy’s physical strength, and that might be a problem if Cindy spotted the blade at the last second. Still, he had more faith in Lin Mei than in Cochran. She was an immigrant, and he’d been right to think she’d believe him absolutely when he looked her directly in the eyes and told her in fluent Mandarin her son would die if she failed in her task.
All his superiors in Beijing had wanted was to have him steal the information and leave the country, with no one the wiser, if possible. They blamed him that a high-ranking American cyber-intelligence officer had died. They made it clear they wanted no more killings, and so he’d made a deal with the Cahills, hired Milo to keep them quiet, gotten O’Rourke in line, and waited.
Until everything went to hell. O’Rourke had panicked, ready to spill his guts to that damned judge when he’d suspended the trial. He’d fixed that problem, but he still couldn’t be sure how much Judge Hunt knew, or suspected.
From the moment he’d slit O’Rourke’s throat, he’d been on his own. From that point on, the Chinese would be more likely to have him killed to prevent his arrest than to help him. Perhaps if he succeeded tonight, the Chinese would see he’d acted in their best interest as well as his own.
It will be all right, Xu, you’ll see, it doesn’t matter that those silly kids are making fun of you, my darling, that just makes them stupid. And his mother had rocked him when he was small, and he’d believed her, but he’d started to feel a simmering rage, a rage that seemed to encase him like a tunnel, and he knew he wanted to kill them all for mocking him. When Xu was fourteen, one of the bullies with a brand-new driver’s license had died in an auto accident, or so it was ruled. He remembered his mother had looked at him as if she knew what he’d done, but she’d said nothing. But he remembered now, she was watchful, always watchful after that. He’d been more careful with the other two bullies.
Xu shook his head, wondering why he’d think of his mother now, wondering, too, if she would rock him now, tell him he was smart, that he’d figure his way through this fiasco, and everything would be all right. Had she known then he would kill again? And again?
As for his father, he was grateful to the loser for two things—he’d forced him to learn Mandarin and had sent him to Beijing to visit his grandfather before the old man dropped over dead during Xu’s last visit when he was seventeen.
He looked down at his watch again, saw a streak of blood on his left wrist. How could he have missed it? He scrubbed his skin until the dried blood flaked off. Was it Milo’s blood, or the woman’s? What was her name? Pixie, that was it, like some lame rip-off of Tinker Bell.
No matter. Soon Billy Cochran would be dispatching Clive Cahill to hell. He knew Cochran as an angry man who’d killed before, a three-time felon set to transfer out to San Quentin in the morning. Cochran had very little to lose, and was enough of a veteran inmate to know how to kill Clive without being caught. Cochran had been eager enough to accept the offer Xu had made when he’d visited him—he was leaving an aging grandmother who needed money badly. Cochran was vicious enough and would feel no remorse, but there was always the question of whether he could pull it off. He’d been caught three times, after all. Xu wished he could do it himself, but it wasn’t possible.
Nine-twenty-nine—one minute until Cochran killed Clive. Xu himself had set the time. That was when the TVs were turned off and the prisoners were herded to the showers before they returned to their cells for the night.
Nine-thirty exactly. Cochran should be smoothly slipping his shiv into Clive’s back to penetrate his heart, and he’d fall dead without a sound, leaving trails of his blood to mix with the water going down the shower drain. Cochran would be gone in the morning, and there was no missing that fool. Xu looked through the big window into Morrie’s Deli and thought about a corned beef on rye. He realized he hadn’t eaten all day, but not yet, not just yet.
Cindy’s death might be more problematic, and a pity, really. He thought of the last time he’d had sex with Cindy, what a delight she was as she slid her fingers beneath her thong and shimmied it down her legs. Yes, a pity. Once, a long time ago, he’d thought they might work together again.
The best he could find was a scared little Asian woman, maybe five feet tall, and one hundred pounds. She’d spoken to Cindy to gain her trust; he’d made sure of that. He’d found Lin Mei himself, out on bail, and he’d found she had a little boy. She didn’t have Cindy’s physical strength, and that might be a problem if Cindy spotted the blade at the last second. Still, he had more faith in Lin Mei than in Cochran. She was an immigrant, and he’d been right to think she’d believe him absolutely when he looked her directly in the eyes and told her in fluent Mandarin her son would die if she failed in her task.
