Biowar

79

Lia got up from the café table, sliding the coins for the tip under the saucer. She opened her pocketbook and took out her makeup case, examining her lips — and her Syrian tail — before leaving the small restaurant.

“He’s with me.”

“We can see him,” said Rockman, who had a video feed via a small fly attached to her bag.

Lia disliked pocketbooks, especially monsters like the one she had slung over her shoulder. She grumbled to herself as she made her way outside and then down the street, still waiting for the incompetent Syrian intelligence agents to get their act together and approach her. Finally, a young woman approached from the crowd of tourists at a small shop on Lia’s left.

“Ms. Ki?” she said.

“Finally,” said Lia. She saw the car approaching from the left and started toward the curb. “Parlez-vous français?”

The woman shook her head.

“Merde. I have to speak English?” said Lia.

“Or Arabic.”

“My English is better than my Arabic. Come on.”

“I am to check you for weapons first.”

Lia scowled at the girl but took the Beretta out from under her knit shirt.

“And your bag.”

“Fine,” she said.

“You have a small gun on your leg.”

“That stays with me,” said Lia.

The young woman pursed her lips. A pair of white Renaults had just stopped at the curb, holding up traffic; four men got out of the second car.

“I really must insist,” said the Syrian.

“No.”

The Syrian agents nearby were all clutching their jackets, as if experiencing a group heart attack.

“Lia,” hissed Rockman in her ear.

“Oh, all right.” Lia undid her trousers and reached down to the gun, strapped at the top of her left thigh. “I’d better get this one back. I paid a fortune for it.”

The young woman took the weapon, nodding to the security people in the street. Lia got into the back of the lead car.

“Your English is very good,” said the young woman, sliding in next to her.

“I practice a lot when I’m pissed off,” Lia told her.