Hidden Order

CHAPTER 39

Florentino Marche had been born in Brooklyn, New York, and was the only child of an Italian father and a Puerto Rican mother. He had attended Columbia University, where he showed considerable aptitude for languages, particularly Arabic. From there he had gone on to Georgetown and a master’s degree from the Center for Contemporary Arab Studies. The Central Intelligence Agency made their approach shortly thereafter.

He was a tall, thin man with dark features and curly hair. With his black-framed eyeglasses and retro fashion sense, he came off as more geek than chic.

There were at least a hundred other hipster men in the crowded bar dressed just like him. Waitresses shuttled to and fro with pitchers of beer and trays laden with rings and wings. Televisions mounted on every wall broadcast a myriad of current as well as classic sporting events. It was difficult for Ryan to move through the crowd unimpeded. Table after table of young men invited her to join them, some less sober and more insistent than others. Finally, she spotted Florentino.

He was sitting with a group of friends in a booth. Instead of talking to each other, they were all looking down at their phones, texting. Occasionally, some team on one of the TVs would score, the crowd would cheer, and Florentino’s booth full of hipsters would look up and react. She needed to get his attention.

Tipping a waitress to slide him a cocktail napkin with a cryptic message had occurred to her but Florentino was too smart and too paranoid to bite on something like that. Guys like him didn’t get sent notes on cocktail napkins.

She was trying to come up with another option when she saw him tuck his phone in his pocket, say something to his friends, and get up from the table. As he walked toward the restrooms, she fell in step behind him and followed.

Her question now was whether she was going to present herself before or after he used the men’s room. Probably better to wait till after.

Slowing her pace, she picked a spot where she could wait and watch for him to come back out. He didn’t go into the men’s room, though. He kept walking toward the back of the building.

He hip-checked the crash bar on a fire exit and stepped outside. Smoke break?

She needed him isolated anyway. Behind the building was just as good as anyplace else. Besides, it was too noisy inside. She could barely hear herself think.

Catching the door before it closed, she slipped outside behind him.

The rain had recently stopped and a mixture of young men and women stood in the puddled alley smoking and carrying on conversations. Florentino stood near a dumpster with his back to her. He never was very good at tradecraft. He was more academic than true field operative and no matter how many times she had tried to impress upon him the need for situational awareness, he had never seemed to get it. It was obvious by the ease with which she was able to approach him that he still didn’t.

“Hello, Florentino,” she said.

The young man looked over his shoulder and then turned to face her. “Lydia,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m supposed to meet a friend for drinks. I thought she might be back here having a smoke. What are you doing here?”

“Out with friends, too. Drinking. You know.”

“Yeah.”

“You got your haircut,” he said. “It looks good. Cool.”

“Thanks. So what have you been up to?”

The young man paused, reluctant to answer. “Not much. You know. A little bit of this, a little bit of that.”

“Florentino, you don’t have to lie to me,” Ryan replied. “I know what you’ve been doing.”

“What are you talking about? What have I been doing?”

“From what I’ve been told, lots and lots of travel. How was the food in Cyprus?”

“Cyprus?” he said, stalling. “That’s in Greece, right?”

“Or Turkey. It depends.”

“Yeah, right. You mind if I?” he said, fishing out a pack of smokes from his pocket and holding them up.

“No, go ahead. You know how bad those things are for you, right?”

He smiled, tapped one out, and pulled it from the pack with his mouth. “You sound like my mom.”

“Your mom’s right,” said Ryan, as she watched him remove his lighter and fire up his smoke. His hand appeared to have a slight tremble.

“How are you doing?” he asked after a deep drag. “I heard you’re still with the company, huh? How’s that been going?”

“I don’t have a lot of time. How about we talk about Cyprus instead?”

It sounded like a question, but it wasn’t. “Uh, okay,” he replied, his eyes flicking to the left.

Ryan glanced over her shoulder. “Are you expecting someone, Florentino?”

“Me? No. I mean, one of my friends was supposed to come out for a smoke, too.”

“In the meantime, tell me about Cyprus. Better yet,” she said, growing uncomfortable, “why don’t we step back inside?”

He pulled the cigarette from between his lips and held it up as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Can’t smoke in there.”

“Well, when we’re done talking, you can come back outside.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Ryan was going to ask why that wasn’t a good idea when she saw his eyes shift once again. This time, though, there was something different about the way he did it and the blood in her veins turned to ice.

Dropping to the ground, she spun and was just about to pull her Glock when a volley of shots rang through the alley.