The Nowhere Man

24 A Complex, Sticky Business

Crimea smelled like sewage, artillery shells, and boiled hot dogs. Candy strolled with Ben Jaggers along a boardwalk overlooking a rocky beach. Holding his arm through his raincoat felt like clutching a stick wrapped in cloth. A head taller than him, she wore leather pants and a bustier top. She’d teased out her blond hair voluminously, hoping to pass for a local girl. Jaggers was playing the role of a rich married guy out for a little fun, though he seemed to have forgotten to tell his face. He slouched along in a plaid button-up and brown slacks.

She felt like a Bentley being taken for a spin by the mechanic’s kid.

Girls passed by, laughing and waving lipstick-smeared cigarettes. They were magnificent creatures, as girls from this region of the world were, all fuck-you sneers and aggressive makeup. Tights wrapped their impossibly long legs, and they wore white platform boots capped with fur, trotting along with the graceful force of Clydesdales.

As they wafted by in clouds of hair spray, smoke, and knockoff Chanel No. 5, the sullen little man at Candy’s side didn’t so much as raise his head to take in the girl-power scenery. His nose twitched, his mouth pursing as if on the verge of hocking a loogie. He smelled vaguely of mothballs. A camera dangled from around his neck, bouncing off what passed for his chest.

He eyed the streets behind the boardwalk, his hand tightening on her forearm. “Here,” he said.

She posed for him, leaning back against the railing as he snapped photos. Though he pretended to focus on her, he was really zooming in over her shoulder on a building up the hill from the beach.

She blew kisses. Scoop-crossed her arms to shove her tits together. Turned sideways and threw up a Marilyn Monroe leg.

He continued shooting the boulevard behind her. “Most of them have cleared out, but he’s still in the office on the second floor,” he said, his words snatched away by the wind.

They’d spent the day photographing the building from every angle.

The mottled skin of Candy’s back complained beneath her fitted top, no doubt angry from the cold breeze and salty air. She put the pain in the bank, a mental account she’d been saving up for Orphan X. She couldn’t wait to start taking withdrawals out of his flesh.

Willing away the discomfort, she smacked her bubble gum. The gum was neon green, her lipstick orange, both props to help her blend in. A gaggle of girls legged by, giving her competitive glares. God bless these Ukrainian-Russian broads. They oozed so much natural sexuality that they could slap the 1980s all over themselves and still knock the skin right off an American girl.

Except for Candy, of course.

She leaned over, grabbing her knees, gave the knock-’em-dead smile. Jaggers clicked and clicked.

“Everyone else is gone,” he said. “He’s the last one there now.”

“Hey, M,” she said. “It’s not polite to not stare at a lady. Especially when she looks like this.” She straightened up, spreading her stance, arms on her hips, her breasts pushing high — Colossus of Rhodes if he was fucking hot.

Jaggers moved the camera to the side of his cheek. His flat eyes observed her. Blinked. The zoom lens drifted over her shoulder. More clicking. At least it blocked his face.

She should be thankful for small mercies.

She thought about the kind of fun she could have here if it weren’t for Orphan M.

Of course, the mission was primary. Though they’d been in-country for only twelve hours, they’d ascertained a few things.

The phone-service company to which Orphan X had moved his number was located on the second and third floors of the converted cannery that Jaggers was currently lensed in on. Given present conditions in Crimea and the Nowhere Man’s proclivities, it was no surprise that TeleFon Star placed a premium on the privacy of their customers.

Van Sciver had identified the target as Refat Setyeyiva, vice president of operations, a thick-bodied man with scruffy good looks. A youthful forty, he had come up as a hammer thrower in the Soviet Olympic program, juiced and primed from the age of eight. He’d blown out his knees in his late teens, and here he was, overseeing operations for the discreet comms company that Candy and Jaggers needed to infiltrate.

Rather than dick around with hacking through firewalls, which neither of them specialized in, they’d been tasked with stealing Setyeyiva’s laptop to get the passwords and access the company databases. They were to eliminate him to buy themselves time with the computer before it could be reported as missing.

Given Setyeyiva’s sturdiness and physical prowess, this would be challenging. Attaining a gun in this climate would be conspicuous. So they’d come up with another plan.

Jaggers let the camera drop from around his neck. “He’s leaving now.” He checked his watch, jotted down the time in his notepad with a skinny silver pen.

Candy pictured the route Refat Setyeyiva would likely trace on his way out — through the rear door and across the narrow alley to the parking structure next door. There were specifics to lock down, angles to consider, sight lines to account for. It would be a complex, sticky business, and success rested on timing and preparation.

As her junior-high shop teacher used to say, Measure twice, cut once.