Page 51 of The Big Fix

“Tell the bad guys, sir. I’m only shooting back. Your buddies in the prime minister’s office are in with that lot.”

Outside his office, Jing was shaking her head.

“What?”

“Your diplomacy skills are a little rusty. You’re supposed to say, yes, of course, absolutely, and then do whatever you want anyway.”

“He’d know I was lying. He’s not stupid.”

“Mr. Colter!”

Turning at the elevator, Jing and I both waited for Clark to reach us.

“You realize,” Clark said tightly, “that you’re playing cat and mouse in a population of ten million. Those are shit odds, no matter how you cut it. I can be a friend here if you let me.” She handed me her card. “If you need extra support, please call me.”

“In my experience, good insurance is hard to find,” I said, smiling at her and pocketing the card, then offering her my hand again.

This time I got a nod and a smile when she clasped my hand.

We took the elevator to the ground floor, crossed the lobby, and were outside in minutes. As we started down the sidewalk, a Volkswagen Bus, of all things, rolled up beside us. Garland was driving, and Dante greeted us in Italian from the passenger seat.

“What is this, a 1965?” I asked him.

“It is.” Dante grinned at me, and I was instantly transported to the last time I’d seen him before all this, in Havana, having drinks at his favorite outdoor bar. “Thought you’d love the nostalgia.”

“Get in, y’all,” Garland said. “You can reminisce while we drive.”

“Where are you from?” Jing asked as we got in, smiling when she saw the orange interior. “Oh, I need one of these.”

“I’m from Dahlonega, Georgia, ma’am. My family owns a vineyard there.”

“You’re fucking with me,” she said, leaning forward to look at him. “There are vineyards in Georgia?”

“Why, yes, ma’am, there are, and ours is named Eddy LaRue Winery, after my great-great-great-grandfather who loved the South but fought for the Union on account of him being a Quaker and all.”

“I thought Quakers didn’t fight. Or drink.”

He shrugged. “He was a different kind of Quaker.”

She nodded. “I’d like to try that wine.”

“I will make sure you do,” he said, grinning at her.

There was nothing eye-catching or breathtaking about Garland Murray, but I could tell, from Jing’s expression as she looked at him, that maybe she saw something more. I myself was a fan of his voice. That soothing Southern drawl of his was lovely. None of us, though, not me, Garland, or Chris, could hold a candle to Dante Cerreto. I had no idea how he was ever an intelligence asset. Everybody looked at him, everybody saw him, no one ever missed him. How were you a covert operative like that? Same with Darius. Gorgeous man with chartreuse eyes. He used to have to put in brown contacts just to avoid standing out quite so much. But it was like telling Idris Elba to blend in. How was that possible?

“So?” Dante asked me. “What did the nice man say?”

“He reminded me that missions are the one place a man could disappear if that’s what the US government wanted.”

“So basically, stay on the right side of him.”

“Yes.”

“You know,” Dante said nonchalantly, “there are no phones in a concrete sub-cellar deep in the bowels of an embassy where they’ll tuck you away if extraordinary rendition is on the table for you.”

“That’s charming.”

Dante snorted. “Who does he think is here with you?”