The Zoo Job Read online

  This prompted more chuckles.

  The grin faded. “But the work we do here is as important as what Jesus did two thousand years ago. People’s bodies need healing, but so do their spirits. It is easy to look outside our walls and feel despair. To think that God has forsaken us. The people of Galilee likely felt the same way. We see war and strife all around, starvation and poverty. Like Jesus, we wish to fix it.”

  As Michael spoke, three men entered the chapel via the rear door. In contrast to everyone else in the room—who all wore cotton or linen shirts and slacks that were threadbare and worn and sweat-stained—these men were dressed in tailored suits. Two of them were much larger than the third, but the smaller one was definitely the one in charge. Michael would have known this even if he didn’t recognize the man.

  Ignoring the trio, who remained standing in the rear, he went on with his sermon.

  “Now, one might say, Jesus failed, yes? True, he healed some people, but he was condemned to die and the Romans were still in power and people still suffered. But that misses the important part: he healed some people. Without Jesus, those people would have continued to suffer. And that is what matters. Just as what we do here matters, even if the rich and powerful continue to grind us down.” He pointedly looked at the new arrivals as he said this. “Just saving one body, just saving one soul, makes it worth all the trouble.”

  Holding up the Bible, he said, “This is the word of the Lord.”

  A dozen people all mumbled, “Amen.”

  Michael’s Sunday services were a blend of assorted Christian traditions, so the call-and-response was different from what it would be in other churches, having over time developed its own style. He was nominally Episcopalian, but he worked aspects of several other types of Christianity into his mass, as well as some of his own.

  However, he lifted the ending straight from Catholicism, which he’d always thought the best benediction possible: “The mass is ended, go in peace.”

  The congregation got up and shuffled toward the side exits, all of them specifically avoiding the rear door. Even the people who didn’t recognize the man in the suit knew that it was best to avoid anyone who was well dressed. Such people never had the best interests of the clinic’s residents at heart.

  One person—a young woman named Catia—came up to Michael. “Reverend, Amalia wished me to inform you that the shipment of insulin has been delayed again.”

  Michael sighed. They had several diabetics in their care, and their current supply of insulin was getting dangerously low. This was the third postponement of that shipment.

  “Thank you, Catia.”

  The young woman then glanced back at the three men, still standing at the rear. “Will you be okay with them?”

  “Of course,” Michael said with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel. Somehow he doubted that the cross around his neck would do much to prevent the two large men from pounding him into mulch if the shorter man ordered them to do so.

  But people like this preyed on weakness. He would not show any to them.

  Once Catia departed, the three men walked forward. “An impressive sermon, Reverend. I particularly liked the part about rich and powerful men grinding down the oppressed masses. Very poetic.”

  “What is it you want, Minister Mbenga?”

  The Malani minister of finance’s face widened as he let loose with a gap-toothed smile. Michael had never understood why someone as wealthy as Aloysius Mbenga had never gotten the tooth replaced.

  He also fantasized about Mbenga losing the tooth from being punched in the face by one of the many people on whom he’d stepped on his rise to near the top of the proverbial heap.

  “What I want, Reverend, is to make you an offer. Your insulin shipment has been delayed three times now. I can assure you, those delays will continue. You should therefore use another source. Conveniently for you, I have one, which can provide you with three cases at noon tomorrow. All I ask is that one of my men inspect the packages before you distribute them to your patients.”

  Michael sighed. “Guns or narcotics?”

  The gap-toothed smile again. “Does it matter? You will not receive insulin otherwise.”

  In fact, Michael had several other insulin sources, but none of them could deliver a supply as quickly as Monday afternoon.

  “It is also possible,” Mbenga casually added, “that I will be required to alert Interpol to your recent transaction with America. I’m sure they’ll be quite interested in your theft and illegal shipment of two endangered black rhinoceroses.”

  A retort that the rhinos were not stolen died on Michael’s lips. Interpol wouldn’t see it that way. The fact that the rhinos did not arrive where they were supposed to was problematic, but that actually would make it harder for the illegal shipment charge to stick. The theft charge would be enough, though, to ruin him and force the clinic to close.

  He couldn’t let that happen.

  “Very well, Minister. I’ll expect the insulin at noon tomorrow.”

  “Oh, you will receive it, rest assured.”

  With that, Mbenga turned to leave, his two baobab-size bodyguards following him out.

  Once he was gone, Michael made the slump-shouldered walk to his office. Amalia Sanger was standing outside it, finishing off a phone call. Amalia didn’t have a formal job title—Michael often referred to her as his “Lord High Everything Else,” after the character of Pooh-Bah from The Mikado. Amalia’s utter lack of familiarity with the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta just made the nickname all the more appealing to Michael.

  Regardless, the clinic would have long since collapsed under its own weight without her organizational skills.

  As she pocketed her cell phone, she looked at Michael and immediately noticed the slump in his posture. “Well, that’s not good. What happened?”

  Michael explained as he entered his airless office. A small desk fan did an even less effective job of moving air around than the ceiling fan in the chapel. The papers on his desk were weighed down with rocks that served as paperweights. As he spoke, he flicked the switch on the back of his ancient PC. It whined as it went into its slow booting process, played out in green on black on the decades-old monitor.

  Amalia shook her head. “Michael, we can’t let the government in like that! It starts with this, and ends with—”

  “Harold and Marcus and Amira not getting their insulin. We’re dancing on the edge with them as it is. If we don’t get another shipment by tomorrow—”

  Holding up a hand, Amalia said, “Fine, fine.” She made a face. “I warned you that dealing with that zoo would bite us on the ass.”

  “Dealing with that zoo gave us the money to secure a reliable supplier of both penicillin and adrenaline. I’d say it was money well spent.”

  “Yes, but you wouldn’t have given in to Mbenga if it was just the threat of no insulin. You’ve got ins with every medical supplier on three continents. We would’ve gotten it eventually. No, it was the threat of Interpol that convinced you—wasn’t it?”

  Michael let out a long breath and ran his ragged handkerchief over his pate once again by way of avoiding having to answer the question.

  “That’s what I thought.” Amalia folded her arms. “We’re gonna get bit on the ass by this.”

  With a smile, Michael said, “My cheeks are quite well gnawed on already, Amalia. I wouldn’t have lasted this long otherwise.”

  “Excuse me?” a new voice intruded.

  Michael looked up and past Amalia to see a man standing in the doorway to his office, hair neatly tied back in a ponytail. He wore a suit that was more off-the-rack than the ones worn by Mbenga and his bodyguards, and a pair of Ray-Bans that probably helped with the sun outside but were just an affectation in the poorly lit clinic.

  Amalia cried out, “Who let you in here?”
at the same time that Michael softly asked, “May I help you?”

  The man looked back and forth between them. “Which question should I answer first?”

  “Mine,” Amalia said before Michael could speak.

  “The door was open, ma’am. My name’s John Smith, and I’m here on behalf of Doctors Without Borders.” Smith was American, and had a faint Boston accent—which Michael mainly could recognize after spending several months talking over the phone with various employees of the Brillinger Zoo.

  “No, you’re not,” Amalia said with a scowl. “First of all, John Smith? Really? Nobody’s actually named John Smith.”

  “Actually, ma’am,” Smith said, “there are seventeen John Smiths listed in the Boston white pages alone.”

  That got a sardonic smile out of Amalia. “But you’re not one of them, right? ’Cause you’re CIA. And the reason I know you’re CIA is because you called it Doctors Without Borders. Anybody who actually worked for them would call it Médecins Sans Frontières. That, and you’re, like, the fifteenth CIA agent I’ve met since King Lionel was overthrown. I recognize the type.”

  Smith looked past Amalia at Michael. “Reverend, you’re gonna be giving polio inoculations next week. You’re gonna need help. I have a doctor who’s up from South Africa, and she’s more than willing to volunteer.”

  “Really?” Michael asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow at Smith. “Out of the goodness of her heart?”

  “That’s what Doc—” Smith cocked his head to the side for a second, then looked at Amalia. “That’s what Médecins Sans Frontières does. She’s worked at clinics all up and down Africa, and she’s fully qualified.”

  Amalia was giving Smith the dirtiest look in her arsenal—Michael still had nightmares from the last time he was on the receiving end of one of those. “What do you get in return?”

  “The satisfaction of a job well done, ma’am.”

  “Who is this doctor?” Michael asked.

  Transferring her gaze of doom onto Michael, Amalia said, “Michael, you can’t be seriously considering—”

  “Having a qualified doctor assist during the inoculations, which is traditionally a time when we’re overrun with people and during which you are constantly complaining about how understaffed we are?”

  Amalia said nothing, though Michael could tell she had plenty to say. She just didn’t want to verbalize it in front of Smith.

  Michael repeated his question to Smith: “I ask again, who is this doctor?”

  Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, Smith pulled out a jump drive. “Her name’s Dr. Bernadine Onslow, and I’ve got all her information right here.”

  Michael felt a spontaneous laugh explode from his mouth. “I’m afraid, Mr. Smith, that all I may do with that is clean my ears.” He pointed at the computer, currently blinking a DOS prompt at him. “Our computer isn’t sophisticated enough to handle a three-and-a-half-inch disk, much less your jump drive. If you bring a paper file on your doctor, I will look it over and consider having her join us.”

  Smith nodded. “All right, then, I’ll have it for you tomorrow morning. But, Reverend? I don’t think there’s anything to ‘consider,’ do you? After all, it’d be a damn shame if Interpol found out about those black rhinos.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and departed.

  Amalia opened her mouth to speak, but Michael cut her off. “Do not say it, Amalia. We needed the money.”

  “And now we’re being extorted by the CIA and General Polonia’s government. This will end badly, Michael.”

  The reverend blew out a breath. “I should have taken my own advice.”

  Amalia frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I ended the service by requesting that everyone go in peace. It seems I failed rather spectacularly at that.”

  TWO DAYS AGO

  “John Smith? Really? Nobody’s actually named John Smith.”

  Without even looking at Eliot, Hardison clicked on his remote.

  Looking over at the screen in Nate’s apartment, Eliot saw a white-pages Web site that listed people named John Smith in Boston, Massachusetts. There were seventeen entries.

  “All right, fine,” Eliot said reluctantly. He hated admitting that Hardison was right while actually in Hardison’s presence. “It’s still gonna sound fake.”

  “That’s the idea,” Sophie said. “We need them to think you are CIA, and since you can’t exactly come out and say that you’re with the CIA, we have to push them toward it.”

  Parker was at the kitchen table, munching on a bowlful of dry cereal. “Why can’t you say you’re with the CIA?”

  By now Eliot really thought he should no longer have been surprised at things Parker didn’t know. And yet she always managed to do it. “Nobody with the Company says they’re with the Company. Best way to find a fake spook is to find one that says he’s a spook.”

  Sophie shook her head and stood up from the table. “What concerns me is the duration of this job. What if I’m still there when they inoculations start? I don’t actually know how to do that.”

  Hardison shook his head. “That’s not for another week and a half.”

  “Yes, but if we’re done by then, they’ll be shorthanded.”

  “You do realize,” Hardison said, “we’re talkin’ ’bout someone who probably extorted two hundred grand from a zoo, right?”

  “Besides,” Eliot added, “that’s the beauty of the cover. They think we’re CIA, they won’t ask questions—or even be all that surprised—if we pull out all of a sudden. And I can show you how to use the syringe.”

  “Eliot, that’s a far cry from being able to—”

  “You’re not supposed to do it perfectly.” Eliot walked over to Sophie. “CIA’s been using clinics like Maimona’s for covert ops for a couple years now. They give inoculations, they ‘screw up,’ and blood gets on the needle. Then they test the DNA in the blood, and compare it against terrorists they’re looking for. It’s how they found bin Laden.”

  Hardison gave Eliot his wide-eyed look. “Seriously? That actually happened?”

  “Happens.” Eliot shook his head. “That’s what happens out here in the real world.”

  “Whatever, man.” Hardison handed him a jump drive. “Plug this sucker into their computer. It’s got Sophie’s dossier—Dr. Bernadine Onslow’s whole history right there. Meanwhile, it’ll grab all their files.”

  “Can’t you just hack in?” Sophie asked.

  Hardison shook his head. “No wireless network, and I haven’t been able to find a strong enough connection to let me in. They’re probably using old tech. I may find a way in eventually, but this way’s easier, faster, and safer.”

  NOW

  Eliot subvocalized as he wandered down the halls of the clinic. “So much for easier, faster, and safer, Hardison.”

  Hardison was yawning as he spoke over Eliot’s earbud. “Yeah, I heard. It’s Duberman all over again.”

  “You awake, or what?” Eliot asked angrily. He was cranky partly because Hardison was half asleep, partly because he was also thinking about the 1980s-era PC he’d found at Dubertech, and it bugged him when he and Hardison were on the same wavelength.

  “Gimme a break, man, it’s six A.M. here. On a Sunday morning, that’s when I usually go to bed.”

  Eliot sometimes forgot that most people needed more than three hours of sleep a night. “I’m walkin’ past a ton of file cabinets here. Looks like we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.”

  “Great.” Hardison yawned again.

  “It’s fine,” Sophie said. “I’ll go by with Eliot tomorrow, and once they accept me, I’ll check the files by hand.”

  “By hand. Right,” Hardison muttered. “Between this and Nate’s surveillance, we’re partyin’ like it’s 1969.”
r />   “Get over it, Hardison,” Eliot said as he exited the clinic into the bright West African sun. “These people can barely afford lightbulbs.”

  “What’s your read on Reverend Maimona, Eliot?” Sophie asked.

  “Not sure. He’s got dirt on his hands—but not blood. And I get the vibe that he really does want to help people. But I can’t tell if he screwed our client over or if he’s just another victim.”

  “Well, I’ll meet him tomorrow,” Sophie said, and then put on her Afrikaans accent, “as Dr. Onslow, and then we shall know.”

  FIVE

  Parker was starting to think that Nate was punishing her for something.

  She had no idea what, of course. That would require knowing how Nate’s brain worked, and Parker didn’t particularly want to go there. Nate’s brain was a scary place, full of vipers and monsters and alcohol and things.

  But Nate was also the smartest person Parker knew, after Hardison. And Parker knew a lot of smart people. Her mentor, Archie Leach, was incredibly smart, and then there was that French gendarme who almost caught her that one time in Nice, and of course there was Jim Sterling—Parker preferred not to think about Sterling if at all possible, as his brain was worse than Nate’s—but even with all those people, Nate was almost the smartest.

  So all in all, Parker figured that he had good reason for sticking her on this stupid surveillance work. But she well and truly hated it. Surveillance was boring. Sure, there were moments when you had to be careful that nobody saw you, but Parker had been breaking into high-security museums before she was old enough to vote. Not that she ever voted. She wasn’t even sure how to vote. It probably wasn’t all that complicated, after all, lots of people did it, and most of them weren’t as smart as Nate, or Sterling, or Archie, or that cop in Nice, or Hardison.