The Fisherman gave his men curt instructions and offered Gibson a seat at the card table. Gibson sat. The two men regarded each other, not long-lost friends by any stretch but each curious about the other. The fisherman looked fitter, jawline sharper. His fishing vest had given way to a tailored suit.
“My men do not speak English,” the Fisherman said to Gibson. “Do not worry about them.”
Thoughtful, but Gibson didn’t worry about them for their English fluency, rather the guns in their hands and the cold, expectant way they watched him—like a pair of herons watching a meal swim around their feet.
“Is that a new scar?” the fisherman asked, gesturing to his throat. “You had a beard last I saw you.”
“There’s no such thing as a new scar.”
“Profound. Fresh wounds, old scars . . . is that the idea?”
“Something like that.”
“It was foolish. Coming to the embassy.”
“Sorry to inconvenience you,” Gibson said.
“Not for me. For you. Did you not consider that my embassy is under constant surveillance by your government?”
Gibson hadn’t and knew that he should have. It underlined how occluded and sloppy his thinking had become. Not that he would have acted differently, but it worried him that it hadn’t even crossed his mind. He would need to be more careful.
“Are you so anxious to be sent back?” the Fisherman asked. “Do you miss it?”
“Sometimes.” It slipped out, his honesty surprising them both. “Do you know where I was?”
The Fisherman shook his head. “Not specifically, no.”
“I never told you how good your English was.”
“Or I yours,” the Fisherman said. “What is it you want?”
“I want the man who sent me to that hellhole. I want his name, where he lives. I want him.”
“Well, after your performance this week, he may want you too.”
“I don’t want to wait that long,” Gibson said.
“Describe him to me.”
“Tall. Thin but muscular. African American. He’d taken a hell of a beating so I can’t really say much about his face. He called himself Damon Washburn, but that’s not his real name.”
“No, it is not.”
“So you know who he is?”
“I do. What do you intend to do when you have him?”
“Help him understand what he did to me.”
“And so what . . . ?” The Fisherman sat back and crossed his arms. “What makes you think I will furnish you with that information?”
Gibson took a breath, keenly aware of the line he was preparing to cross but even more aware that he no longer cared. “Because I know the identity of Poisonfeather.”
The Fisherman’s eyes narrowed, but Gibson couldn’t tell why. One more example of his diluted instincts. Poisonfeather was a prized American intelligence asset inside the Chinese politburo. The Fisherman had risked everything to pry the name of the mole from Charles Merrick in Niobe. Gibson had stopped him then. He figured it ought to be worth Damon Washburn’s real name to the Fisherman now.
“Merrick told you?” the Fisherman asked.
Yelled it at him was closer to the truth. Gibson had spent eighteen months in a cell for hearing it.
“That’s right,” Gibson said.
“You want this man so badly that you are ready to betray your country?”
“Just returning the favor.”
The Fisherman ran a thumbnail back and forth beneath his bottom lip. “And all you want in exchange is the real name of this ‘Damon Washburn’?”
“So we have a deal?” Gibson asked.
“I’m afraid that we do not.”
“Why? You were willing to kill for it back in Niobe.”
“I was, yes. Circumstances, however, have changed.”
“How have they changed?” Gibson heard his voice rising but couldn’t control it.
“Poisonfeather is dead. He was executed for crimes against the People. Why do you think you were released?”
Gibson slumped back in his chair. He’d been so overwhelmed since his release that he’d never stopped to ask to stop the most basic of questions: Why had he and Merrick been freed in the first place? The answer was obvious. Because they no longer represented a threat to the United States. The Fisherman had neutralized Poisonfeather.
“How?” Gibson asked. “Merrick didn’t get a chance to tell you.”
“True. It would have been simpler had Merrick told me, but with the data points I acquired in Niobe, I was able to reconstruct and track the traitor through Merrick’s financial dealings. It simply took more time.”
“That must have been quite a feather in your cap.”
“Clever,” the Fisherman said.
Gibson hadn’t intended to be clever, and it took him a moment to discover his unintended pun. He played it off with a tight smile.
The Fisherman said, “In actuality, it was a feather in my superior’s cap.”
“You gave him the credit?” Gibson asked.
“That is how it works in my country. But when he was elevated, I was elevated along with him. Had I hoarded the credit, then I would have made an enemy instead of an ally.”
“Congratulations.”
“You know, in a way, you owe me your freedom.”
“Well, thank you for that,” Gibson said. “So if you already have Poisonfeather, why are you here?”
“Because as much as we enjoy your charming visits to the embassy, I need them to stop.”
The Fisherman shifted to Mandarin and spoke to his men, who listened attentively. One bowed his head sharply and went out the back door. After a moment, Gibson heard a car start. The second bodyguard raised his gun. Gibson tensed, imagining the real estate agent’s reaction to discovering his body in the morning. The Fisherman stood and gave Gibson a hard look.
“So, our business concluded, I will not be seeing you at the embassy again.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”
The Fisherman shifted to Mandarin, and the bodyguard holstered his gun. The bodyguard helped the Fisherman on with his coat and held the back door open for him. The Fisherman paused, half in, half out of the door, and looked back at Gibson. “Damon Ogden,” he said, pronouncing the name carefully. “You had it half right. The man you want is named Damon Ogden.”
Gibson looked at him, dumbfounded. “Why?”
“I’m curious to see what happens.”
“Thank you.”
“I hope you find what you need.” The Fisherman pulled the collar of his coat tight. “Because they will bury you for this.”
CHAPTER TEN
Gibson liked working the industrial dishwasher. Over its roar, he couldn’t hear anyone and was grateful for the peace it granted him. Anyone but Duke Vaughn, whose voice he heard perfectly. They had paid their first visit to Damon Ogden’s neighborhood that morning, and Duke hadn’t stopped scheming since.
When Sana put a hand on his shoulder, Gibson jumped a mile. Sana apologized profusely. Gibson apologized profusely. They both apologized once more for good measure, and then Sana pointed to the front of the restaurant: a police officer was here to see him. Gibson stifled his first instinct, which was to flee out the back. He didn’t like the visit coming so soon on the heels of his reconnaissance of Ogden’s neighborhood.
“Be cool,” Duke said. “You haven’t done anything illegal yet.”
“Besides meeting with the Chinese? Maybe they know what we’ve planned.”