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“Rainy season,” he said. “Get used to it, because it’s every damn day.”
“Just like your forecasts since the middle of May.”
When their drinks came they ordered their meals, pork tostadas for Court and jocón de pollo—green chicken stew—for Zoya. When the waiter left them, they sat in silence, still taking in their surroundings. Court was armed with a SIG Sauer P365XL that he’d purchased on the black market in Lima almost four months earlier. It was a small weapon, but it carried thirteen rounds of hollow-point ammunition, and on the slide it wore a red dot optic for faster target acquisition than iron sights.
The gun and a couple of spare magazines were tucked into his brown denim pants and hidden by his plain light gray T-shirt.
Zoya had a steel-framed Jericho 941 9-millimeter in the little daypack at her feet, purchased in Guadalajara and no doubt originally stolen from a Mexican police weapons locker, as it was the duty pistol of the state cops there. Her weapon carried seventeen rounds, and she had two extra sixteen-round mags of hollow-points.
A few more tables filled with lunch guests, and together Zoya and Court evaluated the new patrons. A group of three young hippies—they sounded American—sat by a fountain in the middle of the courtyard and chatted amiably. An older couple, well into their fifties and speaking German, sat a little closer.
A silver-haired woman was seated at a table by the ivy-covered masonry wall well to their left, and she immediately opened her laptop and then, in Dutch-accented Spanish, ordered a cup of coffee.
Court was in a contemplative mood and would have been fine sitting in silence, watching the comings and goings in the restaurant, but soon Zoya leaned closer to him.
“I’m worried about you.”
Here we go again, he thought. “Because of the insomnia?”
She shook her head. “I’m worried that you’re bored.”
Court looked at her quizzically. “Bored?”
“Four months without work. You’re more withdrawn, not sleeping. I think you miss it.”
He sipped his juice, saying nothing as his pork tostadas were placed in front of him. Once Zoya had her stew, he turned and leaned closer to her. “These have been the best four months of my life.”
Zoya did not smile. “But?”
With an exasperated look, he said, “There’s no ‘but,’ Carrie.”
In public she was Carrie and he was Sean, the names on their passports, created for them in Ottawa at great expense and declaring them to be Mr. and Mrs. Busby, a husband and wife from Hamilton, Ontario.
She shook her head. Speaking softly, she said, “You miss the work. You miss making an impact. It’s not a bad thing. You do it because you’re honorable.” She shook her head. “No. You’re a hero. But…I’m like most people. I’m not drawn to danger like you are. Not anymore. I just want to survive.”
“I’m not a hero, and you are, in no way, like most people.” Court took a bite of his tostada, a swig of juice, and then he asked, “Where’s all this coming from?”
“It’s coming from the fact that you’re growing more restless every day, and you can’t hide it from me.”
Court ate while he tried to think of something to say. Nothing came at first, but soon enough he looked back to Zoya. “Trouble finds us, we don’t have to go looking for it. There will come a time when we need to get back to work, and you know that as well as I do. And you can say all you want that you aren’t interested, but I’ve seen you motivated by causes before.”
“When my back is against the wall, yes, I’m motivated.”
“Well…half the planet wants me dead. And at least one country wants you dead. Don’t worry. We’ll find our backs to the wall sooner rather than later, then we can worry about getting back in the game.”
She said nothing, and then Court added, “I feel it, Carrie. Something’s coming. It’s closer every day.”
“When it comes…will you be happy or sad?”
He deflected a little. “All that matters is that we’re both ready. My brain is tuning up for it, that’s all you’re seeing.”
Zoya took a bite of the hot stew, and she focused on something out in the courtyard now. “Let’s talk about it more later.”
Court took this to mean she wanted privacy before they got deeper into the topic of the worldwide manhunt against them, and he was all too happy to table the conversation for now, here in a public place.
He followed her eyes and saw the hostess escorting an older man in a linen suit and a fedora through the space to a table by the fountain, seating him two tables from the three young Americans. The man spoke softly and was out of earshot, so Court couldn’t hear him, and then the man lifted his menu and put on reading glasses.
Zoya had already returned her attention to her lunch.
