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“That's not for you to worry about. I told you my terms. Take them to somebody who can make a decision,” I said in a detached tone.
“Well,” Murphy finally said, clearing his throat. “Marcello is an FBI puppet, you know. Taking him out might piss off a few people.”
“He is fucking snitching for the FBI?”
Murphy nodded. “They got him with tax fraud. Just like Capone.”
“Who cares. Make it happen. I know enough to bring down half of your god-damn government. The FBI will have to suck it up.”
“Now, now.” Murphy grinned. “Are you threatening the CIA with a tape that will be mailed to a journalist in case you or your woman end up dead?”
“What the fuck do you think this is? 1960? My shit would be posted on the Internet. From videos of federal judges getting hand jobs from underaged prostitutes to senators stealing campaign funds for private homes. I got quite a collection. Tell your boss I have a goodie about him as well.”
Murphy narrowed his eyes at me, then opened them wide and smiled again. “Done.”
I cocked a brow at him. “You came here knowing I would ask for my name to be cleared, so you got approval before you ever stepped foot on that plane, didn’t you?”
His grin widened. “The only thing I wasn't certain of was what you would offer us in return. I hoped it was a killing. I really, really did.” His face got a bit more tense as he reached into his short’s pocket and pulled out a photograph. Then he handed it to me.
“That’s Elijah Radcliff. He needs to be taken care of.”
I stared at the picture of an older man in an immaculate suit, hand-tailored, with a Breitling watch on his wrist that was worth over a mil.
“Who is he?”
“A real piece of shit. He’s connected with a lot of illegal activities. Money laundering, aiding gang operations in the United States, and selling secrets to political enemies. In 2003, he was allegedly involved in the disruption of a political campaign, although there was no concrete proof. And, of course, he was a kingpin in the trafficking of underaged girls—the biggest crime in the Eagle's book.”
I looked at the picture again, expecting to see that sleek-looking criminal with sunshades and an evil grin. But there was Elijah Radcliff in all his portly glory: a rich, balding man with graying hair and a sickly smile.
I put the picture in my pants pocket and looked up at Luck Murphy. “You want me to take this guy out?”
He nodded. “He’s been slipping through our fingers for years. Aside from being a criminal, his deep pockets have bought him powerful friends. I’m talking highest level. So make damn fucking sure nobody sees you.”
“If I do this...”
“You get your name cleared, you’ll be able to return to the United States without the CIA or the government coming after you, and you have our okay to kill Marcello. We will sort it out with the FBI afterwards.”
I scratched my chin. “Any guarantees?”
“You have my word. What else do you want?”
I shrugged. “At least some effort to make me believe in your word. You can’t expect me to work with you without any proof that I’ll get my freedom.”
Murphy looked at me glumly. “Slow down, big boy. I do have an agreement,” he said, pulling out a folded paper from his pocket. “Look it over. Take your time.”
I took the document and began to read.
“That agreement states that you will be working for us as an ‘independent contractor’ on this case,” Murphy said as I re-read the document.
“It’s not stated anywhere that I’ll get my name cleared.”
“You know we can’t put that in writing. But officially working for us almost means the same. You know that.”
I nodded, still unsure.
“Andrei, you need to trust me. You’ll get your freedom. It’s not written down, but as a CIA insider, youwillget your pardon. I’ll see to that.”
“You want me to believe that?”
