some chatter. There is, and has been for the past three years, a million-dollar bounty on her head.’
‘I’ve never heard of a bounty that high funded by a crime ring. How on earth has she survived three years?’
‘Very good or very lucky.’
‘Maybe no one’s gotten close to finding her.’ Braun studied the photo again. ‘She looks like an elf. Seriously, put pointed
ears on her and she’d be the perfect Santa Claus line monitor at Christmas. This big a bounty, and no one even knows who she
is? Incredible. Where was this chatter?’
‘It’s come up on a few discussion forums – usually of extremists looking for funding.’
‘Who posted the bounty?’
‘It leads to a Gmail account that’s never been accessed. Or, I should say, has only been accessed by a non-traceable computer.’
‘Are the details in your report?’
‘Yes, I’ll write it up for you tonight.’
Braun handed him back the photo. ‘Make it happen, August. Get us this informant. Get us this woman.’
Or, August thought sourly, get another job.
The internet café was near the NYU campus. He walked there an hour after August left; he did not wish to use a CIA-owned computer.
He also wanted to finish the exquisite pot of coffee he’d made. Ricardo Braun went inside and ordered a decaf with little
hope that it would match his palate’s demands and sat at an internet terminal situated far from any other patrons. He opened
an email account he had established six years before and that he only checked very infrequently. It was a hidey hole for him
on the web, and he remembered a message he’d seen two years ago. There were only a couple of dozen messages in the account,
all old, but kept squirreled away for when they could be useful. Requests for information. Offers of payment. CIA pensions
were not what they should be, and, although he’d had family money, Braun felt that more cash was never to be turned down.
As long as his small, creative side jobs did not hurt the country he loved, he saw nothing wrong with it. He was simply careful
to clean it through investments; the CIA did watch the incomes of its former agents.
The message had held a picture of the woman called Mila. He’d seen her face then for the first time. That fine, elfin face.
He checked the photo stashed in the email address. It might well be the same woman. The cut of her hair was different but
the bones were the same in her cheeks, the turn of the mouth, the sharp, haunted eyes. Mila. The photo of her was one with
a gun in her hand, wearing a leather jacket and leather pants, glancing about a room. The sort of photo that looked like it
had been lifted from a private security camera.
He reread the message.
Text to 45899 to get details on job. High dollar
. He wondered if the job was still open. He texted, on a phone that the CIA did not know that he owned.
He got an autoresponse, directing him to a private website, providing him with a password.
Braun jumped to the site. Its URL was a wild mix of numbers and letters, not the kind of site that someone would ever accidentally
stumble upon. He entered the password.
The site opened. It showed more pictures of Mila, shot from the same camera. And the text, in five different languages: $1 MILLION US FOR THIS BITCH. I WANT HER ALIVE . Braun stared. This was the gold standard of hit contracts. A million dollars was usually a sum reserved for leaders of state,
heads of organizations. Braun himself had spent CIA dollars to kill a Rwandan warlord for Special Projects for a hundred thousand.
A drug kingpin in Ecuador for twice that amount. Braun had his own address book he could call upon when regular CIA personnel
were not an option.
Who was this woman and who had the deep pockets to off her? He glanced at the last update: a month ago, a single message.
Contract is still open
. An email address, another blind one.
He sent an email:
Is contract still open? I have a lead on an associate of
‘I’ve never heard of a bounty that high funded by a crime ring. How on earth has she survived three years?’
‘Very good or very lucky.’
‘Maybe no one’s gotten close to finding her.’ Braun studied the photo again. ‘She looks like an elf. Seriously, put pointed
ears on her and she’d be the perfect Santa Claus line monitor at Christmas. This big a bounty, and no one even knows who she
is? Incredible. Where was this chatter?’
‘It’s come up on a few discussion forums – usually of extremists looking for funding.’
‘Who posted the bounty?’
‘It leads to a Gmail account that’s never been accessed. Or, I should say, has only been accessed by a non-traceable computer.’
‘Are the details in your report?’
‘Yes, I’ll write it up for you tonight.’
Braun handed him back the photo. ‘Make it happen, August. Get us this informant. Get us this woman.’
Or, August thought sourly, get another job.
The internet café was near the NYU campus. He walked there an hour after August left; he did not wish to use a CIA-owned computer.
He also wanted to finish the exquisite pot of coffee he’d made. Ricardo Braun went inside and ordered a decaf with little
hope that it would match his palate’s demands and sat at an internet terminal situated far from any other patrons. He opened
an email account he had established six years before and that he only checked very infrequently. It was a hidey hole for him
on the web, and he remembered a message he’d seen two years ago. There were only a couple of dozen messages in the account,
all old, but kept squirreled away for when they could be useful. Requests for information. Offers of payment. CIA pensions
were not what they should be, and, although he’d had family money, Braun felt that more cash was never to be turned down.
As long as his small, creative side jobs did not hurt the country he loved, he saw nothing wrong with it. He was simply careful
to clean it through investments; the CIA did watch the incomes of its former agents.
The message had held a picture of the woman called Mila. He’d seen her face then for the first time. That fine, elfin face.
He checked the photo stashed in the email address. It might well be the same woman. The cut of her hair was different but
the bones were the same in her cheeks, the turn of the mouth, the sharp, haunted eyes. Mila. The photo of her was one with
a gun in her hand, wearing a leather jacket and leather pants, glancing about a room. The sort of photo that looked like it
had been lifted from a private security camera.
He reread the message.
Text to 45899 to get details on job. High dollar
. He wondered if the job was still open. He texted, on a phone that the CIA did not know that he owned.
He got an autoresponse, directing him to a private website, providing him with a password.
Braun jumped to the site. Its URL was a wild mix of numbers and letters, not the kind of site that someone would ever accidentally
stumble upon. He entered the password.
The site opened. It showed more pictures of Mila, shot from the same camera. And the text, in five different languages: $1 MILLION US FOR THIS BITCH. I WANT HER ALIVE . Braun stared. This was the gold standard of hit contracts. A million dollars was usually a sum reserved for leaders of state,
heads of organizations. Braun himself had spent CIA dollars to kill a Rwandan warlord for Special Projects for a hundred thousand.
A drug kingpin in Ecuador for twice that amount. Braun had his own address book he could call upon when regular CIA personnel
were not an option.
Who was this woman and who had the deep pockets to off her? He glanced at the last update: a month ago, a single message.
Contract is still open
. An email address, another blind one.
He sent an email:
Is contract still open? I have a lead on an associate of
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