It’s time to start hunting tomorrow.
He calls Broker the next day.
Broker is just that. He served with military intelligence and was injured during his time in Mogadishu. After receiving an honorable discharge from the army, he went back to college, got a degree in Information Systems from Syracuse University, discovered hacking, and lived the corporate life a few years.
Finding it too staid, he went into doing what he was best at.
Sourcing information.
Outside the army, he discovered a knack for entrepreneurship and developed a reputable business out of selling information: information on African dictators, the sexual habits of US senators, security practices of oil companies, buying habits of East European crime gangs, weapons systems, reams of pages on military contractors — anything he could turn a profit from. Most of his clients were national governments, intelligence agencies around the world, defense contractors, international corporations, and security firms.
He and Zeb went back a long way. Zeb was the reason he still had his right leg. He walked with a slight limp, but that beat a prosthetic any day.
Zeb gets Broker’s voice mail.
‘Message. Number. You know the drill,’ his baritone rumbles through the phone.
Zeb hangs up without leaving a message.
He calls Andrews, gets his voice mail, too. Andrews’ voice mail greeting is a recitation of the Miranda rights. Funny.
He prints the photographs from his phone, writes up his report, and emails it to Andrews. With nothing else to do, it’s time to attend to family. He spruces up and catches the subway to Manhattan, changes at Times Square, and goes to Hamilton Heights.
His destination is a mid-rise west of Broadway. The doorman knows him well and ushers him to the elevator. The apartment is empty when he lets himself in. He makes himself a cup of coffee and settles down to wait in the living room.
He is on the Basanti Bukhari raga on the tabla in his mind when, a couple of hours later, a key scrapes at the door. The door is flung open by a seven-year-old boy, who marches to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and helps himself to a can of fruit juice.
He returns to the living room and finally spots Zeb sitting motionless.
Blue eyes widen in astonishment as they regard Zeb.
‘Who are you? What’re you doing here?’ The words spill out angrily.
Full-on New York accent, healthy complexion, spends a lot of time outdoors, black hair, blue eyes, just returned from school, still in his uniform, satchel slung over his shoulders; all this Zeb notes without conscious thought.
‘How did you get in? Did you break into Nana’s house?’
No fear, notes Zeb. Most boys his age would be panicking.
‘I know. You’ve come to steal Nana’s money, haven’t you?’ He darts into the kitchen and comes out with a kitchen knife. ‘Don’t come near me, and don’t move. I’m gonna call my mom.’
With that, he runs out of the apartment and locks it behind him. Zeb hears rushing feet outside the door minutes later, whispers, and the door opens. The boy stomps in followed by a blonde who is obviously his mother. The blue eyes and features come from her.
She’s flustered and says sheepishly, ‘You’re Zeb, right? Cassandra’s brother? Sorry about Rory. He gets a little overprotective.’ She nudges Rory. ‘Actually, you’re the one who should say sorry.’
‘Why should I apologize for looking out for Nana? I didn’t know who he was. He didn’t say a single word to me when I asked him. Even now he’s not exactly talkative, is he?’
The blonde turns to Zeb and introduces herself, ‘I’m Lauren Balthazar, and this little ball of goodwill and cheerfulness is my son, Rory. We’re Cassandra’s neighbors — as of a few months ago. Cassandra’s at work at City College, but she should be back in a couple of hours.’
She observes him as she’s talking: tall, about six feet, brown hair, serious, lean and unnaturally still. And he still hasn’t uttered a word. She thinks Rory was right to freak out at Zeb’s silence.
She relieves Rory of the carving knife and puts it back where it belongs. On returning to the living room, she asks, ‘Want some coffee? Or lunch? It’s no trouble.’ And it’s the least I can do after my son pulled a knife on you.
Zeb shakes his head.
She pauses, uncertain. ‘All right, then. We’ll be right next door if you need anything.’
Rory is still glaring at Zeb as she drags him away. Stillness returns, and Zeb resumes Basanti Bukhari and waits. He’s good at waiting.
It’s evening when Cassandra enters the apartment. ‘Hi, Zeb! Lauren called me, but I was caught up with some students after classes. Sorry to have kept you waiting.’
She goes to her bedroom to change and calls out from there. ‘Lauren has invited us to dinner. Hope you can stay.’
She goes to the kitchen and, in a few minutes, returns with two steaming cups of coffee.
Placing his in front of him, she sits across from him and studies him. He hasn’t changed much. A few more wrinkles around his eyes, some grey in his hair. ‘How have you been? Clare told me you were out of the country. When did you get back?’
Clare, the Director.
Cassandra and Clare had been to Bryn Mawr together, and then later on to Penn. Clare had started working at the agency as an analyst and was the first female director of the agency. Cassandra had started her career as a foreign service specialist in the State Department, was noticed, and became the aide to the Secretary of State. Clare’s and Cassandra’s friendship had weathered the politics of Washington, and they frequently bounced ideas off each other. After a time, Washington had palled for Cassandra, whereupon she quit to pursue an academic career in New York. If anything, the Director and Zeb’s sister had gotten closer now that she had left Washington.
‘A couple of days ago,’ he replies.
‘And how have you been?’
He shrugs. Talking, feelings, that was never his thing.
She sits for a long time, watching him. She is so much older than he, yet thinks he has seen and experienced much more than she ever will. People who don’t know him mistake his self-containment for loneliness. ‘Okay. I should know better than to even ask. I’m going to get dressed for dinner at Lauren’s.’ She shrugs mentally. He has always been a mystery. Nothing new there.
She slides a key across. ‘I keep them in the sideboard.’
He opens the sideboard and removes a pair of tablas. These were gifted to him by his guru in Jamaica. Since his first visit to the school, he’d spent hours learning the tabla, the various taals, and had often accompanied his guru in his performances. His guru had been right. He hadn’t found what he was seeking in tabla, but the drums provided an escape.
He takes out a soft cloth and polishes the wooden shell of the sidda and then repeats the polishing on the brass of the dagga. He adjusts the tension ropes on the sides of the drums and cleans them carefully. He takes a basalt stone and polishes the black spots, the syahi, on the drums slowly and rhythmically.
Cass observes from her bedroom. She doesn’t understand his fascination for Indian drums. As a child, he wasn’t musically inclined. Zeb puts away the drums when she emerges ten minutes later, dressed to the nines, and they make their way to the apartment next door.
Rory opens the door with a flourish. ‘Hello, Aunt Cassie, I helped Mom make dinner for us, so I bet you it’ll be good.’
‘You’ve trained me well, Rory. I would never dare say your dinner is bad,’ Cass replies. ‘You have met Zeb, haven’t you?’ she asks with a mirthful glint in her eye.
Rory squirms and shuffles and then sticks his chin out. ‘He shouldn’t have let himself in, Aunt Cassie. I could have called the cops, and then it would have been a bigger scene.’