Her eyes went from pleading to hopeful. “Then you can help me. I’m not just in this for a quick cash grab. I want a career. But I can’t do that on my own. I’ve tried. Open the doors for me that you opened for her. You won’t regret it.”
When I first recruited her, The Persian was well on her way to elite status with no help from me. I didn’t know much about her, but what I did know painted the picture of a born killer. She had no documented connection to any military or intelligence outlet but had seemingly done work for all of them. Her first suspected kill came when she was only nine years old, poisoning a top Shiite militia leader in Iran. Some say it was revenge for a bombing that killed her parents. Others swear it was just because she wanted to see what it felt like, not only to kill a man, but to get away with it. Either way, it was the first of many. By the time she was twenty years old, she had a body count rivaling some dictators. Everyone from top government officials to terrorist groups offered bounties for her head. The Persian was beholden to no particular flag or ideology. Her only loyalty was to her next contract.
Our partnership was one of convenience: She existed outside of the spotlight and waited for me to bring jobs directly to her, while I collected handsome fees and doubled my referral business in the process. I didn’t open a single door she couldn’t have opened on her own. The only reason she had me do it for her was because, if there was a gun or a cop standing behind that door, she’d rather have me take the bullet or do the time.
Erica had a long way to go to get to that level. Didn’t mean she couldn’t, though. And if The Persian was the standard by which I measured all prospective candidates, then my pipeline would soon run drier than a sawdust martini.
“Okay,” I said, “Let’s start over. How long you been in the game?”
“Four years.”
“I heard two.”
“You also heard I had a pair of balls and a hairy chest.”
“Touché.” That was strike two for Joey. We were going to have an interesting conversation when I saw him at the shooting range later that night.
“What’s your number?” I asked. She raised an eyebrow. “Of jobs completed. I’m not a creep.”
“Six,” she said without hesitation. That matched what Joey told me. Maybe I wouldn’t rip him all the way apart when I saw him.
“All singles or any multiples in there?” I asked.
“Just did my first double last job.”
“How did that go?”
A young couple walking from the counter to a table behind us accidentally bumped into Erica’s seat.
“Pardon,” the woman said, looking every bit the French touristy type.
“C’est bon,” Erica replied. Her eyes darted around the room. It was starting to get crowded.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ve done interviews here before. It’s filled with some of the most pretentious people in Brussels. They’re too busy talking about themselves to hear anything we say.”
She laughed. It was a deeper sound than I would have expected, but full. Smooth. I took another sip of my coffee.
“So,” I said, speaking a little louder to be heard over the growing din. “Your last job?”
“It went fine. Client was very pleased.”
“Business or personal?”
“Does it matter?”
I smiled. That was the right answer.
“You have any other offers at the moment?”
“No. I just got back in town. Still getting settled.”
“Good. If you draw interest from other parties during that time, I want you to let me know.”
“I can do that,” she said. She brightened. “Does that mean you have a job for me?”
I considered for a moment then said, “Not right now. But I know a few clients who’d be interested in your services, whenever the need arises.”
The disappointment on her face was evident, although she did her best to hide it. Now that her confidence was shaken a bit, the time was right for a little skills assessment. Without preamble, I leaned in and said, “Far right corner by the restroom, table for two, what kind of watch is the man wearing?”
“Bulova,” she said, no hesitation. The disappointment was gone. She was all business. “Black.”
“Woman standing by the front door, what’s she drinking?”
“Espresso, double shot.”
“My right, your left, what’s the cover story on the magazine somebody left behind on the table?”
“‘New diet promises to give you the bathing suit body you crave.’”
“How many scones are there in the display counter right now?”
“None. This place doesn’t sell scones.”
I nodded approvingly.
“Did I pass?” she asked.
“Part One, yes.”
