ALEVEN OF THE NINE: Chapter Two

ISIS SULT

TWO WEEKS, FOUR DAYS PRIOR. Thirty-six minutes. The room was grey. Dark. It was cold. The heat had been off for a while. Her left wrist burned from the wear and tear of the handcuff. Her skin red, raw. The steel table her handcuff connected to sat in the center of the eight by ten foot space. Two chairs. One across from hers. And of course, the illusive two-way mirror. Her eyes did not fall against her reflection - vain was a not a sin she lavished in. Ever. There was one door. Approximately six feet to her right. Diagonally. They were waiting. She was waiting. Thirty-seven. She focused her eyes on the center of the table and concentrated on her slowed breathing.

His legs strained. He towered the other two men in the room. They sat in front of him mesmerized by the prize on the other side of the mirror. They hadn't stopped murmuring to each other. Their incessant muffled voices echoed throughout the room. It reached annoying. He shuffled his stance. His eyes focused on her. Curious. He knew the game. He knew she knew the game. Didn't they? Damn knuckle-heads. The bald one to his right stood. Leaned against the wall. His face pressed to the mirror. Eyes steady on her. The young one to his left uncrossed his legs. Murmured something and they both chuckled. The room felt crowded. Three's a crowd. He favored two. It was time.

The door opened. She did not move. Her eyes rested on the center of the table. Her breathing consistent. The man took the seat in front of her. It was always a man. They connected. Eye to eye. Five foot nine. Brown hair, blue eyes. A bit wrinkled. Thirty-five-ish. His suit was worn. His tie stretched. He was not as exhausted as he had made himself appear to be. There was no ring. No visible piercings and thought she'd be surprised if there were any tattoos. He was clean shaven. This was his tell. He kept her in the room under surveillance. It had been forty minutes. Shortest time. This was a record. She noted this. The man across the table lacked patience. Or he'd done his homework. It wouldn't be long now.

He swallowed hard. She had dark eyes. Intense. Her brown hair was askew. She was buried in the shadow of the room. And he felt nervous. He shook the feeling and settled back in the chilled metal chair. His hands rested calmly on his lap. He nodded, "Piper Elgen. Eileen Basille. Nikki Roberts. Rochelle Burke. Myra Halaas. Catin Beals."

She smiled in her thoughts. Even thought she heard a laugh. He had done his homework. He was at least educated. She needed to know if he was intelligent. And if so, to what degree.

"I'll go first. I'm Agent Yurie. My job for the past three weeks and all the way up until I walked into this room has been you. Everything and anything. You."

Three weeks? Probably more like one and half. Males always double everything.

"And," he continued, enjoying the moment, "I am the only one who knows what I know. So if you take me out now. It would not only be for your benefit, but most certainly for my own. Too many bad thoughts I've taken to bed with me."

Her lips formed a smile. She allowed it, "Tempting. Agent Yurie, You must know the dance we are about to begin is null and void. You know this. The most you have are names. Names that even you, yourself, still haven't put together. In fact, you probably only see subtle similarities."

"They're all deceased. And, may I add, that's precisely the same amount of times you have died."

Bingo. Intelligent. It's time to go.

He crossed his legs and began, "Piper was shot in the head at an ice hockey game halfway through the third quarter while enjoying cosmos with the late Charlie Epstein."

She was impressed. True.

"Eileen died in the arms of her lover after their car was sideswiped and rolled over a cliff. She had internal bleeding. The lover, Colt McFarland, was the son of the Ambassador to Germany. He lived only three hours longer. To which neither the authorities nor his family could understand him in his anguish as his vocal cords had been ripped from their body cavity."

He knew details, details that had been left out of official reports. True.

He licked his lips, "My personal favorite, a one Ms. Roberts. Nikki Roberts was found in bed with Sandy Choo. Both were drinking from the same wine glass. Both had the same organ failure. But not before bodily fluids were exchanged."

Typical heterosexual male reaction, but true, all very true. She sat up, her eyes never wavering. Intrigued, "Go on."

He smiled he was thinking of how long he had. How much more he could say before this tango was over. And then, he felt sad for a moment. Not for her, for himself. The last week and a half she had given his life meaning. He hoped she would reveal a little more. More for his own deep undefined pleasure. He was no longer nervous. Intrigued. "Rochelle Burke. Blonde. Died in the explosion of a yacht off the coast of Milan in the Mediterranean Sea. Married. Six weeks. They could only identify her with dental records. Her husband, the Defense Secretary for the former administration, Marcus Burke, was found as seared fish bait some weeks later by a couple on their honeymoon."

True.

"Myra Halaas. Waitress in a small town outside Tulsa. It seems someone didn't agree with her thinking. Instead of telling her face to face they knifed her in the back while she was sexually engaged with Roger Thomas in a sleazy motel off route 128. He was then tied to the back of a pickup truck and dragged for thirty-two and some change miles. You do know who he was, right?"

Roger Thomas. That was a sad and sorry way to go.

He knew she knew. He felt a tiny bit aroused. He thought about one day trying her on. But that seemed to be a deadly mistake. He shook his head in disbelief. "He was the son of the Democratic Senator from New York. I haven't wrapped my head around this next one. This one, I just... Well, you already know, don't you?"

"Catin. Catin Beals. Valedictorian. Doctorate. Physicist. Daughter of one of the wealthiest and oldest banking families in the world. She and her father were simultaneously killed while hunting on Thanksgiving. They turned their guns on each other."

She moved her eyes to the floor, yes, she remembered that very well.

He felt exhilaration wake his tiring thoughts. Is she playing him? Why would she look away? A woman like this could not feel remorse. Could she? Don't be a knuckle-head!

She allowed her eyes to wander about the room. Something was wrong. Export did not take this long. The agent was smart, but he was losing ground. His wealth of knowledge was decreasing. Her mind was exhausted and sleep was such a nice thought. She knew her eye movements were throwing him off track. Ha! Good. Keep him on his toes. If he only knew that this was just another day at the office. The clock was just ticking down until she could go home. How does one explain that? And with such little time.

He sat up. He felt beads of sweat run from his forehead. The eyes. This was her tell. And he had one final name. The name was his ace of spades. His last hand. Final draw. He'll throw down. All in. "Which leads me to Isis Sult. I have determined that this is not your real name. I want to know if she exists at all. If in a few days or even a week she'll end up on our radar. If I let you go, will we meet again?

A smile fell across her face. She allowed it. Her cheeks burned warm. She felt it. "Agent Yurie, what is my name?"

He felt embarrassment. I don't know. Are you an agent? A foreign agent with a fake American English accent? His palms were moist. "I believe that one of your many aliases is Isis Sult."

"You are mistaken." She felt the pain. The dislocation of her pinky finger and thumb were quick. Her hand slid through the handcuff. Free.

His eyes could not believe what he just saw. What? He lost breath and immediately felt weightless as his body was pulled from the chair and thrown into the wall. A sharp pain shuddered through his shoulder. A warm and fuzzy sensation tingled on the back side of his head. The room felt detached. His eyes drifted down with his body to the floor. Popping sounds went off in the distance. Muffled. From the floor he saw the door open and two pairs of boots enter. A wave of relief. He found his breath again.

There she was. Her beautiful face inches from his. Her eyes, though, had becomes vacant. Please, just leave me alone. Leave me here. Go. Leave alone, please. He felt the cold of metal pierce his right temple. Fear rushed through his body. Was no one to save him?

"I'm not the only one who knows about Isis Sult."

And the sound rang. She tilted her head and watched as life exited the body on the floor. She stood. The two men, one in the lead, the other in the rear exported her safely from the chilled, grey room.

Sirens could be heard. The three stepped out onto the roof where the rain fell in sheets from the black sky. She could smell the larger of the two in front, down wind. She raised her left hand to her nose, brushed the wet. Her right with the gun shot point blank into his left temple. Before the man behind her could react, the side of her left hand slammed into his juggler - paralyzing him long enough for her right hand to whip the gun into his face. The bullet entered through his cheekbone.

She flipped the safety, tucked the gun in the back of her jeans and looked up into the black sky. There through the falling rain, a beacon of light grew larger as it swiftly fell down toward her. A rope, heaved from the helicopter, landed feet in front of her. She looped her foot and climbed as the helicopter moved away from the building. Sleep. Sleep is only a little while more away.

She climbed through the sliding door of the helicopter. A man pushed her into a seat and buckled her in. "Isis Sult?"

"Bonne nuit."

He pulled a syringe and injected her arm with an oily yellow substance. It felt warm as it rushed inside of her. Then, with a pop - the helicopter caught a wind and the needle broke inside her arm. It was a pinch. Her fingers quickly pried the needle from under her skin. She slammed her fist across the man's face.

His nose bleeding, "Accident!"

"We make no accidents." She felt it. Like an ocean wave over her body. She closed her eyes and slept.

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"Who was that man?" She was warmer now. Sweat pants and a sweat shirt. The hot shower was a good end to a long day. She rested against the desk in her apartment. Tied her sneakers. The ear piece in her ear blinked as she continued the conversation. "He knew me. Of me. Identities."

She listened.

"He was intelligent."

She listened.

"There were markings on the inside of his right wrist. I know he wasn't LAPD. I want to know who and why."

She listened.

"My export was late."

She listened.

"I realize, Sir."

She clicked off the ear piece and got on the treadmill. As she ran her gaze looked out onto the ocean. The black sky in conversion with the sea at their horizontal meeting point. The man across the table was a sign. A conversion of two. Difficult to make out the players. He hadn't asked her what she did. Or where she came from. Originally picked up for false tags. False tags. Tags on a car she just happened to jump into when a chase went wrong. A chase that ended in the reception area at LA's downtown Police Precinct. Where not only did they run her fingerprints for the identity that she wore. The man in custody, the man from the chase outed her. And after forty minutes sitting in that cold room, she meets Agent Yurie. Who never specifically identified himself as to what authority he was under. Yet, he knew more about her alias then anyone had ever known about her. Her export was late. No police officers were in the vicinity of the room once they excited and went for the roof.

She turned off the machine. Walked over to bathroom. Closed herself inside. She turned the hot water on at the sink and the shower. Undressed herself naked and sat in the center of the room on the floor. Indian style. In her meditative position, she closed her eyes. Her thoughts silenced.

_________________________

He hugged the phone to his ear. "You at least succeeded."

He listened.

"That does not concern you."

He listened.

"Of you? Probably LAPD on a power trip. Shall I list the counts they had on you? The snitch should have been taken care of. We make no mistakes."

He listened.

"And as far as I am concerned, and I make myself clear. This man that knows of you should be of no more thought."

He listened.

"Why were you late to your rendezvous? Your statement suggested that this man was working with someone else."

He listened.

"Treason has been committed here against you, and me for that matter. Ms. Sult, it is time to go."

He closed the cell phone. In two blows, it hit the floor and was terminated by the heel of his boot. His face was aged beyond his years. His eyes tired as they solemnly stared out at the rain tapping on the windows.

A door opened behind him. A man entered. He stood in the black of the room, "Sir?"

"I will be out of town for a few weeks. I'd like you to call my daughter and read the message I wrote for her. I left it on my desk in an envelope."

"Daughter? Sir?"

"On the desk. In the envelope."

"Yes, Sir." He came into the desk light and retrieved the envelope. He was a young assistant. Eager.

"Oh, and Colin..."

"Yes, Sir?"

"This would be a good two weeks to take that vacation you have been planning."

"Sir?"

"That will be all."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."