Busted Flush

The air was stale in my apartment. I cranked open all the windows and turned on the ceiling fans. My mail was piled up on the table. Only in Stuyvesant Town would I have trusted a neighbor with the key to my apartment.

I pawed through the mail, pulling out the bills and fan mail, trashing the junk. Then I booted up my computer. There was a ridiculous amount of useless e-mail and one or two from Ink:

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

I know we talked this morning, but I miss you already. When you finally get done at BICC, we need to have a long, long conversation about your mouth and my clit. Or vice versa.

Honestly, a girl can only masturbate so much. . . .

Come home soon!

Your ever-changing girl toy,

Juliet

There were more e-mails from her, but you get the idea. And there was also one from Niobe.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Dear Michelle,

It was wonderful to finally meet you in person. I wish we’d had more time together, but I was so happy for the time you spared.

And I wanted to especially thank you for meeting the children. It meant the world to them. Xerxes thought you were funny and Jenny thought you were “very cool about the whole unswallowing thing.” (Her words, not mine.)

I hope we will stay in touch. Your friendship means a lot to me.

Yours,

Niobe

At least Niobe’s e-mail made me feel better. I missed Ink, but not as much as I thought I should. And it made me feel like a lousy girlfriend. But I was feeling disconnected from a lot of things these days.

My cell phone began to buzz. I picked it up and saw a text message from John Fortune asking me to come to his office at the UN. Crap. I really didn’t want to go down there. I left the rest of my e-mails and turned off the computer.

“Look, you know I hate to ask this,” I said.

Fortune sighed and put his head in his hands. Oh, great, I thought. The guilt trip. Passengers boarding now for the nonstop . . . stop that! “I just need a rest,” I said. “It’s been over a year and I’ve done too many missions.”

“But that’s why we need you,” he said, lifting his head from his hands. “You’ve done mission lead. You were in Egypt. You were at Behatu Camp. How many people can say they stopped genocide in the Balkans?”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I opened them again, Fortune was staring off into space. I knew that Sekhmet was talking to him. And, boy, did that give me the willies. I mean, who would want a massive scarab living under the flesh of your forehead, attached to your skull, and communicating with you via God-only-knows-what? Ew. I didn’t know how he did it—living with someone else constantly in his body, always listening in on every conversation. Not to mention the giant scarab forehead zit—not a look I’d recommend.

“I know you need a break, but the way things are going, I just don’t know if I can spare you.” He gave me his “I’m a sensitive guy” smile. I was pretty sure that last bit was Sekhmet’s doing. “Here’s the thing,” he continued. “Jayewardene wants a team to investigate charges of genocide in the Niger River Delta. The People’s Paradise of Africa is making the accusations, and it’s turning into a massive political shitstorm.”

“Another genocide?” I said. My stomach clenched and I thought I might be sick. “I don’t think I can do another genocide.”

And then he gave me that “do it for the world” look. Honestly, I liked him better when he was just a PA on American Hero.

That John Fortune had been a nice guy. This John Fortune was so absorbed with whatever it was that was driving him so hard that he didn’t care about much else. Except maybe Curveball.

“I’ve done plenty for the Committee, so don’t try to act as if I haven’t,” I said. “I need a break. You could send Gardener or Brave Hawk. They’ve only been around for a few months. They’ll be fresher.”

“But you would be the best choice if we have to do an African mission,” he replied. “If it really is genocide, a woman as lead would be better PR. You could do that whole teary-eyed/angry thing you do.”

“Gardener is a woman,” I said. I glared at him, but I didn’t say anything else. He frowned and then stared off into space again. Sekhmet was talking some sense into him—I hoped.

“I’ll think about it,” he said at last.

“I’m going to see Ink in D.C.,” I told him.

“Fine,” he replied, “take your cell phone.” But I could tell he wasn’t paying attention to me anymore. He was planning his next big thing.

When I got to Washington the next day, I had to walk from my train stop to Ink’s apartment. There weren’t even any joker cabs here, and the subway looked crammed.

I had a key and let myself in. There were clothes strewn everywhere and newspapers and magazines piled up on every available surface. I dropped my duffel and started tidying up. It would annoy her to no end. She said she could only find things where she left them.