Storm Front

“Aww, come on, it’s fun. It’s like having your own personal long-distance shopper.”

“I never knew you were so metrosexual.”

“I’m not. Trust me. But I’ve known guys who are, and I’ve learned about their tendencies in the process of making fun of them.”

Xi Bang was talking to the sales clerk again. The shoes had arrived. Storm listened as Xi Bang confirmed that, yes, they were the right size.

“Okay, I’ve got shoes, tights, skirt, and blouse. What’s next?”

“You have underwear?”

“Same stuff I was wearing yesterday.”

Storm’s mind immediately went to the black lace bra and matching pan ties Xi Bang had been wearing. “Yes, that will do nicely, actually. Time to hit the fitting room. I want you to try all this on.”

“You’re the boss.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Don’t get used to it. I have to put you down now. Hang on.” Storm peered out the window again. They were over Toledo now. Or perhaps Cleveland. Who could tell the difference, besides Toledoans or Clevelanders?

“All right, I’m back,” Xi Bang said.

“How do you look?”

“Like a naughty Catholic schoolgirl who’s about to audition for her first porno flick. That’s the look you’re going for, yes?”

“Naturally. Now please take a picture of yourself and send it to my phone. I need to make sure it’s authentic. We can’t have you risk blowing your cover again, Agent Xi Bang.”

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

“A little,” he said. “Okay, a lot.”

Storm waited for the picture to arrive. Thirty seconds later, his phone displayed an image that might have stirred certain yearnings in him. He might have felt a little ashamed about that, but he was fairly certain any other straight male beyond the age of puberty would have felt the same way.

“Fantastic,” Storm said. “Just a few finishing touches. Put your hair in a ponytail.”

“You’re sick, you know that?”

“Just paying attention to detail. Have you done it?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Now I’m sorry, but you’ve got to go one button lower on the blouse. He has to be able to get a little glimpse of that bra of yours every now and then. But it has to look sort of like a wardrobe malfunction, like you don’t know the button is undone or that you’re giving him a little peep show.”

“This is so over the top,” Xi Bang complained.

“This is America. Wardrobe malfunctions happen here.”

“All right. I feel like such a slut.”

“Another picture, please.”

“Fine. But before you even think about putting these on the Internet, you should remember that with just one phone call, I can arrange for you an absolutely humiliating death. And just to make sure we’re on the same page: Yes, it will involve sheep.”

“That sounds baaaaaad,” Storm bleated.

Xi Bang groaned. The photo of the new, even trampier, Jenny Chang appeared on Storm’s phone.

“Got the pic. I do believe I’m looking at the real Jenny Chang. All right. Why don’t you pay for this stuff, then let’s talk about your backstory.”

As Storm crossed the remainder of the eastern quarter of the nation, he and Xi Bang brought Jenny Chang alive, creating her history with the ease of two seasoned liars. Storm loved the banter with her, the mix of serious moments and silly ones, her sense of adventure. It was sort of like talking with Clara Strike, except Storm didn’t have the feeling that Xi Bang was hiding a meat cleaver behind her back the whole time. For reasons Storm couldn’t quite explain, he trusted her.

His plane was coming in for a landing at Westchester County Airport when it came time to end their call. He had to make contact with G. Whitely Cracker V. She had a job to do as well. He just wished it weren’t so. As they said their good-byes, she stopped abruptly and said, “Hey, Storm? It’s great working with you. Thanks for your help.”

Storm just smiled and said, “Always.”

CHAPTER 21

CHAPPAQUA, New York

He had been able to rent a Mustang, which meant that for all the turmoil, there was at least one thing right in Storm’s world — the throaty, American-made V8 engine at his command.

It was shortly before eight o’clock by the time the Mustang’s GPS told him to depart the main drag, King Street, and point himself toward a WASP playground called Whippoorwill Country Club. Downshifting rather than braking, he made the turn and was just starting to enjoy the twisty, back country roads, when the GPS told him he was 250 yards from arriving. He slowed, looked left, and saw nothing. He looked right and saw a narrow driveway that disappeared into the trees up a hill. He twisted the wheel to the right.

Partway up the driveway, he encountered a gate with a call box next to it. Storm didn’t feel like having a conversation with a piece of plastic, so he rolled down his window, popped the facing off the box, and hotwired it. “Open Sesame,” he said as the gate swung out of his way.