World Without End (28 page)

For hours she would scream at her husband as if he was still a living presence in the house. You filthy son of a bitch. You fucking coward.

You selfish, no good prick. She would keep up with it, even at night, and Raymond would lie still in his bed and listen to her ranting, wondering more about the fear that was fueling her voice. He knew about the will had heard her talking it over with the lawyer. His father had drained all the accounts to pay off bad debts and had left her with nothing. Less than a week after the funeral (a miserable turnout; Raymond had seen more people waiting inside a dentist's office) the moving trucks came and packed his world into boxes and took it all away. They moved to a cramped home in Arlington, Virginia, where seven years later, his mother married an investment banker. The man stayed a year and left with his secretary.

To escape, Raymond would seek refuge in the shower. He still did. Now, alone in steam and the hot water that pounded around him with the cleansing intensity of a thunderstorm stripping the city of its grime, Raymond Bouchard could relax and think. Three days had passed since the Boston incident and no word from Jonathan Cole. Bouchard had no idea if Cole had found John Riley's girlfriend, Renee Kaufmann, or if Cole was, in fact, even looking for her.

Cole was good but had for reasons unknown become unpredictable and unstable. Somewhere in his mid-forties, Cole had begun to see himself as some sort of mythological underworld deity who possessed special powers that the world needed in order to survive. He took on side projects, mercy or vigilante killings that had nothing to do with company business. Assignments were taken and rejected based on the unknown internal design of his dyslexic moral framework. It was time to deactivate him but first, sic Cole on Misha.

The water started to cool. He shut the water off and opened up the glass door. The entire bathroom was filled with a cloud of steam so thick he couldn't see the blue-and-gray tile, the two sinks, or in the corner, the three-person whirlpool bath with the windows that overlooked the backyard stretch of woods. Then he remembered: He had forgotten to turn on the fan.

Raymond reached out into the mist and reached for the towel on the hook only to discover it wasn't there. Odd. He remembered placing it there. Raymond was a strict creature of habit; the barometer of his mood was based on the order he injected into his life. This past year, he had started to notice his forgetfulness, little things like misplacing his keys and wallet, or worse, forgetting who he was calling after dialing a number. A fresh towel was in the linen closet; that much he remembered.

Dripping wet, he stepped onto cold tiled floor and almost tripped.

Careful. At fifty-three, he was in great shape he could still see most of his abdominal muscles, how many fifty-year-old men could brag about such an accomplishment but if he slipped and fell, he wouldn't heal as fast. Taking slow, measured steps, he watched his feet as he made his way through the fog to the linen closet, regretful that he was unable to take a moment to view his body in the mirror.

"Hello, Raymond."

Startled by the familiar voice, Raymond turned, slipped and fell backward. His hands reached out to absorb the impact, but his body was slippery, and when he landed flat on his ass, he fell sideways and slammed his head against the door. He grimaced and clutched the back of his head, the pain bursting behind his eyes like dozens of exploding fireworks.

"Careful. If you split your head open and pass out, you wouldn't be able to call an ambulance. You could die right here on the floor.

Alone."

Raymond slid to his right side and winced fuck, the pain was brutal. He looked up and through the steam saw the pair of black work boots on the tile, stone-colored pants against the edge of the whirlpool bath, a white shirt and the tanned, familiar face of Jonathan Cole. Dizzy, Raymond pushed himself up to his knees. Cole threw a towel at him.

Raymond found anger in any form distasteful and ugly; he had seen it transform grown men into petulant little boys. When he felt the heat rise into his throat, he swallowed it back. He needed Cole's skills.

Let Cole be the alpha dog.

"Do you have Renee Kaufmann?" Raymond asked. He rested his back against the linen-closet door and propped his arms on his knees.

"No."

"Where is she?"

"My guess is she's back here."

"Didn't you check the flights?"

"I did. She didn't fly under her own name. This woman is no dummy, Raymond."

"If you don't have her, then why are you here?"

"You called and I came."

"I didn't ask for you to meet me here, in my house."

"And I didn't ask to be pulled from the Fletcher case. I finally managed to track him down, and you've denied me access to my men."

"They don't work for you, Jonathan. They work for me."

"I'm taking them with me. Today."

"You work for the Agency, Jonathan. You have a problem remembering that I'm your boss."

"You don't own me. I'm not your dog that you can call."

"I have a project that requires your specialized cleaning services."

"Housekeeping matters bore me. Send one of your stable boys."

"I need you."

That made Cole pause. A moment later, he asked, "What do I get out of it?"

"Freedom."

Cole leaned forward, his elbows sliding across his thighs and then stopping to rest on his knees. Cole's fine blond hair was parted on the side and neatly combed, his face tanned, the skin stretched tight.

With his all-American boyish good looks and his casual dress, he looked like the kind of dedicated father seen in the stands at his son's hockey game.

"I'm listening," Cole said.

"You know Misha Ronkil?"

"I'm familiar with his sloppy work."

"I want you to kill him."

"Misha's a hot zone. The feds are keeping a close eye on him and Alexi."

Raymond knew that the best way to get Cole to come over to the other side of the fence was to feed into the man's savior complex. For once, Raymond told the truth.

"So you sold out your own men to save your hide," Cole said when Raymond was done.

"Misha is out of control. He won't listen to reason."

"Because he wants the decryption code for this military suit. Why is this suit so important? You didn't say."

Again, Raymond fed into the man's God complex.

"The suit offers total invisibility using a technology called optical camouflage."

"Cloaking."

"Yes. You climb inside the suit, punch in the code, and you're invisible."

Some of the steam had cleared; Raymond could see the possibilities working behind Cole's blue eyes. That's it, take the bait, you arrogant fuck. Raymond kept his face neutral and hid his pleasure.

"Who has the code?" Cole asked.

"I believe Steve Conway."

"The only survivor of your IWAC group."

"That's right. I'm meeting him later today. I'm going to send him to Boston."

"To attend his friend's funeral. The man you killed."

"Conway believes Angel Eyes is behind all of this. You'll be Con-way's handler. Once he hands over the code, you'll kill him. I want every loose end tied up."

"I haven't accepted the job yet."

"I'm offering you your freedom."

"I don't believe you'd let me go so easily, Raymond."

"I'm going to retire soon. I want to be left alone. Name your terms."

"I want the military suit."

Cole would never get it, of course. Raymond pretended to think about it. Then he said, "You get the Russians out of my life, you can have it."

Cole smiled.

"Then we have ourselves a deal."

"You need to find the Kaufman woman. She might have recorded evidence of what happened inside the condo."

"She'll pop up at the funeral."

"Or she won't. She could go to the police or worse, the feds."

"Did Owen post people?"

"We've got the Boston PD and the federal building at Government Center covered. If she goes in, we'll catch her. We know what she looks like."

"I'll be in Boston tonight. Send Conway to me." Cole stood up and walked over to the door. His hand on the knob, he looked down at the naked Raymond Bouchard.

"I heard you injected this man Riley with cocaine and rat poison." Cole grinned.

"I never thought you were capable of such things."

"I'll contact you after I talk to Conway."

"Just one last item. If you try to fuck me, Raymond, I'll eat you alive, piece by piece."

Reaching the top of Mount Bonnell required a steep climb of one hundred-plus stone steps that left even the athletic winded. Those willing to undertake it were rewarded with sweeping, panoramic views of Austin and Hill counties.

It was a quarter to six, and Conway stood in a round clearing that held a circular stone table with benches. The sun was setting, and right now the place was dead. But that would change later tonight, when teenagers and UT college kids looking for privacy or a romantic place to drink or talk or to get high or get laid would sneak inside sometime after 10:00 P.M." the time the park closed. Such an undertaking was dangerous. With only the light from the stars and moon as your guide, and with steep cliffs surrounding you, a slip or a false move could result in death. Not long ago, three pledges plummeted to their deaths when a UT fraternity had the bright idea of staging a hazing ritual here.

"Stephen."

Conway turned around. Framed against the darkening sky was Raymond Bouchard, dressed in a commanding black suit and jacket, his tie blowing in the breeze. A thin film of dust covered his black shoes. A pair of blue mirrored Revo sunglasses hid his eyes.

"Let's take a walk," Bouchard said and without waiting, turned and started down a path. Conway jogged over to catch up.

Bouchard did not appear to be in a rush; he ambled his way through the bumpy, winding path with his hands deep in his pockets his head bowed forward as he watched his feet moving across the dirt. Conway didn't talk, just followed. He looked into the infinite expanse of stars and wondered if a satellite were locked on them right now, watching, ready to record his voice and analyze it later. Computers now had the ability to tell whether or not someone was lying.

Pasha's words from just last night: You can trust me, Stephen. Always, I'll never lie to you.

All day Conway had thought of this moment, rehearsing what he would say, how he would answer Bouchard's questions. Lying to the man would jeopardize the one thing he cared for besides Pasha: his career. But Pasha… Conway's need to protect her was so intense he was willing to take on any risk, including lying to his boss. She had saved his life twice now and he loved her, so naturally, he felt protective and loyal.

But even if those two conditions weren't involved, he still would have granted Pasha's request for secrecy. His time served in foster homes and the orphanage had taught him how to ferret out liars and people's hidden agendas. Conway was sure of one thing on this earth: Pasha Romanov was not a liar. Private, maybe even secretive, but trustworthy.

A few minutes later, Bouchard stopped walking. They stood near the edge of a cliff that overlooked the sweeping flat earth of Austin, the bridge, and below it, the river littered with powerboats and sailboats whose canvas sails swelled in the wind.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get back to you," Bouchard said, his voice scratchy. He coughed to clear his throat.

"My hands have been full. I take it you've seen the news about Angel Eyes."

"And McFadden."

Bouchard gritted his teeth, the muscles along his jawline flexing.

"His treason is taking on epidemic proportions. It's a goddamn mess," he said. Over his shoulder, the sky had grown darker. He took off his sunglasses and tucked them inside his jacket pocket. Even in the twilight his eyes looked worn.

"I'm sorry about Pasha, Stephen. I know how important she was to you."

Conway played the role of the grieving lover.

"Her body," he started, and cleared his throat.

"We haven't ID'd any of the bodies yet. It's…" Bouchard started to say and then his voice trailed off. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shook his head, and sighed, and as he looked out at the water below, he jiggled his change and keys.

"It's going to be a long and painful process. What happened here…

I've never lost men like that. I'm still having a hard time accepting what happened."

Conway studied the man for a moment. His grief seemed genuine. Conway removed the 8-by-10-inch envelope wedged in his back waistband and handed it to Bouchard.

"Angel Eyes left these for me in my hospital room," Conway said.

"While I was sleeping."

As Bouchard went through the pictures, studying each with great care, Conway watched his boss's face, checking for surprise, shock something that would validate Pasha's theory. The man's face was as readable as stone. If anything, he looked shell-shocked.

"Why would Angel Eyes leave those pictures?" Conway asked.

"To keep you on the edge. To let you know he was coming."

"Dixon's alive."

Bouchard looked up from the pictures, the meaning in his eyes veiled.

From his back pocket Conway removed the jewel case that contained a burned copy of Dixon's torture session and held it up in the air. He kept the original for himself.

"Last night someone left this compact disc inside the condo. I was afraid the CD might be infected with a virus, and since my home PC doesn't have the latest virus updates, I drove over to Delburn and used one of our secured computers."

"How did you get in?" Bouchard asked. Conway didn't work there and didn't have a key. But Pasha did.