Deception (24 page)

He opened the door and beckoned Brown to join him in the hall.

“What is it?” Brown asked, as the door closed behind him.

“There's a call for you. In my office.”

“A call?”

“Your wife,” Keyes said. “Daisy's got her on hold. It sounds like an emergency. You'd better run.”

Brown scowled. Then he turned, and began to follow the yellow line toward the elevator at a trot.

Keyes moved back into the cell. Yurchenko was looking up at him blankly. Something about the man's face made Keyes suspect that he had glanced at his own file, when Brown had left the room, and discovered the empty pages. He almost thought he could see a single yellow canary feather falling from the corner of the man's mouth.

Keyes remained standing, so that he towered over Yurchenko. “Where were we?” he asked.

“I don't remember.”

“Francis Dietz. You gave him a name.”

“Ah … yes. So you said.”

“The name was ‘the vulture.'”

“I told you already,” Yurchenko said. “You've made a mistake. You've confused me with someone else.”

Keyes looked at the man, icily.

“And I've told you already,” Yurchenko said, “that I'm not going to say another word without a lawyer.”

“There's no time for that.”

“What country is this? The last time I checked—”

“I,” Keyes said clearly, “have no more time for this.”

6.

“Madeleine,” Ismayalov called.

A moment passed. Then the woman appeared in the shadowed doorway of the living room. She had been back in the garden; the heavy work gloves were on her hands again, and a floppy sun hat had been added to the ensemble.

“Darling,” Ismayalov said. “I wonder if you could do me a favor.”

Hannah watched from the couch. The man by the window was looking into his glass of water, as if the proceedings in the room could not have interested him less.

“My friends here,” Ismayalov said, “are going to meet with the prince. They have a business proposition that I think may interest him. But I'd rather not have such business conducted in my home. One never knows who's watching.”

Madeleine nodded warily.

“I was thinking,” Ismayalov said. “You have that friend—housesitting for the Americans, yes?”

She blinked. “Henri Jansen,” she said. “Yes.”

“Can he keep his mouth shut?”

“I think so.”

“Do you think he'd be willing to host a meeting?”

Madeleine shrugged. “I could ask.”

“Please do.”

She nodded, turned, and began to leave.

“Madeleine,” he called.

She turned back.

“Encourage him,” Ismayalov said. “You might mention that I know he's been consorting with some of the wives, in the area, when the husbands aren't around.”

Hannah thought she saw some color drain from the woman's face; but she couldn't be sure.

“All right, Vladimir.”

“Tomorrow evening would be good, I think. If he's willing.”

“All right.”

“And our friends will be spending the night here. Could you make up a guest room?”

She bowed, then vanished.

Ismayalov watched her go. He looked at Hannah, then leaned forward and picked up the book. He opened to the back cover and looked closely at the equations there, as if he understood their significance.

By the window, the man raised his glass and tilted it back, letting the last drop of water slide slowly into his throat.

7.

Keyes felt himself drifting again.

He remained vaguely conscious of what he was doing to Yurchenko—but in his mind, he was back at the Little League game. The splintered bleachers, the burning sun. Jeremy was stepping to the plate again. People were clapping and cheering. Jeremy turned to look at his father, and smiled. Keyes smiled back. He stood up, clapping louder than anyone.

Yurchenko's face was lost behind a mask of blood. He was trying to speak.

Jeremy had a bee sting on his hand. But he wasn't letting it slow him down. He was taking his stance, choking up on the bat, just as Keyes had shown him. That was one hell of a boy, Keyes thought. For this boy he would do anything. For this boy he would give it all.

“Ismayalov,” Yurchenko was saying.

He was struggling to draw a breath. The breath bubbled. “Vladimir Ismayalov. In the name of Christ, please …”

Keyes stood up. He straightened his shirt. He looked down at Yurchenko, then dropped the piece of wood in his hand. Where had the piece of wood come from? He couldn't remember. Then he looked for his cane, and it came back to him. The cane had snapped when he had struck Yurchenko with it; that was where the wood had come from.

He hobbled to the door. As soon as he had stepped into the hallway, he ran into David Brown. Brown was saying something, calling after him. But Keyes ignored him, limping off down the hall.

He had a name. Ismayalov. And as soon as he got back to his office, he would find a file to go with the name.

Brown was still calling, his voice echoing hollowly down the corridor. Keyes reached the elevator, hit the button, and waited.

Ismayalov. The vulture.

The elevator door opened, and he stepped inside.

TWENTY-THREE

1.

The mistral was blowing again.

Henri Jansen looked up from his camera, at the waving trees on the front lawn. The trees were bowing hard to the south. It was too early in the year, he thought, for the mistral to announce itself with such authority. This was, doubtless, a false alarm.

But he recapped the lens—he'd snapped a few quick pictures already, to make sure the damned thing still worked—and then went inside to shutter the windows, just to be on the safe side.

In the living room, he found a pair of scorpions scuttling along the edge of the fireplace. He looked at them with a frown tugging at his lips. Perhaps this
was
the real mistral, a little early, after all. Animals were more in touch with weather than people, and something had stirred up their nest.

After looking at the scorpions for a moment, he crossed the room and picked up a trash basket tucked beneath the piano. He carried it back to the fireplace, swept the scorpions inside with a magazine, and then brought the basket outside to dump them.

Madeleine Ismayalov's car was rolling down the long driveway, kicking up twin plumes of dust.

He watched the Audi approach, still frowning. Why was Madeleine visiting now? He'd agreed to offer the house for her husband's meeting that evening—a fine chance to meet the man, to make sure that Henri ended up being counted as a friend, to the vulture, instead of as an enemy—but it was still only early afternoon.

The car jerked to a stop. The door opened, and Madeleine came out. “Henri,” she said. “I couldn't say it on the phone, with my husband in the room …”

Her eyes were wildly, nervously active. Her hands were in fluttery, frightened motion. Henri felt something cold close around his heart.

“I don't have much time. I told him I was going to the market. We need to—”

“Calm down,” Henri said.

“I think he knows,” she said.

The icy vise around his heart tightened.

“Calm down,” he said again. His voice sounded empty, powerless. “Come inside.”

She followed him over the patio, through the front door. “Maybe I'm wrong. But he made some comment, about how you and some of the married women in the area …”

“He what?”

“I don't know if he meant me. I don't think so. But I don't know.”

“What did he say?”

“Just that. About you and some of the married women. Oh, but I think he knows. He knows, Henri.”

He led her to the kitchen. She sat on a tall stool by the counter. He uncorked a bottle, filled a glass for her, and passed it over. Then he raised the bottle and drank directly from the mouth.

She was near hysteria. That wasn't surprising. He felt near hysteria himself. Ismayalov knew. He knew, and now one—or both—of them would pay a price.

“Henri,” she moaned.

“Let's not jump to any conclusions,” Henri said. “What did he say exactly?”

“He said, tell him I know about him and some of the wives.”

Henri raised the bottle, and drank again.

“We could go away,” she said. “I have money. I've been saving it. We could get right in my car and go to the airport and go anyplace, anyplace in the world …”

“What about tonight?”

“It doesn't matter. Where would you like to go, Henri? Anyplace you want. I'll pay for it. I've got enough to keep us fine for a few years, at least …”

“Baby,” he said. “Come here.”

She immediately set down the wine and came off the stool, into his arms. He hugged her tightly, but with as little intimacy as he could manage. He needed to end it now, immediately. If it wasn't already too late …

“Madeleine,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“We can't go away.”

“Yes, we can.”

“No. Go where? He'd find us.”

“Anywhere—”

“You're talking crazy.”

She buried her head in his shoulder. “I know,” she said.

A few moments passed. Her body shuddered against his. He was surprised, when she leaned away, to see that her eyes were still dry.

He let the embrace break, and took a step backward. For a few seconds, they stood awkwardly facing each other. She looked at him imploringly, desperate for a sign of warmth.

Henri turned away, to shutter the kitchen windows.

When he turned around again, Madeleine was gone.

Her glass of wine sat on the counter; he could see a smudge where her hands had encircled it. He moved back through the foyer and stepped outside in time to see her getting into the Audi. Now she
was
crying—her face gleaming with tears through the windshield.

She twisted the key, ground the gears, and spun the car around. Henri watched without moving to stop her. What would be the point? She would need to face reality sooner or later. The relationship was finished. If he could make it through tonight's meeting with Ismayalov in one piece, he would not jeopardize anything by seeing her again.

Perhaps Ismayalov, he thought, didn't even know.

A moment later, the car was roaring off down the driveway, lost behind a cloud of dust that was swiftly taken by the wind and shredded.

2.

Brown handed the photograph back to Keyes without a word.

Before returning it to his bag, Keyes spent a moment looking at the woman's face. Was it possible that she really was an innocent, who had gotten wrapped up in this out of sheer bad luck? It boggled the mind—yet it seemed to be the truth.

Then he put the photograph back into his bag, and kicked the bag back under the seat in front of him.

The flight attendant was coming down the aisle, offering them menus. Brown took one; Keyes shrugged it off. His entire nervous system was humming. If he tried to put food into his body, it would end up on his shoes. Brown didn't seem to have much of an appetite either. When the flight attendant returned, he asked for a Diet Coke and nothing else.

As he handed the menu back, he avoided looking at Keyes. For the entire flight, he had been avoiding looking at Keyes.

Keyes could live with that. As long as he had the additional manpower, he was satisfied. They had a name for the vulture; they had the man's address in southern France. Dietz, in all likelihood, was at that address at this very moment, trying to sell the formula.

He stared at the back of the seat in front of him, and kept his mind assiduously focused on the job at hand.

3.

Dietz checked the gun for a final time, then slipped it into his bag beside the book.

Suddenly, he turned. The woman had come into the bedroom behind him.

She gave a lackluster smile. “I don't suppose you've got one of those for me,” she said.

It was Dietz's turn to smile, very slightly.

“Don't worry,” he said. “I've got your back.”

The wind was still picking up, keening through the valley. She moved to look out at the shivering trees, fingering one earring absently.

“Trust,” Dietz said. “Remember?”

The woman didn't answer. She kept her back facing him, her narrow shoulder blades carefully and perfectly still.

Dietz picked up the bag and went to stand next to her.

“Come on,” he said softly.

A moment passed. Then she turned, and followed him from the room.

TWENTY-FOUR

1.

The first car arrived at five minutes past seven.

Henri Jansen was setting down a tray of hors d'oeuvres when he caught the sound of the engine. He straightened, and then looked around the living room, taking this last minute of solitude to make sure everything was in order. What did one serve for an occasion such as this? He had opted for simplicity—brie and bread, celery sticks and mushroom caps. Four bottles of wine were set on the coffee table, alongside eight glasses and a silver corkscrew; the bar by the fireplace had been opened.

He wondered fleetingly, as he checked the spread, if Madeleine had been right about her husband. He wondered if the man would have words for him—or, perhaps, something stronger than words.

Then the car's engine was dying, and there was no more time for wondering. He straightened his jacket and went to meet his first guest, trying to reassure himself as he walked. It would be fine. Madeleine was mistaken; Ismayalov did not know. There was no need for concern.

The Rolls-Royce was the latest model: a Silver Seraph. The driver was an olive-complexioned man in a black chauffeur's uniform, standing a few inches over six feet tall. Henri watched from the doorway as he left the driver's seat and went to open the car's back door.