Even (13 page)

I had no idea what she was thinking, turning her nose up at a chance like that, but there wasn’t time to argue. I put the driver’s gun down and took out the knife. It was solid and heavy with a gleaming five-inch Sheffield steel blade. There were five drawers under the cook top. I opened the top one a couple of inches and wedged the knife inside, sharp side up. But before I could get enough pressure on the blade to cut the tie, I heard footsteps from the dining room.

Two sets.

Julianne came into the kitchen first, followed by the older guy who’d brought my food. His right arm was around her neck, and he was holding an old Army Colt to her left temple. She was standing stiffly, back arched, grimacing. He was smiling. His throat was unguarded. I closed my fingers around the knife blade. It was a good weight for throwing. How much did I want to save this woman? It was unlikely I could stop the guy getting one shot off. But certain I could stop him getting two.

I heard the clatter of heavy feet on wooden stairs. Someone was coming down. They paused in the hallway and then appeared through the arch. It was someone new. He was huge. At least six feet seven. His head was shaved and he had to duck as he came in. He was wearing a smart
blue suit with a white shirt and striped tie. It was hard to tell without the hair, but I put him in his late thirties. Apart from his freak size he looked like a businessman stepping out of a meeting to grab a coffee.

“What’s going on, George?” he said. “Where’s Jason and Spencer?”

“Don’t know,” the older guy said. “Found this bitch sneaking around, and him in here playing with the utensils. Haven’t seen the pretty boys.”

“Where are Jason and Spencer?” the tall guy said, looking at me.

“Who?” I said.

“The two guys I sent to fetch you.”

“Oh, them. Downstairs.”

“Dead?” he said, looking at the knife.

“No. Just . . . resting.”

“George, take the woman back down there. Lock her up, and see what’s going on with those fools.”

The tall guy stepped aside to let George get past with Julianne. Her eyes stayed on me, wide and frightened, as if begging for help.

“Let’s you and me go upstairs,” the tall guy said. “We need to talk.”

I didn’t move. The knife was still in my hand.

“Going to use that?” he said. “Go ahead. I’m not carrying.”

He held his arms out to the sides, as if inviting a search.

I stayed where I was.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go. My boss is upstairs.”

I didn’t reply.

“Come on,” he said. “My boss is waiting. That’s not good.”

“Your boss?” I said.

“Right. Wants to talk to you.”

“You think I’m one day old?”

“What?”

“You think I was born yesterday? You snatch me off the street and lock me in a kennel like a dog because your boss wants to talk?”

“OK, look, I won’t bullshit you. The thing with the kennel—that was wrong. But with everything jumping off at once—journalists sniffing around, FBI all over the place, you suddenly on the loose—we had to move fast. We made some mistakes.”

“Just a few.”

“We know that, now. We should have shown more respect, but we needed you off the street.”

“Why?”

“To keep you out of anyone else’s pocket. We heard some rumors. Needed time to check them out.”

“Rumors? About me?”

“Look, put the knife down. Come upstairs. Hear what we’ve got to say. It’ll make sense. And what’s to worry about, anyway? If we wanted you dead, you’d be on the slab already.”

“I’m not meeting anyone like this,” I said, holding up my hands.

The tall guy came over and very gently took hold of the knife handle. He waited for me to clear my fingers, then severed the tie. It fell to the floor, leaving a narrow red welt around both my wrists.

“Happy now?” he said. “So let’s go.”

He slid the knife back into the block, picked the driver’s Colt up from the countertop, and turned to lead the way. As he walked toward the hallway he slipped the gun into his jacket pocket. It rattled against something metal.

And as sincere as the guy had seemed, I doubt it was his keys.

Several of my previous assignments had been missing from Rosser’s file.

A number of them had taken place in the United States. One was in California. I’d been sent there to infiltrate a cell phone company where we suspected some employees were selling transcripts of sensitive short message service messages. The scheme had been well hidden. It took three months to flush out. I’d felt strange working in the same office for so long, but in the end a little part of me was sorry to leave. Not because of the people, though. Most of them were crooks. It was more about the way you were looked after. There was gym membership. Concert tickets. Discounts at local stores. You don’t even get free parking in the navy.

Another strange thing was the company newsletter. Different departments telling each other what they were doing. That’s a weird concept. The magazine was nicely produced—glossy paper, plenty of photos—but the lack of real news meant they had a lot of ads and bogus articles. One was written by a psychologist. Every month someone gave him pictures of a manager’s office and he revealed all kinds of insights based on how they kept their workspace. Once we learned that the papers strewn all over the desk of the president of Human Resources showed she was a really caring person. The next month we found out that the way the VP of engineering arranged his stationery demonstrated a sound grasp of complex technology. I was certainly convinced.

That psychologist would have loved the large rectangular room the tall guy took me to next, at the end of the landing corridor. It had a white-stained wooden floor, plain white walls, and a white ceiling that sloped sharply to one side. There was a wide window at the far end and double closet doors built into the wall on the left. An L-shaped desk ran along the other wall and stuck out halfway across the room. Behind it was a single chrome and black leather chair. There were no piles of papers or letter trays or pen holders. The only thing anywhere on the desk was a small, white laptop. Its screen was folded down and there was no sign of it being connected to anything. And there was no printer, router, fax, or phone.

The space between the desk and the door was filled with a boardroom-style table. It was made from light wood with rounded corners and beveled edges. The tabletop was polished like glass and I couldn’t see a single mark or scratch or blemish. There was a flap, eight inches by twelve, set into the surface at both ends. They were probably to conceal power outlets. Three chrome and leather chairs were arranged along each side—precisely parallel—and two more were lined up at each end.

A projector sat in the middle of the table with its cable in a neat coil at its side. It was pointing at a screen on the wall next to the door. The other walls were bare, except for a print of Magritte’s
Ceci n’est pas une pipe
, which hung over the desk. The original is in the L.A. County Museum. I noticed it when I was tailing a couple of suspects on that mobile phone job. I remember liking it. Finding a copy of it here seemed strange.

“Take a seat,” the tall guy said. “Won’t be long.”

I chose the chair in the center on the far side. He took the one nearest the exit. Farther down the corridor a door slammed. Footsteps approached. One set, light but confident, moving fast without rushing. They paused, and then a woman entered the room. The way she strode in made it clear that we were the ones invading her domain, not the other way around.

The woman had ginger hair. Fiery red, not orange. It was cut long at the back and sides to emphasize her long, slender neck and delicate jaw. Her skin was pale and flawless, and her wine-red lipstick brought
out a wild green glint in her eyes. Her clothes—jacket, vest-style top, slacks, and pumps—were all black. They looked expensive. From a distance I put her at around thirty-five, but when she came over and took the seat opposite me I guessed she was at least a decade older.

She sat and looked straight at me for a full fifteen seconds. Her eyes seemed to glow from behind her bangs like a cat’s and she had the calm, unrushed air of someone in complete control of herself and everything around her.

“You’re from out of town, so you probably don’t know who we are,” she said.

I didn’t answer.

“So we’ll start with some ground rules,” she said. “We’re not like the police. Or the FBI. We don’t care about guilt or alibis. We have no rules or procedures. All we’re here to do is talk about a proposition. Something we can both benefit from. Any bullshit from you, and the conversation ends.”

“OK then,” I said. “No bullshit. What can we do for each other?”

“We can help with your current problem. You can do us a small favor in return.”

“What current problem?”

“Your FBI problem. They don’t like you very much. Not anymore. Not now they think you killed their agent.”

“They’re mistaken.”

“We know.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we killed him.”

“You did? Why?”

“No reason. We have lots of balls in the air, any given moment. Every now and again one gets dropped. It’s no big deal.”

“It is from where I’m sitting.”

“OK,” she said, after a moment. “Truth is, it was a mistake. Our guy didn’t watch him long enough. We didn’t know he was an undercover agent.”

“An agent disguised as a tramp,” I said. “But why kill a tramp?”

“That’s not relevant.”

Then I made the connection. The Social Security cards. Raab was carrying one. It was old and filthy and used. The guy downstairs had another. They were stealing identities. From tramps. And probably selling them. Rosser had mentioned illegal immigrants using the railroads. They were exactly the kind of people who’d need new papers. Maybe that was how Raab had got caught up with these guys.

“So Agent Raab was killed by mistake,” I said. “That’s nice to know. His family will be delighted. But how does it help me?”

“It doesn’t,” she said. “In itself. But if we give you the guy who pulled the trigger, that would work. Might even throw in the gun. They run ballistics, you’re free and clear.”

“Why would you do that?”

“When the FBI pulled you in, you met three main guys?”

“Right. Rosser, Varley, and Breuer.”

“Good. That’s what we heard. So this is what you do. Contact the FBI. Tell them you have the real shooter, and you want to bring him in. But you’ll only hand him over to the same three guys you already met. Say you don’t trust anyone else. Can you do that?”

“I know someone. They could set it up. But why those three guys?”

“We have a problem with one of them.”

“Which one?”

“Mitchell Varley.”

“What sort of problem?”

“His continued existence.”

“Intriguing. Why?”

“Ancient history.”

“Not that you’re one to bear a grudge . . .”

“Let’s just say our paths have crossed before. More than once.”

“They have? Excellent. I always enjoy a good bit of vengeance. What did he do?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, and I saw her left hand slip down from the table into her lap. “But my guy’s going to correct the situation.”

“How?” I said.

“With a .22. One shot, close range. Straight through the temple. But don’t worry. You’ll be in no danger. The bullet won’t even come out the other side. It’ll just rattle around, turning his worthless brain to mush.”

“And that’s your small favor?”

“Put our guy and Varley together. That’s all we want.”

“Then I’m sorry. I can’t help.”

Air hissed from between the woman’s clenched teeth.

“You were with Varley for what, an hour?” she said.

“Less,” I said.

“And now you’re ready to die for him? Must have been some conversation you guys had.”

“That sounds vaguely like a threat.”

“No, not a threat. Just Plan B. Because aside from the chance to rid the world of Mitchell Varley, there’s still this thing with the dead agent. I’ve got to deal with it somehow. If I’m not giving you the shooter, I’ll have to do something else.”

“Not my problem.”

“Absolutely your problem. The feds already thought you did it. Escaping confirmed that. Now they’ve got a hard-on for you like you wouldn’t believe.”

“So?”

“So we leave your body where it’s easy to find. They’ll close the case on the spot. Never even look in our direction. So, time to lose this sentimental crap with Varley. Otherwise . . .”

“There is no sentimental crap with Mitchell Varley. He barely said two dozen words to me. And frankly, I wasn’t impressed with what he did say. I couldn’t care less what happens to him.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Well, let’s just think about it for a moment. I bring your guy in. He immediately kills Varley, who’s only there because I specifically asked for him to be. How’s that going to look? I’ll be lucky if the others don’t shoot me on the spot.”

“They won’t shoot you. They’ll thank you.”

“For what? Getting their friend killed?”

“No. For saving them.”

“How am I going to do that?”

“Seen
In the Line of Fire
? At the end. Like that.”

“You want me to take a bullet?”

“No. Just make it look like you were willing to. Appearance is everything. The second Varley gets hit, you yell at the others.
Get down, he’s got a gun
, like that. Then jump in front of them. It’ll look like you saved Rosser and Breuer, not set up Varley.”

“What happens to your guy?”

“He goes for the door, under cover of your heroics.”

“And after that?”

“His problem.”

“What if he doesn’t make it?”

“Then it’s my pawn for their queen. Varley’s worth it.”

“Does your guy see it the same way?”

“He knows it’s a risk, obviously. But I’ve made it worth taking.”

“What if he goes after one of the others first? Or me?”

“He won’t.”

“Why not?”

“He has his instructions,” she said, standing up and moving toward the desk. “He’ll follow them. That’s what my people do.”