Father Night (34 page)

Waxman, uncharacteristically, said nothing. Crossing one leg over the other, he busied himself picking an imaginary bit of lint off his trousers. When sufficient time had passed to afford him some measure of face, he said, “McClure’s involvement necessitates we move up the timetable. Time is now of the essence. I need the information.”

“Because you fucked up.”

Waxman remained mute. Not that that helped him.

“No other reason.”

“It’s been decided by Three-thirteen. Fetch the information.”

Carson crossed to a humidor, opened it, and took out a cigar. He rolled it between his fingers, then held it under his nose. At length, he stuck it in his mouth, clicked open his lighter, and got the thing going. Waxman seemed rooted to the chair while this carnival sideshow was being enacted, but he did not look at Carson. His eyes were fastened on a section of empty space as if they could harness it and whip it until it bled.

When the cigar was going and great clouds of aromatic smoke drifted up to the beamed ceiling, Carson left the room without a word.

Reggie stirred. “Fuck. I think—”

“Damnit, you were supposed to take care of Alli Carson, and what happened? You let her get away. Now I have to take Carson’s shit.”

Herr’s eyes glowed darkly. “I will get her back. Trust me.”

Waxman levered himself out of the chair. “You’d better.”

Carson, black notebook in hand, stood in the hallway, just out of sight of the two men. He found, after hearing his niece’s name spoken by Waxman, that he was paralyzed. Though he wanted to take a step, he could not, neither forward nor back. His heart slowed to a glacial pace and his lungs refused to work. His breath was being squeezed out of him by an iron fist. His eyes began to water at the same moment the pain bloomed in his chest and slashed down his left arm. The world started to cant over.

God help me, I’m done,
he thought.

*   *   *

“H
ER MISSION?
” Annika said, slightly breathless. “What was your mother’s mission?”

“What do you think? To get inside Father’s head, to be the mole your grandfather so desperately needed to level the playing field between him and Father.” He regarded her with a degree of cynicism. “So as to my mother’s professed love for me, why should I trust it? She’s been living a lie from the moment she met Father. And you—your entire existence is built of one lie on top of another. Why should I believe anything either of you say?”

“Because when it comes to love, no lies are possible. Love bares the bones of truth.”

“And what can that mean to me?” he said with a good measure of contempt. “I, who have had love burned out of me. When it comes to love, I’m the perfect fool.” The flat of his hand cut through the air between them. “Like the sirens who attempted to lure Odysseus, love seeks only to destroy me.”

Radomil peered in again at the old man, who was still on his cell, either on the same call or a new one. “Ask him yourself.”

Annika hesitated until her half-brother moved past her to the café door. “Wait,” she said. “You tell me.”

Radomil turned back. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Your grandfather was intent on using every means necessary.”

“To get me back.”

“For the fortune he was intent on accumulating.”

Annika seemed shaken once again. “How would setting Marion down in the center of Oriel’s life do that?”

He shrugged. “He thought Father knew where that fortune was.”

“Did Oriel know?”

“Stop calling him Oriel. He was your father, too.”

She ignored him. “He abused me in every way imaginable, then he abandoned me. You he simply abandoned.”

“No. He sold us into slavery.”

“Sold you?”

“Grigori and I were payment. In exchange, Father was to get the coordinates to the fortune.”

“So Grandfather was right.”

Radomil was about to answer when, peering through the window, he saw a figure emerge from the rear of the café, pick his way circumspectly between the tables, and slide into a chair opposite Gourdjiev. At once, the old man broke off his conversation and folded away his mobile.

As the two men put their heads together, Radomil said, “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know.”

But he had seen that she hadn’t bothered to look inside the café. “I think you know very well who it is.”

“Sorry. You’re mistaken.”

“Like hell I am. Tell me—”

“Now that you’ve given me your reasons for hating Grandfather, it seems likely that you helped Grigori to keep us from leaving Russia.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Radomil appeared taken aback. “My brother and I never collaborated on anything in our lives. We’re polar opposites in everything we think and do.”

“So it was Grigori.”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me who that man is talking with your grandfather.”

She took a minute, as if thinking it over. “Who’ll go first?”

“To demonstrate my good intentions, I will.” He gave her a tiny mock bow. “I had fuck-all to do with hindering your flight out of the country.”

“You hate my grandfather. You’ve admitted as much.”

“I don’t resort to violence, Annika—even by proxy. I’m not built that way.”

“But your brother is.”

“Indeed. Grigori is the worst kind of shit.” He gestured with his head. “So who is that with your grandfather?”

“His name is Rylance. Perry Rylance.”

“Who the hell is he?”

“Have you heard of International Perimeter?”

“The firm owned by Chris Fraine? Of course. IP handles security for half the multinationals in the world.”

“Not to mention the U.S. government,” Annika said. “Rylance is Chris Fraine’s right-hand man.”

Radomil took another long look at the man sitting across from Dyadya Gourdjiev. “What is that to me?”

“Chris Fraine founded International Perimeter with money he obtained from Three-thirteen.”

Radomil looked thunderstruck. “Fraine is in bed with Three-thirteen?”

“Better than that,” Annika said. “He’s one of the members.” Smiling, she pulled out a thick envelope.

Radomil frowned. “What’s this?”

“Severance.” Annika pressed the envelope into his hand. “You see, Radomil, darling, we no longer require your services.”

*   *   *

W
HEN HE
heard the heavy thump, Waxman signaled to Herr, who crossed the library and stepped outside. A moment later, he called out softly. Waxman joined him in the hallway.

Henry Holt Carson was lying on the floor, curled up, one hand looking clawlike. His eyes stared up at Waxman, his mouth working soundlessly. Reggie had kicked the Glock away.

“Well, what have we here?” Bending over, Waxman pried the black notebook from Carson’s rigid talons. “Could this be what you have been unconscionably withholding?”

As Waxman held the notebook up triumphantly, Carson managed a sound. Waxman looked up. “What’s that, Henry? Speak up, I can’t hear you.”

“Help,” Carson squeaked.

“Of course” Waxman stared down at the stricken man. “But first, I think I’ll have a drink or two. Then a leisurely smoke of one of your fine Cuban Cohibas. It’s only right that I return the hospitality you showed me and my—hmm, what did you call Reggie?” Placing one fine, gleaming shoe on Carson’s neck, he applied judicious pressure. “Oh, yes, my ‘monkey.’”

Observing Carson’s eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets, he cocked his head. “What’s that, Henry? Once again, you’ll have to speak up, my hearing’s not what it once was.” He chuckled. “Dear Henry, you thought you had the upper hand. You thought you were smarter, more clever than me. In fact, it would hardly surprise me to learn that you held me in contempt. But, really, as we both know, contempt is your natural state, a sad testament to your upbringing. What a mighty pissant you must have been as a child.” He gave a mock shudder.

“But now I—and my highly trained ‘monkey’—must be off.” He hefted the notebook. “After all, I have what we came for. I now know where to deploy Acacia, the coordinates of which you were so famously hoarding like a miser his stash of gold.”

Waxman removed his shoe from Carson’s neck. “I commend you, Henry. We all need something hidden to keep us safe when the shit hits the fan.” He waggled the notebook. “And this is yours.” He shook his head. “How you came by it is anyone’s guess, but that’s really irrelevant now. I have it. That’s all that matters.”

He smiled, showing the cutting edges of his teeth. “But even so, I have faith in you, Henry. I know you’ll survive.”

Waxman turned on his heel and, with Herr following in his wake, went down the hall, through the living room and the foyer, out the front door, and away.

Carson heard the echoes of their footfalls, but, like time slipping away, he couldn’t do anything about it.

T
WENTY-ONE

“D
IPLOMATIC IMMUNITY
?” Jack said. “What d’you mean? It’s clear he throttled the woman to within an inch of her life.”

“No one’s disputing that,” Paull said wearily. He pulled up an old green Naugahyde chair next to where Jack perched on Alli’s hospital bed. “But the fact is Myles Oldham isn’t his real name.”

“He entered the country on a false passport. Another reason to detain him.”

Paull settled the flaps of his overcoat over his thighs. “I couldn’t agree more. Problem is, ‘Myles Oldham’ is a Russian political attaché. So is his driver, which is a joke. Oldham’s got ties all the way up to President Yukin. And no wonder. His real name is Grigori Batchuk.”

Jack, who had been watching Alli sleep, whipped his head around. “Grigori? Are you certain?”

“I am. The Russian ambassador presented his bona fides when he came to pick Batchuk and his driver up.”

“The ambassador himself?”

“I told you, Jack. Batchuk is under Yukin’s personal aegis.”

At that moment, the surgeon who had taken care of Alli came in, paged through her chart, checked her pulse and blood pressure, as well as the monitors to which she was hooked up. When he was finished making notations, he looked up and smiled at Jack.

“Ms. Carson was lucky. Xrays show the hairline fracture in her left clavicle isn’t all the way through. All she needs is some bed rest.” He scribbled on a notepad, then tore off the top sheet. “Here’s a prescription for a painkiller. She should only need it for a day or two, if at all.” He handed it to Jack. “No operating heavy equipment while on this.” He laughed. “You can take her home as soon as she wakes up.”

Jack folded the prescription away as the doctor left.

“Forget Grigori Batchuk,” Paull said. “We have Alli and Vera back, and Helene Simpson, the woman Batchuk almost killed, is recovering in a room just down the hall.”

“Maybe she can provide some answers,” Jack said.

“We’ll certainly interrogate her the moment she comes to.”

“I want to be the one to do that, Dennis.”

Paull regarded him for some time. “What’s up, Jack? What aren’t you telling me?”

“It may be nothing.”

“But on the other hand?”

Jack sighed. “We seem to be inundated with a tidal wave of twins.”

Paull shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Alli says this man, Waxman—”

“As I’ve said, no such man exists in any official database.”

Jack waved away his words. “Waxman’s right-hand man is Reggie Herr.”

“Herr?”

“Right. The late Morgan Herr’s twin.”

Paull sat up. “Go on.”

“You already know that Gourdjiev and Oriel Batchuk were mortal enemies.”

“I also know that Annika killed Batchuk.”

“When I was in Russia this time, the old man warned me that his rivalry with Batchuk wasn’t over because Batchuk had a son.”

“Grigori.” Then Paull caught himself. “Not Grigori.”

“No,” Jack said. “Gourdjiev was quite clear.”

Paull tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “So now we have Grigori and his brother. You’re saying another set of twins?”

“I’m positing the question, because we also have Alan and Chris Fraine.”

“Chris shot Alan to death inside the store Silicon Vault.” Paull shook his head. “Why would he do that?”

Jack wondered whether that was a key question. “Maybe we should ask Vera Bard. She was witness to the murder.” He turned. “But first I need to debrief Alli. There’s a pattern forming here, I can almost see it. But in order to make sense of it I need more information.” He turned back to Paull. “Still no sign of Waxman.”

“Or whatever his name is.” Paull spoke on his mobile for several minutes, then killed the connection. “Nothing further. The Marine team scoured the wartime tunnel system you ID’d underneath the warehouse, but there’s no indication that Waxman and the man Alli says is Reggie Herr took it.”

“They must have,” Jack said. “There’s no other way out.”

“Yeah, about that. You should have told me what you were planning.”

“You shut me out, Dennis.”

“I know, but—” He leaned forward. “Damnit, Jack, I don’t know why I bother to give you orders.”

“I don’t, either.”

The two men went eye to eye for a moment.

“Ah, fuck it,” Paull said after a time, sitting back on his chair, but before he could get settled, his mobile buzzed. He looked at the caller ID, said, “I have to take this,” got up, and went out into the hallway.

Jack returned his attention to Alli, to discover her eyes watching him. “How long have you been awake?”

“Thank you, Jack.”

“Stop it.”

“No, I mean it.”

He shook his head. “If Dennis and I had been on the same page, I would have had a couple of his Marines guarding the other end of the warehouse tunnels. We would have gotten Waxman and Reggie Herr.”

“Or they might have killed the Marines.”

“Reggie is a highly skilled killer. I’m proud of how you handled yourself.”

Alli gave him a sly smile. “Thanks. That means a lot.” Her expression sobered. “While you were in the cell, Waxman pretended to shoot me dead. Did you believe him?”

“I might have,” Jack said, “except that Emma appeared, and I sensed then you were all right.”

She smiled.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I was hit by a truck.”