The Confessor (10 page)

‘Geiger, I’m not here to hurt you – but if you don’t let go of me I will.’

‘Turn around, slowly,’ he said, and took a half-step back, far enough for her to revolve but close enough to keep his grip on her throat. ‘Is there anyone else with you?’

Zanni’s violet eyes flashed at him. ‘. . . No.’

Geiger homed in on the blip of silence before her answer. Perhaps her natural cadence, or breathlessness, or a tell of lying – or she might have wanted him to notice the pause, to keep him wondering. One thing was clear – it wasn’t fear. She was a pro.

A bright light suddenly settled on them – and he grabbed Zanni and spun round, holding her against him. It was a harsh, blinding beam. All Geiger saw through his squint was a hot, white void. It occurred to Geiger that she had played him – from the start. They’d let him find his own, private place of execution. He’d done all the work. One less loose end. There was the rasp of old hinges turning, the bar gate swinging open . . .

‘Let her go!’ The voice was gruff and deep. ‘I said let her go –
now
!’

‘Jesus,’ said Zanni, ‘can’t a working girl get a little privacy – huh?’ Her delivery had a perfect meld of street cool and weary umbrage.

‘Oh . . .’ the voice chuckled, ‘so that’s how it is, huh?’

The beam of light was lowered. A man in an AJAX SECURITY cap stood five feet away at the opened gate, billy club in his other hand, forty years of junk food testing the limits of his belt and shirt buttons.

‘Well . . . sorry, doll,’ he said. ‘You’re the best-looking hooker I’ve seen in a long time, but get a fucking room before I call the cops.’ He pointed the club at Geiger. ‘Take a hike, Romeo. Try and keep it hard till you get there.’

‘Okay,’ Zanni said, and looked at Geiger. ‘Let’s go, sweet thing.’

Geiger was studying her performance. The best liars were those most experienced with the skill. They shared traits of other artists – actors, singers and musicians, jazz players in particular – those with the uncanny ability to improvise, to feel the flow in a given moment and add to it spontaneously, and never have the audience question its
trueness
. He decided he couldn’t believe anything she said.

Zanni put a hand on his forearm. ‘C’mon, hon.’ She started drawing him out, and when they reached the sidewalk they took two steps back from each other – movement without thought – a chemical reaction between non-binding molecules. It was starting to rain, and there was a crisp, tinny tympani on the corrugated steel above them.

‘Do I look like a hooker in these clothes?’ Zanni asked.

Geiger took a slow, even breath. ‘I’m not interested in the job.’

‘You don’t know what it is.’

‘That’s true, but irrelevant.’ He jogged away. He needed to run – to stretch the world out, to push back against the shrinking feeling around him. As he crossed the intersection at West Eleventh she came up on his right and settled into his pace.

‘Could you stop for a minute so we can talk?’

‘No.’

‘Geiger . . . I’m not a contractor – I’m not Hall, and I’m not here to lie or play head games with you.’

Geiger looked over at her. She had the lope of an athlete, the mindless grace and muscular spring, matching him stride for stride. He measured her at five-eight or -nine, one-twenty-five to thirty, mid to late twenties. Her persistence was not unexpected.

‘My job was to find you and ask if you’ll work again.’

‘You did your job.’

Geiger did not want to speak anymore. The outside was too full of unpredictable, shifting elements – and the woman’s presence and interactive demands felt like scale-tippers. They went under the elevated subway tracks and he slowed to a halt, out of the rain, jogging-in-place – and Zanni came to rest.

‘Just think about it, Geiger. Price is negotiable, to a degree. All you need to—’

Geiger stuck a palm up in front of her. ‘I don’t want a job.’

A train was approaching overhead, dragging its escalating clatter along the tracks. Zanni decided to wait until it passed by. It would give her a moment to recalibrate. His attributes were far more striking in person. His satin tone and uninflected flow of words, the stillness of him even as he remained in motion, and a calmness that was, paradoxically, intense to witness. They stared at each other without expression until the train passed and the street stopped vibrating beneath them.

‘Geiger . . . If you—’

‘You need to stop talking.’ Geiger turned his neck till he got the
click
. ‘You are working from a scenario built on comparative thinking – one that assumes I will react in ways that most others in this kind of scenario do. If I say “No”, you will increase the offer of financial reward . . . you’ll consider introducing elements of patriotism, acting for a noble cause . . . you’ll also consider threats, and blackmail . . .’ His head slued back to the right.
Click
. ‘But, for various reasons, I do not fit the profile of most others, and because of that, I am irrelevant to the scenario. That’s what you need to understand.’

A bus was coming up from the east beneath the tracks. The driver gave the horn three sharp jabs as it neared and they moved away. Zanni followed Geiger until he stopped beside a massive steel stanchion.

‘What is relevant,’ he said, ‘is that I don’t work in IR anymore. You need to tell your bosses that, and tell them nothing will change that.’

Zanni watched his tunnel eyes. She was looking for something behind his stare, but he was either a master of concealment . . . or empty inside. Still – the fact was that last summer he’d run off the tracks. Three pros had been sent to deal with him and were dead. Dalton had been brought in for interrog and ended up crippled. And now she was suddenly aware how little traffic there was in Gravesend this time of night, and that Geiger, by chance or design, had led her into the stanchion’s wide, black pillar of shadow.

‘When you return to your office, Soames, access my file. I’m sure there is a category for “Status”. Delete whatever is there and put in “Permanently unavailable”.

Geiger leaned in closer. She held her ground, but wasn’t happy with how much of her focus she was using to keep her adrenaline in check.

‘Rosanna . . . I’m sure you’ve done your due diligence . . . and you know as much about me as there is to know. You know that they sent Hall and two others out for me . . . and that they’re all dead – and you’ve wondered about that.’

Zanni had the uneasy sense that he was one step ahead of her in every aspect of things – action, feeling, thought – and it made her furious.

‘I do not want to be asked again. I do not want to take this to another level. Do you understand, Rosanna?’

‘I understand,’ she said.

Geiger’s hands started to come up from his sides – and sinew and joints immediately tightened in Zanni, training and instinct and adrenaline kicking in as one – as she watched his fingers find his earbuds and put them back in place. His right brow rose imperceptibly, just enough to let her know he’d seen all the way in, through the lie of her placid exterior to her moment of alarm. Zanni tamped down a hot simmer. She didn’t like being read. What had been her tell? A flare in her irises? Nostrils? Lips?

‘Goodbye,’ said Geiger. He started off in an easy jog.

Zanni studied his odd grace, his constant adjustments to damage and gravity. She knew what Dalton had done to him, had heard him say it in his own words, and one quote stayed with her: ‘
It wasn’t that he didn’t feel pain. He did. I just don’t think that it hurt
.
’

Geiger leaned against the running path’s railing, hands wrapping round the cold steel. The water’s face on Gravesend Bay was pocked by a million drops of rain.

Most things had singular meanings to Geiger. It was a stripped-down response mode Corley called ‘essential perspective’ – experiencing and defining things in the most basic terms and relevance to one’s existence. Food was sustenance – pleasure, taste and variety were not part of the equation. Clothing was utile – style, tailoring and color had, if any, minor significance. Housing meant simple shelter and separation – an inside independent of the outside – and now that had changed. The facts of how they’d found him were unimportant. They knew where he was.

Lights twinkled on the other side of the bay – white, pale yellow, paler blue – and snakes of smoke and heat trails rose from buildings and chimneys, wooed by a heavenly charmer. A woman sang, very softly, a feathery lilt, without accompaniment.
‘You are the sunshine of my life . . .’
Geiger’s hands rose to push the earbuds in more snugly – until he realized they hung loose at his sides.

‘Go on, Soames,’ said Bowe.

Her boss already had his ‘I won’t like the news’ look on, and Zanni was certain the other three of the crew sitting behind her wore the same expression.

She shifted in her chair. The strobe ache from her encounter with the wall last night had kicked in hours ago, from her knees to her collarbone. She wore a long-sleeved pullover to hide the swelling in her wrists. She had a straight-A record, but the alphas were always waiting for her to fall on her perfect butt. Boys will be boys . . . and assholes. Her career meant doing two jobs for one salary – being an agent twenty-four seven, and spending the rest of her time proving that possessing a clitoris was not a sign of weakness . . . or as she had put it more than once: Having a vagina doesn’t mean you’re a pussy.

‘I walked up to him on the street and identified myself. He didn’t seem surprised. I told him we wanted to bring him back in – that there were no hard feelings. He said no. And that was that. It didn’t last more than two minutes.’

She’d spent the flight back and half the night going over the episode – how Geiger had played her, reeled her in – and how he’d seen her inner flinch. It wasn’t like her – at all. She saw the unbothered ash eyes, heard the smooth-as-ice voice in her ear . . .

‘So – no chance?’ said Bowe.

As he often did, Bowe framed the words in the form of a question when it was actually a conclusion he was clearly displeased with.

‘I believe that’s right, sir. No chance.’

‘His exact words were . . . ?’

‘His exact words were – “I don’t work in IR anymore. You need to tell your bosses that, and tell them nothing will change that.”’

‘His demeanor?’

‘Demeanor? Geiger’s hard to describe, sir.’

‘So I’ve heard. Try.’

‘Cool. Unaffected. Kind of . . . disconnected.’

The man’s forefinger did five staccato taps on the desk, and then he leaned back in his chair. She could hear the others shift in their seats.

‘So . . . for the record,’ said Bowe. ‘Your conclusion is that further overtures will be pointless?’

There it was again – statement as query. The sideways approach of it irritated the hell out of her.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Not good, people.’ Bowe suddenly slammed his palm on the desk. ‘Has anyone noticed lately that enhanced interrogation has taken a little
dip
in the fucking polls?!’

He swiveled in his chair until he faced the wide window and starless night. Zanni was relieved. The maneuver always meant a meeting was close to an end.

‘This division cannot function without highly skilled interrogators, professionals who aren’t going to fuck up and put us on Veritas Arcana every month – and we’re seriously short-handed. Dalton has disappeared, we don’t know where he is. Geiger says he’s out of the game. The guys we have coming off the bench – I don’t love them.’

Zanni’s jaw tightened. Another sports metaphor. Why did they do that?

‘Soames . . . Now that Geiger knows we’ve found him, you think he’ll go off the grid?’

‘I think it would be foolish for anyone in this room to guess what Geiger might or might not do.’ She hoped that would keep the rest of them quiet. She wanted to go home.

‘Sir . . .’ came from behind her. McCormack. He subscribed to the ‘last heard, first remembered’ school, often waiting until he sensed he might have the final comment. Its content was of secondary importance. Its placement was what he thought had value.

‘Go on, Mac.’

‘The Russians said Vasillich did a decent job for them last month.’

‘He’s too green for us.’ Bowe stood up and stepped to the window. ‘I want you all thinking about leverage – ways to get Geiger back in. Starting
now
. I don’t want to wait until we need him yesterday. Good night, people.’

Zanni stood up. ‘Good night, sir.’

‘Soames . . .’

She did her best to bury a sigh. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘You’re taking next week off?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Enjoy yourself.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

She headed out and down the hall. A drink was going to do wonders. She punched the elevator button – but the transport was in an uncooperative mood, and McCormack arrived before it did.

‘Hey,’ he said.

‘Hey.’

The elevator’s down button was already lit up, but he pressed it a few times. She bit her tongue.

McCormack smiled. ‘So you just walked up and introduced yourself . . .’

‘Yeah.’

‘And the infamous Inquisitor said what?’

‘“Who do you work for?”’

‘That’s it?’ He reached out and punched the button again, twice.

‘Mac . . . It doesn’t come any faster if you keep pushing it.’

‘Habit. So where you going on vacation?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Relax – just asking.’

‘Meeting some family. Big, big fun.’

‘Get a drink?’

‘No.’

‘C’mon . . . We’ll kick back.’

‘No.’

‘How come?’

Zanni took an even breath. It hurt. ‘Mac . . . Twice was enough. I’m not crazy about the way you kiss – and you don’t last long enough for me.’

McCormack took a step back, but she didn’t think he was aware of doing so.

‘Jeez, Zanni. Wow . . . Pretty fucking cold.’

‘I guess, yeah.’

The elevator came and she stepped inside. McCormack didn’t.

‘Sorry, Mac,’ she said, and shrugged as the door closed.