Cut and Run (19 page)

“Cases like what?” She fumbled in her clutch purse and came out with a delicate handkerchief that she used to dab at her nose, more nervous habit than necessity.

“Bob Mosley remembers everything he told you. Everything you asked.”

For Rotem, the inconceivable thing in this case was that a guy like Mosley would ever believe a woman such as this could fall for him in the first place. He'd now have twenty to thirty years to think about it, and so would Ms. Geldwig, thanks to his testimony. “What you seem to be missing in this, Deputy Marshal Geldwig, is that Mosley's told us everything. The longer you play the naïf, the less time you have to get on the other side of this and help yourself.”

Finally Wank joined the discussion. “You've been with Fugitive Apprehension for a little over three months, Ms. Geldwig. Perhaps you can explain what was behind your decision to transfer.”

When she failed to answer, Rotem did it for her. “WITSEC might be considered the more prestigious, more interesting employment. And yet you transferred over to the FATF.”

“I wanted away from Mosley. Besides, I think you're wrong, sir. This is where the action is.”

“We know for a fact that Mosley told you everything there is to know about Leopold Markowitz and what came to be known as
Laena
,” Rotem said. “Do you know what
Laena
means, Deputy Geldwig? Where the term came from?”

She cleared her throat. “It's Latin or Greek for ‘cloak,' as I recall.”

Rotem now forced himself to lock eyes with her. “And you've removed that cloak, haven't you?” He avoided mention of the recent executions—she'd lawyer up given that information. “Exposed several thousand lives to possible execution. And all for
what
, Ms. Geldwig? The seven hundred thousand dollars in commercial real estate? The time-share in Paris? We know about those, Ms. Geldwig, and we'll find out more. We've seized all your property, all your assets—or rather, Ms. Wank has. As of this moment you don't have two nickels to rub together. Are you sure you don't want to talk?”

“RICO,” the attorney said.

“We own you. And you've run out of time to explain yourself.”

A knock on the door was followed by an aide poking his head inside. It had to be important.

Rotem stood, walked around the table, and passed close to Geldwig. She smelled darkly sweet and earthy, a perfume designed to engorge a man. The effect lingered as Rotem reached his aide, who apologized for the interruption.

The aide, a young man in his late twenties, handed him a sheaf of papers. “Her movement through the network, sir. What files she accessed. I highlighted the few of interest.”

Rotem scanned down the list of computer network addresses, all directories and files that Geldwig had accessed in the past week.

The aide said, “We can go back further as time allows.”

Rotem flipped pages, waiting for the yellow highlight. On page four his thumb found the line and his eyes carried over.

“What the hell? What is this, utilities for what?”

“She'd been surfing the utility records—the billing records, sir—for our various safe houses. A change in utility consumption.”

“Indicates activity at a particular safe house.” Rotem jumped ahead to what this meant, but restrained himself, needing to confirm his suspicions before sounding the alarm. “And these particular billing records?” he asked.

“Are for the Orchard House, sir. But I checked with WITSEC and they don't have anyone assigned to the Orchard House at present.” The young man noticed Rotem's sudden pallor. “Or do they?”

Rotem swallowed dryly. “Get Larson on the phone. Now.
Right now!
You don't send him an e-mail, you don't leave him a message, you get him
on the phone
. I need to speak to him right now.”

He glanced back at the closed door to the conference room, thinking a gun to the head would serve the taxpayers far better where Geldwig was concerned.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Paolo drove past the farmhouse and kept right on going.
At first glance, his guess was that the info they'd been given was bad. From what he'd seen of the house, pushed back off the road and in a cluster of barren trees, it was decrepit and hardly the kind of place the government would use as a safe house. The feds leaned more toward motels and hotels, military facilities and public housing, not a neglected farmhouse, isolated and out in the middle of nowhere. Defending such a place would require a minimum of two, probably more like four to six, which again struck him as far too rich for federal law enforcement.

He also couldn't be sure it would be the same mark as he was after, but the assignment had been handed to him, passed along to Philippe by a supposedly reliable source, and he had to stick with it. How many witnesses in and around St. Louis could they be protecting on a given day? He followed the map, making a full circle of the area, driving close to five miles before pulling around and back up the steep hill again, and passing the same rock outcropping that looked this time like some sort of face: part human, part devil.

He'd left Penny behind in the motel, her hands taped behind her back, her ankles, knees, and thighs taped around her pants to keep her legs straight, the gag in place. He'd left her on a towel in the bottom of the dry bathtub with the sink water running, and the television in the other room left fairly loud. With the removal of four screws he'd reversed the bathroom door's knobs and lock, so that it now locked from the outside. Even if the kid got free—
impossible
, he thought, though he didn't put much past a child—she was imprisoned.

He slowed and studied the surrounding property, held in the evening dusk as if sprinkled with fireplace ash. He turned the car up a muddy, rut-covered track, stopped at a rusted metal gate, climbed out, and swung it open. The air smelled different here, the way really cold water from a bottle tasted more like melted snow than tap water. Once through the gate, he backed up and parked, tucking the car in alongside a hedgerow of overgrown, weedy trees and shrubs. From here, the track rose into the spines of gnarly, barren apple trees that cast a chill in the air, forewarning winter's approach. The hill rose up to a rocky queen's crown, the swells of the orchard below rolling, once up and then back down, before slipping left toward a crumbling fence line in disrepair, and just beyond, leveling to nearly flat ground and the fading farmhouse, now only a suggestion in the dwindling light. Paolo charted a course through the orchard to the house, committing it to memory so that he could return to the car by one of two different routes.

He spotted one tree among all the trees that would serve well as his lookout. The apple trees had been trimmed and cut back for many years, keeping them full and at a height convenient to harvest. He couldn't tell if they were alive or dead—they looked as inert as gravestones—but they'd lost that look of being tended to.

He crept carefully through the separating rows, the trees as regimented as soldiers, starting and stopping, alert for the slightest sound, change of color, shift of light or shape. Once into the tree, he climbed to the small branches, from where he could see the gray geometry of the farmhouse. Farther to his right and slightly down a hill, a large milking shed with a metal roof bisected a free-stacked stone wall, jutting into a fallow field thick with grass. The hint of an approaching moon warmed the horizon with a yellowish glow, seen through the gray haze of ground fog, just lifting out of the ground as if sucked by the retreating light.

Paolo waited, as was his way. Worked alone, as he and the Romeros preferred it. If he'd been trained in anything, it was patience. He could sit immobile for hours, never bothered by stiff joints or the urge to do something. Ten minutes passed before he detected the red pulsing light. In another season, another color, he might have mistaken it for a lightning bug, but well into October, the evening air chill, its perfectly timed flashing meant electronics, more than likely a cell phone or radio. It was clipped at a height that made sense for a belt. A waist. A guard.

He warmed with anticipation, the falling temperature meaning nothing to him. The information had been good: The dilapidated farmhouse might indeed be a safe house, given that he'd now spotted a patrol. But police and federal agents were like termites—for every one you saw there could be many more in the nest. Overcoming them one at a time presented the kind of challenge Paolo lived for. Subterfuge, stealth, baiting, razor work—all his skills would be required here.

He gave no thought of calling for backup. Of waiting hours or days. Opportunity had presented itself, and he intended to capitalize, to prove himself.

The red flashing stopped. Either the guard had turned, or the phone had been briefly exposed as he'd gone for a stick of gum, scratched an itch, or donned a sweater or jacket against the cold. A small mistake lasting no more than a few seconds, but enough to signal the warning to Paolo.
A God-given blessing.

A few minutes later his eyes adjusted to where he was quite certain he saw the guard that belonged to the flashing red light—a large lump of black neatly attached to a tree trunk in the side yard. Then, to his delight, another such lump moved from his left to right, and then left again. It took several seconds for him to identify this pattern as circular: This guard was slowly orbiting the farmhouse clockwise. Eight minutes later, around he came again, the original guard still not moving from his post in the side yard. The repetition of this, the combination of one moving object, one stationary, told him there were far fewer deputies than he'd anticipated. As few as two. No more than three. Eight minutes later, there he came again, around the near side of the house. They were lazy, these two. Typical government agents. They'd established a pattern, well conceived, but flawed in execution. Their undoing.

Having just driven onto 270 North, Larson received the call from Rotem, still twenty minutes or more from the farmhouse.

Larson rocketed into the far left lane and brought his speed up in excess of eighty as he spoke into his BlackBerry.

Rotem said, “There's something else you need to hear.

WITSEC is reporting five protected witnesses dead, all executed.”

Laena,
Markowitz's defection or abduction. It seemed a world away from Penny and Hope, but only for Larson. For Rotem and most of the Justice Department the recovery of
Laena
was now a matter of national security.

Larson heard small sparkles of static on the line. “Why only five?”

“You catch on fast,” Rotem said. “Now add this into the mix: The Bureau's OC unit is reporting increased chatter among the top West Coast crime families. A meeting has been called for this Friday. All the big guys. Undisclosed location.”

Larson put it together. “So the Romeros sold off or gave up those five witnesses to prove they had the real thing—that they could deliver the master list.”

“And now they intend to auction it off.”

“
This
Friday?”

“Two days,” Rotem confirmed.

Two days to find Markowitz. Two days to locate the Romeros. How long would they keep Penny alive?

“Listen,” Rotem said, “there's one other thing, we don't know how much weight to give it, if any. It's a compromised source . . .”

“What's going on, Scott?” Larson didn't appreciate all the qualifiers.

“This source appears to have accessed utility records for our safe houses—including Orchard House. But . . . and I want to emphasize this: There's no indication that information went any farther.”

“Jesus, Scott!” He disconnected the call.

Larson had to warn Carlyle and Marland that Orchard House may have been compromised.

He tried Marland first but when Marland failed to pick up he called Hope.

“Hello?”

“It's me. Everything all right?” He worked to keep his voice level and calm.

“Fine.”

“Listen, the house may be compromised. I couldn't raise Marland so I'm going to try Carlyle next, but I wanted to get to you first.”

“You want me to go find them?”

“No!” he said a little too loudly. “
Do not go outside!
Not under any conditions. Not for any reason. You keep the doors locked until I arrive. Hide somewhere inside.”

“Hide? You're scaring me, Lars.”

“Just until I get there. It's
serious
, Hope. Okay? Don't hide anyplace obvious. Not under the bed or in the closet. Find a place you can be comfortable without moving around.” He told her to put the phone into vibrate mode and then double-checked that she'd done it correctly. “I'll be there in minutes.”

“What aren't you telling me?”

“I can't tell you what I don't know myself,” he said.

Paolo went well out of his way to approach the far side of the house and lie in wait for the deputy on the circular patrol, costing him valuable minutes. He was warming to the kill now, and so took little notice of the sustained hush delivered into the wilds by the further setting of the sun. Only the very distant barking of a dog, almost a howl, interrupted the night's still, quiet air—a yap-yap-yap that paused for a half minute before barking out into the void, a male no doubt, longing for company. The ground fog lifted like bedsheets, rolling and twisting and yet languishing at chest height. Paolo's movement broke these plumes like a finger through cigarette smoke, creating feathers of vapor that slowly dissipated and dissolved.

The farmhouse, now within a stone's throw, continued to appear empty and uninhabited. He couldn't help but wonder if this was all an elaborate trap to snare him—leak the location, set up a patrol, lure him in. So he again practiced his patience, in no hurry to find himself in federal custody.

He allowed the circling deputy to pass, to complete yet another full loop, but decided against such foolishness. He wasn't going to blow his chance by being overly cautious. He belly-crawled GI-style into the overgrown perimeter shrubbery that surrounded the farmhouse and lay low, razor at the ready.