Dead Silence (10 page)

“An adolescent boy?”

“That’s what I’m saying. It was unexpected. A boy without a male role model. No one permanent anyway. Maybe thinking that’s what men in the big city say to women. A line he heard in a movie.”

“Have a drink, as in have a
drink
—coming on to you?”

She shook her head. “Of course not. At fourteen? He was trying to fit in. His whole life, Will has probably been trying to fit in. Dressing like a cowboy after a year with Outlaw Bull Gutter. He wears whatever costume it takes.”

I was thinking twelve years on an Oklahoma reservation was a more likely explanation as I opened the courtesy bar. “I have bottled water, beer . . . wine, too. But I might have to call room service for a corkscrew . . .”

Barbara said, “No need to do that for me,” meaning the shirt I’d grabbed, not the corkscrew. Her staff had delivered my things from the Explorers Club and my hotel.

I put the shirt on anyway but left it unbuttoned, as the woman said, “Let’s talk about this,” then explained that one glass of wine wouldn’t help. It was impossible to sleep after what had happened.

“When I’m this wired, there are only a couple of things that relax me. But I have to be with someone I can trust.”

I didn’t know what that meant. Because she saw me look at the clock radio, she added, “Plus, there’s something personal I’d like to discuss.”

I’d hoped to get five hours of sleep, but maybe the car Harrington was sending would be late.

I said, “Anything you want.”

She said, “Don’t volunteer before you know the mission,” a line she’d probably heard at some military briefing, giving it an inflection that made me think,
Uh-oh!
“I’ll be back in a minute.”

I was buttoning my shirt as she went out the door.

Now she was sitting at the desk, sipping wine from a water tumbler, a half-empty bottle of red next to my laptop. She had closed the computer and rearranged the desk before using the corkscrew—a woman accustomed to taking charge.

She was wearing jeans and a green denim blouse, no makeup, her hair still wet from the shower. Barefoot, I noticed, as if she’d dressed in a rush, the emotional overload showing. I sat and listened, hoping she would burn adrenaline by talking.

The boy wasn’t the only thing on her mind.

Her in-laws were flying in from Chicago, she told me. She was talking about her late husband’s parents. Favar Sorrento had been an entertainment mogul before he went into politics and married Barbara, a TV anchor who was twenty-five years younger than the wife he’d just divorced.

Barbara said, “His mother’s bearable in a passive-aggressive sort of way, but the father’s a bastard. He’s old-school Castilian Spanish. Left Havana just before Castro took power and still thinks a woman’s place is on her back when she’s wearing shoes and in the kitchen when she’s not.” The woman folded her hands behind her head and leaned back in the chair. “When Favar was alive, Favar Senior tried to undermine my influence in every imaginable way. Now he tries to take advantage of my influence in ways you can’t imagine. He still treats me like a brainless trophy wife. Like the only reason I won the election is because I’m his dead son’s proxy. Next election, I finally drop the hyphen and the
Sorrento
and run under my own name.”

Mostly, though, Barbara was awake because she was worried about the boy. I stood, took the wine bottle and filled her glass, watching her nervous hands as she drank, her gray-green eyes showing more color when she turned from the window, saturated with light from the desk lamp. It was touching listening to her fret about a boy she barely knew. She had collected a lot of background and shared it with a harried energy that was symptomatic of guilt.

“Every time I close my eyes, I feel like I can’t get enough air. Like it’s me inside that coffin. When the agent described the convict shoveling dirt, the girl hysterical inside the box . . . my God, that’s what happens when I start to drift off. I hear dirt hitting the lid”—she touched the palm of her hand to her nose—“this close to my face. God!”

She stood, too agitated to sit, and began to pace and talk.

Her staff still had a hell of a lot to do and was working around the clock. Everything in the cartons the kidnappers wanted was being cataloged and copied. A team had been assigned to arrange for a plane and crew to deliver the cartons—through the military or State Department possibly—hoping Barbara could convince her committee, along with other layers of government, to cooperate with the kidnappers.

“They have to,” she said, but in a wistful way that told me she knew it wasn’t true. “God damn them! They wanted me! Why did they have to take a fourteen-year-old boy?”

I stood and took her hands in mine. Held her, trying to stem an escalating panic that signaled hysteria. “Maybe someone on your staff has a sleeping pill or something. You need rest.”

I was startled by an unexpected mood change. Barbara yanked her hands free and turned her back.

“Are you okay?”

“Ford, I need to ask you something. I want an honest answer.”

“I’ll try.”

“I was hoping for a yes.”

“A
maybe
is better than starting with a lie.”

“If that’s the way it has to be . . . The vacation video they were using to blackmail me . . . you said you discovered it accidentally?”

“Not accidentally. But it wasn’t a priority. I knew there were videos of other people, some powerful.”

“You said you took it because it was the right thing to do. A good deed for a stranger. You wouldn’t accept money and didn’t want anything in return from me.”

I hesitated before putting a hand on her shoulder, thinking she might shrug it away. She didn’t.

I said, “All true. But I was aware there are benefits to having a U.S. senator for a friend. Power radiates. I won’t pretend I didn’t know. You’ve done favors for me that you probably aren’t aware of.”

That’s when she shrugged my hand away. I let it fall from her shoulder as she turned, looking up into my eyes. “I’m aware of more than you realize. Did you know that James Montbard is a British intelligence agent?
Covert.
He’s been with MI6 for years.”

“I didn’t think the UK was our enemy.”

“If you’re going to play word games, I’m leaving.”

I took a step back. “I’m sorry.” I meant it. Then stupidly tried to add, “But I wasn’t sure that Hooker was—”

The woman cut me off. “If you can’t tell the truth, I’d prefer you said nothing.”

I cleared my throat, said nothing.

Barbara faced the window, the reflection showing her eyes as she stared out, the night air cleaner now that it had stopped snowing. “What about Harrington?”

“You see him more than I do. What are you asking?”

I took a seat on the bed, with a bottle of water, as she said, “I’m curious about your relationship,” then explained that her subcommittee relied on Harrington for information. He was a respected analyst in the world of intelligence gathering—also true. She didn’t know, of course, it provided the perfect cover for Harrington’s covert work.

Barbara said, “When I wanted you checked out, Hal was the person I asked. He gave you full marks. Do you know what strikes me as odd?”

She wasn’t going to wait for an answer so I didn’t offer one.

“I find it odd that you and Montbard, and Harrington, are all here, in New York, the same week I agreed to meet the boy. And only a few days after the court assigned control of the Castro Files to me. My subcommittee, I mean.”

She cut me off when I tried to remind her that we’d made our date weeks before.

“I also find it strange that you know each other. Some might even say that you and Montbard made an effort to ingratiate yourselves. Returning the video, for instance. A coincidence?”

I was tempted to comment on the egocentric slip—
my subcommittee—
but said instead, “Or saving your life? If that’s currying favor, your friendship bar is pretty high.”

“You know I didn’t mean that.”

“I know you’re making too much of it. Tomlinson’s lecture was booked months ago. When Hooker found out, he decided to visit the Explorers Club while I was in town instead of coming in March. Seeing you was a nice perk, but—”

“Tomlinson,” she said, “is someone else I find oddly suspicious.”

I said, “Who doesn’t?,” unsettled that she’d made the connection, hoping she would smile. She didn’t.

Instead, she got out of the chair, sighing as she stood over me, communicating something—disappointment? suspicion?—then went to the phone on the nightstand. She opened the drawer and took out a palm-sized tape recorder.
Surprise!
I overcame the urge to sit up straighter.

“This is voice-activated, a common security measure for rooms I book and pay for. When Sir James said he needed a phone, I gave him the key. Have you ever felt like someone is spying on you?”

“As of now.”

“Good. I want you know what it’s like.” Barbara hit FAST REVERSE and waited for the garbled voices to stop. “I haven’t listened yet. Your call, Doc. Should I? You know things about me no one else knows. I find that scary.”

She tossed the recorder onto the bed, stared at me. “Is there something in the Castro Files that scares you? I’ve had a look through those cartons, remember.”

I cleared my throat again.

She sighed, this time communicating
I thought so,
then sat on the bed close enough to put her hand on my arm but didn’t. I hadn’t earned her approval. “I’ve heard rumors about a covert cell that’s more like a secret society.
Clandestino,
in Spanish. Wouldn’t that be filed under Cn? If it’s true, how many countries do you think would demand extradition? There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

I was sitting straighter now, my brain alternately scanning a list of lawyers while reviewing an escape procedure put in place long ago.

Her voice softened but not her tone. “But that’s ancient history. The important thing, Doc, is that we work together. I don’t care what you’ve done or who you’ve worked for, I need your help now.”

I said, “What?,” not trusting the surge of relief I felt. She’d used the same finesse to manipulate the policewoman.

“You think I’m being tricky.”

“Aren’t you?”

“My motive is right up front. It’s an offer. Find Will Chaser. Find him alive and bring him back. I don’t give a goddamn what it takes. I’m halfway through my first term. Three years in a row, my staff expenses were way under budget. I can afford you.” She let that settle a few beats, then added, “Or would you rather barter?”

“I don’t understand what that has to do with—”

“I’m hiring you as a special consultant. At least twice a day, every day, you will report by phone. I’ll give you every piece of information my contacts provide.”

“But the FBI, the New York police—”

“They’ll do a brilliant job . . . but within the constraints of the law. The boy, if he’s still alive, doesn’t have time for legalities. You’re working for me now, understood?”

I was thinking,
Jesus Christ, what about Harrington?

The woman swung her legs onto the bed and leaned in close enough that I could smell her shampoo. “When the FBI agent left the room to take that phone call, it was Ruth Guttersen, Will’s foster mother. Fifty-eight years old, a Minnesota native. Her husband may be a fake cowboy but she’s pure Middle America. When the agent gave her the bad news, know what she said? She said, ‘God help them.’ Can you imagine? Worried about Will, but also the kidnappers, asking God to forgive them.” Barbara’s expression was a mix of admiration and remorse.

“In D.C., it’s easy to forget there are decent people out there. People who follow the rules, who keep their word, people who care even about the jerks of the earth. It’s the America I’d like to believe in, but I don’t. Did you read Will’s essay?”

Yes, the first two pages, but I shook my head no. The writing was feminine, flowery, tough to stomach because of its smug naïveté.

“Mrs. Guttersen is only a foster parent, but the boy has the same values. He’s decent. A good kid.”

I was thinking of another way to interpret
God help them.
That Will Chaser was dangerous—which was ridiculous, unless Ruth Guttersen had somehow anticipated the wrath of Barbara Hayes-Sorrento.

Barbara was back on the subject of the men who’d attacked her, saying, “I don’t give a damn what you do to them. It’s your business as long as my name’s not involved. Bring the boy home, that’s all I care about.” She turned to the window, as if to say,
Kill them—whatever—I don’t want to know.

I nodded slowly. Drained the last of my water, thinking about it. “No one can find out.”

The woman looked at me a moment, then smiled—a savvy, knowing smile. “We’ve got a deal.”

“Did you hear what I said? It never leaves this room.”

“There’s not much I don’t understand.” Her smile became recreational, signaling that she was done with business. “This could be the beginning of an interesting friendship. Maybe even beautiful. But I doubt if I’ll ever be able to call you Frenchy.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Don’t worry, Doc.” She stood and fished something from her pocket. A lighter and a cigarette. No . . . a joint, long and thin. “People like me—people who know what they want—we spend our lives hiding who we really are. You’re among the few who’ve seen the real me.”

“I never watched the video.” How many times had I told her?

“You had it in your hands, though. Holding is more intimate than seeing. You held me, the way I am when no one is watching. That’s close enough.”

“Give me some credit.”

Barbara said, “I’m trying to,” then flicked the lighter and leaned back, inhaling deeply, her face softening as she inhaled again.

Through a veil of smoke, she told me, “I rarely get the opportunity, but this is how I relax. I become recreationally indecent. When I come out of the bathroom, I don’t expect you to be decent either.”