Deception (16 page)

—except he didn't whisper with his mouth; he whispered with the shiny object, which had moved from one hand to the other—

—and his whispers evidently convinced the family to keep to themselves. When he turned back to face Hannah, she knew that they would not be interfering. It took days for her mind to admit what she had actually witnessed during those five seconds.

The man approached her. The thing in his hand whipsawed toward her face, and she spilled back onto the couch. A slow fire began to burn on her right temple. Her eye filled with blood; she blinked rapidly. Then the man's hands were on her. He was patting her down, his fingers digging through the flimsy material of her tank top. A moment later, he was turning away, reaching for her purse. He began to search through it, spilling out the contents haphazardly.

Her eyes moved to the door—to the spot where the door had been. Beyond it was the street, and night.

Before she could move, he had done something, again, knocking her onto the floor. Then the man was straddling her. His knees were on her forearms. She opened her mouth to scream—

—and he backhanded her.

Fucker
, she thought as her head rocked.

She was not afraid. Instead, she was filled with righteous fury. How
dare
he put his hands on her?

Her mouth was making words. The words did not reflect her anger. The words, she thought, were designed only to make the man get off of her. “It was Frank's idea,” she heard herself saying. “It was all Frank's idea, but I went along with it, and it was a mistake, and please, please don't hit me again—”

Or perhaps the words were designed to distract him. For now the scissors in her hand were rising, in a whistling arc, and burying themselves in the man's shoulder.

His eyes flashed. The silver thing in his hand drew back again. And for a time after that, she remembered nothing.

4.

Leonard had something in his lap.

Keyes noticed this as the cab slowed. He leaned forward, peering curiously through the gloom. It was a weapon of some kind—a short tube. It was a good thing, he supposed, that Leonard was armed. Lord only knew what they would face inside the house. If the woman, whoever she was, had been skilled enough to delay Dietz …

…
delay
, he thought. What were the chances that Dietz had only been delayed?

In some deep part of himself, Keyes was very afraid. Yet he found himself able to isolate the fear, to marginalize it. There was a sense of predestination to all this, he thought. What would be, would be. He would do his best, until he couldn't. And that was that.

The cab had pulled over. The driver was looking at him expectantly in the rearview mirror. Keyes reached into his wallet, found a twenty-dollar bill, and held it forward. A moment later, they were outside, watching the taxi speed away.

Leonard was doing something with the weapon, withdrawing some kind of implement. Keyes averted his eyes self-consciously. He did not want to see this: the actual weapons that caused actual death. For years he had managed to avoid exposing himself to this reality. Behind his desk, it was all a puzzle, an intellectual game. Behind his desk, it was simply business.

Past Leonard, beside the house, was an alley. Light came from the alley, and the growl of an engine. There was a car idling there, he realized.

Then the car was pulling out, blinding him with headlights. The engine was opening up. Keyes understood, very clearly, that the car meant to run them down.

He began to move to his left. There seemed to be nowhere he could go that would provide cover. There was not enough time; the engine was screaming, filling the world, and the headlights were everywhere. He kept moving anyway. What would be, would be. He would do his best until he couldn't. And that was that.

The fender took him on his right hip, spinning him around. He heard the crisp, distinct sound of bone cracking. Then his face was scraping against the pavement. He tasted blood. He rolled onto his back, to see if the car would come around and finish the job.

But the car was moving away, still gaining speed. Leonard was rushing over, leaning down, his mouth moving.

Keyes closed his eyes. His breath was coming in shallow, hungry gulps. There was a terrific pressure on his hip. An elephant was kneeling on his hip.
Goddamned elephant
, he thought.

Yet there was a bright side. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn't hungry in the least.

FIFTEEN

1.

Another call was coming in. “Mom,” Daisy said. “I've got to put you on hold.”

She punched the hold button, found the incoming call—line two—and hit it. “Jim Keyes's office.”

“Hold for Dick Bierman,” a voice said.

Daisy held for Dick Bierman. “Jim,” the man said.

“This is Daisy Gilbert, Mr. Bierman. I'm afraid that Mr. Keyes is out of the office.”

“Where is he?”

“I can't say, exactly. But I'll let him know that you—”

“Do you expect him this afternoon?”

“I can't say. But I'll make sure your call comes to his—”

“Well, give me a hint, Daisy, for Christ's sake.” Bierman spoke with a chipper southern accent. “Out to lunch? On the golf course?”

“I'm not exactly sure. As soon as—”

“I'd like to fly up there this afternoon. Will he be there?”

“I couldn't promise that. It would probably be better to wait and speak with him yourself.”

“I'll try his cell. What's the number?”

Line three was blinking. Daisy felt herself beginning to panic—they'd had the new phone system for nearly four months, but she still hadn't mastered it. “Mr. Bierman; please hold.” She hit the button without waiting for an answer. On to line three. “Jim Keyes's office,” she said.

“Daisy.”

It was Keyes. He sounded horrible. She leaned forward in her chair. “What's the matter?” she asked.

A wheezy breath. “I'm okay,” he said then. “There's been a little accident. But I'm okay. I need you do something. Call Roger Ford and ask him to send over a complete file on Francis Dietz. Tell him there's been a problem. We're not sure if Dietz is the problem or not.”

Daisy scribbled a note. “I've got Dick Bierman on the other line,” she said.

“Bierman?”

“He wants to come visit.”

“Tell him you can't reach me.”

“I did. But he's pushing. He wants to come up this afternoon. And he wants your cell number.”

A long pause. “Tell him … tell him there's been a family emergency and I'm out of the office until … but God damn it, he'll come anyway, won't he?”

“He does sound eager,” Daisy said.

“Dinner tomorrow. He can come up or I'll go down, whichever he likes.”

“Got it.”

“And don't forget the Dietz file. I need it yesterday.”

“Got it.”

“One more thing. Ask Casper to run down a name: Victoria Ludlow. From Chicago. Everything he can get.”

The pen scratched across the pad. “Got it.”

“Thanks a million, Daisy.”

She hung up, and went back to Bierman.

“Mr. Bierman? I'm sorry about the—”

“It's me,” her mother said.

“Mom. Sorry. Hold on.”

She tried again. “Mr. Bierman?”

“Ms. Gilbert.”

“I'm sorry about that, Mr. Bierman. I'm looking at his calendar right now. Would you be available for dinner tomorrow night?”

“I suppose I could be.”

“Very good. I'm penciling you in for—”

“After dinner I'd like to have a tour of the grounds. Check my investment, you know.”

“Of course,” she said smoothly. “Shall we say eight o'clock? Would you like me to make a reservation at a local hotel? There's a beautiful little bed-and-breakfast …”

“I'll have my girl take care of it.” The line went dead.

Daisy puckered her lips. She looked back at line one, which was blinking steadily. She hit it. “Mom?”

“Daisy. I don't appreciate—”

“I'll have to call you back,” she said, and killed the connection.

2.

As Hannah came awake, she felt her neck twinge.

Perfect, she thought darkly. This was all she needed. She had enough on her mind, these days, without a stiff neck. Things at work were going badly. Things with Frank were going badly. And it was not only her neck that hurt. Her temple throbbed; her eye burned. Her head felt heavy, as if it had been emptied out and refilled with sand. This was the last time she would sleep … where?

In a car, she realized. Outside, it was raining. When she opened her eyes, she saw gray sky beyond the gray windshield. Wind tossed the raindrops into teasing, puckish whorls. The car wasn't moving. Only the rain was moving.

A man was sitting beside her with her purse in his lap. The man was around sixty, maybe a few years younger. He had a blocky head and a seamed face and a thick chest and sharp gray eyes. As she struggled up in the seat, he looked over at her.

He smiled.

It was an odd smile: knowing and a bit sad. He raised an object from the purse. The book she had borrowed from the Epstein woman,
The Chronicles of the Crusades.
The events of the past few days returned in a rush; she let out a soft moan. It was too much. Too much. Not real …

The man opened the book, revealing chicken-scratch handwriting inside the rear cover. Hannah saw a bit of text and a few scrawled equations. After satisfying himself that she had seen the chicken-scratch, the man returned the book to the purse. The purse stayed in his lap. This was the man, she was realizing, who had assaulted her, who had whispered the family into silence. And now that she looked for it, she saw the wound: a spot of blood on his left shoulder, where she had buried the cuticle scissors.

Her eyes moved to the door. The door appeared to be unlocked. But for some reason, the man didn't seem concerned that she would slip away.

“Let's talk,” he said.

Hannah said nothing. The drizzle gained force, slapping a sheet of rain against the windshield. Past the sound of the rain was a long, slow drone. An airport, she thought. They were parked not far outside an airport.

“You're free to walk away, if you like. I won't stop you. I've got what I need.”

He seemed to expect an answer. Yet she didn't even know what the question was. The man was FBI, she thought. Wasn't he? He had followed her halfway across the world, because of her crime back in Chicago. But why, then, was she free to walk away? It made no sense.

“But you may want to think about who you've thrown your lot in with, here. You may want to consider who could do the most for you now.”

Seconds passed. Hannah stayed silent, motionless. He kept looking at her. “All right,” he said at length. “Let's try it this way. I'll talk. You listen.”

His left hand came up; she saw her passport. He opened it. “Victoria Ludlow,” he read. “But that's not your name. Your real name is nowhere in this purse. Probably it's nowhere else, either.”

Thunder rolled, far away.

Her eyes wanted to move back to the door. If she jumped out of the car and ran, would he follow? Suppose he did, and she managed to escape. He had her purse. She had no wallet, and no passport. She could find the American embassy, she supposed. Beg, borrow, or steal a ride, and find the embassy. They would take her in. But then she would be caught. It would all come out into the open.

Better than sitting here, she thought, stuck in this car with this madman.

Her hand began to inch toward the door.

“I'm going to make you an offer,” he said.

One cautious inch at a time, so he wouldn't notice. She would hit the handle and roll out of the car in one motion, into the rain.

“In exchange for an explanation of what the formula means, in language I can use to drive up the price …”

She would go to jail, if she showed her face at the embassy. But at the moment, the thought of jail was almost appealing. In a cell she would be able to rest for a few minutes.

“… fifty-fifty,” he said. “I don't know what kind of offer Frank made you. But I can top it. I know several parties who would be interested in this. I'm thinking of a number …”

One more inch, and her hand would hit the latch.

“… conservatively,” he said, “and without knowing exactly what we've got here … but taking into account what I know about Keyes and his budget …”

Her fingers touched cool metal. She steeled herself to make the dash.

“… ten million,” he said. “And as I said: That's conservative.”

Her hand paused.

“I expect I could drive it closer to fifteen. Who knows? It all depends. But the more information I can offer, the higher the figure.”

He returned the passport to the purse. He reached into his breast pocket, took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one into his mouth, and punched the lighter in the dashboard.

“Or you can hit that handle and walk away.”

Lightning flashed. A second passed; thunder rumbled again.

Hannah put her hand back into her lap.

“I think it's some kind of bomb,” the man said conversationally. “That's what I think.”

The lighter popped out. He lit his cigarette.

Pooh Bear
, Hannah thought.
Don't get any crazy ideas, now.

She would go to the embassy, and she would turn herself in. She would face the music. She would pay the piper. What other choice did she have? Getting herself into
this
, whatever this was, even deeper. But no—she had learned her lesson. She had done wrong, and there was no point in trying to avoid that truth. Two wrongs didn't make a right.

But the real crime had been Frank's. She had been guilty of nothing but poor judgment. Why should she rot in a cell, all because of Frank?