Even (8 page)

“You have a dead agent,” I said. “You have someone killing railway passengers. And you think you have a leak in the bureau.”

“Good. We’re on the same page. And these problems—separate, or connected?”

“Can’t say. I don’t know enough about the case to connect them, but if they’re not connected, that would be a pretty big coincidence.”

“And I guess we both feel the same way about coincidences, right? So let’s start at the beginning. The railroad guys. They weren’t passengers, the victims.”

“So who where they? Employees? People living near railroad lines?”

“No. Free riders.”

“Who?”

“People who hitch rides on freight trains.”

“They still do that? I thought leaping onto moving trains went out with the Depression.”

“Most people think that. It suits us. And we don’t go out of our way to correct them. The fewer know about it, the fewer start doing it.”

“Maybe. I just wouldn’t have thought it was such a big deal.”

“It’s not al-Qaeda, granted. But it’s big, and it’s getting bigger. Try this. Right now, this moment, guess how many free riders are out there?”

“I don’t know. Twelve?”

“No. Any given time, around two thousand. And a group that size, it needs to be managed.”

“Really? Sure you’re not exaggerating? There’s not a bit of budget padding going on here?”

“We’re certain.”

“How do you know? About the numbers. Do you have people standing on bridges with clipboards, counting?”

“Not exactly. But we do keep a close eye.”

“How?”

“Not your business.”

“OK. So why do people do it? To save the price of a ticket?”

“It started that way, years ago. But now it’s a way of life. Bums, with nowhere else to live. Illegal immigrants, sneaking into the country. Vets, from Nam. And lately Iraq, obviously. And Afghanistan. It’s the closest to peace some of those guys are ever going to get, now.”

“It doesn’t sound very peaceful to me.”

“I don’t know. Riding around, alone, in an empty boxcar. That rhythm you get, with the wheels on the rails. It lulls crazy people into a kind of trance. Or lying under the stars, on an open trailer, winding slowly through the mountains. It’s like being on vacation, for them.”

“So what do you think happened? Did some vet start taking out his post-traumatic stress on these bums?”

“No. We don’t get much trouble with the vets. They’re mostly pacifists, now. They just want to be left alone.”

“Who then?”

“Another kind of person altogether. Someone who doesn’t need to ride the rails. Someone who wants to.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s against the law. Because it’s fun. The greater the danger, the greater the thrill. People get all romantic about it. They think they’re modern-day cowboys, riding the last freedom trail around America.”

“Oh, please.”

“They do. It’s true. Or how about this? Because it’s a great place to kill people no one will miss, and then disappear before the bodies are found. It’s like a recurring stain.”

“It’s happened before?”

“Many times. Four years ago, a guy killed eleven. The last guy, thirteen.”

“You caught them?”

“Raab’s team did. Eventually. But there’s over a hundred and seventy thousand miles of track in the major routes alone. That’s a lot of places to hide. Or you can run. One side of the country to the other in three days flat. Or cross into Mexico. Or Canada.”

“And wherever you go, you don’t leave any records.”

“You got it. No tickets. No credit cards. No hotels. Nothing.”

“So if the guy’s still in the wind after five murders, what changed? Why would he suddenly think the net was closing? Late-onset paranoia?”

“Someone told him. Warned him. That’s the only answer.”

“Now you’re being paranoid. It’s more likely Raab just showed his hand somehow. He probably screwed things up himself.”

“No. For two reasons. One, we’ve traced every step he took. He didn’t give himself away. We know that. And two, this guy didn’t just spot some anonymous cop breathing down his neck. He had specifics. Who was running the investigation. Where they’d be. When.”

“But that’s high-level information. How would a bum or a vet get access to it?”

“You’ve got to understand the kind of guys we’re talking about. They’re not garden-variety lawbreakers. There’s a whole subculture building up around this. There’s a lot of juice involved.”

“You said they were bums and vets.”

“I did. And they’re still there, sure. But now we’ve got movie stars doing it. Rock stars. Tycoons. Guys who are used to getting what they want, when they want it, regardless.”

“So?”

“I’m talking about powerful guys. People with contacts. Especially
the business guys. They all have politicians and public officials in their pockets. One of them must have a hook in the bureau, as well. It’s not good, but it happens.”

“So the guy who killed these riders was tipped by his buddy in the bureau?”

“Yes.”

“And then he took Raab out to save his own skin?”

“Yes.”

“It was the same guy?”

“That’s how we saw it.”

“What do you need to complete your hand?”

“An ace.”

“Then go ahead. Deal your last card.”

“If it is an ace, we’re going to start the paperwork on you,” Rosser said, his hand hovering just above the pack. “You still want me to do it?”

I nodded.

Rosser flipped the top card over and covered it with his hand. He moved so fast all I saw was a blur of red, blue, and yellow against the white background. There was no sign of any numbers. Then he looked straight at me and raised his hand.

It was a grotesque character in a harlequin suit, standing on the north pole and showering the globe with dozens of tiny cards.

“Oh, my,” Rosser said. “Would you look at that.”

“The joker,” I said. “How appropriate. Nice meeting you.”

“Wow, slow down. Maybe we need to look at this thing again. If the train killer and Raab’s killer are different people after all,” he said, separating the three piles of cards, “maybe they’re still connected some other way. What do you think?”

I didn’t answer.

“Let’s talk about this guy on the trains,” Rosser said. “He’s some kind of maverick entrepreneur. He’s rich. More than rich. Loaded. Would he be the kind of guy to, say, wash his own shirts?”

“I doubt it,” I said.

“Do his own ironing?”

“No.”

“Drive his own limousine?”

“Unlikely.”

“So, would he be the type of guy to go up against a federal agent on his own?”

“You think he killed five other people.”

“They were spaced-out vets. That’s a whole different ballgame. Plus, they were a hobby. This is business.”

“So?”

“He’d approach it the same way he approaches everything else. He has the money, the contacts, the established pattern of behavior. He’d hire someone to do it for him.”

“Maybe.”

“No. Definitely. Now the question is, if you were hiring someone for a job like this, what kind of person would you choose?”

“No idea. Never had a problem I couldn’t solve on my own.”

“But if you did, what would you think of this as a résumé?”

Rosser pulled a sheaf of papers from under Raab’s file and tossed it across the table toward me. I scrabbled it up from the shiny surface and looked at the top sheet. It was the printout of an e-mail.

The following information is for research and analysis purposes only. It should not be used as the basis for overt or covert action against Lieutenant Commander Trevellyan or any other Legation Resource Unit personnel.

So Headquarters wouldn’t help me, but they were quick enough to roll over for the FBI—weasel words or not.

“Legation Resource Unit,” Rosser said. “Used to be plain old Royal Navy Intelligence. Am I right?”

I didn’t answer.

“Which section?” he said. “C?”

I shrugged.

“Corporate rebranding meets diplomatic security,” he said. “Wow. Do the men in bow ties feel any safer?”

I stayed silent.

“You’re really a sailor, then?” he said.

“Of course I am,” I said. “A world record holder, me.”

“What for?”

“Solo global circumnavigation. In the dark. Backward.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“No, thought not. Bet you can’t even swim.”

“Amazing. No one’s ever said that to me before. Royal Navy. Water jokes. You made that jump pretty fast. But if you’re going to ask me where I left my battleship, you know what? Don’t bother.”

“OK. I won’t. Smart move, by the way, giving the NYPD an unlisted consulate phone number. First thing we checked, when they gave us your file. Your bosses in London were real impressed. Shows a lot of strategic awareness, for a guy who’s supposed to be covertly guarding the place.”

“That’s not relevant,” I said, turning back to the wad of papers. “The contact was unscheduled. I followed standard procedure. They know that.”

The first part of the report was a summary of my service record. It started with my initial assignment to Hong Kong and carried on with an entry for most of the places I’d been sent to since then. I scanned the next seven pages and saw Washington, Canberra, Moscow, Paris, Lagos, St. Petersburg, Berlin, Tel Aviv, La Paz, Vienna, and half a dozen others. It covered the last fourteen years of my life, going all the way up to the mission I’d just completed here in New York. Nine weeks’ work, four people’s lives, and twelve stitches in the back of my head, all boiled down to fifty sterile words.

“Here we are,” I said, pointing to the paragraph as well as the handcuffs would allow. “This proves it. I couldn’t have been involved with this train thing.”

“We know that now,” Rosser said. “But keep going. It gets more interesting.”

The next section listed some of the training the navy had put me through. I skipped that part. Too many memories of freezing, wet nights on the Welsh mountains. And also because I was hoping the final few pages would contain one thing in particular.

I wasn’t disappointed.

It was the psychological evaluation the navy had carried out during my recruitment. I’d never seen it before. Normally, they’re guarded like the crown jewels. I started at the beginning.

David is an adaptable realist, relying on what he sees, hears, and knows for himself. He is hardworking, righteous, fiercely independent, and convinced that his cause must win above all else. David is optimistic and positive, living mainly in the here and now. He pushes others as hard as he pushes himself, and would prove a challenging adversary
.

“Turn over,” Rosser said. “Check the parts I’ve marked out.”

Three sections on the next page were outlined in yellow.

David appears not to be overly concerned with the needs of others, and may resort to extreme practices if anything threatens to get in his way
.

 

David’s rather impersonal approach to life may leave little time, tolerance, or compassion for other people. He may adopt an “if you’ve got a headache, take an aspirin” attitude, which indicates a lack of empathy
.

 

David dislikes being told what to do, or how to do it. He may frequently rebel against the rules, and in so doing will strongly resist attempts by others to regulate his behavior
.

“What do you think?” Rosser said. “Makes you an ideal candidate for the hired help, doesn’t it?”

“Because a shrink thinks I may lack empathy?” I said.

“No. We know why you got involved. And it clearly had nothing to do with empathy. Mitchell?”

Mitchell Varley, the guy on Rosser’s left, lifted up a slim black briefcase and balanced it on his lap. He popped the catches and took out a small, clear Ziploc pouch. It contained a fragment of charred paper about an inch wide. He held the tiny bag at arm’s length for a moment, gripping it between his finger and thumb, then gently placed it on the table.

“You have some ash in a bag,” I said. “Should I be impressed?”

“We searched your hotel room,” Varley said. “Guess those bill wrappers didn’t burn quite as good as you figured. This was from a ten-thousand-dollar block. Enough in the room for five of them. What was that—the down payment? Half before, half after? That’s the normal deal?”

“So a hundred thousand dollars was the price of Michael Raab’s life,” Rosser said. “Question is, have you got what it’ll cost to save your own?”

It was early in December when we moved away from Birmingham.

I remember the date because I’d just been given a part in the school nativity play. It was my first one. I was going to be Joseph. The plot wasn’t too convincing, but acting it out sounded fun. I was disappointed to miss the chance, at first. But at my new school we heard all sorts of other Bible stories. Some were much better. David and Goliath, for example. That was the best of all.

The hero shared my name, for a start.

And when the chips were down, I liked how he stepped up and faced his enemy alone.

The reflection of Rosser’s pale, humorless face floated in the polished granite like a ghoul hovering over a giant overturned gravestone.

“Downstairs, was the death penalty mentioned?” he said.

“It might have been,” I said. “I can’t remember. People are threatening to kill me all the time. And yet, here I am.”

“Good. Because I’ve changed my mind. I’ve got something else lined up for you.”

“An apology? A first-class ticket back to London?”

“An eight-by-ten cell,” he said, reaching to his left and slowly drawing
the edge of his hand across the shiny surface. “Think about it. That’s about a quarter of the size of this table.”

“I don’t see a judge in here.”

“Eight feet by ten. Your whole world. Twenty-three hours a day. How long would you last?”