Father Night (20 page)

He rose and extended his hand. “Alan, right? Charles said you’d show up.” He gave a tilt of his head. “Let’s go in back.”

They went through one of the bays, which smelled of motor oil, grease, and metal. A couple of Latino men in stained overalls had one of the limos up on a lift and were dismantling a section of the underside, all the while keeping streams of electric-quick street Spanish flowing between them.

Beemer led the way through a dimly lit storeroom that reeked of rubber tires.

“Diet or reg?” he asked.

“I hate Diet anything,” Fraine said.

“Mos def.”

Banging out a couple of bottles of Coke from an old, rumbling machine, Beemer ambled out a door to a small open area where a lone hawthorn struggled to survive amid ratty tufts of what might be grass, but could just as easily be weeds. Either way, it was unkempt.

Hoisting himself onto an empty oil tub, he handed Fraine one of the frosty bottles, then opened his and took a long swig. He eyed Fraine as if he were assessing him. “How d’you know Charles?”

“We shared the same playpen.”

“Ha! Yeah, sure.” Beemer shook his head. “None of my bidness.” He took another swig and the Coke was gone. “So, what brings you out this way?”

Fraine looked around. “From Charlie to you.” His shoulders lifted and fell. “I’m afraid I don’t get the connection.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda the point.” Beemer swept a hand to indicate the buildings. “What we work on here are vehicles of a very special nature—the POTUS, veep, cabinet members, certain constituents of the Hill. They all come here. Y’see, I’m bonded in a very special way.
Semper fi,
baby.”

“Ex-Marine, huh?”

Beemer nodded. “Been there, done that. But the fact is I’m still on active duty. This here’s my last deployment.”

“So you don’t service Metro police vehicles.”

“I believe you know that I do not.”

Charlie must have given him more than a heads-up. “How about Leonard Bishop’s?”

“Well, shit.” Beemer grinned. “The chief is his own special breed of dickhead.”

*   *   *

A
LLI HAD
fallen into a deep sleep when the cell door banged open, bright lights switched on, and the limping gait of Waxman echoed on the concrete floor. When she opened her eyes, he was seated on his chair and Herr was standing by the doorway, an open taunt she ignored.

Every muscle in her body ached. It was freezing in the cell, and not a blanket in sight. Neither was there a bunk; she had slept on the floor and was now chilled to the bone. She clamped her jaws shut to keep her teeth from chattering.

“So,” Waxman said. “How are we feeling?”

“What time is it?”

“There’s always a chance we can work something out,” Waxman said, ignoring her. Like any good interrogator, he was bent on inflicting disorientation, the first step to loss of identity, breaking the spirit, and extracting from her whatever it was he wanted. “But that would entail cooperation on your part.”

Alli sat up and ran her tongue over her chapped lips. “Thirsty.”

Waxman flicked a hand. “Reggie.”

Herr produced a glass of water and stepped back, observing her coldly as she drank. He took the empty glass and retreated.

“I’m curious,” Alli said. “What makes Herr loyal to you?”

Across the room Herr twitched.
Score one for me,
Alli thought. She moved, and smelled herself.

Waxman wrinkled his nose, as if her body odor had penetrated his personal private space. “I saved Reggie’s life, if you must know. He owes me everything, don’t you, Reggie?”

Herr grunted.

Alli seized the opening, even though it was the narrowest of fissures. “He doesn’t seem all that happy about it.”

“Reggie is not, fundamentally, a happy person.” Waxman shifted his walking stick from one hand to the other. “But that’s one of the things that makes him so valuable to me.”

She lifted her head. “You hear that, Reggie? It pleases old Waxman that you’re not happy.”

Waxman glared at her. Herr, for his part, continued to watch her as if he were cataloguing her every move.

“Forget that line of reasoning,” Waxman said, recovering. “Reggie doesn’t care one way or another. His allegiance is set in stone.”

“Even stones shift,” Alli said, “in ocean tides and earthquakes.”

Waxman laughed. “And which one are you, Little Orphan Alli?”

Her stomach rumbled emptily and she felt a wave of dizziness sweep through her. She couldn’t recall when she had last eaten. She vowed not to let either of them see her weakness, to get a claw into the fissures in her wall, but her head nodded involuntarily.

“Hungry, are we?” Waxman lifted a hand and Herr brought in food on a small tray, which he set on Waxman’s narrow lap. “What have we here?” Waxman looked down. “Ah, chicken salad on whole wheat with mustard and mayonnaise. And what else? A bag of potato chips, a soda, and a slice of chocolate cake.” His eyes came up. “You like chocolate cake, don’t you, Little Orphan Alli?”

Alli, famished as she was, recognized that she had caused a fundamental shift in him. He had begun needling her; she had gotten under his skin. That knowledge didn’t help much, though, as she watched him pick up half the sandwich and begin to consume it in small, delicate bites.

“Delicious,” he said, fastidiously wiping his lips. He took another bite, chewed ostentatiously, and swallowed. “I would ask you to join me, but, alas, I cannot.” Once again, he smiled with his teeth. “Rules of engagement and all that.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Bravely spoken, Little Orphan Alli, but in time—and that time is rapidly approaching—it will.” Another tiny bite consumed. “I will tell you frankly that I am keenly anticipating that moment.”

Alli knew she needed to husband what positive nuggets she could from the situation. Once again, she fervidly wished Emma were here to help her. But her mind was cast back to their recent conversation.

“Can you help me?”
she had said.
I am doing what I can. “I don’t understand.” Yes, you do. Think, Alli.

Think, Alli.
Emma was trying to tell her to use her mind, and this was now what she ordered herself to do. She had already widened the fissure in Waxman’s psyche, but that was hardly enough. She knew he was brilliant, certainly clever enough to cotton on to what she was doing sooner rather than later. What she needed was a diversion, a ploy to make him think he knew what she was up to. She realized that she had just the ticket.

“I wonder,” Alli said, “what Herr thinks of all your fancy talk.”

“Reggie isn’t listening.”

“What he really means, Reggie, is that you don’t think, not for yourself, anyway.”

When Waxman continued to eat unabated, Alli said, “Reggie, old Waxman is good at putting words in your mouth. I want to hear what you have to say.”

Silence, apart from the walnuts in the chicken salad crunching between Waxman’s teeth.

“You won’t speak because he doesn’t want you to. I mean, that’s what your continued silence is telling me. Am I wrong?”

Herr, eyes downcast, picked at a cuticle.

Waxman wiped his mouth, a final act. “Stop this nonsense. It’s ludicrous to think you can put a wedge between us. Reggie wants to kill you, not listen to you spout off.”

“Too bad,” Alli said, “because I know things about his brother I’ll bet even he doesn’t know.”

Herr came off the wall. Sensing the movement, Waxman held up a hand. “She’s lying, Reggie. She spent all of one week with him.”

Alli kept her gaze steady on Herr. “Like two wartime soldiers in a foxhole. A more intimate week I can’t imagine.”

“She’s right about that,” Herr said.

“Use your head, Reggie,” Waxman said. “Your brother kidnapped her, strapped her into a chair, kept her in what amounts to solitary for a week, during which time he proceeded to brainwash her. Do you really think he’d reveal anything at all to her? Do you think she’d even be able to absorb it?”

“He did.” Alli appealed directly to Herr. “He told me—”

“What?” Waxman advanced on her, teeth bared. “What did he tell you?” He grinned, then turned to Herr. “You see what she’s been doing, Reggie. Trying to put a wedge between us.” He swung back. “You’re clever—more clever than I had imagined.” Then he struck her hard across the face with the bulb of his walking stick.

As Alli’s head lolled, he took a step back. “Reggie, no one knew Morgan better than I did. We’ll never get him back. You must face that sad fact. But the girl knows nothing about him—less than nothing.”

Herr seemed to see confirmation in Alli’s face. He went swiftly to her and hit her, once, twice, a third time. Waxman did not stop him until the storm had subsided.

“Go now, Reggie,” he said quietly. “You’ll have your full turn with her, I promise.”

Silence. Herr looked from him to Alli before stepping out and closing the door behind him.

Waxman swiveled back. “Now that we’ve gotten that distraction out of the way, it’s time to begin.”

Alli lifted up her swollen face. “I’m hungry.”

Waxman’s face closed like a bank vault. He rose, dragged her up, and bound her to the chair, then grasped the tray. “Hungry? Here!” He threw the tray and its contents onto the floor at her feet. Turning, he limped to the door.

There he turned back for a moment. “Whatever foolish ideas you may still be harboring, you’re never getting out of here.”

The door slammed behind him. She sat for a moment, immobile. Her empty stomach growled, then rebelled, and she retched violently. A moment later, the lights were extinguished and she was plunged into absolute darkness.

*   *   *

“I
T’S ALL
arranged,” Dyadya Gourdjiev said, pocketing his cell. “A car will be waiting to take us to the Nevsky airstrip outside the city.”

“And the plane?” Annika said.

“An Antonov An-2,” her grandfather said.

“Are you kidding? That’s a single-engine biplane, used mainly for agricultural dusting. It must be fifty years old.”

“It’s the only thing available at such short notice,” he said. “You can fly it, yes?”

“Of course I can,” Annika said. “I can fly anything.”

The train continued to snake its way into Saint Petersburg without further delay. After wiping the blood off Romulus’s tusks, Huey had been able to herd the two elephants back into their car, but only after Romulus, who insisted on going first, checked around with trunk and tusks to make sure no other intruders lurked in the shadows.

From this gilded, historic city it was only a hop, skip, and a jump to Finland. Once they crossed the border, Jack could phone the pilot of his plane, which had landed in Tallinn hours ago, and it would come pick them up at the Lappeenranta airport in southwest Finland.

They arrived at Ladoga Rail Terminal, on the western side of the Neva River, the industrial southwest of the city. They thanked Kurin for his help, but lost no time in exiting the train. Jack felt certain that the courageous ringmaster was relieved to be rid of them, even though Dyadya Gourdjiev gave him a generous gift that would pay for substantial upgrades for the circus.

The large Lada was waiting for them. It was surrounded by four armed men, one of whom grinned broadly and, throwing open his arms, embraced the old man, kissing him warmly on both cheeks.

“Everything is in readiness,” he said as he ushered them to the Lada, its huge engine gurgling mightily.

Gourdjiev introduced him as Toma. His handshake was firm and dry and he looked each of them in the eye.

“Hurry, now,” he said. “The quicker we get to the airstrip, the happier I’ll be.”

He and one other man got into the car with them. Even though the Lada’s interior was roomy, it was a close fit for seven people, including the driver. The two other gunmen watched them as they drove off.

“It’s approximately a forty-minute drive to the strip,” Toma said from the front seat. “Meanwhile, you’ll find vodka, bottled water, and food in the pockets of the seats in front of you.”

*   *   *

F
RAINE WAS
being followed.
That didn’t take long,
he thought as he exited a deli on K Street NW. Andy Beemer didn’t know who Bishop’s original rabbi was, but he claimed to know someone who did. Charlie had cautioned that it might work this way, so Fraine wasn’t surprised. It was lunchtime and he was famished. Besides, he needed to log some time at Metro HQ, otherwise people would start talking, and that talk would eventually flow upward to Bishop. From the time of his recruitment into Paull’s SITSPEC, Fraine had been scrupulous about making sure he did not show up on the chief of detectives’ radar. When it came to Bishop, Fraine had determined there was no such thing as being too cautious. From the deli, he had called Leopard, but the kid had nothing to report. He was still working on finding out where the Acacia unit had been deployed after landing in the Horn of Africa.

Fraine had eaten his corned beef sandwich, wishing he was in Katz’s on NYC’s Lower East Side. The pickles were good, though, as was the carrot cake. He had eaten leisurely, trying and failing to form a mental picture of the kind of man who would mentor a total shit like Bishop. The rabbi had to be a total shit, as well, but clearly he was someone with the juice to launch Bishop on the fast track inside Metro without causing major waves among the city’s top brass.

He’d paid his check and then, toothpick in one corner of his mouth, had ambled outside to take the temperature of D.C. His attention was drawn to a man staring into a shop window across the street, ostensibly eying the display of shoes. Fraine could see his own reflection in the window, which was what the man was actually watching. Fraine began a circuitous route that would eventually take him back to Metro HQ. He wasn’t going near Beemer’s contact until he was free and clear of tags.

As he walked, he heard from behind him the cough of an SUV engine starting up. He waited in vain for the vehicle to pass him, but it didn’t. It might have been going in the opposite direction, except he continued to hear the engine. The SUV was following him. Tags on the ground
and
on wheels. Someone was taking no chances. Twice, he caught a glimpse of the man who had been watching his reflection in the shoe shop window. He was of average height, slightly younger than middle age, neither heavy nor slim, with about the blandest face Fraine had ever seen. A professional tag, in other words. So, not Metro. A Fed, in all probability, which both narrowed the field and upped the stakes.