Final Target (37 page)

Matson’s hands began to shake as if his body understood before his mind. Gage watched him disassociate, lose his bearings.

Gage leaned in toward Matson and grabbed the front of his jacket, just below his chin, and yanked up. “You little runt. Burch took two bullets in the chest because of you.”

“You…you are…” Matson’s voice failed him.

Unmoved by either anger or sympathy, Gage watched the spectacle. He knew that the actual, the imaginary, and Matson’s bewildered attempt to distinguish them had been sucked into a ferocious vortex. He saw Matson’s eyes recoil from the images flying at him, the
names and faces emerging out of the whirlwind, gouging at his sense of reality.

Matson dropped to his hands and knees, splattering vomit on his parka and pants, and ending with dry heaves that arched his back into spasms. He tried to wipe his mouth with his sleeve as he struggled to his feet, but missed and fell forward, then curled into a fetal ball and began whimpering.

Viz stepped forward and looked down at Matson. “Jeez, boss. I think you broke that son of a bitch.”

I
’ve got him stashed,” Gage told Peterson across the conference table on the eleventh floor of the Federal Building the following morning. Zink sat at the end of the table near the door, childishly sneering.

“It’s called kidnapping and false imprisonment,” Peterson said.

“You don’t know when to give up.” Gage shook his head. “How do you know he doesn’t want to be stashed? You’ve listened to the recording I made last night. Does he sound like a guy who’s ready to cozy up to you again?”

Peterson leaned back in his chair. “What do you want?”

“Transactional immunity for Burch. No prosecution ever for anything related to SatTek.”

Peterson tossed his pen onto the table, as if Gage’s demand was absurd. “I’ll only give him use immunity for anything he tells the grand jury.”

Gage looked hard at Peterson. “You don’t get it. Maybe you don’t want to. Maybe you’re still addicted to the headlines you’d get bringing down a lawyer like Burch. Maybe his indictment was going to be your ticket to Willie Rose’s job after he quits to run for governor.”
Gage paused for a beat. “I’ve got news for you: Burch…didn’t…do it.” Gage stood up. “Maybe your boss will catch on a little faster.”

Peterson straightened himself in his chair. He glanced over at Zink. The sneer was gone. “Okay. Sit down.”

“What does okay mean?”

“It means transactional.”

Gage sat down. “And I want a court order before I leave today.”

“Fine. And I assume that’s not all you want.”

“You got that right. I don’t want Burch or his firm named in the civil suit.”

“I can’t control what Braunegg does,” Peterson said. “DOJ policy says I can’t interfere.”

“It’s a little late to start drawing ethical boundaries between you and Braunegg. You’re the tit he sucks on. He’ll do whatever you tell him.”

Peterson smirked. “Anything else on your wish list?”

“Nope. But I’ve got twenty million dollars that Matson had in a Swiss account. KTMG Limited. I’ll wire it to the court’s bank when Braunegg confirms that Burch is out of the case.”

“Why the court?”

“Because I don’t want Braunegg getting a cut of it. If he doesn’t recover it on his own, he doesn’t get a percentage. His thirty percent will go to the victims.”

Peterson picked up the telephone and dialed.

“Franklin Braunegg, please…Frank, this is Bill…Yeah, fine…Look, the complexion of the SatTek case changed…Yeah, just today…I’ll fill you in on the details later…You’ll need to drop Burch and his firm from the complaint…Yeah, that’s what I said…It’s gotta be that way…Yeah, how’d you guess? He’s sitting
right here…” Peterson covered the mouthpiece. “Can they interview Burch?”

Gage shook his head. “They’re not coming anywhere near him. I’ll tell them what they need to know.”

Peterson removed his hand. “He won’t go for it…Gage will do it…He’s kinda got a gun to our heads on this one…You need to cut your losses…okay…I’ll talk to you later.”

Peterson hung up. “He agrees.”

Gage nodded, then dialed his cell phone. “Bring him in.”

Two minutes later the conference room phone rang. Peterson picked it up, listened for a few seconds, then said, “Zink’ll come down,” and disconnected. Zink pulled himself up from his chair and shuffled out.

Gage watched as Peterson began to write a column of names on a blank yellow pad in front of him. Gage knew what it was without asking: a revised grand jury target list.

“You’re pretty light on your feet for a big guy,” Gage said.

“It’s the only useful lesson from football. Sometimes you have to settle for a field goal.”

“Who’ve you got?”

“Matson, the stockbrokers, Gravilov, the controller at SatTek…what’s his name?”

“Milsberg, Robert Milsberg. Leave him off. He’s worked his tail off helping me.”

“Will he debrief?”

“He’ll do what I tell him.”

“Okay. He’ll be an unindicted coconspirator.”

Gage tossed a bone. “Why not the Ukrainian president’s son instead? He’d be a prize.”

Peterson brightened.

“You’d get headlines around the world. A helluva press conference for your boss.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“Of course, you’ll never get him to trial. No extradition treaty.”

“I’m not so sure,” Peterson said. “CNN is saying the new president wants to put his predecessor and his cronies on trial. Maybe him and his son will make a run for it and we’ll snag him in a country where we do.”

Peterson rose and headed toward the door. “You want coffee?”

“Sure. Black.” Gage knew Peterson’s offer wasn’t really about a warm drink. He’d simply made peace with the reality Gage had imposed on him.

Peterson returned just a minute before Viz, Matson, and Zink approached the door. Matson froze at the threshold, glancing first at Gage, then at Peterson, then back at Gage, uncertain where to sit, not sure who now owned him.

Gage pointed at the end of the table, farthest from the door. Viz walked him to a chair and unlocked the handcuffs. Matson rubbed his wrists, then pulled out the chair and sat down. Viz leaned against a bookshelf behind him.

“What about his lawyer?” Peterson asked. “Shouldn’t Hackett be here?”

“No.” Gage looked at Matson. “Didn’t you tell me you wanted to represent yourself?”

“Yeah,” Matson said, slumping down in his chair. “I guess so.”

“You disappointed me,” Peterson said, glaring at Matson. “And you’re gonna pay for it.”

“I’m willing to do a few years. I told Gage I’d do that.”

“A few years won’t do it.”

“Okay, five, five years.” Matson said the words in an expectant tone, as if a negotiation had begun. “I can do five years.”

“Not a chance.” Peterson’s forefinger thumped the table. “There’s something called sentencing guidelines and you’re now off the fucking chart.”

Matson swallowed hard, then sat up rubbing his hands together. “We can work something out. I know we can work something out.” He forced a weak half smile, his salesman’s instincts taking over. “I got it. Gravilov. He’s big. Him and Kovalenko were behind the killings. Absolutely. And they weren’t part of my deal. It’ll be something new. I can testify about those guys. Then go into Witness Protection.”

“No chance,” Peterson said. “You were double-dealing behind the back of the United States government. The jury wouldn’t believe a word you said.”

“What about the missiles? The missiles blew up, right? Can’t we say that was the plan all along? I was working undercover. That’s what we can say.” Matson nodded, glancing back and forth between Peterson and Gage. “Then I can go to Ukraine and testify against the president’s son. And I met two generals. I can testify about them, too.”

Gage stood up. “You’re a hell of a piece of work, Matson.”

Viz walked toward the door, and Gage followed behind him.

“Wait,” Matson called out. “What does KTMG stand for? I have to know.”

Viz laughed.

Gage glanced back at Matson. “Kiss The Money Good-bye.”

Peterson walked with Gage and Viz down the hallway toward the lobby.

“What’ll you do with Matson?” Gage asked.

“Zink’ll take him over to North County Jail in Oakland. Mix him in with a thousand old gangsters and dope dealers. He might as well start getting used to hard time.” Peterson looked over at Gage. “You think he realizes that he’ll never get out?”

“I’m not sure it’s dawned on him that he’ll never even get bail. If I was him I would’ve bolted for the door when Viz took off the handcuffs. That was his last chance to see daylight.”

They walked to the end of the hallway in silence, then Peterson asked, “What now?”

“I’ll take Burch up to my cabin for a few days. He’s been a prisoner in his house too long.”

Peterson paused at the exit before opening the door to the lobby. “Tell Burch I’m sorry about all this. I really thought Matson was being straight. Everything he said seemed to check out.”

“Maybe that’s because you had Zink doing the checking.”

Courtney was helping her husband down the front stairs as Gage parked his car in their driveway a couple of hours later. She waved at Gage as he opened the passenger door, and then guided Burch to it. Gage helped ease him into the passenger seat.

“Take it slow, champ. No rush.”

Burch grimaced as he dropped into the seat, then smiled.

“If I was moving any slower, I’d be standing still.”

Gage walked Courtney back up the stairs. She turned at the top and looked back at her husband.

“There may be some things Jack wants to talk to you about once you get settled up at the cabin,” she said.

“Did he tell you what they were?”

“He tried, but couldn’t find a way to say what he meant. I think he needs to talk it all through with you in order to figure it out.”

B
urch and Gage stared at the flames consuming oak logs in the fireplace of Gage’s cabin. Burch’s walker stood next to the rocking chair where he sat with a glass of bourbon in his hand and with his legs covered by a plaid wool blanket. Gage reclined on the couch, feet up on the coffee table.

The midnight forest was finally quiet except for an owl hooting in the distance.

“Matson is absolutely certain that Gravilov was behind all the violence,” Gage said, after recounting his surrender of Matson to Peterson.

“That explains Fitzhugh. It must’ve been that fellow Razor. But what about me and Granger?”

“Matson said he had nightmares starting the moment he met that monster Kovalenko at Northstead Securities.”

Burch caught his breath. “Kovalenko? It was Kovalenko?”

Gage shook his head. “Not him. He doesn’t match the description. He probably brought in some East Coast
enforcer from his Goldstake days. But we’ll find the guy. It’s just a matter of time.”

Gage rose, then grabbed the poker and repositioned the logs, buying time to think. In saying those words he grasped that he’d adjusted to Burch’s fragility in the two years since Courtney’s cancer, accepted it, maybe even contributed to it—and he’d just done it again.

Gage turned to face him. “Sorry, champ, that’s not true. We’ll never get past Kovalenko to catch the guy who shot you. The Kovalenkos of the world don’t break, and they don’t make deals.” He paused. “I was just trying—”

“To protect me.”

Gage shrugged.

“I know. It took a couple of slugs to help me figure that out.” Burch looked past Gage toward the fire. “I’ve had a lot of time to think.” Then back at Gage. “You know what I realized? That I’ve misunderstood myself all my life. I thought I was like you, but I’m not. I should’ve learned that lesson in Afghanistan. I spent the two weeks terrified and bewildered. You didn’t need me there at all.” Burch set down his glass. “In all the things I do. Sailing. Skiing. Even work. I’ve always oriented myself against a predictable kind of resistance. Ocean breezes, gravity. Then, whenever I felt constrained, I became reckless.”

Gage nodded. He hadn’t thought about it that way, but Burch was right.

“But when Courtney was diagnosed, the wind just stopped. I felt completely helpless. Adrift. After I got shot, lying there in the hospital, I realized that you had always been protecting me, insulating me. Even when we were in Moscow. I sat in that conference room, forehanding contract provisions back and forth in a contained little
space for gentlemen who accepted all the rules. I even saw you going out to meet Slava Akimov and the others as just one more step in an orderly process—risky, but constrained by rational people pursuing their long-term self-interest.”

“Does that mean you would’ve done it differently?” Gage asked, dropping back onto the couch.

Burch shook his head. “I just would’ve understood it differently. Truthfully.” He fell silent and slowly rocked back and forth in his chair. “That’s what I’ve needed all my life.”

Gage stared at the fire. There was no reason to say anything more. Burch had arrived where he needed to go.

They sat silent for a few minutes. Then Burch looked over.

“I don’t understand how Matson got involved in selling those devices to Ukraine in the first place,” Burch said. “Arms trafficking just doesn’t seem like something he’d do. When he first came to see me, he seemed like no more than an earnest salesman.”

“It didn’t happen all at once. Gravilov led him along. First they tried to slip high-power devices into Ukraine labeled as low-power. A woman at SatTek named Katie Palan found out about it. I talked to her parents while you were in the hospital. She’d written an anonymous letter to the FBI, but—”

The word caught in his throat.

Burch squinted toward Gage. “But what?”

Gage pulled his feet off the coffee table and then sat up.

“But SatTek self-disclosed…claimed it was a mistake.”

“What’s wrong?”

Gage rose and paced in front of the fireplace, trying to order the images and sequences clashing in his head.

“Something doesn’t make sense. The timing isn’t right.”

He stopped pacing, then turned toward Burch. “Katie Palan’s car accident was more than a year before the grand jury started hearing the case. Right in the middle of the scam.”

“You lost me.”

“I thought the leak was from the grand jury. So did Peterson. He sent Zink to investigate it. Somebody was tipping off Gravilov. Your name came up, you got shot. Then Fitzhugh. And when Granger decided to cooperate, he got hit.”

Gage walked to the kitchen counter and picked up the telephone. “Maybe I underestimated the guy. Maybe everybody did.”

He called information, then dialed an Oakland number.

A woman answered, “North County Jail.”

“I’d like to know if you have a federal prisoner there, Stuart Matson.”

“You have a DOB?”

“No. But he’s mid-forties.”

Gage heard keystrokes against the background of light jazz.

“There’s no Stuart Matson in custody.”

“Maybe he just came in.”

“Hold on.”

Gage heard the clerk set down the phone, then the sound of footsteps followed by distant voices. “Vernice, is there a Stuart Matson waiting to be booked?…
What’s
the name?
…Matson…
You got somebody calling?
…Yeah…
The name’s familiar but it’s not in my paperwork
…”

Gage heard footsteps approaching the phone.

“No. He’s not here…hold on…Matson, yeah…That was him?…You still there?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a runner. It was on the radio.”

“He escaped?”

“Five or six hours ago. From an FBI agent driving him over from San Francisco. Hijacked right at the bottom of the first Oakland off-ramp. A stockbroker or something, right?”

“Sort of. Thanks.”

Gage set the phone back into its cradle and turned toward Burch.

“Gravilov had someone snatch Matson.”

A squeak of a porch board broke the forest silence, followed by four hard raps on the front door. Gage peeked through the curtain, then opened the door. Zink was standing on the bottom step, his badge extended in his right hand toward the light emerging from the cabin, while the other rested on his gun.

“I tried to call,” Zink said, “but there’s no cell service out here and the cabin phone is unlisted.”

“Come on in.”

Zink climbed the last three steps, then crossed the threshold.

“Aren’t you supposed to be chasing down Matson?” Gage asked.

“I am. Him and the guys who jacked me.” Zink offered a weak smile. “I feel like a fucking idiot.”

“Tough break. What can we help you with?”

“I need to talk to you two.” Zink remained standing
near the door as if hesitant to approach Burch. “See if you have any ideas about where Matson might go, where he might’ve stashed money. He’ll need some cash to live on. And I gotta go through you to speak to Alla, see what she knows.”

“Matson turned out to be a lot smarter than any of us figured,” Gage said.

“Sure was.”

“Well, I’m sure as bloody hell not talking to you,” Burch said. “And I have no apologies.”

“I know you’ve got hard feelings, but I was just doing my job.”

Burch’s face darkened. “Not very well, I’d say.”

“Matson was just so believable,” Zink said. “He fooled us, me and Peterson.”

“Jack’ll calm down in a minute,” Gage said. Then he felt his heart thump as his mind flashed back on Zink poised on the stairs, but kept his voice steady. “Why don’t you take a seat. Maybe we can figure out where he went.”

Gage glanced backward, as if looking for a chair, then spun back at the sound of a ripping Velcro holster strap. His right cross hit Zink in the jaw—

“Graham!” Burch yelled. “What’re you doing?”

A left jab to the nose brought up Zink’s hands, and a right uppercut just below the ribs dropped him to the floor. Gage then knelt down and yanked Zink’s gun from his holster, a battered Ruger .357.

“What’d you do, Zink? Buy this on the street? Steal it from the evidence room?”

Zink curled up next to the threshold, covering his head as if expecting the next sound to be the gun butt against his skull.

Gage pulled up Zink’s left pant leg, then tore off his ankle holster.

“What’s going on? Graham, he’s a federal agent.”

Gage looked over at Burch, then held up his left hand, trigger finger curled. “The man who shot you now has a face.”

Burch’s mouth dropped. “But he’s…”

Gage glared down at Zink as a nightmarish image sent a tremor through him: Katie Palan’s car spinning out of control and tumbling down the hillside.

“It was the letters.” Gage glanced at Burch. “First Katie sent an anonymous letter about the illegal sale of video amplifiers to Ukraine, and Zink covered it up. Then she sent a signed one about the stock fraud, so he had to get rid of her.”

Instant confirmation appeared in Zink’s rodentlike eyes darting around the room. He reached for a table leg and tried to pull himself to his feet.

Gage pointed down, his finger an inch from Zink’s bleeding nose. “Don’t.”

Zink fell back, grimacing as his shoulder hit the floor.

Bending toward Zink, Gage asked, “Why? Why’d you do it?”

A montage of facts, until then shadowed behind the flash of Zink’s badge or submerged in the chaos of events, turned stark and sharp-edged in Gage’s mind: the sexual harassment complaint that derailed Zink’s career, his compulsive cruising for street prostitutes, the arrests he’d slithered out of.

“Blackmail,” Gage said, as much to himself as to Zink and Burch. “First it was blackmail…then what?…I’ll tell you. They kept you from getting into trouble, even
restored you to being a perfect FBI agent, by keeping your sexual addiction satisfied.”

Gage rose, then took a step backward and sat on the edge of the coffee table.

“You knew I’d figure out that they’d gotten to you, but you didn’t know when.” Gage stared at Zink, nodding his head slowly. “And you guessed wrong. Not by much, but you guessed wrong.” He stopped nodding. “What did you stop for? Gas? Burger and fries? Coffee? Take a leak on the side of the road?”

Zink’s eyes just barely widened.

Gage answered the question himself. “Lack of bladder control.” He kept looking at Zink, but spoke to Burch. “He was there when Peterson and me were talking to Matson, him blaming Gravilov and Kovalenko for the killings, for shooting you. He knew we believed Matson and thought we’d wrapped it up. He figured he had all the time in the world.”

Gage finally turned toward Burch. “If he’d gotten here thirty seconds earlier, we’d be dead.”

He then spun back, grabbed Zink by his shirtfront, and yanked him a foot above the floor. “What did you do with our little friend Scoob?”

Zink stared back without answering.

Gage jammed the Ruger muzzle under Zink’s chin, hard against his windpipe. “I said, where’s Matson?”

“Car.”

“And where’s the car?”

“Dirt road.”

Gage lowered him and retrieved an extension cord from the kitchen. He hogtied Zink and removed his car keys.

“You have my permission to blow off his head if he moves.” Gage handed Burch the revolver, then paused and looked around. “Maybe not his head.” He dragged a small table away from Zink’s right and pushed a couple of fly rods farther toward the corner. “Shoot him in the stomach. Brain matter is a helluva mess to clean up.”

Gage found Zink’s car a hundred yards up the road, then slid into the driver’s seat. He made no effort to avoid the bumps and potholes on the drive back to the cabin, under the theory that if Matson was dead, he couldn’t feel it, and if he was alive, he deserved it. Gage parked in front, then popped the trunk. Matson cowered inside, his bound hands covering his face as if flesh could stop lead.

“You want to ride down the mountain in here?” Gage asked. “Or do you want to climb out?”

Matson peeked upward, eyes widening at the sight of Gage.

Gage untied Matson’s feet, then swung them over the lip of the trunk and pulled him out. He reached to untape Matson’s mouth, then stopped.

“I really don’t want to hear another word out of you.”