Gray Night (2 page)

 “And is that your full given name?”

 Good question. I’d asked the Adrian Knight before me if he’d ever used a middle name. He hadn’t. “Yes, it is.”

 “You know good and well it isn’t,” Bob muttered still not looking up from his list of questions.

 “You know, despite what you see in the bad TV crime dramas, people don’t change their names all the time.”

 “You did once,” Bob said looking up.

 Twice, but they didn’t need to know that. I raised my eyebrows and waited for him to continue.

 He went back to his paper. “I assume your physical description hasn’t changed.”

 “That’s very good, Bob, since it’s been a whole two weeks since the last time we were all here. I swear one of these days I’m going to dye my hair or something just to screw with you and make you reprint that paper.”

 Chris snorted a quiet laugh. Maybe he wasn’t hopeless.

 “You are the same Adrian Knight convicted of war crimes between 1998 and 2003 against the sovereign peoples of—”

 “Accused,” I corrected.

 “Excuse me?”

 “I said accused, not convicted. There was never an indictment from the International Criminal Court or an independent State.”

 Bob looked at me again. “You are the same man who stands accused then?”

 “I am.”

 “And you are the same Adrian Knight accused of involvement in weapons trafficking by Interpol?”

 “The whole color wheel of official notices.”

 “Drug trafficking?”

 “I am.”

 “Human trafficking and other crimes against humanity?”

 “Yes,” I said, gritting my teeth. I didn’t know why that was in the file that the FBI had on me, but it was bullshit and one day I was going to find the person responsible.

 “In 2004 and beyond, after the Second Congo War, you were accused of the illegal exportation of cultural artifacts, theft of said artifacts, piracy, fraud, extortion, blackmail, and various white collar crimes?”

 I nodded.

 “And is this your signature?” he asked, handing me a copy of the papers the State and Justice Departments had me sign granting me amnesty and special asylum, as Adrian Knight was not born a U.S. citizen.

 “It is.”

 “And these as well?” he handed me the papers the NSA, DOD, and FBI had me sign, stating my amnesty and special asylum in the United States was contingent upon my full cooperation with said entities. After the marathon session of debriefing, I hadn’t heard from the NSA or DOD, but the FBI showed up like clockwork twice a month. More if something specific came across their desks. And, I suspect items were handed over to them from the other agencies to deal with. Everything useful I had given from the start, but what they really wanted to know about was in the thin folder still on the sheriff’s desk.

 “Yes, Bob. Do you have anything new this week? Come on, why don’t you let the kid take over?” I said, looking at Chris. I said kid but he was probably my age. Chris looked worried and gave me a subtle shake of his head. Interesting. I considered pushing to see what that was about but didn’t get the chance. Bob stood, took the papers out of my hand, and opened the thin folder. He didn’t hand it to me or even slide it over. He knew I had its contents memorized. Half the report came from me in the first place.

 Bob rubbed the bridge of his nose right between his eyes. “I know you know who he is, Adrian. You know what he is. What all he’s done. Tell me. Half of this is nonsensical anyway.” He flipped to the next page. “We don’t even have a first name. You mention
Abiku
and
Kishi
like that’s supposed to mean something, but it’s all local religious BS and you know it. I’m not fucking Mulder here out chasing demons. The kinds of stories I’ve heard associated with this asshole make you look like a saint, Knight. And anything you’re holding back is aiding him.”

 He'd never gone off script before. Something was setting him off. A history lesson was the last thing I needed, though. Thank God I’d had one last pill to take when I got home last night after the museum gala. It was wearing off, but I was grateful for it just then. My stomach roiled thinking about what images might have involuntarily risen from my memory. It didn’t matter what descriptions had been given to Bob, or what he’d heard around the office. The demons that the local Yoruba and Bantu peoples assigned to the man in the folder were closer to the truth than anyone wanted to admit. The folder didn’t say anything about the burning children. Or anything about what heaps of flayed, decaying flesh smelled like. And no one ever talked about the end of the war when we were finding the bodies, used and discarded, fed upon. The cadavers used by his smugglers. Cadavers… sometimes they didn’t wait for death. I’d seen it. And it all led to one man. A man it seemed most of the Western world was convinced I could deliver in chains. I remember when I thought so too.

 “Everything I have on him I gave to you. I gave that information to anyone and everyone who asked. Bob, most of the file you keep waving around at me every month is based on my own report.”

 “I’ve seen thicker folders on Santa Claus!” he hollered, dumping three pages of text and a blurry photograph onto the desk. Bob grabbed his jacket off the rack and headed for the door.

 “Umm, hey, Bob. Where you going?” asked Chris.

 “I’m getting more coffee.”

 “The diner doesn’t open until six-thirty,” I said being helpful.

 “Then I’ll wait!” Bob said, slamming the door behind him.

 Sheriff Clark took his old leather seat back and gathered all the papers and folders that had fallen. He looked over at Chris. “Agent Bailey, you mind telling me what all that’s about, son?”

 “Look, you can’t ever say anything around him, all right. Guys upstairs are pushing hard for his retirement. They keep giving him assignments more and more likely to fail except he keeps seeing them through. As long as he’s successful no one can touch him, but one slip and I’m getting a new partner young enough to still get carded everywhere,” Chris said.

 “So what is it then? Housekeeping? Money? He piss off all the wrong people, or sleep with the director’s daughter?” Clark asked.

 “Ha-ha…yeah. Ummm, all of the above,” said Chris.

 “You’re kidding. The director’s daughter? Seriously?” I asked.

 “Not the current one. Guy before him. Married her. They separated two months ago and daddy’s out for blood,” Chris said.

 Clark whistled. “Well hell, now I feel bad for calling him an asshole.”

 “You didn’t call him an asshole,” Chris said.

 “Oh, I didn’t? Well, I was thinking it,” Clark said smiling.

 Have I mentioned my respect for the good sheriff?

 Chris Bailey grabbed a chair by the wall and dragged it over the wooden floor to me where he sat down. “Adrian, despite having one of the thickest files I’ve ever seen, you aren’t half as bad to deal with as everyone else on our desk. Truth is I enjoy driving this far north out of the city, but you need to realize that if we blow this we’re getting reassigned. The rest of the guys aren’t as charming as we are. I’m asking you nicely, please, is there anything at all you can give us?”

 Well crap. I hadn’t thought of that. The information I had already given was as thorough as I would be, but I’d held back. There were accounts I wanted to stay off the radar until I had a better chance to follow up on them, loose ends I was still looking into. And things that should never again see the light of day. I’d planned to blow off the feds indefinitely. That might have been optimistic. New guys coming in could start screwing with my own research. And Bailey was right, they could do worse. Damn it. I didn’t want Bob ruining the success streak he was shoving into the faces of everyone on his back just because of me. We weren’t exactly friends or anything, but the idea of him sticking it to someone else made me smile. Bob didn’t deserve that. But I couldn’t give them the accounts either. What I needed to do was go home and see what else I could find that didn’t connect to anything I was working on.

 “Well?” Bailey asked. “Had enough time to think about it?”

 “Listen, next time we meet I can have something. I’ll go back over everything and try to—”

 Bailey moved faster than I thought he could, grabbing a fistful of my jacket and pulling it tight into my throat. .

 “No! You listen. I gave you a chance and you gave me the run-around. Same song and dance you’ve been doing for months. Enough. You know what they’re going to do to you? Do you? Every time they have a question from now till eternity, they’ll drag your ass down to Virginia just because they can. And that’s without even mentioning what happened out on the Concordia last week.”

 “We’ve covered that,” I choked out. “I was there working for the museum.”

 “Did you know our superiors want you watched? Because they do now. Day and night. Your home, your car, your work, your phones, your friends. We will find out everything! You screw up once—I mean you fucking jaywalk—and they will deliver your ass back where they found you!”

 Sheriff Clark jumped out of his seat, but Bailey just stormed out.

 “You all right?” Clark asked.

 “I’ve had worse,” I said trying not to cough. I stood and Clark got up and took the chairs back to the wall.

 Well, that could have gone better. I’d learned some new things though. Bailey may be the junior agent but he knows what’s going on. Bob’s got issues at work and at home, and it looks like I’m the case going the worst for him. That continues, and I get some new agents. New agents would interfere in my research. Hell, if they were watching everything, it compromised a whole hell of a lot more than that. They’d send me back to Africa…I shuddered. I couldn’t let that happen. One more thing to take care of on an increasingly long list. Especially since that business with Mr. Wagner at the museum gala last night. Nevertheless, today would be perfect for it, if any day could be. I had nothing going on but swinging by Nick’s office to check on things and keeping some business hours for him while he was out of town. That would give me time to work out how to fix everything with Mr. Wagner over that business last night, and hopefully to come up with something for Bob and Chris. I needed to get going. It’d take at least an hour to get into the city.

 “I know you’re lying to them, Adrian,” said Sheriff Clark when I reached for the door.

 I turned to look at him.

 “Don’t know why what with everything else you’ve already given them. Maybe you got a good reason. Maybe you don’t. I’ve never given you any trouble over staying in my town. Man’s past is his own business. But sometimes it can affect everyone around him. I don’t want that here. Neither do you. I can play dumb hick local cop for the feds, but I know all kinds of things they don’t. Like Djimon Adeyemo. Like that Stratford House Ms. Summerfield runs for you. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Your name may not be anywhere near it, but I know you own it. I haven’t said a word to anyone and I won’t either. No reason to bring them into this. Actually, if not for Stratford, I would have run you off last year,” he said.

 Marion Clark had become a dangerous man. To me anyway. Maybe to himself as well, but he didn’t have to tell me. What was he getting at?

 “You telling me not to make you regret it?” I asked.

 “Maybe a little, but no. What I mean is it isn’t just you versus them. You got others to think about. So do I. I can appreciate you stalling and not wanting to be any more involved. Maybe that used to be best, but things are changing. My point is you got something you can do about this you do it, son. You understand?” he said.

 He had gotten it all right without knowing a thing about the situation. Yeah, Marion Clark was a dangerous man. A man that would see the right thing done even if it meant crossing the FBI and the man with the thickest file on Bailey’s desk to do it. Good for him.

 “Yes sir.”

Chapter Three

 Two hours later I turned onto a side street in lower Manhattan and into an entirely different world. After a mile of big, beautiful buildings in steel and glass, one right turn rolled back the clock a few decades. Nick’s office was in a short line of much older brick and mortar buildings that clashed with the wealth not a thousand yards behind. The street was nearly devoid of businesses, and the few that remained were under the constant bombardment of people after the properties, who all seemed to be in need of new parking garages.

 I pulled my ‘70 Chevelle to the curb outside his office building and went inside without bothering to lock the car. I didn’t have to here. For one, the driver’s side door didn’t lock; also, nobody would touch a car parked outside Nick’s place. Nick Roarke had worked here for years before I came back and had quite a reputation. He stayed involved in the neighborhood, volunteered, and took on pro bono work. It led to the decent folks standing by him and having more backbone. And the other folks, well, they gave him a wide berth. A couple of city blocks wide.

 I opened the double glass doors, went into the lobby, and stopped to check the mail. I grabbed the stack inside and flipped through them on my way upstairs. Water bill, electric bill, phone bill, rent notice, and all the bulk rate ads the box could hold.

 The building had an elevator but no one ever used it. The girls who worked the phone banks on the second floor said Abner, the old doorman, told them once that it fell and the previous owners couldn’t afford to fix it. Sometimes one of the new girls would get dared to push the buttons and everyone would freak out listening to the old metal casket rise to take them back down below. It was a hazard and one day it was going to—I heard a shuffling noise coming from the fourth floor hall above me before I reached the top of the stairs.

 Somebody was there waiting. I set the mail on the stairs and drew my gun, a custom built 10mm. Maybe they were here for Nick. Maybe for me. There were no other offices or storage, or anything else up here. No other reason to be on the fourth floor. And there’s no way they didn’t hear me coming up. Paranoid? Maybe. But time and again I’ve found paranoia to be just good sense. Which I’m sure says all kinds of things about my life.