Reckoning (42 page)

Imposing, Stern stepped closer. "It shall all be over quickly, Ms. Halder. The situation is beyond us, really. We are mere players in this drama, and we only act our roles."

Her eyes blinked once, slowly. She looked through him. "Why don't you just kill me?"

Stern laughed, motioned for her to recline on an opulent, dark green couch. But she ignored the gesture, and he shook his head, revealing his disappointment.

"Ms.
Halder," he said, with a faint trace of embarrassment, "do not force me to be... indelicate. We are both inured to this situation. There is no need for unseemly or contemptible behavior."

Sarah
muttered, "Give me a baseball bat and I'll show you unseemly."

Shocked, Stern regarded her with a suddenly chilling
presence. "I see that you have no superior poise within you," he said slowly, advancing steadily. "No presence of mind to behave with the courtesy often reserved for these situations by people of character. So I shall treat you as one of the inferior minions that you truly are."

Shifting her eyes, Sarah searched for a weapon.

"There is no escape, Ms. Halder." He halted a short space from her and clasped his hands with quiet dignity behind his back. "You shall remain here until we find the manuscript. If Gage reaches it first, you shall be our guarantee that he delivers it to us. That is the reason I have allowed you to live until now. There is no other."

It took iron control for Sarah to continue her composure.

He's still alive!

"And," continued Stern, "to be brutally honest, I confess that I reserve no compassion for either you or your father. By your own decision you entered a world where you did not belong, a world that is ruled by men of far greater faculties." He tilted his head as if discerning her terrible imperfections. "Also, I am inclined to warn you not to attempt an escape. You will be severely pained by the experience."

A contemptible smile touched Sarah's face.

"You can't stop him," she said quietly.

Anger hardened Stern's face but a disciplined control instantly overcame it. Yet the emotional content of his stance intensified his presence, making him seem both more remote and more threatening in the same moment.

"But I
have
stopped him, Ms. Halder," he said severely. "I have stopped him many times. And now Gage is completely alone, and, as the cliché says so perfectly, a man alone is easy prey. He has no one to fight beside him. Even Kertzman, the consummate hunter, is deluged in Washington amid cries of scandal." He paused, raising empty hands in a mocking, searching movement. "Now there is only Gage. A single, desperate man waging a private war against a monolithic force he cannot begin to understand. Tragic, is it not?"

"Not as tragic as it's going to be," said Sarah
, "for you."

Silence between them.

"You have sublime hopes, Ms. Halder," Stern said, his gaze unfriendly. "To be sure, Gage is an exceptional man. Your nation trained him well, sparing no expense. But it is too late. We know where the manuscript is buried."

Sarah searched his face.

Stern laughed. "Allow me to hazard a guess," he said with a benign smile. "The tomb of Santacroce?" He laughed again. "Well, now the dance is almost over. Soon we will have the book, and then the end game shall begin."

"And then you'll kill me."

"Oh, no, Ms. Halder," Stern replied. "Order must be maintained. First, we will tell Gage where you are imprisoned. You see, it is much easier to trap someone than it is to hunt them. We will wait until he comes for you. Then we will kill him. And only then will we kill you."

A cryptic silence.

"Do not be mistaken, Ms. Halder. Gage will die, just as you will die. You see, I understand him, and I know that he will be defeated because he is doomed to be defeated. He is doomed to die in the metaphorical black void from which he crawled, and from which there has never been any escape for him. It is his destiny, you see, to die as he has lived, fighting in the shadows, lost in the darkness of unseen wars, surviving like a wild beast within a sanctioned secrecy that is both his punishment and his reward.

"Yes, I know him well. Gage is an animal, Ms.
Halder. He is a man utterly controlled by his base nature. Whether his motivation is revenge or guilt or love makes no difference to me. I do not even care if his motivation is to find redemption, or penance, as someone suggested to me. I am only certain that he is not a superior man. He is weak with sentimental emotion and foolishly trapped by an archaic moral standard for right and wrong that should have been abolished from the world centuries ago. It is obsolete. And his devotion to it shall, quite frankly, be his undoing."

In rigid silence Sarah listened, and when Stern finished
speaking, she waited. Then, from high inside her being, she felt something coming to her heart, demanding voice.

"No," she said, "you don't understand Gage at all, Stern. If you did you'd be far more afraid than you are. It's not revenge he's after.
And it's not penance. It's more – much more. And it's beyond you. Beyond all of you. And there's nothing you can do to stop it."

* * *

FORTY

"Are you Kertzman?"

Kertzman turned, fixed bloodshot eyes on a familiar, gray-black rectangular FBI identification. He looked at the man who held it. Sullen, he nodded.

"I'm Special Agent William Acklin." The man folded the ID with a practiced, gentle gesture and slipped it back into the side pocket of his dark blue coat. "I'm out of the Washington office."

Kertzman didn't bother identifying the clothing. Even at first glance, it was obviously a mid-range department store off-the-rack coat and slacks. Nothing special. A working man's suit. He focused on the man.

William Acklin was six inches shorter and a good 80 pounds lighter than Kertzman. He had a broad, long face with a high forehead and light brown, short wavy hair. His large, blue-gray eyes were open and honest. He smiled nervously at Kertzman, seeming to notice the huge bandage wrapped around Kertzman's right forearm that left only the hand and upper arm visible. Acklin glanced down at the arm, said nothing for a minute.

"Well?" said Kertzman harshly, focusing
on him. "What is it?"

"Uh, well," Acklin began, shuffling, "I probably need to talk to you, Mr. Kertzman." He hesitated, seemingly embarrassed. "You know, the use of force investigation is underway. A hearing will be scheduled. That's just standard procedure. But we do need to talk, I believe."

Kertzman nodded, irritated. "Yeah, yeah, well talk already. I been listening to talk all night. I been attacked by every Bureau guy in Washington and New York. Even Justice has gotten in on the act. What do you have to add?"

"Well," Acklin began, "I've read the reports and all."

"Is that so?" Kertzman asked abruptly.

"Yes, sir," Acklin continued. "But I've verified some things, based on the statements given to you by Malachi
Halder and Jonathan Gage that I think you need to know about."

Acklin shifted a little, gazed up at Kertzman with a suddenly even, gentle eye.

Kertzman returned the look, strangely disturbed. He sensed that something about the quiet little man should be feared and profoundly respected, though he couldn't place what it was.

Acklin wasn't, by any means, an intimidating person. But something lent the FBI man an almost invisible air of profound authority. He felt that, beneath the surface, Acklin was a whole lot tougher than he seemed to be.

Kertzman reached into his shirt pocket, removed a pack of Marlboros.

"So
tell me," he said, lighting one.

Until last night Kertzman hadn't smoked in ten years. But with state, local, and federal law enforcement cars backed up to the cabin for three miles, with confused ambulance attendants and dead bodies and the collective crimes of a massive conspiracy
coming down on his head, Kertzman decided to buy a pack off a young New York Trooper. He had smoked them through the hard ordeal of questions and more questions, through veiled accusations of incompetent procedural methods that went way beyond veiled and, even, legal, and finally through two extremely tense question-and-stare matches with a senior agent of the New York State FBI Office.

Stubbornly, Kertzman had covered his own ground from first to last, going toe to toe in nerve-racking verbal battles with every heavyweight that came onto the scene, gruffly defending himself while simultaneously protecting everyone who was, at least, mostly innocent. But it was difficult, with endless interpretations of
possible crimes and thoroughly comprehensive government policies crisscrossing before him, to lay a convoluted minefield; he negotiated with the most extreme care.

He had almost escaped responsibility for causing the shootout. But in the bitter end, jurisdictional disputes, chaos, and the lack of someone to truly accuse caused the heat to come back to him by default. It helped to have the dead Nigerian to blame, but he wasn't enough. The State Department didn't want a foot soldier. They wanted a name that could take the fall for a conspiracy that had appallingly emerged into the daylight. And neither Milburn or Radford was significant enough. It had to be somebody bigger.

Like Kertzman himself. But Kertzman wasn't about to let that fly. He stopped it point-blank, threatening anyone who threatened him until the insinuation was choked out by intimidation. Still, the government wanted to put a lid on this, and they wanted someone to sacrifice, someone they could slay as a blood-offering on the altar of public consumption.

Carthwright was big enough, had the weight, but no one was willing to actually accuse him of anything. He was too big a name.

It was inferred by a nebulous FBI official that, since Milburn and Radford were on loan from the NSA, under Carthwright's control, they could have been following orders from Carthwright to kill the hostages. But, in all fairness, Kertzman had no genuine proof that Carthwright was guilty of orchestrating the plot to have him killed at the cabin. It seemed likely, yes, but that could also be a red herring, as Stephenson would say. And testimony to back up the theory would be a problem, especially with Milburn dead and Radford missing. Kertzman realized that all he had were his instincts, a cold track. And it was hard concentrating on that aspect of the case amidst the heat descending on his head for the fiasco of the shootout itself.

Criticisms were endless. He should have notified Special Response if he thought the situation might go tactical. He should have, at least, called for backup agents to monitor the situation. He should not have endangered the lives of Professor
Halder and his daughter with reckless behavior. It went on and on.

Kertzman refused to back up. He'd done what he'd done, stood behind it. It hadn't ended well, but that wasn't his fault, and it was over now, as far as he was concerned. The only remaining question was whether Carthwright would back him because the NSA super-visor was still in charge of the investigation. Deep inside,
Kertzman had no idea whether he would or not. It was still too early to tell. In any case, it was a mess, and the Bureau didn't want any details of it leaking out, especially not names.

Recalling the Bureau's takeover of the scene, Kertzman
reluctantly gave credit where credit was due. Yeah, they had cut off all official lines on the situation. But, for the most part, it was a futile gesture. The locals already had part of it; they were the first on the scene, knew basically what had happened, who was involved, the rest. By noon of the next day, Friday, news broadcasts were uncovering some of the details, verified through reliable and "anonymous" law enforcement personnel. Special reports were shown in hourly intervals, adding a higher strain of tension to an already tense situation. With each announcement or investigatory report, more pressure came from the top to find someone to blame.

Kertzman understood the process. It wouldn't end until guilt descended on an appropriate name. Then the papers would print, a quick conviction would punish the guilty, and those who had covered themselves well enough could resume their well-protected, golden careers.

Everything that Kertzman had documented, every statement by Admiral Talbot, Carthwright, Radford, and Milburn were included in the official reports. And the statements did, indeed, make Carthwright look bad. In fact, it looked like the NSA man was covering for someone within the Agency, or covering himself. Still, though, no one had made a move against him. Not yet. And no one would make a move until they possessed ten times more evidence than they needed.

Kertzman didn't regret filing any of the reports. So far, the. statements were all that protected him. If certain unknowns in the Bureau were allowed their free will, Kertzman would have already been charged for a mixture of profound policy violations and a combination of federal crimes from abuse of process to illegal search to felonious misuse of governmental authority. As it was, according to policy, he was supposed to be suspended from duty pending an investigation by the FBI's Shooting Review Board. But that, too, was delayed in light of the more complicated aspects of the situation that went beyond law enforcement and into national security.

Kertzman had laughed at that; national security concerns could override anything.

But Kertzman sensed that there was some kind of reluctance to drop a full measure of governmental wrath on his head. He sensed that a major player was covering him, defending him. Maybe it was Carthwright. Kertzman couldn't be sure. But he wanted to find out.

One thing was certain; he needed to put this thing to bed as quickly as possible because he still had a flight to catch.

Kertzman grunted, blew out a stream of smoke, focused on Acklin.

"Go ahead, Acklin."

The FBI man stepped forward, a submissive gesture. "Well, it seems, Mr. Kertzman, that you still have much to do."

A pause.

"What does that mean?" Kertzman grumbled. "Right now I've got FBI yahoos telling me I ought to be in jail for the way
everything went down."

Acklin nodded, polite. "Yes, yes, I see. But I wouldn't pay much attention to them, Mr. Kertzman. Mr. Carthwright is completely backing you up at Justice. He said you had his full authorization to do whatever you felt the situation required. He said that he believes all your accusations against Milburn and Radford are true. He says that he believes they did, indeed, commit the crimes. And he told Justice that if they wish to place the blame on someone, they can place it on him. No one is willing to do that."

This was truly amazing. It took Kertzman a second to absorb it. Acklin stood in polite silence.

So it had been Carthwright. Covered him solid.

"When did Carthwright back me?" Kertzman asked after a moment.

"Since it began, I believe," Acklin responded. "I suppose, too, that Justice was somewhat, uh, alarmed by what I told them."

A moment of curious silence.

Kertzman almost smiled. This was getting more interesting by the second. Things were shaking loose all over the place. Never any telling what a good hair-raising shootout can do for a government investigation.

"And what did you tell them?" he asked.

"Uh, well, I read the full reports when they were faxed in this morning."

"Yeah, you told me that."

"Yes, anyway, Mr. Kertzman, I began looking into the angle of someone profiteering from the actions of Black Light, as you alleged in your reports. And I discovered a few things. So this morning I called Justice and told them that I had incontrovertible evidence that an element inside the CIA was guilty of violating National Security Intelligence Directive Seven, concerning the Agency's right to conduct certain covert affairs on American soil. And these persons, these high-ranking persons, have, uh, also probably violated National Security Intelligence Directive Ten, which regulates the authority of the Agency to participate in money-making enterprises which cause a prejudiced financial profit for select civilians."

Kertzman's cigarette hung forgotten in his hand. He stared at Acklin.

"So, Mr. Kertzman, I also told them that senior officials were implicated in the
... uh, scandal, I called it. And I told them that you have evidence and knowledge of the situation which might prevent untoward embarrassment to the President of the United States and Congress ..."

Acklin paused, as if considering. Kertzman tried to recover, tried to hide his amazement. He nodded.

Finally, the FBI agent finished. "Oh, I told them that a, um, Bay of Pigs-type debacle, I called it, might be prevented by keeping you on the investigation for a few days."

Kertzman waited a moment, then laughed out loud in a
sudden, uncontrollable burst of humor. His prizefighter face split in a mean-looking smile.

"Just who are you, Acklin?"

"Oh, no one special, Mr. Kertzman," he continued humbly. "But for some reason the Washington office received full reports on last night's incident, addressed to my attention. I read your background reports and the incident cases from the shooting and took it upon myself to begin checking computers for information that might verify allegations that Black Light was used for profit-making.

"I want you to know, Mr. Kertzman, that this wasn't originally my case. I'm not sure why I received copies of the report. But when I investigated your allegations earlier today and found some things in the computer to back it all up, I was allowed into the situation."

"And who allowed you?" Kertzman asked, suddenly more serious.

"Why, Mr. Carthwright allowed me," he said, pausing. "He was reluctant, I might add. He said to stay clear of pursuing the gold allegations. He still believes the case should focus on a rogue element of the government trying to control
foreign policy through Black Light. He believes, I think, that the angle of profiteering is unsubstantiated. But he did, in any case, allow me into the operation to assist you. You need an assistant, anyway, Mr. Kertzman, now that Radford and Milburn are gone."

Kertzman made a mental note to call Carthwright as soon as Acklin left. He squinted through a long, silent, studied drag on his cigarette. Then he released it in a meditative calm, patiently watching the FBI man.

"I appreciate what you've done, son," he continued, purpose-fully and plainly respectful. "I've needed a little help. Tell me what you found on the angle of the gold."