The Garden of Betrayal (38 page)

“But at the right moment, you were planning to pull the rug out from under him,” I said.

“Simpson went on a congressional junket to Thailand six years ago. There are pictures of him with underage girls. Two of the girls are stashed in Hong Kong, ready to testify against him. And the Saudi information has fake digital watermarks that link it back to a radical environmental group. Once Simpson had served his purpose, he and the Saudi information were both going to be discredited.” Sweat ran down White’s forehead and into his eyes. He pawed at the handkerchief in his breast pocket but couldn’t get hold of it. “Give me the antidote,” he implored. “Please. I can’t feel my fingers.”

“And Rashid was killed because he was going to expose the Saudi data as false prematurely?”

White glanced fearfully at Ari and nodded.

“We didn’t know you had a relationship with him. We thought you’d
rely on the information Narimanov offered you for confirmation. When Narimanov heard the recording of you talking to Rashid, he decided Rashid had to go.”

I’d accepted that I was likely responsible for Rashid’s death, however inadvertently, but it rocked me to hear it confirmed.

“But you were the one who gave the order,” Ari suggested, “weren’t you? You were Narimanov’s blind. You gave all the orders. No one else even knew he was involved.”

“I had to do it,” White mumbled, managing to sound a little ashamed. “I had no choice. He got a hook into me years ago.”

“As we have a hook in you now,” Ari responded fiercely. “Did the French know the Ukrainians were innocent?”

“No. The Russians planned everything. Narimanov laughed about it. All they had to do to manipulate the French was to pretend to take them seriously. The Russians knew the French wouldn’t be a problem in the future, because they control France’s gas supply.”

“And Theresa Roxas’s real name?” I asked.

He flopped his head toward me, the movement jerky and uncoordinated.

“Doris Carabello. She’s an engineer with Pemex. Narimanov put her on the payroll when she was an engineering student. He’s used her on a bunch of different jobs. Please. I’m begging you. I can’t move my legs. I’ve told you everything. Give me the antidote.”

I glanced at Ari. He gave me a small nod, and I looked back to White.

“You’ve told me everything about the present but not about the past. You still have to answer for my son.”

White’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly, his head slumped against the back of his chair. A sob racked his chest.

“Narimanov wanted me to stop investigating Petronuevo,” I prompted. “He decided to murder my wife. You gave the order. My wife didn’t show, so your men took my son instead. Right or wrong?”

White nodded once, his eyes screwed shut.

“Who’d you give the order to?” I asked. “Who killed my boy?”

“Anton Rastin,” White whispered. “A Czech with American citizenship. Narimanov found him for me. He has two men he works with, ex-soldiers.”

“Anton,” I repeated, touching my face with a finger. “He has a scar here, right?”

White nodded fractionally. His breathing had become labored.

“They were all killed in the shoot-out at the motel yesterday. They paid for what they did. Now, please, please, give me the antidote.”

I looked at Walter. He was stone-faced.

“You have any questions?”

He shook his head, and I turned back to White.

“You were right at the beginning,” I said. “We lied.”

“You didn’t,” White moaned. “I’ve been poisoned. I’m dying. Help me, please. I’m begging you.”

“You’re right that you’ve been poisoned. The lie was about the antidote. It doesn’t exist. You’re dying, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

White’s face contorted with horror. Shimon and I had argued the point for hours. The only way the Israelis would get involved was if there was no chance of White telling anyone what we’d done to him, and the only way to ensure that he kept quiet was to kill him. Eventually, I’d agreed. I tried my best to summon some remorse. White was a human being, after all. Maybe I’d become hardened: It was difficult to feel much compassion.

“He’s stopped breathing,” Ari said quietly, nodding toward White’s chest. “The two of you might want to step out for a few minutes. This isn’t going to be pleasant.”

Walter and I exchanged a glance.

“No,” I said, speaking for both of us. “We’ve each lost a son. We’re in this until the end.”

I nudged the screen door of the adobe farmhouse open with my knee, carrying Claire’s and Kate’s bags out into the dirt courtyard. It was a fine warm morning, air perfumed by the lavender rooted in the shade of the courtyard walls, and sun brilliant in a cloudless sky. Beyond the walls were endless rows of grapevines, tendrils heavy with purple fruit.

The house and the surrounding fifty acres were a slice of an old California rancho, half an hour north of Napa, that had been purchased by a thrifty migrant couple back before the area became wine country. The husband had restored the dilapidated house and outbuildings, while his wife revived the kitchen garden and planted lilacs, manzanitas, azaleas, and other flowering trees and shrubs wherever they’d take. They’d grown various cash crops in the early years—wheat, oats, and barley—but as time went by, and the wine boom gathered momentum, they’d leased most of the land to local vintners.

It had been a grandson who related the history to me, and who explained why the family was selling. His grandparents had died of old age, well after the succeeding generations had abandoned the land for the city. He was a UCLA-educated venture capitalist with a prominent Sand Hill Road firm, equal parts proud and ashamed of his humble heritage. The family didn’t want to spend cash on maintenance but couldn’t bear to see the place get run-down. I had the sense he was more interviewing than selling us, wanting to make sure the property was delivered into good hands. Despite our urban background, Claire, Kate, and I somehow passed muster. We found a housewarming gift in the kitchen after we closed the deal—a planting journal the elderly couple
had kept over the fifty years of their residence, detailing what had flourished and what hadn’t, and packed with agricultural tips and advice. Claire had already become adept at translating it, leaning on one of our inherited farmhands for help with the colloquialisms that defied her Spanish dictionary.

I heard the screen door open again as I was loading the bags into our car, and turned to see Claire and Kate walking toward me. They were both wearing jeans and T-shirts and dusty boots. Kate had a silver locket around her neck, a farewell gift from Phil. He’d visited us in San Francisco before heading off to Vienna for a semester abroad. He and Kate had parted friends, and they still chatted online frequently. She’d put him in touch with Gabor, her hacker friend from nearby Budapest. Phil and Gabor had discovered a mutual interest in electronic music, and Kate had been amused to learn that they were planning to meet up at an outdoor festival in Prague. I was glad her first real relationship had worked out well for her but not entirely unhappy that they’d been separated before things went too far.

“I wish you could be there tonight,” Claire said, standing on tiptoe to give me a kiss. “The dancing is really magnificent.”

The San Francisco Ballet was kicking off its new season with a twilight performance of Balanchine pieces in Golden Gate Park, and Claire was making her debut as their new pianist.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, hugging her tight. “I might catch the end. If not, I’ll definitely see you at the party afterward.”

Kate suddenly snapped her fingers and ran back toward the house.

“What now?” I said.

“Her sweater,” Claire guessed, shaking her head tolerantly. “I think she left it on a chair in the kitchen. She’s really nervous.”

The following day would be Kate’s first as a freshman at UC Berkeley. Our plan was to spend the night in a hotel in the city and then drive across the Bay Bridge to move Kate into her new residence hall. The previous week had been almost entirely consumed by speculation about her new roommate, with occasional heated digressions on the subject of what she should wear. My opinion hadn’t been sought.

Claire touched the corner of my mouth with a finger.

“You’re frowning,” she said. “You’re thinking about Kyle, aren’t you?”

“It’s hard not to,” I admitted. “I keep wondering where he would
have gone to college, and what it would have been like to take him for his first day.”

She kissed me again.

“I know. I wonder the same thing.”

It had somehow become okay for us to be sad together, the shared sorrow paradoxically staving off our individual despair. I still grieved for my son and worried about the world I was leaving my daughter, but I felt optimistic at times, as well—about my marriage, and other things.

“Sorry,” Kate called, letting the screen door slam as she darted out of the house. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and then grabbed at Claire’s hand. “Come on. I want to make sure we have enough time.”

“She dialed around San Francisco and found a store that has the red sandals she’s been looking for,” Claire informed me, eyes rolling, as she let herself be dragged away. “In the Mission District.”

“Footwear’s important,” I said, my tone chiding. “I remember the shoes I wore on my first day of college.”

“Really?” Kate asked, curiosity bringing her to a halt. “What were they?”

I grinned at her, and she smacked her forehead with her hand.

“Okay,” she muttered. “I get it. You’re mean.”

“I remember my pants, too. They were these really nice boot-cut corduroys—”

“Mean,” she shouted, tugging at Claire’s hand again. “So mean. Come on. Let’s go, Mom.”

I waved and blew kisses as they drove away and then headed over to the barn to do some work. I was installing a wire fence on the north side, digging the post holes by hand. One of the farmhands had taught me the proper technique so I wouldn’t destroy my back. Let the tools do the work, he’d cautioned, and slow down:
lentamente
. It wasn’t a race. It felt good to be working in the sun—loosening the soil with a pointed bar and then scooping it free with the hinged digger.

I took a break at around one, making myself a sandwich in the kitchen and sitting on the front porch to eat it. I hesitated when I was done and then stood on my chair to reach up overhead. There was a small trapdoor in the porch ceiling, to provide access to the dead space between the wood joists and the rafters.
“Para fumigación,”
the farmhand had said and shrugged, when I asked about it.
“Termitas.”
I pushed
the trapdoor open and felt around until I found the oversized Ziploc bag that I’d secreted a few weeks previously. Removing it, I sat down again. The bag contained two items: an eight-year-old Christmas card with a picture of my family on the front, and a color photograph of my son, Kyle, dead in the trunk of Mariano Gallegos’s car. Both items had been found by the police in a drawer in Anton Rastin’s home, along with Alex’s missing hard drive. Reggie had swiped the card and the photo from the police property room after they’d been processed.

I took the card from the bag first, touching the picture of my family before I opened it. The card was addressed to Alex and contained a chatty letter from Claire, updating our friends and family on our year. The letter opened with the news that she’d won a spot as an interim pianist with the City Ballet, and went on to say how excited she was to be performing again, despite the fact that she’d have to work evenings. Reggie had informed me that the card had Alex’s fingerprints on it, which was only to be expected.

I replaced the card and withdrew the photograph. Kyle was wrapped in my coat, lying on his side so that his face was only partially visible. He looked like he was sleeping. The M5 marque and the top edge of a diplomatic license plate were visible at the bottom of the picture; a light post and a bit of the George Washington Bridge showed at the top left. Alex’s fingerprints were on the photograph also, which was less expected.

Reggie and I had been sitting in the front seat of his car when he showed me the card and the photo. After I regained my composure, we worked out several versions of what might have happened. White’s men—Anton Rastin and his associates—had to have known where I lived, and what my family looked like, and when they could expect Claire to leave our building. One possibility was that the Christmas card had nothing to do with their knowledge—that they learned what they needed to know by observing us. Another was that White discovered that Alex and I were close and had Alex’s home or office searched for information about me. And yet another was that White had Rastin lean on Alex, and that Alex gave the card up voluntarily, because he was afraid Rastin would reveal his insider trading to the SEC or to his father.

Doris Carabello’s fingerprints were on the photo of Kyle also. The two sets of prints—hers and Alex’s—similarly lent themselves to several different explanations. Narimanov wanted Alex to sell me on the Saudi
data. White would have instructed Doris to pressure Alex, but Alex’s trading indiscretions at Torino were years past, potentially difficult to prove in retrospect and certainly outside any statute of limitations. It’s possible that Doris gave him the photo as a threat, to underscore the viciousness of the people she represented. Or that Alex guessed at Doris’s involvement in Kyle’s death and demanded information about Kyle as the price of his cooperation. He knew how badly my family needed closure. Or maybe Doris shared the photo with him to remind him of his own complicity in my son’s murder, and to drive home the leverage she had over him. What seems certain is that Alex, consumed by guilt, wrote the anonymous e-mail to Reggie and then committed suicide two days later.

I rinsed and racked my lunch dishes in the kitchen and then built a small fire in the living room fireplace. I fed the card and the photograph into the flame individually, stirring the ash to make sure they burned completely. Clifford White was dead. Doris Carabello and Karl Mohler had vanished, presumably victims of Narimanov’s ruthless tidiness. Alex’s true role in Kyle’s death would likely never be known, unless he’d confessed more to his father in his letter than Walter had revealed. In retrospect, I couldn’t help wondering if a confession might not have been responsible for Walter’s abrupt change of heart toward me. Walter was ruthless to the core, but even he would have been shocked to learn that Alex had played a role in my son’s death.