Thirst No. 5 (17 page)

Matt is not satisfied with what I’ve revealed. He wants to know more and I promise I’ll give it to him when we have another stretch of time alone. On the other hand, Seymour is like a kid salivating over the start of a great book or movie. He relishes every detail I provided.

“So the face on the veil looks like our idea of how Christ looks?” he asks.

“Basically, although the veil might have inspired the look. The Vatican had the veil for approximately two centuries during the Middle Ages. Many of the paintings of Christ that were created during that period copied the veil.”

Seymour leans forward. “Do you think it’s genuine?”

I hesitate. “Yes.”

“Because of how it made you feel when you gazed at it? Held it?”

Seymour always cuts to the heart of the matter. “That morning in Ralph and Harrah’s flat, when she left me alone with it, I felt a special energy radiating from it.”

“Was there another time that it helped you?” Matt asks.

I nod. “I’ll talk about that later, when we have time.”

To spare Mr. Grey a long car ride, we land at LaGuardia
instead of JFK. The airport is close to Manhattan and we’re checked into the Marriott in Times Square within forty minutes of touchdown.

I can’t stop worrying about Sarah Goodwin. But if I’m honest with myself, I’m just as concerned about the veil. It seems insane to equate a human life with an artifact but such is the spell it’s cast over me. Yet I have not thought about the veil in years. Something has stirred a sleeping desire for it inside me.

Mr. Grey lies down as soon as we reach our three-bedroom suite. He insists he accompany us to our showdown with Michael Larson but it’s a feeble offer. He knows he’s in no shape for what might turn out to be a nasty confrontation. In reality, I prefer Matt and I go alone. Protecting the others is always a balancing act.

“I didn’t fly here to babysit,” Seymour complains.

“Yes, you did,” Brutran says. “You have to stay and watch Jolie.” She turns to me. “Larson’s a high-priced lawyer in the business world. That’s a world I know better than you or Matt. I should go with you.”

I shrug. “If you can help us kidnap him without creating a scene, it’s fine with me.”

“Is kidnapping necessary?” she asks.

“We can’t interrogate him in his office,” Matt says.

“Use force and you’ll alert our enemy that we’re in the city,” Brutran says. She has a point, and I would agree with her if I didn’t feel so rushed.

“Every minute we leave Sarah in their hands decreases our chances of saving her life,” I say.

“And recovering the veil,” Seymour adds, reading my mind.

Brutran appears to reconsider. “Their security is probably multilayered. There could be shooting. Maybe I should stay here with my daughter.”

It’s the first time I’ve seen Brutran act fearful. Does she know more about the law firm than she lets on? Probably—she never shows all her cards.

“If we manage a clean snatch, we’ll bring him back here,” Matt says.

“Get his computer,” Brutran says, glancing at Mr. Grey. “Our new friend can hack into it in minutes.”

“Glad to be of service,” Mr. Grey says, yawning, ready for another nap.

Matt and I walk to Rockefeller Center—it’s only a few blocks. The day is hot and humid, the streets crowded. Once there we stop at a neighboring store and upgrade our clothes. Matt buys a pair of gray slacks, a black Armani sport coat. He forgoes the tie. I pick out a white pantsuit and a red blouse that goes beautifully with the tailored jacket. Matt says I look hot, and I have to admit he can still get my heart pounding. I don’t know why I don’t just sleep with him and get it over with.

Of course, I’ve had sex with him before, just not in this body. And that’s the problem, I doubt a casual romp will help
me get over anything. It’s as if the memories I collected while living in Teri’s body have never left. I recall a thousand precious moments they shared. Worse, I feel the longing she always felt for him. Teri saw him as far above her, often imagined herself to be a desolate moon circling a warm planet. She only felt full when she was near him.

“You look very handsome,” I say, fixing his collar. He stops me, his hands touching mine.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“I’m not nervous.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“I assumed you had one,” I say.

He releases my hand. “Does it bother you I’ve taken control?”

“Someone had to.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Just don’t kill Mr. Grey without asking my permission.”

“Why are you so taken by the guy?”

“He’s a mystery. What girl can resist a mystery?”

“He’s a liar. Someone sent him to us to get something from us.”

“He’s useful. Until he proves otherwise, I want him alive.”

“Fair enough.” We resume our walk toward the law firm. “Who are we pretending to be?” he asks.

“Let’s be a couple of rich Germans looking to invest in cutting-edge technology. Whatever he brings up, we steer the
conversation toward the defense industry. I want to see how he reacts when we bring up the Pentagon and weapons contracts.”

“Why German?” Matt asks.

“Just a hunch. How’s your accent?”

“Better than Anton’s.” Matt pauses. “You loved him, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask what became of him?”

“He’s part of my story. I’ll tell you later.” I pause. “Did I really say his name in my sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Why were you listening so closely?”

“I was awake, I hear everything. Like you.”

“You were playing that bloody game. Why do you keep at it?”

“Why are you so afraid of it?”

“John told us to stay away from it. I trust his instincts.”

“You’re no different from me. You listen to his advice when it suits you. Besides, he’s never said what’s so dangerous about it.”

“You and Seymour examined it. You warned me that it’s loaded with subliminal images and voice messages. It gave Seymour a headache. The Cradle programmed the damn thing.”

“You fear it’s brainwashing the youth of the world?”

“I do. It’s addictive. I just have to look at you to see how much.”

Matt shakes his head. “Its subliminal tricks don’t work once you’re aware of them. They wouldn’t affect me anyway.” He pauses. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“At least tell me why you keep playing it.”

“I want to win.”

“Win what?”

He speaks seriously. “The Cradle put the game out there for a reason. I need to find out why.”

“The Cradle wrote what they channeled. They had no will of their own.”

“Same difference. Whoever was behind them had a reason for putting it on the Internet.” Matt pauses. “Maybe it was to lead us all straight to hell.”

“I never said Tarana is
the
devil.”

“But you think he is
a
devil?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure he’s the one we’re fighting?”

I hesitate. “It’s something evil.”

The entrance to Pointe, Wolf, & Larson is located on the fifty-second floor of the GE Building. They appear to rent out three floors. Their lobby has wonderfully comfortable chairs and sofas. We act as a married couple: Mr. and Mrs. Straffer. It pleases me to use the general’s name. When the receptionist says she can find no record of our appointment with Michael Larson, we tell her in our thick accents that we have flown all the way from Hamburg to see him. I put a spark in my gaze
and she quickly fumbles for the phone and demands that Mr. Larson meet us in the lobby. He appears within a minute.

I study his reaction. He does not recognize us.

“How can I help you folks?” he asks after shaking the hands of “Lara” and “Karl.” Michael Larson is big, six-four, forty, with the body of a jock gone soft. His shoulders are broad; he still has a full head of black hair, but he’s developed a stoop and needs at least a hundred morning crunches to combat the caloric tire growing beneath his belt. His smile is automatic, joyless. He gives off the stress of someone with too many responsibilities. The bags under his eyes say he’s not sleeping well.

But does he have nightmares?

Or is he just a typical overworked New York lawyer?

“We would prefer to talk about money matters in the privacy of your office,” Matt says.

“Of course. Please,” Larson says, gesturing us deeper into the maze of the firm. It appears larger than Brutran let on. We follow our host to a corner office with a view of Central Park. The man is not just a partner, he has his name on the firm’s front door. Forty seems young to have risen so high. Matt appears to read my mind and points that out to Larson. But Matt makes it a compliment. He can be charming when he wishes.

“I work hard,” Larson admits. “Probably too many hours, if you were to ask my ex-wife and daughter.”

“How old is your daughter?” I ask.

“Nicole will be five next week.”

“Wish her happy birthday for me,” I say.

“Thank you.”

“It must be hard not seeing Nicole after work every day,” I say.

Larson nods, glancing at a picture of his daughter on his desk. Her eyes shine; she looks like a happy child. “It’s been an adjustment. But it’s a cutthroat business. There’s no middle ground, not if I’m to give my clients a hundred percent.”

“How would you describe your business?” Matt asks. “Or should I say, your expertise?”

Larson pauses, his antennae rising. I find his paranoia interesting. “You must know something about my background to fly so far to meet,” he says.

Matt shrugs. “We are rich. We heard you can make us richer.”

“What sort of money are we talking about?”

“A billion euros. Maybe two,” Matt says. “Maybe more if we like the results. Where would you start if we agreed to invest with your firm?”

Larson flashes his usual smile. “That would be entirely up to you. But with such a sum we could play in a number of courts. It’s all a question of risk versus reward. You know that. How exotic do you wish to get?”

“Cutting-edge weapon systems,” I jump in. The words make Larson blink. I have hit a nerve.

“Pardon me?” he says quickly.

“We have heard through the grapevine that your firm has close ties to the Pentagon,” Matt says. “That you can predict who is going to receive the next major contracts.”

Larson loses his smile. He studies us both. “Who told you this?”

“Friends,” Matt says casually. “Don’t be alarmed. We understand the relationships are very private. But they are the reason we’re here. Today, this afternoon, we are willing to write you a large check if you could just enlighten us a little on what you do with the Pentagon.”

Larson stands. We have only arrived but we have already crossed the line. The man is visibly upset. His words gush from his mouth.

“I’m sorry you have come so far for no reason. The information you have been fed is false. I know of no one at this firm who is working with the Pentagon. And to imply that we have influence over who is awarded specific defense contracts is not only outrageous, it’s . . . a dangerous accusation. Now, please, I have clients I have to attend to. If you would be so kind as to leave. It’s possible we can talk at another time. This afternoon is just too busy for me.”

Matt and I exchange a look and get to our feet.

“Heard enough?” he asks me.

“Enough to know he’s a keeper,” I say.

Moving fast—not so fast that Larson cannot follow him
but faster than any human being can move—Matt circles the desk and clamps the lawyer’s arms behind his back with one hand. With his other hand Matt presses a .40-caliber Glock in Larson’s back. I reach down and pick up the lawyer’s laptop. It sits square in the center of his desk and I have a feeling it’s loaded with all kinds of goodies.

“Please listen, Mr. Larson,” Matt says in a persuasive tone. “The three of us are going to walk out of here together. You will lead the way. I won’t touch you, but I will have this gun you feel right now against your spine pointed at your back. If you make even the slightest move to alert your security, I’ll shoot you.”

“Our guards will stop you,” he gasps.

“They might if you warn them. But then you will be dead and their help will not help you,” Matt says.

“Cooperate and you’ll be okay,” I say. “I promise.”

“But why are you doing this? What do you want?”

“We will explain everything after we leave here,” Matt says. “Do we have an understanding?”

Larson breathes rapidly. “Yes, yes. I’ll go with you.”

We leave his office. I walk beside Mr. Larson, Matt stays directly behind us. If the firm is equipped with cameras, I can’t see or hear them. Yet Brutran told us they would have heavy security. It makes me wonder. Also, Mr. Larson isn’t as tense as he should be when he tells the receptionist he’s taking us to lunch. He’s accepted that he’s a hostage rather quickly, which tells me he thinks he’s going to be rescued. Soon.