Heirs of Cain (29 page)

He tried to control his voice. “Yes, sir, Major. How can I be of help?”

“General, I need a favor,” Cain said.

Nichols turned crimson with excitement. “Anything, Major. Just name it.”

“I want you to secure Simon Buckman’s phone records for the past six months. I’m especially interested in any calls to New York, Chicago, or Washington.”

“What about overseas calls?” Nichols asked.

There was a moment of silence. “Don’t worry about them,” Cain answered. “I’m trying to locate Seneca, and all evidence points to him being in the country. Stick with those three cities for now. If we need to widen our search area, we can do it later.”

“I’ll get to it immediately,” Nichols said.

“One more thing, General. This is strictly between you and me. No one, and I mean no one, is to know that I’ve made this request. If anyone should ask, tell them you’re doing it as a favor for the Sarasota police. Is that clear?”

“Yes, but what about—?”

“No one, General.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here’s a number where I can be reached. I’ll expect to hear from you by noon tomorrow.” Cain slowly read the numbers to Nichols. “Please read that back to me.”

Nichols repeated the numbers.

“Good.”

“Anything else, sir?”

“No. Remember: no one is to know I’ve made this request.”

Nichols was slightly dizzy when he placed the phone on the cradle. His thoughts were racing at the speed of light. He replayed the entire conversation in his head several times, concentrating not only on Cain’s words, but on his tone, inflections, points of emphasis—everything—not letting a single syllable pass without being studied, analyzed, broken down. It was as if he were trying to find and decipher a hidden code.

Nichols breathed deeply, sucking air into his lungs. His heart continued to pound. The exhilaration he felt was nearly overwhelming. During his entire military career he had never felt more important than he did at this moment. Or more necessary. An operation of great secrecy was under way, and he was now one of the select few involved. He had been brought into the inner circle. A wave of fear swept through him. That old nagging fear of failure.

He quickly wiped the intruding thoughts away. No way was he going to fail, to let anyone down. He would perform his duties, and he would perform them well.

He had to please the legend.

At the very moment General David Nichols was ending his conversation with Cain, another phone conversation was beginning. Although it lacked excitement or the presence of a legend, it was of equal importance and urgency to the caller.

The man placing the call tapped the tip of a pencil against his teeth as he listened to the phone ringing. Twice, three times, four times, still no answer. By the fifth ring he was getting worried. By the seventh he was steaming with anger. Finally, after two more rings, just as he was about to slam the cell phone shut, someone picked up.

“Yes.”

“Is this Dr. Nastasia Ivanovna?”

“Yes. Who is this?” Her voice was deep, full, heavy with a Russian accent.

“Karl.”

“I do not know anyone named Karl.”

“I have a message for Seneca,” Karl said. “An extremely important message. Can I trust you to give it to him?”

Silence.

Karl could hear movement, followed by the sound of paper being shuffled.

“The message?”

“Tell Seneca there has been a change in the schedule. Tell him the new date is July 28, ten hundred hours, at a private estate on Long Island. He’ll know what that means.”

Silence.

“Also, tell him there will be another message informing him of the exact address and the number of principals involved. He should receive it within the next forty-eight hours.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

Cain arrived back in Manhattan a little before sunset and went straight to Andy Waltz’s office. Unlit cigar in mouth, Waltz sat at his desk reading
Sports Illustrated
. Cain walked in without knocking.

Waltz closed the magazine, smiled, and shook his head. “You look like shit.”

“Smell like it, too.” Cain fell like a lump into a chair. He pulled out a package of Juicy Fruit gum and crammed two pieces into his mouth. “Got anything for me, Houdini?”

Waltz shook his head. “Not yet. But the way those bastards in Washington like to talk, it’s only a matter of time before I do.”

“Time is the one thing we don’t have.”

“Listen, Cain. I—”

“What?”

“I’m honored you came to me, and you know I’ll do whatever you want. But—”

“But what?”

“Look, a guy with your reputation, your connections—you could get this information in five minutes. From a dozen different sources. Why do you need me?”

“Because I trust you. And right now trust is as important as speed.”

Waltz nodded. “I’ll go to D.C. tomorrow. Dig around there. Shouldn’t take me long.”

“You have my number, right?”

“Yeah.”

Cain forced himself out of the chair, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, then slowly walked to the door. He looked at Waltz, a thin smile on his face. “This is a shitty business we’re in, Houdini. There’s something evil about it.”

“Evil has been with us from the beginning.”

“Not like this.”

Waltz put his hand on Cain’s shoulder. “Get some rest, my friend. You look like you haven’t slept in decades.”

Cain opened the door. “I don’t know, Houdini. Maybe I’ve been asleep too long.”

Unable to sleep, Cain prowled his hotel room like an angry, agitated tiger. He felt trapped, caged. Morning had arrived, yet there was still no word from Nichols. These were the times Cain hated most—being at the mercy of others. He thrived on action, calling the shots, setting his own agenda.

Waiting. Relying on help from outside sources, whose talent and skill levels varied, turned him into a madman.
I travel best when I travel alone
. That had always been his way of operating.

At six, he ordered up breakfast from room service. He was famished, yet he ate nothing. He was too wired to sleep or eat. At eight, he looked down from his tenth floor window onto the Manhattan streets. Already the streets were alive with joggers, dog walkers, and Sunday morning churchgoers on a pilgrimage to find God.
Lucky them
, he thought. Finding God was easier than finding Seneca.

He circled the room, waited, looked at the clock. Started pacing again, stopped. Frustration ate at his insides. Time seemed to stand still.

At 11:58 the phone rang.

“Yes.”

“Major, I have something for you.” It was Nichols. “Sorry it took so long, but I had to do an end-around to avoid questions. The FBI. Nosy bastards.”

“What did you find out?”

“Simon called two numbers in Chicago. One to a blues joint called Butterfield’s. The other to a woman named Trish Underwood. He called both numbers twice.”

“What about New York?”

“Now, that’s a little more interesting. Simon called two numbers there as well. One was to an apartment belonging to George Armstrong. The second to a Dr. Nastasia Ivanovna.”

“The professor of Russian literature?”

“One and the same,” Nichols said. “Are you familiar with her?”

“I heard her give a lecture once. Must have been twelve, fifteen years ago. If my memory is correct, she was teaching in Berlin at the time.”

“Very good, Major. She was living in Berlin then. Prior to that, she taught at the University in Moscow. For the past seven years, she’s been at Columbia University.”

“Simon Buckman called her? You’re positive of that?”

“Yes. And get this. He called her five times.” Nichols paused. “What do you make of that?”

“Well, it’s for sure Simon wasn’t discussing Tolstoy with her.”

“I’ve already begun a background check on her. I should have some concrete information for you later this afternoon.”

“Quash your investigation of Ivanovna, General.”

“You sure?”

“Right now she may be our best hope of locating Seneca. If either of them gets even the slightest hint of our presence, Seneca will go so deep underground we’ll never find him. I don’t want to run that risk.”

“As you wish, Major.”

“Does anyone in intelligence know you checked Simon Buckman’s phone records?”

“No, sir.”

“Anyone at the Pentagon?”

“No, sir.”

“Let’s keep it that way.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve done a helluva job, General.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Nichols’ eyes were filled with tears when he hung up the phone.

At first glance Mariah’s appeared to be empty. No customers, no one tending bar, no waitresses. The only person Seneca saw upon entering was the janitor, a small black man with stooped shoulders, watery yellow eyes, and a crown of snow white hair. The old-timer glanced up indifferently at Seneca, then continued mopping the floor.

It wasn’t until Seneca heard music coming from behind him that he realized the janitor wasn’t alone. He turned and saw a petite brunette sitting at the piano. Her brown eyes stared straight ahead, trancelike, as her long fingers played a slow and melancholy song.

Seneca listened to the music for nearly a minute before approaching her. When she saw him coming toward her, she stopped playing briefly, then began again.

“We don’t open until four,” she said. Her voice was soft, completely without emotion. “If you want a drink, try Butterfield’s around the corner. It’s open.”

“I’m not here for a drink,” Seneca said.

“Then what are you here for?”

“I’m trying to find a guy who hangs around this neighborhood. Perhaps you might know him.”

“It’s a big neighborhood.”

Seneca pulled up a chair and sat down. “Maybe you know him; maybe you don’t. All I can do is ask.”

“Then ask.”

“Derek Jefferson. You may know him as Deke.”

Seneca knew by her reaction that he’d struck gold. She turned away, eyes quickly filling with tears.

He leaned forward. “You know him, don’t you?”

She stopped playing and wiped the tears from her cheeks. After a few seconds, she removed a tissue from her purse and blew her nose.

“Deke … where is he?” Seneca asked. He started to say something else, then paused. “You’re Trish, aren’t you?”