World Without End (27 page)

"They won't kill him," Pasha said.

"They need him to show them how to operate the suit. That buys us some time."

"Wait. The suit has a transponder locked inside the wrist computer. In case a man is down, the army could locate him using a satellite."

Conway picked up the phone, hit the button for an outside line and started dialing.

"Who are you calling?"

"Bouchard."

Pasha reached down and planted her thumb on the button to kill the call.

Conway stared at her.

"What are you doing?"

"We can't call Raymond," she said.

"Why the hell not?"

"Because he's the reason why this operation failed," Pasha said.

"Raymond Bouchard sold us out."

Conway was about to ask the obvious question and then stopped. Pasha was not given to flights of fancy. If what she was saying was true (it can't be) then she would have some evidence to back it up. Conway placed the phone back down on its cradle and waited.

"I want to show you something," Pasha said.

Conway followed Pasha out of the conference room and back into the main area of the company. She walked in the semidarkness, moved behind the desk, and made her way to the second conference room. The door was already open. She moved her hand inside and turned on the lights.

Blood screamed from the carpet and white walls where it was splattered in odd angles. Conway looked at the spray patterns and knew exactly what had happened even before Pasha said the words.

"The six remaining members of our team were led in here and shot,"

Pasha said.

"You find the bodies?"

"Someone removed them."

"Someone being Angel Eyes and his Russian friends."

"This bloodshed Angel Eyes wouldn't do this. It's not his style."

"Killing everyone would be the only way to overtake this place.

Besides, we don't know what his style is. Christ, we don't even know his real name."

"So you think he did this."

"I think he would have done anything to get that suit. And he did.

Mission accomplished."

Pasha clicked off the lights. Back to darkness. She moved away from the door, staying away from the window, then folded her hands behind her back and leaned against the wall, her broken face covered by the shadows.

"At the airport, I saw a small, furry man seated at the terminal where Dixon was to make the exchange with Angel Eyes," she said.

"I didn't know who this man was, but he looked familiar. I went outside for a walk. Then our two trucks started blowing up, and the next thing I knew my head was split open on the back bumper of a car."

Pasha gimped over to the desk and then leaned against the window.

"I finally remembered the man's name. Mark Alves. Short guy with lots of hair, Raymond called him the Elf. He's a black-op specialist."

"So?"

"So why was this person sitting at the airport?"

"Maybe this guy Alves was part of the Hazard Team Bouchard brought in,"

Conway said.

"He told me you knew about it."

"Yes, he told me."

"And you know about McFadden."

"Yes."

"So what happened to Bouchard's Hazard Team?"

Pasha paused, then said, "I don't know."

"What did Bouchard say?"

She didn't answer.

"Pasha?"

"I haven't talked with him."

"So he doesn't know you're alive."

"Correct."

That surprised him. No, more like shocked him. Pasha held the man in high regard.

Pasha said, "When you drove to the gas station, you called Delburn and they patched you through to Raymond."

"That's right."

"I checked the call logs. Bouchard wasn't at Delburn when he talked to you."

"He was talking from a phone inside his car," Conway said and filled her in on his conversation with Bouchard at the gas station.

"You don't find that awfully convenient?"

"I find it lucky."

"This man from Raymond's Hazard Team who called you, Keith Harring. He instructed you to go inside Praxis. Guided you through the company, told you to make your way inside the lab."

"That's right."

"Don't you see it, Stephen? They were waiting for you inside the lab.

They knew you were coming. They staged the scene and used Harring to lure you inside. You were supposed to have died in there, and I was supposed to have died at the airport. It was only by a stroke of luck that we both survived."

"Angel Eyes used his men to impersonate the people at the skydiving school. He " "The idea to go skydiving was Dixon's idea. Nobody put him up to it. Angel Eyes didn't know we did. We had advance notice.

In that time, Raymond could have easily handpicked a team to impersonate the skydiving instructors and doctored the files so they looked legit which they did."

"Jesus Christ."

"And Raymond knew all the specifics of the lab's security knew how to turn it off. Raymond had the inside line all this time, Stephen."

"Don't say it." Conway could feel his anger reaching the boiling level. He was tired and didn't feel like pulling it back.

"Why are you being so stubborn, Stephen?"

"Because you're standing there and telling me with a straight face that our boss sold us out. This is Raymond Bouchard we're talking about, Pasha. He took a bullet for you once, remember? We were setting up the command post and you were inside the truck, about to hand him a box when he heard gunfire and shoved you back inside the truck. Took one right in the arm."

"I'm familiar with the incident."

Familiar with the incident. Jesus Christ. Conway said, "The problem is that we have a leak. Someone who had access to classified information on us and our team and sold us out. That much I do know."

Pasha crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the floor.

"Have you read the front page of the New York Times'?" Conway asked.

"You're referring to John McFadden," she said.

"Raymond said he talked with you about this on the morning of the operation. My guess is that you both decided not to tell me. Didn't want to fuel my paranoia."

"Correct."

"So in the week you decided not to call me, did you spend any time investigating McFadden?"

"I did."

"And?"

"And he had the security clearances. Or so the computer says."

"So now you think the computer's lying to you."

"You of all people know how easy it is to doctor those things."

"You search the computer systems here?"

"Our communications system that tracks and records all the IWAC conversations was destroyed. The backup tapes were also removed, so I don't know where Raymond was when he called you." Her voice was so calm, so level when she spoke, it was as if her words contained an inoperable truth.

"And before you ask, the answer is yes, someone raided the databases for information on Angel Eyes."

"What about the tape backups and blueprints on the suit?" They were stored at a private company called Wentz Enterprises.

"They're missing," Pasha said.

"Sounds like Angel Eyes to me."

"Stephen, you cannot ignore the possibility that Raymond " "I deal with facts. Fact: We know that John McFadden has sold out us and some of our top agents to the Russians. We also know that Misha, a member of the Russian Mafyia, is involved in this case. Fact: Delburn Systems was raided for information on Angel Eyes."

"It could have very well been staged."

"And how do you explain the pictures left for me inside the hospital room? Why would Bouchard go to all that trouble?"

"I'm looking into it."

"And why would he be connected to Misha?"

"Again, I'm looking into it."

"Come to me with hard facts and then we'll talk," Conway said.

"I think the larger issue is that you're afraid I may be right."

"I think the explosion seriously fucked up your head."

Pasha turned and limped her way to the window. She stared outside, her face as remote and cold as a storm soldier overlooking a field of graves.

Nice job, ace. Why don't you just go over there and kick her in the head to drive your point home.

The wall clock read ten minutes before four. He didn't want to think anymore. All he wanted was to go home with Pasha and get some serious sleep, talk about it in the morning when he was rested. He rubbed his eyes to get some wetness in them, then stood up and joined Pasha at the window.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Pasha leaned against the wall, quiet. He stared at her, this intelligent and resourceful woman who possessed such unnatural strength and character, her body haggard and bruised and mending. Her eyes remained still and did not move when she spoke.

"I realize what I am suggesting. I know who Raymond is. What he means to you." Pasha turned her broken face to him.

"I was the one who rushed into that basement and saved you from Armand.

You were on the floor, your heart had stopped beating. I kept you alive until the paramedics arrived."

"I know."

"And when you left without me for Colorado and wanted to be alone, I watched you, made sure you were safe, had people in place when Armand's team made another rush at you. You've trusted me all this time. I've never lied to you. Why won't you trust me now?"

Conway didn't have an answer for her. She was right, of course. She had never lied to him. She had been his protector, his teacher and mentor and lover, and with the exception of his two friends back east, Pasha Romanov was the one person in this life he knew he could trust.

"All I'm asking is for some time to look into things," Pasha said.

"If I'm wrong about Raymond, then I'm wrong, but the only way I can do my job is to make sure he doesn't know I'm alive. I think I'm being fair. In fact, I know I am."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to meet with Raymond tomorrow. He's coming to Austin."

"How do you know that?"

"After you left the condo, an encrypted e-mail was sent to our home computer. I already read it. He wants to meet you at Mount Bonnell tomorrow evening. Tell him about Rombardo but don't tell him about me.

This meeting never took place."

Pasha reached inside her suit-jacket pocket and came back with a Palm Pilot wrapped with an elastic band. She handed it to him. Conway flipped the Palm Pilot over and saw a credit card and the torn piece of a matchbook that had a phone number written on it.

"I have a phone listed under Sally Johnson," Pasha said.

"That's the number on the matchbook. Call me only in an emergency.

You're probably being watched and traced."

"What's the credit card for?"

"It contains a transmitter. Carry it with you at all times. That way I can track you."

"To do it, you'll have to stay close. This doesn't have a great range."

"I have the equipment."

Conway looked into her eyes and in that moment felt some deep part of himself become whole.

Pasha leaned forward, carefully, kissed him on the mouth, and then slid her cheek against his. He could feel her breath whispering against his ear.

"I'll find out who did this to us," Pasha said.

"We both will. If you find out anything, drop it in my locker at the gym. You know the combination."

Gently, Pasha moved away from him. He was about to walk out the conference room door when she called out for him.

"Stephen?"

Conway turned back to her.

"You can trust me, Stephen. Always. I'll never lie to you."

"I know."

Satisfied, Conway turned and left her alone in the darkness.

Raymond Bouchard, an only child, was sixteen years old when his father had the bright idea of committing suicide at home. His father sat in his favorite leather chair, the one by the bedroom window where he would read his history books and smoke his cigars, and wrapped his lips around the double barrels of a shotgun. Using his bare toe (suicide rule number one: always use the bare toe because with socks you might slip and fuck up the job), he blew his problems out onto the back wall of family portraits. The maid was off that day, and his mother was, of course, at the club.

Raymond discovered his father's body. For a reason to this day he couldn't explain, he went outside and waited on the porch for his mother to return, and when she did, around five, sunbaked and shit-faced as always, he told her that Dad was upstairs and had something important to show her.

The child psychologist, a chubby man with a beard and glasses who fancied himself an intellectual, had wanted to know why Raymond didn't call the police or cry. The shrink was especially fascinated by the manner in which Raymond chose to tell his mother. The reason Raymond gave was that he didn't know the man. His father, a businessman who owned and operated several shoe stores, was an invisible presence in the family's life. Raymond knew the man only as The Provider, the one who had provided the lavish mansion in Dover, Massachusetts; the country club memberships; the twice-yearly flights to Paris so his mother could go shopping. What was the point of grieving for someone you didn't know or love? Then the shrink started in with questions about Raymond's mother, Fiona.

Fiona had refused to discuss the incident. How could she? The textbook narcissist was too immersed in her rage about the position she had been left in, the one who now had to take control and sort out this financial mess and for once play the dual role of mother and adult.

She, like her husband, like Raymond himself, was an only child; no aunts or uncles came by the house, no neighbors or friends, not even his father's business associates. It was as if everyone viewed the suicide as some sort of lethal airborne virus.