Deception (21 page)

He had thought that Dietz was different.

But he had thought wrong.

As he approached the swarm heading for the train, he touched the Peskett in his waistband. If things went well, he would find Dietz without being seen. He would follow Dietz and the woman, wherever they might go, and then report back to Keyes. But if Dietz saw him, and it came down to it, then Leonard would defend himself. Part of him would have relished that opportunity—the chance to exact revenge for this latest unexpected betrayal.

The crowd was dissipating. He was left in the center of the room, in plain sight. He quickly turned and melted back toward the wall.

One finger moved again to his throat. He had been in such a hurry, after receiving Keyes's call, that he hadn't even found time to press a square of toilet paper against the wound.

It was bleeding.

4.

Dietz saw him—or, more precisely, he saw the bill of his baseball cap.

Then Leonard was slipping away again. But he had shown himself, and now Dietz had his position. Now it was only a matter of execution.

Yet his timing still needed to be right; for he could not afford to get hung up, here, with the locals.

He turned to the woman, who stood beside him.

“Walk into the center of the station,” he said. “Let yourself be seen. Then come back here. But move slowly. Take your time.”

Her eyebrows went up. She was not stupid, of course. She understood that he wanted to use her as bait.

But they were in it together, and she seemed to realize this. After a few seconds, she nodded, turned, and walked slowly out into the center of the station.

Dietz watched. Then he began to move in the opposite direction, looping back behind the place where he had seen Leonard.

It should not present a problem, he thought. With the woman as a lure, Leonard would be distracted. Dietz would have his chance. But he had learned, over the years, never to underestimate an enemy. And Leonard, all appearances to the contrary, was a respectable enemy—driven by his anger, Dietz thought; driven and determined. It was a shame that they had met under these circumstances. They had things in common. Perhaps, had things been different …

But things were not different. And so it was every man for himself. Leonard would be of more value dead, now, than alive. His body would be left behind as a calling card of sorts, sending a signal to Keyes. The wrong signal. For when Keyes heard that Leonard's corpse had been recovered at Haydarpasa, he would assume that they were heading east.

Then they would head west, to keep their rendezvous with the vulture.

He saw Leonard again: keeping his back against the wall as his eyes tracked the crowd.

He was not to be underestimated. With his back against the wall, he would be difficult to approach. But Dietz, of course, had tricks of his own.

He positioned himself twenty feet from Leonard, shielding himself from view behind a column, and then waited.

Any moment now, Leonard would see the woman. Then he would be torn for a moment, reluctant to take his back from that wall. But at last, he would move forward. He had no choice. He needed to keep on the trail. The bait would be irresistible.

Dietz's thumb, inside the battered leather bag, slipped off the safety of the gun.

Any moment now …

Leonard saw her.

He stood for a moment, as expected, torn by doubt.

He began to move forward.

It was a shame, of course. They could have worked well together, he and Leonard, under other circumstances. But life was what life was.

Then a train's arrival was being announced. The station, which had emptied a bit after the most recent departure, suddenly was flooded again with people.

And Leonard, standing barely four feet tall, was lost in the crush.

Dietz left his place behind the column.

5.

Leonard saw the woman.

Twice before, he had seen her—in the tower of Sapienza and leaving the Four Seasons with Dietz. Now she appeared to be alone. She was strolling out into the center of the station, looking around. Had she and Dietz become separated? Or was she bait?

Bait, of course. Dietz was no fool.

But he needed to keep her in sight. He had no other choice.

A moment passed. Then Leonard took his back from the wall, although his every instinct warned against it.

An announcement was being made. Crowds swept into the station. Leonard had the impression of being caught in the midst of the parted Red Sea as the waters came rushing back in. Harried-looking travelers of every persuasion closed in on him in a crush. He lost sight of the woman.

A couple in front of him was being reunited, the man sweeping the woman into his arms as she screamed laughter. A family to his left was bickering as the mother tried to keep her children from wandering. Leonard pushed forward. There she was—looking overwhelmed herself by the sudden influx. He hesitated. If he moved closer, she might see him. But if he stayed here, she might vanish.

Then he became aware of someone coming up behind him. It was an odd awareness, since the space behind him already was filled with people; but this someone was not one of them. This was something else.

He began to tug the Peskett free. But he was too late, and he knew it. Something cool touched the base of his neck. It felt nice, he thought—like an ice cube wrapped in a washcloth applied on a sweltering summer day. Not so bad, Leonard thought. It was not such a bad sensation, with which to leave this cursed life—a cool washcloth on a hot summer day.

He kept trying to pull the Peskett free anyway. But it had caught on the elastic of his shorts. He almost smiled. Just his luck, he thought.

Shitty to the end.

Dietz fired.

TWENTY

1.

For some reason, the Italian detective seemed fond of Keyes.

When he mentioned that he was looking for yet another missing person—this one a man of nearly thirty who appeared, thanks to a condition called hypopituitarism, to be a boy of only twelve—the Italian made a sympathetic sound. He did not ask why Keyes wanted the information, or if it was tied to the other investigation, or how that investigation had turned out. Instead, he said, “Let me look into it. I'll call you back.”

Keyes paused. His number had an area code of 802; a New York City Police Department's area code would be 212. “I'm on my way out,” he said. “I'll get back to you … how's an hour?”

After hanging up, he wondered why the man seemed so kindly disposed toward him. Because of September 11th, perhaps. In certain sections of the world, now, New York City cops enjoyed an unusual amount of goodwill. Or perhaps laconic
bonhomie
was just a character trait of the Italians. He pictured the man sipping wine as he looked into the matter, stopping every few moments to wolf-whistle out his office window at a passing young woman.

In any case, he would not look a gift horse in the mouth. He returned his attention to his computer, where he was searching for any mention of a man who was known by the alias “the vulture.” So far, he had come up empty. But there was no cause for alarm. At any moment, he expected a call from Brown, stating that Yurchenko had been arrested. Then the Russian could shed light on the question of the vulture's true identity.

The phone rang. He reached for it. “Keyes.”

“He's flown the coop,” Brown said.

Keyes put his head into his hands.

Brown sounded defensive. “Two minutes after he got the call, he was out the back door.” A pause. “I'd say he had a contingency plan,” Brown added, in a manner that struck Keyes as slightly disingenuous.

“‘A contingency plan,'” Keyes repeated.

“We'll get him. There's—”

Keyes hung up.

For a few moments, he sat still.

So it had come to this. They couldn't even apprehend a man when they were, at least in theory, two steps ahead.

He felt an anxiety attack coming on. The pressure was too much for one man. His shoulders were too narrow for this burden. He was beginning to shake—not on the surface, but inside, at his core.

Had there ever been a time when he actually had been in control? No, he saw now. Control had been only an illusion. With his career, with his family, with the current situation—he was merely an observer, along for the ride. Sometimes he seemed to be holding the reins, but in reality this horse was in charge of itself.

The fear he felt was a slavering, undeniable thing. It wanted him to give in, to give up …

He tried to concentrate on small activities, to distract himself.

He spent the rest of the hour searching his database, to no avail. Was the vulture another Russian? Or someone else, with whom Yurchenko had come into contact during his spying days?

When the hour had gone by, he lifted the phone and dialed his Italian friend again.

“I've found your boy,” the Italian reported.

Keyes steeled himself. It would not be good news, of course. God forbid that he ever get some good news.

“His body was discovered an hour ago at the Haydarpasa railway station. Right in the middle of it, as a matter of fact. Someone put a bullet in his head in plain view.”

Keyes pursed his lips.

“There's going to be an investigation. I wonder if I can tell my superiors that the case has already been opened on your end …”

Keyes hung up.

Then he stared at the phone. The Italian would not be able to trace the call; ADS's security system guaranteed that. Let them do what they would with Leonard's body. It could not be traced back to him.

Yet he was starting to shake again. Haydarpasa, the man had said. So Dietz was heading east. To the Arabs.

It was the rat king. It was worse than he had feared.

A half-dozen determined men breaking into a particle accelerator, with Epstein's results in hand, could do untold damage. These men would be fanatics, after all. They would not pause at the thought of creating a singularity. They would be thinking of the seventy virgins awaiting them on the other side … beautiful like rubies, with complexions like diamonds and pearls …

He was going to throw up.

He pulled the trash basket out from below his desk and stared into it. His stomach was empty; but it didn't seem to know that. He swallowed painfully. After another few seconds, he had the nausea under control.

He shoved the basket away and leaned back in his chair, looking blankly at the telephone. So much bad news, coming into his life through such a little instrument. Why, he should destroy this thing. He should pull it out of the wall and fling it through the window behind the desk. As if that would change anything.

Keyes watched as his hand reached for the phone.

He watched as his fingers punched out a number. He kept watching, bemused by his hand's action, as he brought the receiver to his ear.

The phone rang twice. “Hello?” a voice said.

He cleared his throat. “Alice?”

“Yes?”

“Um, it's Jim. Jim Keyes. Is Rachel there?”

He could hear the intake of Rachel's mother's breath. Then the phone was set down with a clatter. A few moments passed. The phone was picked up again. “Hello?” Rachel said.

“It's me.”

Silence.

“How are you?” he asked.

Silence.

“Listen,” he heard himself saying. “I'm, uh. Listen. I'm in Boston. I wondered if you might …”

“You're here?”

“Yes. I wondered if you might want to … you know … um, grab a bite.”

More silence.

“Rachel?”

“Yes.”

“What do you say?”

“It's not the best time,” she said.

“Dinner?”

She paused.

“We could go to the old IHOP. You know, the one we used to go to when we were …”

“Jim,” she said. “Are you all right?”

He laughed. The sound of the laugh surprised him.

“No,” he said. “No—Rachel—I'm not.”

2.

Four hours later, he was setting down at Logan Airport.

It was insane to be leaving his office right now. This was not finished, not by a long shot. Yet Keyes himself
was
finished. He couldn't do it anymore.

He took a cab to the International House of Pancakes where he and Rachel had gone on their earliest dates, back when she had still lived with her parents, back when they had been two kids playing at being adults. In those days, he had driven six hours each way just to spend a weekend with Rachel—and none of it in bed.

Almost two decades had passed since his last visit, but the restaurant looked essentially unchanged. The same fragrant Dumpster was still located unfortunately close to the front entrance. The same bicycle rack out front was completely devoid of bikes, as ever. He stepped inside; chimes on the door jangled. The air-conditioning hit him in a blast. A gum-chewing hostess stepped forward with a menu. “One?” she asked.

“I'm meeting someone,” Keyes said, and his eyes slid to what had been their usual booth.

Rachel was there, watching him.

Keyes went to join her, lurching along on the cane. He slipped into the booth, accepted the menu from the waitress, and then opened it, concentrating on the laminated choices. “Hi,” he said, running an index finger down the list of pancakes.

“Hi,” she said.

“Thanks for coming.”

She said nothing.

“Same old menu,” he said. He forced a chuckle. “Or is this new? Pigs in a blanket. Did they always have that here?” He glanced up. “I don't think they …”

Rachel looked spectacular.

She seemed ten years younger than she had at their daughter's wedding: rested, slim, and fit. She wore a simple white halter top, a turquoise necklace, and small silver-and-amber earrings. Her hair had been allowed to achieve its natural shade of graying auburn; her skin was clear and fresh.

“… my God,” he said. “You look terrific.”