The Immortalists (11 page)

Richard rolled the office chair into a narrow beam of sunlight filtering through the window and flipped through the passports drying there. Burt Seeger’s basement was a bit short on creature comforts—not much more than a concrete box lined with exposed pipes—but it felt safe. For now.

He closed his eyes and felt the warmth penetrate his skin. A space heater would have been nice, but money was tight. They’d stuffed just over twenty thousand dollars into a series of shoe-boxes that were now perched on top of some old camping equipment in the corner. A lot of money by most standards, but not so much when facing a life on the run. Unless, of course, that life turned out to be extraordinarily short.

The sunlight faltered for a moment, and a wheelbarrow appeared at the top of the window well, followed by Seeger’s and Susie’s sneaker-covered feet. Carly rose and leaned into the glass, peering up into the backyard.

Her long red hair was short and brown now, and her eyes were framed by a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Completing the surprisingly effective disguise were a pair of unflattering jeans and a sweater calculated to make her look twenty pounds heavier.

“Susie loves spending time with him,” she said. “And have you looked at Burt since she got here? He seems ten years younger.”

“No, Carly.”

“What?”

“I know what you’re thinking. We can’t leave her here if something happens to us.”

“Where else would she go? My sister’s a lunatic, and they’d find her there. Why shouldn’t—”

“Because he’s already been through this with his wife. It’s not fair to him. No one should have to do that twice.”

“They’ve made a lot of progress on the garden,” she said, seeming not to hear. “I wish we had a place where we could grow food. When I was a kid, I loved planting things. Watching them come up was a little like magic.”

He knew that look, and before she could lose herself in the past he pointed to the cheap laptop they’d bought. “How are you doing on Chris?”

“What?” she said, turning to look down at him.

“Chris. What have you found out about him?”

“Oh,” she said, sitting back down in front of the computer. “It’s funny, isn’t it? We’ve been friends for years, and I never really thought about the fact that we don’t know all that much about him—who his other good friends are, if he was close to his family, what other kinds of research the foundation he ran supported.”

“And now?”

“Not much better. I mean, I don’t know the first thing about investigating someone, but I don’t think that can explain how little I’m finding on Chris. His life was pretty public when he was a CEO, but after that the amount of information really drops off.”

“Seems like you’d expect that. It was a pretty public job.”

“Yeah, but the contrast is really stark. Since he retired, he seems to actively avoid the limelight and personal relationships. Not that there’s any crime in that, but it’s pretty unusual for someone with his background—particularly when you consider the fact that he runs a charity.”

“What about that? What about the foundation?”

“They don’t even have a Website. I can’t find so much as a set of guidelines on how you’d submit a grant proposal. Do know who any of the other board members are?”

Richard shook his head. “I talked to Chris about meeting them and doing a presentation, but he always came out against it—said I was better off just letting him to do the legwork.”

She put a hand to her face and rubbed her lower lip nervously. “What now, then?”

He shrugged. “It sounds like Chris is a dead end, and the Chevaliers are dead and buried. I’ve looked through all the scientific literature and haven’t found anything even close to what Annette was looking into. We have no way of finding the son of a bitch who attacked Susie, and the Baltimore police are completely focused on me. Or in somebody’s pocket.”

“As near as I can tell,” Carly said, “that only leaves us one path.”

“Mason,” he agreed. “Someone’s got him, and it’s a pretty fair bet that they’re the same people who are after us. Find him and we’ve got something real—something people can’t ignore. Without him, though, I’m just an industrial spy on the run.”

Oleg Nazarov grimaced as he sat—at the pain in his back, at the worsening arthritis in his left knee, and at the loss of control over his life. No, it wasn’t a loss. He’d given it away.

The windows to his left rose from floor to ceiling, holding back the jungle beyond. Everything was the same green—impenetrable, hazy with heat and humidity, home to endless parasites and biting insects. He was a long way from his birthplace in northern Russia, a land of deep cold and open spaces, of horse-drawn carts and wind blowing through stunted crops.

Perhaps he should have spent his life there like his father had. Instead, he’d left as a teenager to attend school in Moscow, become a member of the communist party, and eventually join the KGB. Despite—or perhaps because of—his success in those organizations, there had always been someone beneath him who coveted his position or someone above him blocking his path. He had never again experienced the freedom and contentment of his youth.

It had been the memory of his childhood more than anything else that had prompted him to return to the remote regions of his country after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The derelict oil fields and cash-starved soldiers with arms to sell had been just a happy circumstance, as had the hundreds of millions of euros he’d amassed selling them.

But now everything had changed. Much of his wealth had been siphoned off by the group, and he was back to leading investigations and paramilitary operations—something he hadn’t done in almost a quarter century. And once again, he found himself trapped in a luxurious prison. This time by a man who, as far as the world was concerned, didn’t exist.

Nazarov watched a brightly colored bird settle on a tree branch outside and wondered if Karl had spent his youth in such a place. If that’s why he was so comfortable on the island. But it was dangerous to think of such things.

He turned to his computer and decrypted the most recent e-mail, running a hand over his balding scalp as he read through it. Nothing of use. Nothing new.

He had learned yesterday that the plane carrying Richard and Carly Draman had crashed miles from its expected course. His inquiries had uncovered a disastrous chain of events: The pilot reporting a medical emergency. A brief stopover in Mayaguana. The bomb they’d planted going off while the jet was still within view of people on the ground.

There was no record of the Dramans ever arriving at the clinic, and the ambulance driver had initially insisted that they’d returned to the plane before it left. More persistent questioning— questioning that had ended with the man’s body at the bottom of the ocean—laid bare a much more alarming story.

As Nazarov reread the useless e-mail, he felt a burning it the pit of his stomach that he hadn’t experienced since his years with Soviet intelligence. Though the development of this plan had been necessarily rushed, he’d signed off on every detail. It had been
his
operation, and it had ended with the entire Draman family falling off the face of the earth.

Explaining to Karl that a medical researcher and his chef wife had outmaneuvered him wasn’t something Nazarov was anxious to do. In fact, it wasn’t something he was certain he’d survive.

He deleted the e-mail and opened a file containing information on his investigation into the Dramans. Richard was proving to be a much more formidable opponent than anyone would have guessed. Was this the result of an IQ well into the 170s and a youth spent playing cat and mouse with the police? The counsel of an unseen ally? Perhaps both?

The obvious avenues—credit card, ATM, and phone usage— had quickly proved to be dead ends and would undoubtedly continue to be so. According to his information, their personal accounts and those of the Progeria Project had been drained from a number of bank branches in Maryland and Virginia, leaving them with just over twenty thousand dollars in cash. It seemed likely that they’d been dropped off somewhere in southern Florida by a Bahamian smuggler, whom they had yet to locate. This hypothesis was supported by a phone call to August Mason made from a phone connected to a tower near Cutler Bay, Florida.

It was there that the situation became more murky. They would be unable to rent a car without a credit card, and there was no record of them buying a plane ticket. Most likely, they’d used buses—a mode of transportation that still provided an irritating level of anonymity to those willing to take even a few rudimentary precautions.

It was possible that they would run to the federal authorities, and he was actively strengthening his already considerable network at those organizations—particularly the FBI. But he was convinced that it was young Susie who would prove to be her parents’ undoing, and it was on that weak link that he would concentrate the majority of his resources.

Speakers attached to his computer began to ring, and he clicked an icon to bring up a secure satellite link.

“Yes.”

“We’re through the second-tier contacts.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

Nazarov leaned back in his chair and fixed his stare on the rock wall across from him. They’d started with immediate family and close friends, concentrating on people within practical proximity to the Dramans’ home. The second tier of relationships encompassed family down to cousins and work colleagues.

“Do we have a list of former friends and past coworkers?”

“Not an exhaustive one but enough to start with,” the voice replied. “Obviously, when we hit this level there’s not much depth but a lot of breadth. Our manpower—”

“Is what it is,” Nazarov said, cutting him off.

They were now talking about hundreds of potential contacts, all of whom had to be physically surveilled if they were going to find Susie Draman. It was a task for an army of well-trained men, and he had barely a handful. One of the many drawbacks of being forced to work from the center of a black hole.

“Prioritize as best you can,” he said before hanging up and opening a research file on progeria. It was a fascinating, terrifying disease that created victims with special—almost unique—needs. And that distinctness made them vulnerable.

The Dramans stepped out of the cab and started up the quiet street’s gravel shoulder, stopping when they were out of earshot of the driver.

“I don’t know about this, Carly. I’m still thinking that I should go.”

She ran a hand down his freshly shaven cheek. “You were here a couple weeks ago, and losing the beard isn’t going to fool anyone. Quit worrying. What could possibly go wrong?”

His mouth hung open for a moment, not recognizing the joke until she smiled. The stress of sending his wife on this particular errand was actually making his stomach churn painfully. Even with everything he’d been carrying around for the last eight years, his stomach had always been bulletproof. Until now.

“OK. You’re right. I’ll wait here for you. You’ve got the cell, right? If anything happens, just hit—”

“I know how to dial a phone, Richard. Relax. It’s going to be fine.”

She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and then made her way to a gate surrounded by mature trees. After pushing the call button, she turned and watched her husband jog hesitantly back to the cab.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Ms. Covas? This is Caroline Bates from the
Washington Post
. We have an appointment.”

“Of course. Please come in.”

The gate swung open and she started up the long driveway, trying to ignore the intimidating clang as the gate closed behind her. The house came into view when she crested a small rise— every bit as impressive as Richard had described. Beneath the portico, a tall woman in jeans greeted her with a wave. Also as impressive as Richard had described.

“Hello!” Carly called when she was close enough that she didn’t have to shout. “Ms. Covas?”

“Alexandra,” she said, extending a hand, “Dr. Mason’s executive assistant.”

“It’s nice to meet you. Thanks for taking the time. I know how busy you must be.”

“I’ve gotten a lot of calls from the press since Dr. Mason passed away. But I have to say that yours were the most tenacious.”

Carly gave an apologetic smile. “You don’t get anywhere in this business without a little elbow grease, you know? So how long have you been with Dr. Mason?”

“About five years.”

“Since he got back from…well, wherever it was he went.”

She gave a short nod that made it clear she wasn’t going to allow herself to be led into a discussion of that particular subject.

“The family isn’t keeping the house?” Carly said, watching two men carry a sofa toward a moving truck parked in the driveway.

“Dr. Mason didn’t have any family. His assets are being liquidated in accordance with his will.”

“Who did he leave the money to?”

“A group supporting healthcare initiatives in Africa.”

“I wasn’t aware he was involved in charitable work.”

“He wasn’t. As far as I know, he felt nothing but disdain for the disadvantaged.”

“Really?” Carly said, surprised that the woman wouldn’t be more guarded in what she said about her former employer.

“Dr. Mason was an analytical man who lived mostly inside his own mind. He didn’t give much thought to the people around him beyond demanding they immediately and unquestioningly follow his instructions.”

“And yet you stayed with him for five years.”

She shrugged. “He paid well and was very helpful in getting me a green card.”

“Could you tell me the charity he left his estate to?”

“The Africa AIDS Initiative.”

Carly jotted the name down on an official-looking pad she’d purchased, but still wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for. August Mason wasn’t a particularly good lead. He was the only lead.

“Did he still work?”

“No. He mostly pursued his hobbies. Fitness, reading, music.”

“Doesn’t seem like he’d need a personal assistant.”

“He didn’t like to be bothered with things he felt were beneath him—interacting with the staff that upkeeps the property, fielding requests for his time…”

“Requests for his time?”

“As you can imagine, he had a lot of offers for consulting work. Even though he never accepted, some people making the offers could be extremely persistent.”

“You make it sound like there was someone in particular.”

She let out an irritated breath. “Andreas Xander.”

“Xander? Really? I would think he’d be a hard guy to say no to.”

“You have no idea. He used to call personally. Eventually, Dr. Mason refused to talk to him, and I had to do it. Xander is an incredibly rude and vulgar man…” She fell silent for a moment, obviously regretting her statement. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t quote me on that if he’s still alive when you print your article. He’s also a vindictive and powerful man.”

“No problem. What about Chris Graden? What was his relationship to Dr. Mason?”

Her brow furrowed for a moment. “None that I’m aware of. In fact, I’d never heard the name until I was driving him to the airport to get on Mr. Graden’s plane.”

Carly didn’t respond immediately, trying to process what she’d just heard. “You
personally
drove Mason to the airport?”

“Of course.”

“Could you tell me what time that was?”

She seemed a bit perplexed by the question, but evidently saw no harm in answering. “About two hours before the flight left. Something like that.”