Edge

by Jeffery Deaver

  Since neither I nor opponents like Henry Loving know what moves the other will make, I continually apply game theory in trying to pick the best strategy to win--strategy being not an overall approach to a contest but a specific move, like "Pawn to Rook Seven" or selecting a fist in Rock, Paper, Scissors.

  Here, my strategy was to play the flytrap, believing that Henry Loving was more likely than not to make a rational choice: to go for the bait.

  But game theory exists because of uncertainty--on gaming boards and in real life. Perhaps Loving would sense this was a trap and, knowing that I was preoccupied there, would use this opportunity to find the real safe house the Kesslers were in, while I was busy here.

  Or would he try a different strategy altogether, something I couldn't figure out but which was even now brilliantly outmaneuvering me?

  I was getting closer to the nation's capital. I noticed behind me a black SUV I might have seen earlier. Westerfield? Someone else? I called Claire duBois again. "I need a crowd. Festival, parade. In the District. I don't think I have a tail but I want to make sure of it. What do you have for me?"

  "A crowd. Okay. How big a crowd? There's the game at the stadium--but, sorry to say, that's not going to be much of a crowd, given how they're playing this season. Then there's a romance author and the cover model of her books--they're signing at a Safeway in North West."

  How did she know this without looking anything up?

  "How many people go to romance book signings at grocery stores?"

  "You'd be surprised."

  True. "But I want bigger. And downtown. Make it a thousand people, plus."

  "Too bad it's not spring. I don't go for the cherry blossoms myself," she told me. "If the blossoms did something while you were there, that would be one thing. But I never quite understood going to look at trees. Let's see, let's see. . . ." I heard typing, I heard tinkling charms.

  DuBois said, "There's not much. A gay rights march up Connecticut in DuPont Circle. Preaching to the converted. Estimate four hundred . . . A Mexican-American parade in South East but it's just winding down now. Oh, here we go. The biggest thing is the protesters outside of Congress. That's about two thousand strong. I never know why they say that. 'Strong.' As opposed to 'two thousand weak.' "

  "That sounds good."

  The crowds were there to protest against, or support, a Supreme Court nominee, she explained. I was vaguely aware that the jurist--projected to be confirmed by one or two votes in the Senate--was conservative, so the left was busing in folks to protest, while the Republicans had marshaled their own troops to show support.

  "Where exactly?"

  She told me--near the Senate Office Building--and I disconnected and steered in that direction. In five minutes, with the sanction of my federal ID, I was easing in and around the demonstrators and past barricades that would stop anyone tailing me. The supporters of the nominee were on one side of a line, the protesters on the other. I noted the viciousness of the insults and even threats they flung back and forth at each other. The police were out in force. I recalled reading a recent series in the Post about the increasing polarization and aggressive partisanship in American politics.

  My phone buzzed. "Freddy."

  "Where are you?"

  "Trying not to run over Supreme Court nominee protesters."

  "Hit a few of 'em for me."

  "You're on site?"

  "We're here, in the staging area."

  "Anything?"

  "Nothing so far."

  "I'll be there soon." I now emerged on the other side of the demonstration, assured that I had no tail, and sped to a small garage we sometimes used, just north of Union Station. In five minutes I'd swapped Garcia's official car for another fake one and was heading out a different doorway from the one I'd driven into.

  Ten minutes later I was at the flytrap.

  A new round of the game against Henry Loving was about to begin.

  Chapter 11

  WE'D PICKED THIS location, a scruffy portion of North East D.C., because it was a perfect takedown site.

  Some industrial parts of the District of Columbia, like this one, are as breathtakingly grim as anything Detroit or Chicago's South Side can offer. The warehouse we leased for a song was in a marshy, weed-cluttered landfill crisscrossed with rusting railroad tracks (I'd never seen a train), crumbling access roads and a couple of sour-smelling canals. Our property was three acres of overgrown lots, filled with trash, clusters of anemic trees, pools of water the color of a sickly tropical lizard. In the center was an ancient warehouse with just enough evidence of habitation to make it seem like a credible safe house. Nearby were two small crumbling outbuildings, where tactical teams could wait for the bad guys; they offered perfect crossfire positions. The warehouse itself had bulletproof brick walls and few windows. We've used it a number of times, though only twice successfully. The most recent was last January, when I'd sat in a snowstorm for four hours, sipping increasingly chilly coffee from a flabby cup clutched in my stinging red fingers, until the hitter finally made his bold and, for him, unfortunate move.

  I now drove through back alleys and fields, largely invisible to any surveillance from the perimeter. I parked some distance from the warehouse, beside the other federal cars, out of sight of the nearby driveways and roads. Then, my shoulder bag bouncing on my back, I walked through a stand of brush and beneath a rusting railroad bridge that was graffiti-free; even the gangbangers had no interest in this prime example of urban decay. I surveyed the area again, saw no sign of hostile surveillance and slipped through tall weeds toward the staging area. A glance at the ground--the broken twigs, overturned leaves and stones--told me that Freddy had brought with him at least six agents (all of them seemingly unconcerned that they left such clear evidence of their presence; I spent some time obscuring the most obvious signs).

  Surrounding me was a world of trash and abandoned vehicles and rusting machinery and outright garbage piles. On my right, I could see a glimpse of a narrow canal, filled with bile green water and dotted with refuse and a dead squirrel or two, which I suspected had ended up there after taking a sip. Improbably, a small recreational power boat floated in the current toward the Potomac. Then the strip of foul water vanished from sight; a moment later I got to the command post and greeted Freddy and his people: six male agents in their thirties, large and unsmiling, and one younger woman, equally somber. The mix of these law enforcers was like the city itself: black, Latino, the minority white--the woman and an older, weathered male agent. People tend to think that the FBI is all dark suits and white shirts or the scary tactical outfits that make them look like science fiction movie soldiers. In reality, most agents dress informally: windbreakers, baseball caps and blue jeans. In the case of the woman, make that designer jeans, which I couldn't help but notice fit very closely. All were in body armor.

  Which I myself now donned.

  Everyone seemed tense, though I could tell from their eyes that they were looking forward to engaging.

  As I slipped on my com device earpiece and stalk mike, Freddy gave me their names and I paid attention, since I might need to differentiate them if the situation heated up. I nodded to each in greeting. I asked if there'd been any contact. The woman said, "We had a light sedan, gray or tan, go by the west perimeter, that road over there, five minutes ago. Didn't pause but it was going slow. I'd guess ten miles an hour."

  Gray or tan could have been beige. Loving's car from West Virginia? I suggested this and they took note.

  The slow transit in itself might not be suspicious. A lot of roads in the District were riddled with potholes, the asphalt was crumbling and traffic signs were missing. Kids stole them for souvenirs. Which could explain the car's leisurely pace. But then the bad conditions would also provide a good excuse for Loving to drive slowly and be less suspicious.

  "You have a sniper?" I asked Freddy.

  He snorted a laugh. "Sniper? You've been watching too many movies, Corte. Best we have is Bushmaste
rs."

  "Accurate is what we want, Freddy. It's not about size."

  "Was that a joke, Corte? You never make jokes."

  "A map?" I asked.

  "Here, sir." The woman agent produced one.

  I looked it over carefully, though I was keenly aware we didn't have a lot of time. Either Loving would move fast or he wouldn't try for the assault at all. I turned to the agents and explained my plan for the takedown, then pointed out the best placement for everyone and for the hardware. Freddy made a few suggestions, which I thought were good.

  I looked at the building that was supposedly our safe house. A few lights were on inside. And there was a machine that Hermes had developed, a nice little toy, like a slow-motion fan whose blades cast shadows randomly on shades and curtains, giving the impression that somebody was inside and walking occasionally from room to room. It also produced a light that mimicked the glow of a TV screen. You could program voices to sound like people having conversations. There was even a mode selector: argumentative, humorous, conspiratorial--to make any eavesdropping lifters or hitters believe the warehouse was populated by principals under guard, and not workers.

  "How're the Kesslers?" Freddy asked.

  "Calmer than a lot of my principals." But, I told him, Joanne was a zombie and would be in therapy for a year; her husband was drinking and wanted to shoot anything that moved, and Maree--when she wasn't hysterical--was more concerned about boyfriend trouble than professional killers.

  "I warned you about that sister, Corte. You know, you get tired of this job, you should think about doing some kind of Dr. Phil show."

  Then I said, "I'm going into position."

  He gave me one of his looks. It was a container of a dozen messages that I read instinctively. Freddy, whom I'd met years ago under unusual circumstances, was the only person in the world I could be partnered with in operations like this. Of the two of us, I'm the strategist--I pick the moves--and he's the tactician, figuring out how to implement my choices.

  In terms of games, I decide rock . . . and Freddy makes the fist.

  I trekked through a long weedy gully, bordered by a thick stand of trees to my right, the smelly canal beyond and, on the left, grass and piles of machinery. At the end, under cover of the sad foliage, I set up a Big Ear unit--a twelve-inch parabolic dish that was an ultrasensitive microphone--and slipped on a headset. I turned this toward the warehouse, aiming the device below the window, which had purposely been left open.

  I focused beyond the warehouse and noted in the middle of our property two civilian vehicles up on blocks. A Chevy sedan and a Dodge van, rusty and covered with graffiti, some of which I myself had helped spray on a few years ago.

  Alone now, feeling very alone, I looked around once more, as a trickle of excitement and anticipation danced down my spine.

  Fear too, of course.

  As Abe Fallow had told me and I told my proteges, you have to be afraid in this business. If you don't get scared, you can't be effective.

  Ten minutes passed, a long, long ten minutes.

  "Team One to Command Post," a voice clattered through our earphones. "Got some movement north."

  "Command Post to One. Go ahead."

  "Be advised. Unknown person moving slow. Dark clothing, male probably. Gone from sight now. He's in grid eighteen."

  "Weapon?"

  "Not obvious."

  I strained, leaning forward to look where the subject had been spotted--the opposite side of the property from where I was. After a moment of staring at blond and green weeds, I too noted some motion. The subject was moving furtively from a dead end road toward the warehouse.

  "I've got him," the woman agent said. "No weapon. Doesn't appear to be Loving."

  "Probably the partner," I radioed, "but he's not alone. Loving'll be here too."

  The others called in, reporting what they saw--or, mostly, didn't see--from their respective positions. The figure tentatively approaching the warehouse had stopped.

  Then a whisper: "Team Two. He's noticed the Dodge, he's interested in it."

  I kept quiet. I'd be getting the details as soon as they were verified. It was inefficient to waste time by asking professionals for more information. It was like urging, "Be careful" as you're moving in for a takedown. I wiped my hands on my slacks.

  "This is Team One. He's on the move again. Slow."

  "Team Two. Copy that. He's real interested in the Dodge." One of the agents asked, "Any equipment in there?"

  "No," Freddy said. "It's clean. Let him poke around. . . . Team Four, you see anything more? Any sign of Loving?"

  "Negative."

  "Three?"

  "Negative."

  Then: "This is Team Two. The partner's getting closer . . . hand in pocket . . . looking behind him . . . has something in his hand. A mobile."

  I pulled out my Alpen 10x32 Long Eye binoculars and scanned the area but couldn't see him.

  Working on calming my breathing--which was shallow and fast. I tried thinking one of my mantras. Rock, paper, scissors. Rock, paper, scissors.

  It was then that I heard: Snap.

  Directly behind me.

  I froze and turned my head slowly.

  Holding his silenced pistol steadily on me, Henry Loving glanced down briefly, his mouth curling with faint disappointment at not having avoided the dry branch he'd just stepped on.

  Chapter 12

  LOVING NOTED A bit of body armor protruding from beneath my jacket. He lifted his gun and aimed at my exposed neck.

  Then his pale left hand moved slightly, delivering instructions.

  I stood. I was to remove the radio mike bud from one ear and the listening device earpiece from the other. And to pull my weapon from the holster with thumb and index finger.

  I complied with all of his requests, assessing him calmly.

  The way the game was moving was now clear. Loving had guessed that this was a trap and had decided to engage me personally. A rational decision. Which explained why he'd ordered the partner to hold back, near the Dodge, and not approach the warehouse itself, which he would have done if Loving had fallen for the setup.

  He'd known it was a trap but he'd taken the risk. Not to get Ryan Kessler, of course, but to kidnap me. Who, after sufficient coercion, would tell him where exactly the Kesslers were. I had suddenly become a principal.

  Loving's murky eyes in the fleshy, nondescript face of a businessman approaching middle age took in the scene quickly and noticed no threat around him, here at a distance from the command post and the warehouse.

  I realized that this was the closest I'd ever gotten to the man who'd tortured and killed my mentor. In Rhode Island, in the botched takedown, I'd never been nearer than a hundred feet or so. Close enough to see him squint slightly as he pulled the trigger--an instant before realizing that he'd walked into a trap and the principal was really an undercover agent, behind an invisible bulletproof shield.

  Neither of us said anything now. His plan was that we would talk, of course, but later and in the back of his vehicle or in another grim abandoned warehouse somewhere far away. He'd be thinking how long I could last before I told him where Ryan Kessler was.

  Because, Henry Loving knew, I would talk. Everybody talks sooner or later.

  With my weapon, the radio and cell phone on the ground and knowing he had limited time, Henry Loving gestured me toward him.

  Walking forward, I lifted my hands to shoulder level to show I was no threat, my gaze riveted to his. I couldn't look away. This was not because his eyes were intense or focused, though they were, but because they were the last thing that Abe Fallow had seen as he died. I knew this because the bullet had been fired from close range and had struck Abe in his forehead. The men would have been looking at one another. I often wondered, sometimes for hours before I fell asleep, about Abe's last moments. He'd given up the locations of the five principals he'd been guarding. But I'd been listening on the still-connected mobile. Between the moment Abe whispered the
address of the last witness and the fatal gunshot thirty seconds or so had passed. What had happened during that time? What had their expressions been?

  This was perhaps the reason I was so obsessed with catching Henry Loving: not only because he'd killed Abe Fallow, but because he'd forced the man to spend his last few moments in agony and despair.

  Hands submissively out to the sides, I began to wonder what shepherds always wonder under such circumstances: How long can I hold out under torture?

  Loving's low-tech. Usually he uses sandpaper and alcohol on sensitive parts of the body. Doesn't sound too bad but it works real well.

  This question, though, was merely theoretical, something that popped into my mind as I stepped forward.

  Because, despite appearances, I wasn't the losing player at the moment.

  Henry Loving was.

  The real bait here wasn't the warehouse and the suggestion that Ryan Kessler was inside.

  The real bait was me.

  The trap was something altogether different from what it appeared to be.

  And the moment had come to spring it.

  Squinting, I lifted my hands over my shoulders. This was the signal to the two FBI teams hiding nearby, my backup.

  And, as I dropped to the ground, I caught a glimpse of the shock in Loving's face as the explosions began. They were stunning. I felt the blast wave and heat slam into my face as I rolled on the dirt to retrieve my weapon, radio and phone. The powerful remote-controlled flash-bang grenades continued to detonate along the line I'd ordered them set up fifteen minutes before by the agents covering me, Teams Three and Four. They'd been told to set them off when I raised my hands above the level of my shoulders.

  Or if Loving shot me.

  "Move in, move in!" I shouted from the ground, plugging the earbuds in and grabbing my weapon. "He's headed for the canal."

  I heard Freddy's voice, "Team Two, take down the partner!"

  The agents on Teams Three and Four--the ones who'd been with me the whole time, hidden only thirty or so feet away--were on the move now, heading after Loving. I joined them, sprinting. We ran in pursuit, through the brush and weeds, around tires and abandoned washers and refrigerators. The lifter was ignoring us, concentrating on speed, not turning to fire.

  I'd decided that Loving would probably guess that this was a trap but I also believed that he'd figure I'd be present and he'd take the risk to kidnap me. And extract the location of Ryan Kessler.