She was biting her lower lip in anger. “Mr. Brewer—”
He held up his hand. “Wait. One more thing. I was framed and I knew there was no way out. I was going to prison. And I did. There’s nothing more you can do legally to help me. Nothing. You understand?”
“You’re going to take the law into your own hands?”
“I’m going to find the man who framed me. That’s all I’m interested in.”
She shook her head at him. “Judge, jury, and executioner.”
Brewer shrugged.
“Mr. Brewer, permit me to ask you about these.”
She pulled out a packet of white business envelopes. He recognized his own handwriting: letters he had written to himself, care of her law offices.
“I respected your wishes and left these envelopes unopened. All except one. This one. Our mail clerk sent this one through the electric letter opener. And then came to ask me who Segrue is.” She removed the folded sheet from the opened envelope and held it out to him.
He read the message:
SEGRUE ADDRESSES THE GODS:
From you, there are two Greek gifts: birth and death.
The latter’s the better. It’s what makes the former so palatable. Life without end would be hell on earth; there is no greater punishment—no more exquisite torture—than endlessness.
But there is one gift greater than either birth or death. Not being born at all: that’s best by far.
Next best: not being born again.
With heel taps on my wall, I hear the arrival of your second gift. With heel taps I hear death.
Accept my petition: I do not want your gift of life after death. I do not wish to return here. I do not wish reincarnation. I do not want to see again what I have seen. Do not want to feel again what I have felt. I do not wish to be a victim—nor see the other victims—of the gods again.
Keep your spurious gifts. Leave me alone.
“Who is Segrue, Mr. Brewer?”
“Someone I know.”
“Is it you? When I read this I was devastated. It was one of the blackest days of my life. This is the petition of a person who is horrified, sickened by life. If this was your mood in prison, and I had something to do with it, it will haunt all my days.”
“Mrs. Hale, we are all grown-up here.”
“This has nothing to do with being grown-up.”
“Yes, it does. We both know life is not fair, never has been. Most lives are not worth living. Most people would be better served if they’d died in their cradles. That piece about Segrue was written the night an inmate hanged, himself in his cell.”
“Oh.” She studied his face. “How terrible.” She touched the paper. “That makes it even worse. Whenever I read this it leaves me depressed for days. Now it will haunt me.”
“Mrs. Hale,” he began.
“I want a straight answer from you, Mr. Brewer. Were you selling guns out of the back of a car in Central Park for personal gain?”
Brewer sat back and folded his arms. He looked insolently at her, at the soft waves of her black hair and at the pale-blue eyes that were fixed so unflinchingly on him.
“You have beautiful coloring, Madeline Hale. Are you sure you’re not Irish?”
“I’m not Irish and neither are you. Will you please answer my question?”
“I know women who would kill to get skin like that.”
“Were you selling guns in Central Park for personal gain?”
Brewer shrugged at her, finally. “No. I was there on orders of a man named Rumbh.”
Madeline Hale took out her notebook and a pencil. “Mr. Brewer. Start at the beginning. And describe every detail. I want all the facts. From the beginning. Slowly.”
“On one condition.”
“What?”
“Don’t call me Mr. Brewer anymore. Do people call you Madeline?”
“Yes.”
“Then so will I.”
In the middle of a question she was phrasing, Madeline Hale stopped and asked, “Do you like Chinese food?”
“Sure,” Brewer said.
“I noticed there’s a place down the street, and I do a great act with chopsticks.” She smiled at him. “I haven’t eaten since this morning.”
She put the foolscap pad on the table next to the soy sauce and Chinese noodles.
“Okay,” she said. “Next question. Who had a motive for wanting to frame you?”
“Nobody.”
“Someone did.”
“Nobody in the arms trade. Framing is too much work. It’s easier to use a gun or a bomb.”
“I don’t see us making much progress here,” she said.
“You’ll know when you’re making progress. These people will bomb your car. Or burn you in your bed.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about this framing?” she asked.
Brewer shrugged.
She put her pencil down. “You don’t really think I’m going to get anywhere, do you?”
“No.”
“I’m going to surprise you.”
“The soup’s very good,” said Brewer.
Later she consulted a pocket calendar. “How much—Are you Charles or Charlie?”
“Charlie will do.”
“Okay, Charlie. How much time do I have?”
“For what?”
“To clear your name before you do something irrevocable.”
“How much time can you put against it?”
“As much time as it takes. I’m winding up my affairs in Washington, and your case is my last piece of unfinished business.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to Vermont to open a law practice and get married.”
“I thought you were married.”
“I’m a widow, Charlie.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that. How did it happen?”
“A shooting in a Washington courtroom. A prisoner got a policeman’s gun and killed four people. One of them was my husband. Do you like the life of an agent?”
“Okay, change the subject. The life of an agent is simple enough. All you need is a simple mind.”
“I don’t think it’s very simple at all. And I don’t think you’re simple. In fact I’ve always found you a very complex man. And very private. After all those weeks and months working on your trial I didn’t know you any better at the end than I did at the beginning.”
“I’m just an ordinary dogface cop.”
“Come on, Charlie. That’s a pose. I’ve handled a number of government agents and I’ve never met anyone like you before. Certainly not anyone who wrote anything like your ‘Segrue Addresses the Gods.’ ”
“I’m no different from any dozen other agents. It’s all the same world.”
“Same world, yes,” she said. “And on the surface it seems very romantic. Wild chases, smuggling, arms deals, double crosses, shots in the dark, car bombs. But it’s an abnormal life. I haven’t met one agent yet who had a successful marriage. And that includes you.”
“Maybe I just never met the right girl.”
“Charlie, there isn’t any right girl. Have you ever really pictured yourself dashing home on the five-fifteen to go to the supermarket with your little wifey after a big shoot-out on the waterfront with arms smugglers? You live out of a suitcase. You sleep each night on a different airline. Ten cities in ten days. You never know in the morning where you’ll be at night—or even if you’re still going to be alive. Most agents eventually get sick of it and complain about the constant danger, the endless travel, the loneliness and isolation, the bad pay, the indifferent front office and all the rest. But you—it’s quite obvious you love it. You’re fascinated by the game, playing cat and mouse on a worldwide scale. Addicted to it, in fact. I figured that out the day I met you. And you’re a loner. Any woman who tried to make a marriage with you would have to be crazy.”
“I thought you hadn’t learned anything about me.”
“Lawyers say if you want to learn about a man, wat
ch him when he’s on trial. But I didn’t learn much. You kept it all locked in. Except the anger. That’s evident. You’re still angry.”
“That doesn’t sound very admirable.”
“On the contrary, I came to admire you greatly. When they led you away after the trial with the handcuffs on, you turned once and looked at me. I’ll never forget that look. And all I could think of was ‘I’ll never see him again.’ ”
Brewer shifted in his chair.
Then she smiled delightedly. “I do believe that’s as close as you can come to blushing. I’ll tell you something else. One of the happiest days I’ve had in a good long time was the day you got out of prison. Try that necktie on.”
Brewer said, “How about some more tea?”
“I went out,” she said, “and bought that suit just to go to the prison to pick you up. I can’t tell you how excited I was about seeing you again. But when you came out through that prison gate, my heart dropped. I thought, Dear God, what have they done to him. You were a walking bomb. You were literally ticking
Brewer cleared his throat. “Convicts say if you want to learn about a lawyer, sit through a trial with one.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “Turnabout. Okay. What did you learn about me?”
He looked at her speculatively. “Very quick-witted. Well prepared. Good strategist. Poker face. You never once tipped your hand. A very tough competitor. A real fighter. And you love the game too. I’d say you’re just as bad a bet for marriage as I am.”
During the meal the questions continued. What time was the flight from Rome? How did you contact Giuseppe? Who got the weapons from the baggage check, you or Marvel?
He laid his hand over hers. “Do you know, Madeline, you hardly ever make a direct statement? Your whole conversation consists of questions.”
“Is that bad?”
“See? Another question. No. I don’t think it’s bad. I think its a way of keeping people from getting close.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Maybe to keep me from saying what I think about moving back to Vermont.”
“You don’t think I should go?”
“No.”
“Now how did you reach that conclusion?”
“It’s easy. You’ve got a top-drawer law degree. You’re connected with one of the best law firms in Washington, and you’ve been trained by some of the best trial lawyers in the business. You’ve already got a major reputation. Right in the power center of the world. Other lawyers must point you out in a crowd. You’re young and good-looking, with all the money you want. And a great legal future. It’s all glamour and headline trials, expense-account restaurants and famous people. On top of that you’re fascinated by your own cat-and-mouse game too. And you’re going to go from that to changing diapers and writing wills in a country town in Vermont? No major leaguer ever opts to go back to the minors. I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. I come from a long line of country lawyers in Vermont.”
“Nah. After Washington, you’re going to lay an egg in New England. It’s a low-percentage shot. Won’t work. You can’t go home again.”
“I was born and raised in Vermont. I know exactly what I’m getting into.”
“A boy for him, a girl for you, in an old Victorian house down a lane.”
“That’s the goal of a lot of people, Mr. Brewer.”
“Charlie.”
“Charlie.”
“That’s true,” Brewer said. “But not after Washington. What does he do?”
“Professor of humanities in a small college.”
“How old are you, Madeline?”
She pushed back her chair. “I have to leave.”
Brewer laughed. “Now who’s aloof and hard to reach? I think we’re a matched pair.”
“Thanks for your time, Charlie. I’ll be in touch with you.”
“Admit it. You’re never going to find a case like mine in Vermont.”
She nodded solemnly. “And I’m not going to meet anyone like you in Vermont, either, Charlie.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, that got your attention, didn’t it? You can figure out for yourself what it means.” She stood up. “You still haven’t answered my question. How much time do I have?”
“For what?”
“To clear your name before you do something irrevocable.”
“I do believe you’re trying to save my soul.”
“I do believe you’re right, Charlie. Goodnight.”
“How much time do I have?” Brewer asked her.
“For what?”
“Before you move to Vermont.”
“I’m getting married Christmas Day,” Madeline Hale said. “Down a country lane in an old Victorian house I was born and raised in.” She leaned over, put her two hands on his cheeks, and kissed his lips softly.
5
When McCall arrived at his office the next morning, he’d had very little sleep. After the conversation in the airport with Wainwright he never got back to bed. Instead he sat in his study the rest of the night, pondering the moves he was about to make. Planning three simultaneous assassinations. Possibly four. Hiring three assassins. Or four. Three separate setups. Or four. It was going to require a great deal of preliminary work and coordination.
And all through the mental process, he felt he was standing outside himself, watching himself go through the motions of planning three murders. He wondered if he was really going to go through with it.
He took out a yellow foolscap pad and consulted his list.
1) Locate Attashah. And watch his every move.
2) Put a watch on the shipments and exports of all items on the Iranian parts list. Discover if any of the suspect arms dealers are buying them.
3) Locate Rus, Slane, and Rock. Determine exactly where they will be on the key date. November 26.
4) Hire three assassins. And another in reserve—just in case.
McCall stared at the list. The key date: He’d chosen it. November 26. Five weeks.
Number one on his list was to locate Attashah. He summoned his assistant, Borden, to his office. “Bring over whatever you’ve got on Attashah.”
He had already decided that the quickest way to get a lead on the three targets without drawing attention to what he was doing was to check the computer dailies for the last month or so. He was after three simple pieces of information: Where would Peno Rus, Eric Rock, and Slane be on November 26?
He sat at his computer and punched in his code number, then the access number. A moment later in reply, the computer displayed its menu. Mirror, mirror on the wall.
Search, McCall ordered.
The screen scrambled and a second menu appeared.
McCall decided to punch in the names of more than just the three arms dealers:
() Peno Rus
() L. Slane
() Eric Rock
() Thomas Reilly
() Stanislaus Winiski
() Giuseppe Nero (a.k.a. John Black, Jack Black, Black Jack, Twenty-One, and Ventuno)
Then he added three words: current data only.
The screen blinked and blanked.
When Borden arrived he had a very slim manila folder. Before McCall could speak, Borden held up an arresting hand.
“Now, Bobby, before we get to Attashah, we have to talk about Dice. In fact, we have to do something about Dice before he gets someone killed.”
“I know. I know.”
“You haven’t heard the latest.”
“I have. He went moonlighting to remove a whole bunch of legal FBI taps.”
“No. You haven’t heard the latest latest.”
“Do I have to?”
“He made an unbelievable hash of Time Sector four. We just caught it in time. He never showed it to anyone. He was just on the verge of sending it out. When I saw it I goddam near wet my pants. He came within a whisker of compromising four of our people. That’s four coffins, Bobby. If you don’t move on th
is, someone is going to wax his skis for him. I hear they’ve already drawn lots. You have to move on this today. Today.”
McCall silently read Borden’s scowling face.
“Bobby, listen,” said Borden.
I am.
“Arms Control can turn into a shooting gallery. They’re going to put that son of a bitch in the river. This thing could destroy the whole organization.”
“I hear you. I’ll take him to lunch at the Khyber Pass.”
Borden sighed. “I’d give a box of chocolate gumdrops to have Brewer back.”
“So would I,” McCall said.
“Christ, what a loss that was.”
“Tell me about Attashah,” McCall said. “Where is he?”
Borden opened his thin folder. “Ask me where he was.”
“Okay. Where was he?”
“In the Merrill Hotel in Manhattan.”
“Manhattan? Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Borden held up the paper he was reading. “He apparently got in on a Turkish passport.”
Go on.
“He was there some six weeks. Didn’t do much. Never used the telephone. The only thing we got a lead on—he bought a car. A Mercedes. For export. Papered for shipment on a Turkish freighter.”
“Six weeks under our noses and all he did was buy a car?” McCall rubbed his nose. “You know what? He made a contact. You have to find that car.”
“It’s gone to Turkey.”
“Check. Make sure. Attashah never would have bought a Mercedes here to ship to Turkey or anywhere else. It would have been much cheaper to buy it in Germany. Besides, Iranian officials don’t buy Mercedes. Not on their austerity program.”
Borden shrugged.
“Check!” McCall insisted.
“Bobby. This could take—”
“Don’t tell me. Do it. And I want a work-up on every arms dealer on List B. Find out if any of them were in New York City during the six weeks Attashah was there.”
Borden got up and walked to the door.
“Hey,” McCall said. “You didn’t give me the key piece of information. Where’s Attashah now?”
Foxcatcher Page 12
