"No license, no deal. But you're paying for my drink, either way."
Greene slowly reached for his wallet. He put it on the table, found his license, and handed it over.
The man they called The Grocer's Boy studied the license for a few moments, then held it up to the light and bent it back and forth a few times.
"What the hell are you doing?" Greene asked.
"Making sure it's genuine. There are ways you can tell, and this one looks legit." He handed the license back. "Thanks, Mr. Greene. Now all I need is a phone number where you can be reached."
"What do you want that for? You already know where I live."
"I want it so I call you when the job's done and tell you where to send my money," the killer said patiently.
"Very well." Greene pulled the cocktail napkin from under his glass and reached in his shirt pocket for a pen.
"No need to write it down. Just tell me. Twice."
Greene recited his cell phone number, then repeated it.
"Fine. Take care, Mr. Greene. I'll be in touch."
Then he slid out of the booth and was gone before Greene could come up with a clever exit line. Just as well. Nestor Greene wasn't feeling very clever at the moment.
Quincey Morris's flight touched down at Virginia's Richmond International Airport a little before noon, and by 1:00 he was checked into his room at the Crowne Plaza, smack in the middle of downtown.
He wasted no time plugging his laptop into the room's Internet port and was reading his fourth story about the Stark campaign when someone knocked on his door. Morris peeked through the fisheye lens, then turned the knob to admit Libby Chastain.
"Good flight?" Morris asked after they had exchanged a quick hug.
"I'm beginning to think that may be an oxymoron," Libby said. "But, on the plus side, nobody hijacked the plane, they didn't lose my luggage, and I sat next to a cute guy who travels for IBM, but is based in Richmond. When we reached the terminal, he demonstrated that Southern gentility isn't dead yet, by saying something like 'Ah am honored to have had as a travelin' companion a lovely and charmin' lady, such as yourself.'"
"I've often felt the same way myself, Libby, but I was too shy to say so."
"I bet." She gave the room a quick scan. "This is a nice change from chain hotels. Good choice. My room's on 14, and has quite a lovely view of the city."
"I'm glad you like the accommodations, although I chose the Crowne Plaza because of its proximity to the Stark rally that's going to be held here, day after tomorrow. We could even watch it from that window, but I suspect we'd be a little too far away to do any good."
"And have you worked out some fiendish plan for getting me close to Senator Stark without getting gunned down by the Secret Service?"
Morris smiled at her. "Fiendish plan? No, that's the other side, remember? The team that Stark may be playing for, which is what we're here to determine."
"Why Richmond, anyway? You didn't say when you emailed my plane ticket."
"It was Masterson's idea. Stark's devoting all his energies to Virginia this week. The other primaries are in states like Montana and the Dakotas - more sheep and cattle than people, and not a heck of a lot of electoral votes. Masterson says the campaign's relying on TV ads for those."
Libby walked over to one of the beds and sat down. "That explains Virginia, not Richmond."
"According to Masterson, Stark's speech in Kanawha Plaza, which you can see from yonder window, by the way, is the only one this week where he's likely to be walking a rope line."
"Pressing the flesh as he goes, I assume."
"That's the whole point of having the rope line. There's no guarantee that your flesh will be among that getting pressed, though. You said you don't have to touch him."
"I don't. Magic isn't an exact science - in fact, it isn't science at all, although math comes in handy sometimes. But if you can get me within, say, twenty feet, I should be able to tell if he's been anywhere near black magic."
Libby noticed that Morris was frowning. "What?" she said.
"As I was listening to you, a quote popped into my head, or part of a quote. 'When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.'"
"It's from Nietzsche," Libby said. "Um. Let me think a second." She closed her eyes, then recited, "'He who fights monsters should take care that he does not himself become a monster, for when you look into the abyss'... et cetera."
"I've always admired that memory of yours," Morris said. "So, within twenty feet or so, you'll know if Stark is playing for the bad guys. Question is, will he be able to tell that you're one of the good guys?"
"That hadn't occurred to me," Libby said pensively. "Yes, he probably will." She shrugged. "So what? It's not like he'll be able to do anything about it with all those people around, even if he were so inclined."
"Yeah, I guess," Morris said. He rubbed the burn scar on his neck. "But I'm leery about him knowing who you are. Once they get their mark on you..."
"I'm a big girl, Quincey, and a Witch of the White by choice. I'll take my chances - assuming there's a risk, which there probably isn't. I am a little surprised though that we're going to have only one chance to put ourselves near Stark. I thought getting up close and personal with the voters was what these guys lived for."
"It's our best chance this week," Morris said. "And considering what may be at stake, I figured we'd best not waste any time. Look here."
The screen of his laptop displayed the list of Stark's speaking engagements for the week, in various cities across Virginia. Each venue's name had comments typed under it.
"I put this together after talking to Masterson," Morris said. "Check it out - in Newport News, he's giving a speech at some big country club. Members only invited. He probably plans to hit them up for fat contributions. In Norfolk, he's speaking at the Lions Club breakfast, then the Rotary at lunch. Gotta be a member to get into either one."
"Couldn't Masterson get us in?"
"He says no. Apparently the Secret Service can only keep people out - known felons, cranks, people like that. The campaign decides who get in."
"How very cozy. So his only outdoor event is here in Richmond."
"Yep. And there's gonna be a rope line. If we get there early enough, we should be able to position ourselves in the front of the crowd, or at least pretty close. Well within twenty feet of Stark, I figure."
"And then we'll see," Libby said quietly.
"Then we'll see. We'll probably be standing for hours. I hope you brought comfortable shoes."
"So now that you're properly armed," Ashley said, "I assume it's time to go kill ourselves a Senator?"
"Looks like it. I bought that fancy rifle case to transport the weapon on a plane. But it looks like we can just drive to where we're going to pop him."
"Which would be where, exactly?"
"The Commonwealth of Virginia, which we visited just yesterday. Different part of it, though."
She looked over his shoulder at the computer screen. He tried not to let her soft breath on his neck distract him.
"Where are we going to do it?"
"Looks like it'll have to be Richmond. It's the only place where the son of a bitch is going to be speaking outdoors. He's got a rally planned for downtown in someplace called Kanawha Plaza. The rest of his schedule is all indoor stuff.
"Richmond it is, then. I assume we'll leave in the morning."
"You assume correctly. Stark speaks there the day after tomorrow. It'll be good to have an extra day to get ready."
"We'll need reservations." She signed theatrically. "I don't imagine there's anyplace nearly as nice as the Hay-Adams in Richmond."
"Don't be a snob. Richmond's a pretty nice town, as I remember. Besides - anywhere we stay, even the filthiest hovel, is a lot better than Hell, babe."
"Good point. Do you want me to find us a hotel in Richmond?"
"Already got one. No hovel, either. It's a nice place called the Crowne-with-an-e Plaza. And apart from what looks like pretty
nice rooms, it offers another advantage."
"The suspense is killing me."
"It overlooks Kanawha Plaza - from a distance of about 500 yards."
"I just love it when you talk dirty!" She leaned over and kissed him, hard.
"We'll need reservations in a name other than Malachi Peters," he said, once her tongue was out of his mouth, "and a credit card in the new name for when we check in. Think you can help us out with that?"
"I don't see why not."
"One of the many things I love about the Internet is that a lot of hotels will not only let you make a reservation online - you can even reserve the room you want."
He clicked the mouse, and a diagram of the Crowne Plaza came up on the screen. Peters moved the cursor until it rested on one room. "Get this one - 1408. There's one floor above it, but it's all luxury suites, and they're booked for this week. I checked."
"You're looking to get high up."
"As high as I can, and the fourteenth floor should do just fine. Gives me a nice angle of fire. The trees are already budding down there, and I want to get above them. This'll do it."
She nodded approvingly. "So, if all goes well, we'll be able to put up the 'Mission Accomplished' banner the day after tomorrow."
"Yeah, I hope so." He turned in his chair and looked at her squarely. "And then what?"
"What do you mean?"
"Don't play dumb - you know what I mean. Do you drag me back to Hell as soon as the job's done?"
"I told you, Peters - I don't have any instructions about that."
"You also told me that if you did, you'd lie about it."
"Yeah, I did say that, didn't I?" She went over to the bed and flopped down on her back. "Let's assume, for the sake of discussion, that I really don't have any orders about what happens after."
"Okay - for the sake of discussion."
"But I might be able to make some educated guesses."
"Fine, let's hear those."
"I think Astaroth is going to have a lot on his plate, once certain high-level demons, including My Lord Satan Himself, see that Sargatanas is back in Hell, instead of in the White House, getting ready to blow up the world."
Peters nodded. "Yeah, there are factions, aren't there? That's what Astaroth said when he gave me my orders. I gather he represents the 'This is a really bad idea' faction."
"And he's got some powerful demons who agree with him. But by no means all. So, there's likely to be, shall we say, something of a fuss once Sargatanas gets back and explains how his mission was terminated, along with Senator Stark."
"How big a fuss are you talking about? Civil war? In Hell?"
"Why not? It happened once before, in -" She pointed up toward the ceiling. "You know."
Peters placed one arm on the back of his chair, and rested his chin on it. "Shit."
"There's no way to know for sure how it's all going to shake out, of course. But it's not an unreasonable scenario, what I just described."
"Astaroth might forget about us?"
"Let's face it, Peters, you and I are pretty small potatoes, in the grand scheme of things. There's no shortage of damned souls in Hell. Or of mid-rank demons, either."
"We'll become small potatoes - once we kill Stark and send Sargatanas back."
"Uh-huh. We wouldn't be ignored indefinitely, I expect. Astaroth - assuming his side wins this civil war that might not ever happen - would get around to us, eventually."
"Define 'eventually.'"
She held up her hands in the universal 'Beats the shit out of me' gesture. "A year. Ten years. A hundred years. Maybe a thousand."
"Get the fuck outta here."
"You, of all people, should know that time has a different meaning in Hell. When you're talking about eternity, what's a thousand years, more or less?"
"Or, your theory could be full of shit, and we might both find ourselves back in Hell within forty-eight hours from now, as they reckon time on this side."
"Entirely possible. Maybe even probable."
"Well, damn."
"My point exactly," Ashley said. She got up, went to the nightstand, and picked up the immense telephone directory that was kept in the bottom. She plopped it into her lap, opened it, and began turning pages quickly.
"What're you looking up?"
She raised her head to look at him, and there was an expression on her face he'd never seen there before. In a human, he might have called it melancholy. "As you said, we don't know what's going to happen to us, a couple of days from now." Then the mischievous grin he was familiar with reappeared. "It's our last night in Washington, and I've decided you deserve the treat I promised you." She went back to turning yellow pages and said, without looking up, "So I'm calling the Elegant Evenings escort service. What's your preference - blonde, brunette, or redhead?"
Chapter 30
This time Stark's suite was at the Berkeley Hotel in Richmond. Mary Margaret Doyle came into the living room in a robe, her damp hair wrapped in a towel. Sargatanas sat on the couch, tapping the keys of his laptop and scowling.
"What're you doing?" she asked as she sat down in an armchair and added hastily, "If you don't mind my asking."
"Working on the draft of my new stump speech. Carney gave it to me this afternoon, and, as usual, it's a piece of shit. I don't know why Garrett hired that fool."
"He's supposed to be one of the best."
"Then let us hope that I never have to employ the services of the worst. I wonder what that would entail - first drafts scrawled in crayon on a paper bag?"
"You'll make it better, you always do. Your speeches have been getting favorable news coverage, for both substance and delivery. And it's coming from more than Fox news and the Wall Street Journal, this time."
"Yes, I've seen some of it. Several of the media nitwits seem to have noticed that Senator Stark's public speaking began to improve about six months ago."
She smiled at him. "Goodness, whatever could have caused that?"
"Goodness, as you know well, had nothing to do with it. And speaking of nitwits, what about this man Greene? Do you think he has the balls to carry out his latest assignment?"
Mary Margaret Doyle nodded judiciously. "I think so. I've frightened him pretty well. Of course, there are so many factors we can't control - such as whether Greene finds someone suitable and doesn't end up trying to hire a killer who's really an undercover cop. And if he does find an assassin, a real professional, there's the question of whether he'll be able to get the job done."
"You told Greene that there is a time factor."
"I told him to get it done within two weeks. But if it takes a little longer, I suppose we can live with that."
"As long as Leffingwell doesn't."
"Indeed. Even if he were to live, you might well win the nomination, you know. It's your time, now. You're peaking."
"That's true. But the less we leave to chance, the better. There is a great deal riding on this campaign."
"Only everything."
"Once he hires the assassin, Greene's usefulness to us has reached an end. He ceases to be an asset and becomes a liability, given all that he knows."
"I've been thinking about that. We'll have to come up with a suitable way to dispose of him."
"If it should prove feasible, would you like to do it?"
"Well, I hadn't, um -"
"Perhaps you could deal with him as you did that fucking priest. You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?"
"I really don't know if I -"
"The smell of burned flesh as you run the blowtorch slowly along his body, mingling with the odor of shit and piss as he loses control of his sphincter muscles. The screaming, the begging for mercy, the calls for his mother..."
Her face was beet red. "You're... you're trying to turn me into a monster."
"Not at all, my dear. You were already a monster when we met. I'm simply giving you a chance to exercise your innate monstrosity without restraint - at least, occasionally."
"Wha
t do you mean, I was a monster?" she said, with some degree of indignation. "I had never done anything like that before."
"Oh, come, now. You willingly betrayed a man you had served with devotion for... how many years?"
"Eighteen," she said, the indignation fading. "Eighteen years."
"For eighteen years - a long time, as humans view such things. And you delivered him to me like a steer to a slaughterhouse."
"As you said, there are greater things at stake."
"Oh, indeed. The destruction of most of the human race, with you as Queen to rule over the rest with absolute power. Handing over a man you had known, perhaps even loved, for eighteen years seems a small price to pay, don't you think?"
"All right, all right, you win," she said, resting her head against the back of her chair to stare at the ceiling. "I'm a monster."
Several minutes went by. The only sounds in the room were the tapping of keys on Sargatanas's laptop and Mary Margaret Doyle's quiet crying.
Then he said, "I told you to find out where Masterson went while he was on leave."
She cleared her throat a couple of times, then said, in her brisk, businesslike voice, "Yes, I followed your directions and hacked into the major airlines' databases. It seems Agent Masterson flew nonstop to Austin, Texas, returning the next day."
"Is that where his mother lives?"
"I don't know - he's never said, at least where I could hear it. Do you want me to find out?"
Sargatanas thought briefly. "No, let it go. Even if he lied about visiting Mommy, it probably just means he went to Austin to get his rocks off. Unless he did both in the same place, and I understand that kind of behavior is more characteristic of the Southeastern United States than the Southwest."
"That's the stereotype, anyway. Do you know how they define a virgin in Mississippi?"
"I assume this is an attempt at humor. Tell me."
"It's a girl who can run faster than her brothers."
"An attitude of which I approve. But whether Masterson is a motherfucker in the literal sense of the term is of little consequence to us. If he'd made a flight to the Vatican, that might be cause for concern. But I don't see what harm can come to us from his trip to Austin."
Sympathy for the Devil Page 24
