Brimstone

by Douglas Preston

  "You better watch your ass."

  "I shall."

  "You won't find any smoking guns in the file; Bullard's covered his tracks well. You've got your work cut out."

  He started the engine, flicked on the headlights, pulled through the turnaround, and headed back up to the traffic droning southward into lower Manhattan. He said nothing else until turning off the highway at 145th Street, the skyscrapers of Midtown like glowing crystals in the distance.

  "You never heard of me, I never heard of you, and this conversation never took place. That file has been cleaned of intelligence markers, so even if it gets back to the CIA, no one will know where it came from."

  "Won't they suspect you, anyway? It was your case."

  "You worry about your ass, I'll worry about mine."

  He left Pendergast a few blocks north of his house. As Pendergast was exiting the car, the man leaned toward him and spoke once again. "Agent Pendergast?"

  Pendergast turned back.

  "If you can't nail the bastard, kill him."

  { 32 }

  The man calling himself Vasquez looked carefully around the little space where he would be spending the next several days of his life. A few minutes earlier he had tensed, preparing for an unexpected opportunity, when the door of the porte-cochère opened across the way. A quick check through the scope confirmed the target was leaving. However, another man had been with him. Vasquez had laid aside the rifle and made a note in his log: 22:31.04. The two men walked to a car parked a few yards down the street, an unmarked law enforcement Chevy, obviously a government model.

  As the car had pulled away, there'd been a brief flash of white in the doorway of the porte-cochère; Vasquez saw the retreating figure of a man in a tuxedo, shutting the door again. Butler, from the look of it. But who heard of a butler in this part of town?

  Vasquez refused to allow himself any regret. Finishing a job so prematurely just never happened. Besides, it always paid to be overly cautious. Putting his notebook away, he went back to preparing his kill nest. The abandoned room of the old welfare hotel was a wreck. There were used needles and condoms piled in a corner; a torn mattress on the floor with a dark stain in its middle, as if somebody had died on it. As his hooded light moved around the room, cockroaches fled in panic, their greasy brown backs flashing dully, countless legs rustling like leaves. But Vasquez was used to such things, and he was well pleased with his accommodations. He had, in fact, rarely seen a setup quite so ideal. He replaced the small piece of plywood from the boarded-up room's lone window and went back to his preparations.

  Yes, this would do perfectly. The window faced north, looking out over the great dark bulk of the ruined mansion at 891 Riverside Drive. It was a crazy place for the target to live, but each to his own. Three stories down and across 137th Street was the porte-cochère, its semicircular driveway running under a brick and marble arch. He could just see the edge of the door the target used for ingress and egress: the one he had just come out of. So far he had used no other door—but then, Vasquez had been watching for only twelve hours.

  Yes, this was a fine setup. In this part of Harlem, there were no inquisitive doormen hanging out in front of their buildings; no hidden video cameras; no old ladies who would call the police at the mere howl of an alley cat. Here, even gunshots didn't necessarily trigger a call to the police. What's more, Vasquez had found this abandoned building directly across from the target residence. It had a basement entrance hidden from the mansion, leading to an alley fronting 136th.

  You couldn't ask for better.

  The target, an FBI agent, seemed to be a man of regular habits. In the coming days, Vasquez would ascertain just how regular those habits were. As with hunting any animal, success lay in learning the creature's patterns of behavior. Vasquez intended to become an expert in this particular creature. He would learn by what doors he came and left, and when; he would ascertain who lived in the old mansion, who visited, what kind of security was in place. By understanding the movements, he would gain an insight into the man's psychology. Even people who varied their habits out of fear of assassination always varied them in a pattern. From what little he'd observed, he already realized he was dealing with an exceptionally cautious, intelligent target. But then, Vasquez always assumed at the beginning that the target was smarter, craftier, cleverer than he was. Vasquez had stalked and killed them all: federal agents, diplomats, mobsters, minor heads of state, even physicists. He'd been in the business twenty-two years in as many countries, and he had learned a trick or two. But it was wise to stay humble.

  Without moving any of the original contents of the room, Vasquez began to unroll thick canvas tarps over the floor and partway up the walls, fixing them in place with gaffing tape. The room filled with the strong, pleasant smell of waterproof duck. Next he laid out his tools, mentally running through the checklist in his mind. They were all there, as he knew they would be, but he double-checked just to make sure. He picked up his Remington M21 bolt-action rifle, removed the box cartridge, made sure its small magazine was filled with the subsonic 7.62 by 51 military cartridges he preferred. The weapon was of an old design, but Vasquez was not interested in the latest frills or gimmicks: what mattered to him was simplicity, accuracy, and reliability. He rammed the magazine home, cranked a round into the chamber, examined the permanently fixed tactical telescopic sight. Satisfied, he put the weapon aside and carefully laid out packets of beef jerky and jugs of water sufficient for five days. Next, he set up his laptop computer, arranging a dozen freshly charged battery packs beside it. A pair of night-vision goggles was inspected and found to be in excellent order. Then, moving to a far corner, the man set up his washstand and toilet by the dim light of his torch. He would not be disturbed: the door had already been locked, screwed shut in the jambs with a battery-operated screwdriver, and light-sealed with the gaffing tape. A small bathroom window in the back provided fresh air.

  Returning to the front of the room, he switched off the light and removed the piece of plywood from the shooting hole: a hole just large enough for the barrel and scope. He snapped open a bipod assembly and mounted it to the fore end of the stock. He very carefully positioned the rifle onto the porte-cochère, at head height. Then he reached for a handheld laser range finder, pointed it at the mansion's front door. It returned a distance of 30.66 meters. With a rifle that was accurate beyond five hundred yards, 30 meters was nothing. He would be shooting down through cool air with his target outside: the conditions he favored above all others. A few final adjustments and the weapon was ready.

  His kill nest was complete.

  Vasquez peered out again through the sight. The house was still and dark, the windows boarded up. This was not a normal home. Something illicit must be going on inside. But since it didn't make his target in any way erratic, Vasquez didn't really care. He had a job to do, limited in scope and restricted in time. He didn't care who it was who had hired him, or why. He cared about only one thing: the two million dollars that had appeared in his numbered account. That was all he needed to know.

  He returned to his patient observation. Sometimes he liked to think of himself as a kind of naturalist, studying the habits of shy woodland creatures. He had the perfect blend of intelligence, discipline, and disposition for sitting in a blind in the jungle for weeks at a time, observing, taking notes, looking for patterns.

  Only thing was, there was no money in that. And besides: nothing could compare with the thrill of the kill.

  { 33 }

  It was almost midnight, D'Agosta saw from his watch, and Hayward was still at her desk. The rest of the Homicide Division was quiet as a tomb: just the night crew, working in their cubicles on the floor below. Hayward was alone. The only light, the only sound, came from the open door of her office. Funny, considering most New York City murders happened at night. Like any other job, D'Agosta thought to himself. The average Joe doesn't want to log any more hours than necessary.

  He crept up to Hayward's door
and listened. He could hear the tapping of her computer keyboard. She had to be the most ambitious cop he'd ever met. It was a little scary.

  D'Agosta knocked.

  "Come in."

  The place was a disaster area: papers piled on every chair, the police-band radio squawking, a laser printer in a corner whining out some job. It was remarkably unlike the offices of most police captains, which were kept spotlessly clean and free of any real work.

  She glanced up. "What brings you to brasstown so late?"

  D'Agosta cleared his throat. This was going to be difficult. Pendergast—after dropping off the face of the earth for more than an hour—had just shown up in his hotel room thirty minutes before. Although he'd revealed precious few details of what happened, he had seemed almost animated, if such a thing was possible. And then he'd promptly sent D'Agosta off on an assignment—this assignment—because he'd known he had no chance at succeeding himself.

  "It's Bullard again," he said.

  Hayward sighed. "Move those papers and take a seat."

  D'Agosta shifted a pile off one of the chairs and sat down. Hayward had unbuttoned her collar, taken off her hat, and let her hair down. It was surprisingly long, falling in big glossy waves below her shoulders. Despite the cluttered office, she looked cool somehow; fresh. She eyed him with a mixture of amusement and—what else? Affection? But no: that was his late-night imagination at work.

  D'Agosta took out the folder and laid it on the desk. "Pendergast got this, I don't know how."

  Hayward picked it up, glanced at it, dropped it like it was a piece of hot iron. "Jesus, Vinnie. This is classified!"

  "No shit it's classified."

  "No way am I going to read that. I never even saw it. Put it away."

  "Let me just summarize what's in there—"

  "God, no."

  D'Agosta sat, wondering just how he was going to do this. Might as well get it over with.

  "Pendergast wants you to put a tap on Bullard's phones."

  Hayward stared at him for at least ten seconds. "Why doesn't he get it through the FBI?"

  "He can't."

  "Can't Pendergast ever do anything by the book?"

  "Bullard's too powerful. The FBI's a political creature, and not even Pendergast can change that. But you could get the U.S. Attorney's Office to issue a Title 3, no problem."

  "I can't use a classified file to get Title 3 wiretap authority!" She was up from the desk, eyes flashing.

  "No. But you could use the murder investigation as a hook."

  "Vincent, are you nuts ? There's no evidence against Bullard. No witness to put him at the scene of the crime. No motive, nothing to connect him with either the murders or the victims."

  "The phone calls."

  "Phone calls!" She paced behind the desk. "A lot of people make phone calls."

  "His computer was stuffed with encrypted files. Hard encryption, virtually unbreakable."

  "I encrypt e-mails to my mother. Vincent, that is not evidence. This is just the kind of thing that hits the Times front page, makes us look like we're blowing off people's constitutional rights. Besides, you know what a pain in the ass it is to get a wiretap authority. You've got to prove it's your last resort."

  "You should read the file. It seems Bullard's been transferring military technology to the Chinese."

  "I told you not to tell me what's in the file."

  "He's got a company in Italy that's helping the Chinese develop a missile that can penetrate the U.S.'s planned missile shield."

  "That's as far out of my jurisdiction as a pickpocket in Outer Mongolia."

  "Bullard has big-time friends in Washington. He gives money to everyone's campaign. So neither the FBI nor the CIA wants to touch it."

  She was pacing the room, flushed, her jet hair swaying across her shoulders.

  "Look, Laura, we're both Americans. Bullard's a bad guy. He's selling our country down the river, and no one's doing a damn thing about it. All you need to do is come up with a good story for the judge. Okay, so maybe it's not strictly by the book."

  "There's a reason for the book, Vincent."

  "Yeah, but there also comes a time when you have to do what’s right."

  "What's right is to follow the rules."

  "Not with something like this. New York City is still terrorist target numero uno. God knows who Bullard might sell his services to. Once this technology gets on the black market, we have no idea where it'll end up."

  Hayward sighed. "Look. I'm a detective captain in New York City Homicide. The United States has hundreds of thousands of talented people—spooks, scientists, diplomats—employed to handle people like Bullard."

  "Yeah. But right now, you're on the spot. The file hints that something big is going down. Listen, Laura, nothing could be simpler than this wiretap. Bullard's in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. We've got his satellite phone number, we've got a pen register of the numbers he's calling. It's all in the file."

  "You can't tap a sat phone."

  "I know. We'd get the taps on the land-based numbers of his cronies, monitor the conversations from their end."

  "That won't help us if he calls a nonrecorded number."

  "It's better than nothing."

  Hayward took a few more turns around the room, then stopped in front of him. "This is not our problem. The answer's no."

  D'Agosta tried to smile, found he couldn't. That was it, then. You didn't become the youngest female detective captain in New York City history by breaking the rules, being a maverick. He should have known the answer even before he asked the question.

  He glanced up to find Hayward looking at him intently. "I don't like the expression on your face, Vincent."

  He shrugged. "I gotta go."

  "I know what you're thinking."

  "Then I don't need to tell you."

  Her face was coloring with anger. "You think I'm a careerist, don't you?"

  "You said it, not me."

  She stepped around the desk toward him. "You're a son of a bitch, you know that? I had to take a lot of shit as a T.A. cop, a lot of harassment from guys who thought I was working too hard. I'm not going to take that shit anymore. When a man's ambitious, it's called drive. When a woman's ambitious, it's careerism and she's a bitch."

  Now D'Agosta felt himself flaring as well. Women were always broadening an argument into some kind of male-female thing. "That's just a smoke screen. Look, you can either do the right thing, or you can do the safe thing. And you're obviously on the side of safe. Fine. I won't stand in your way of becoming Commissioner Hayward." D'Agosta rose, picked up the bundle of papers he had put on the floor, put them back on the chair. Then he retrieved the classified folder from the desktop. When he turned, he found she was blocking the door.

  He stood calmly, waiting for her to step aside. She didn't move.

  He remained standing.

  "I'm leaving now." He took a step forward but she still didn't move. She was so close to him he could feel her warmth, smell the fragrance of shampoo in her hair.

  "That was a shitty thing to say." Her face remained flushed.

  He tried to go around her, but she shifted and he almost ran up against her.

  "Listen," she said. "I love this country as much as anyone. I also know I've done a lot of good work in this department, solved a lot of cases, put a lot of bad people behind bars. I'm effective because I play by the rules. So don't lay that bullshit on me."

  D'Agosta said nothing. He stood where he was, mere inches from her, breathing hard, breathing in her anger, her perfume, the smell of her. He was conscious of her blue eyes, her ivory skin. He took a step toward her and their bodies touched. It was like a sudden electrical contact. They stood that way a moment, both breathing hard, their anger morphing into something else. He leaned forward and their lips met and he could feel her breasts pressing against him as they slowly kissed.

  Her hand touched the back of his neck and she moved closer still, bringing their bodies into f
ull contact, and then almost without knowing what he was doing he reached around with both arms, molded his hands to her form, and pulled her in hard against him. He could barely stand the rush of arousal that had engulfed him and he fought for breath as his lips slid lightly to her chin, kissing her, then down her neck, then over her shoulder. She shifted in his grasp, sighing; he could feel her hot breath move across his cheek as she took his earlobe between her teeth, first gently, then more sharply. She pulled him back toward her desk, leaned back, and he followed her down, keeping her hips locked against his. Now his hands fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, then the catch of her bra, and as he saw her breasts swing free he felt himself grow even harder. Her hands dropped from his shoulders, tracing lines down his torso, his stomach, then to the waistband of his pants, unbuckling his belt and loosening his zipper and slowly easing him free. Now the hand began to stroke him, slowly, and he gasped involuntarily as he reached for the hem of her skirt, slid his hand beneath it, and teased her panties free. She staggered a little as he entered her, thrusting her hips forward while arching her back, bringing him deep inside her. For a moment they remained like that, eyes locked. Hayward's lips parted; then her head sank backward, exposing her neck, and she let out a groan of desire. He wrapped his arms around her thighs and began sliding into her, again and again and again, gently, deliberately, the papers spilling to the floor…

  …And then, in a sudden flood of pleasure, it was over. She held him, her dark hair wild, breathing hard, her limbs around his, contracting and relaxing in slowing spasms. They embraced each other for what seemed a very long time. And yet it was all too soon when she kissed him and gently pulled away. Only then did D'Agosta realize he still didn't understand what had just happened. He covered his confusion by turning from her, putting his clothes into some semblance of order. As he did so, he realized he couldn't even remember what had led to their sudden embrace. They had just come together like magnets. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. He wasn't sure if he should feel elated, embarrassed, or nervous.