He was back quickly, mouth working so he'd get the message just right. "Mole says, the man with him is someone he works with. Not your business. You can trust him. Come down if you want."
I knew the only kind of people the Mole worked with. Knew where his priorities were. But I was just curious enough, just enough in a hurry.
"Let's go," I said.
Walking over, I handed Terry the key to the Lexus. "Can you make a copy?" I asked him.
He gave me another one of those "Are you kidding?" looks teenagers do so well.
The Mole was in his bunker, his pasty white skin shining like a mushroom in a cellar. His workbench was littered with printouts from the computer. A pad at his elbow was covered in his tiny, crabby handwriting, mostly with numbers and symbols I didn't recognize. A short, wiry man was standing next to him, dressed in a simple khaki summer suit. He was dark–skinned with thick, curly black hair and a mustache, dark brown eyes regarding me neutrally.
I greeted the underground genius—he grunted an acknowledgment, absorbed in another list of symbols scrolling down the screen.
I took the pad from his desk, puzzling over the Mole's strange writing.
"It doesn't print graphics," the Mole said, glancing over his shoulder at the printer.
"Ah, Mole…"
He turned to look at me. "This is Zvi," he said. "My cousin."
The dark–skinned man stepped forward, extending his hand. "Cousin" told me the whole story—Zvi was an Israeli, an operative in one of the dozen agencies they had working all around the world. High–placed too—if he knew where to find the Mole. Zvi was the Mole's landsman —of his blood, not of our family. Even his grip was neutral, promising nothing.
"Did you…?" I began.
"I showed the disks to Zvi," Mole said, his eyes ready for a challenge. I didn't react—he'd told me the rules a long time ago. If his country could use something, he'd turn it over no matter what.
"One set of data is my area," Zvi said, his voice neutral as his handshake. "The other is not."
"Which is yours?" I asked.
"This one," he replied, holding up the red disk. "Look at the printout."
I picked it up. A fan–folded sheet with rachet–feed perforations along each side. It ran to dozens of pages all told. Looked like ID information: names, addresses, height, weight, hair and eye color…couple of hundred names, at least.
"What is this?" I asked.
"It's a before–and–after," Zvi said. "See this man," he said, indicating with a pointing finger.
I looked. R21ANDERSON, ROBERT M.669 EAST 7933–C NYC74190BRNXBLUSMT=CAT2. Height in inches, weight in pounds, color of hair and eyes. More numbers followed: a pair of nine–digit sequences, one separated by dashes, the other solid. Social Security and passport, sure.
"What's this SMT CAT2 thing?" I asked him.
"Scars, Marks and Tattoos. I don't know what the Category means—it would be in their coding. If they're operating at this level, they'd have a way to alter things like that too."
"So?"
"So he could be this one now," he said, pointing to another name, different in everything but the height, with a Houston address. "Or this one," showing me still another, this time living in New Zealand. "This is a record of new identities. People who disappeared."
"What about fingerprints?"
"There's new technology. And even without it, people at this level don't get fingerprinted unless they're already caught—your local agencies don't really have a strong Interpol interface. They'd need a document generator too, probably on–line with government computers."
"How do you do the before–and–after? How do you know which is which?"
"There's a program that would do it. A sorting program. That's what the code is before each one. See? The R21 here. The MM8 there? That's what the computer would do, match them up."
"Could you crack the code?"
"It would take months, and even then we couldn't be sure, not without a reference point. We'd have to know at least one correct match to check."
"So what good is it?"
The Israeli lit a short, unfiltered cigarette with a butane lighter. Rubbed his face as though in concentration on my question, but I caught his glance at the Mole. The Mole moved his head maybe an inch, but it was enough.
"We know one of the people on the list," the Israeli said. "He vanished almost three years ago. We would like very much to locate him."
"How did you…?"
"I called them," the Mole said, taking the list from the Israeli, his stubby finger touching the paper next to a name. The name didn't mean anything to me—the Mole was telling me what the Israeli's job was—Zvi was a hunter.
"A sorting program is a simple thing," the Israeli said. "It would be a macro… a series of keystrokes stored in sequence. When you invoke the macro, the whole sequence runs.
"I brought everything when I—" I said.
"I know," he interrupted. "It would be somewhere else. Did the…place where you got it have a computer? A small one would be enough, even a laptop."
"I didn't see one."
He looked at the Mole again. The Mole looked at me. "What was on the other disk?" I asked him.
"An experiment of some kind. A scientific experiment. This much I could tell, only—there are a number of subjects, each subject is given the same…thing. The thing could be a substance, a stimulus…I can't tell. Then there are results…something happened to some of the subjects, I can't tell what. The rest is all probabilities, chi–squares, standard deviations."
"Yeah, okay," I said, puzzled. "Do you know what…?"
"I told you everything I know. The subjects have codes too."
"So there's a sorting program for them too?"
"Maybe." He shrugged his shoulders.
"I could take a look around," I said.
"You wouldn't know what to look for," the Israeli said. "You wouldn't recognize it if you saw it."
I lit a cigarette of my own, buying time, thinking about what I'd just learned. The Israeli sat stone–still, as if any movement would spook me into the wrong decision
"What do you want me to do?" I finally asked.
"The…place where you got this from…could you give us the address?"
I exhaled through my nose, watching the twin streams of smoke in the underground bunker.
"The Mole can copy this for you," I said, handing over the key to Cherry's house. "I'll call…here…when it's clear. You'll have a minimum of three hours. After dark better?"
"It doesn't matter," the Israeli said.
I gave him the address.
I left the two disks with the Mole, picked up the key to the Lexus, confirmed that Terry kept a copy for himself, and headed back to Connecticut. It was way ahead of rush hour—the drive didn't take long.
But I had time to chew on it, work it through. They hadn't told me the whole story—I didn't need to know it. That was their business, not mine.
I've got my own business too. I hadn't told them I recognized one of the names on the printout.
Bluestone dust was still dancing in the driveway when I drove up. The kid was lying under the Plymouth—I could see his sneakers sticking out. He pushed himself free, rubbing something off the front of his sweatshirt.
"I changed the oil and filter," he said. "Hey, what kind of injectors are you running? I checked my hooks—that's a four–forty in there, it came with carbs, right?"
"I guess so…I don't know."
"But…"
"Randy, I'm telling you the truth. The car's pretty much the way I got it. I didn't build it—I just drive it."
"Yeah, okay. Burke…"
"What?"
"She was here. While you were gone."
"Fancy?"
"No. Charm. She asked about you."
"Asked what?"
"How come you were here. What you were doing, you know."
"No, I don't know. What did you tell her?"
"That you were the caretaker. T
o, like, look after the place while my mother was away."
"So?"
"So she…didn't believe me, I think. She gave me a look, like I was lying. It was…I dunno…kind of scary."
"Did she go upstairs, Randy?"
The kid hung his head. "Yeah."
"You told her it was okay?"
"No. I told her she couldn't. She said I wasn't going to stop her…and I'd better not tell you she was there either."
"All right, take it easy. How long was she up there?"
"Just a few minutes. Then she went over to the house."
"You go over there with her?"
"No," he said again, his face still down.
"Stay here," I told him, heading for the stairs.
If she'd tossed the place, she was good. I could see the search–signs, but they were faint. Subtle.
It only took me a minute to find the listening device inside the handpiece to the telephone.
Downstairs again, I ignored the kid's look, walked past him over to the big house. The back door was open. I let myself in, moving quiet. Cherry's bedroom looked the same. I worked the buttons on the intercom and the sliding door opened in the marble wall to the bath. When I looked inside, the compartment was empty.
I stepped out of the bedroom, heard a noise downstairs. I moved back down the corridor, into one of the bathrooms, flushed the toilet, counted to ten, and came down the stairs.
The kid was sitting at the kitchen table pouring himself a glass of milk, a box of chocolate donuts standing open in front of him.
"Hey, Burke. You want a donut?"
"Didn't I tell you to stay by the car?"
"I thought…you meant until you were done in the apartment. I didn't…"
"Don't think so fucking much," I told him. Then I walked out the back door.
Back in the apartment, I took out my notebook, started to go over the list of parents of the kids who'd died. Blankenship scanned legit to me—maybe I'd get lucky with one of the others.
I picked up my tapped phone, dialed Fancy's number. She answered on the second ring.
"Hello."
"Ten o'clock tonight," I told her, my voice flat and hard. "Get your fat ass over here. And don't be late, understand?"
"Yes," she breathed soft into the mouthpiece.
I hung up on her.
Just past four, I heard a tentative knock on the door. I looked through the glass. Randy. I walked over from the couch, let him in.
"What?"
"Burke, I'm sorry. About Charm. And about…not staying where you told me. I was gonna…be different. The car…I can't explain it."
"Sit down," I told him gently, stepping back from the door.
He crossed over to the couch, leaving me the easy chair. He sat there for a minute, collecting himself.
"My mother told me about you," he said.
"Told you what?"
"She said she knew you a long time ago. When she did you that…favor, remember?"
"Yeah."
"My mother doesn't talk to me much. She never did, really. She said she wanted me…real special. That's why she went through all that, with the artificial insemination and all. She's not around here very much. She always says, someday she'll tell me things. She never says what things. Just…things. Things I need to know. I guess…"
His voice trailed off. I lit a smoke, not saying anything, letting my body language tell him it was okay, I was listening, patient, all the time in the world. He took a little gulping breath, got going again.
"Anyway, my mother told me you were a…tough guy. I mean, real tough, not like a weightlifter or anything. Dangerous, that's what she said. Burke is a dangerous man."
You tell a lot of people stories about me, don't you, bitch? I kept my face quiet, mildly interested, waiting for him to continue.
"She knew you when you were, like, my age, right?" the kid went on. "She said that's the way you were then, too. She said you were a man of honor—that you'd honor a debt. She really told me about you a long time ago. When she went away. I was just a little kid, like ten or something. She said, if anyone tried to do something to me, I should call you. Just call you and tell you, and you'd fix it. For the debt."
"Do something like what, Randy?"
"Like…I don't know. She didn't say. She would…leave me with people. Caretakers, she called them. She always did that. It was them she meant, I think. But I know what she said. If anybody makes me scared, I should call you."
"Did that ever happen?"
"No, not…really. But my mother thought it might, I could tell. I was in her room once, just playing around. I found a maid's outfit. You know, like a black dress with a white apron? I thought it was Rosemary's. She was the maid we had then. From Ireland. So I put it in her room, on the bed. My mother saw it there. I heard her yell for Rosemary. When Rosemary came upstairs, I hid. I was scared, my mother sounded so mad. She asked Rosemary why she took the outfit. Rosemary said she didn't, and my mother slapped her. Right across the face. She told Rosemary to put it back in her room. Then when Rosemary came back, my mother slapped her again. I never told her it was me.
"It was a long time ago," I said. "Don't worry about it."
"My mother asked me later, did Rosemary ever do anything to me? Like…punish me or something. I told her no, Rosemary never did that. That's when she said the thing about calling you, the first time."
I played with my cigarette, letting him drive his own car.
"When I called you, I was scared. Like something was gonna happen, but I didn't know what."
"The suicides?"
"I guess so. There's…something else too. I can't tell you. But I knew if you were around, it wouldn't happen."
"That kid Brew?"
"No!" he snorted a laugh. "Not him. Anyway, when I started to…do stuff with you, I thought I could…maybe help, I don't know. I don't smoke dope anymore," he said, looking straight across at me, eyes clear. "I don't booze either. And I'm not gonna tank, next time they have a party. I want to do…something."
"Drive?"
"Yes! When I drive, it's like I'm the car. It feels…connected. I don't know. You think I'm crazy, don't you?"
"No. No, I don't. All the great drivers, that's the way they talk about it…like it's all one piece."
"Did you know any? Great drivers, I mean."
I couldn't tell him. I started to lose it for a second, but I reached down and grabbed hold. I fussed with a cigarette until I had it under control. "I did time with one of them," I told the kid. "Long time ago. He was a great, great wheelman. Drove on some of the biggest hijacks in the country, bank jobs too. The Prof knew him better than me, but I talked a lot to him too."
"You mean like a getaway driver?"
"More than that, kid. He was stand–up, see? No matter what happened inside, Petey wouldn't leave you there. He'd be waiting at the curb when you came out."
"But when he drove…"
"Driving, that's only a small piece of it. I had this pal once, Easy Eddie. One time we were out riding, nothing special. But what he didn't tell me, he was holding dope. Heavy weight. And we got stopped. Now it worked out okay—the cops never saw it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. But if they had, it would have been Kaddish. Easy Eddie and me, we were as close as brothers. He was a stand–up guy. He didn't mean any harm—never thought about getting me in trouble. If we'd gone down for the dope, he would have taken the whole weight."
So?"
"So he was real sorry about what happened. And I never rode with him again."
Randy's face changed colors as it hit him. "I get it," he said.
"Do you?" I asked. "Here's what a guy told me when I was just coming up. About working in a crew. You can't be counted on, you can't be counted in, understand?"
"Yes."
"Being a wheelman, it's not just about driving, Randy. Next time I tell you to stay someplace, you do it. Okay?"
"I will," he said, a bit of steel under the softness of
his voice.
I had plenty of time before Fancy. "I need to make a phone call," I told the kid. "Want to drive me?"
"Sure," he said, starting for the Plymouth like there was no other choice. He didn't say anything about there being plenty of phones in the house—maybe he was a faster learner than I thought.
"Where to?" he asked, adjusting the rearview mirror, rocking gently back and forth in the driver's seat, getting the feel.
"What I need is a pay phone, all right? An outdoor phone, if you know where one is."
"There's some on the highway. In case someone has a breakdown."
"Let's ride."
He pulled out of the driveway without spinning the rear wheels, nursing the throttle, but as soon as we hit pavement he dropped the hammer, road–running at double the speed limit.
"Back it off," I told him. "The trick to driving, the real trick, you got to blend, understand? Any fool can drive fast—the game is to drive fast smooth, see? Especially in the city. A real pro, he can drive faster than it looks like he's going…the way a karate man can close space on you before you realize it."
"Okay," the kid said. He motored along in silence for a few minutes. "Can I try it?" he asked.
"Try what?"
"Blending. I'll go through town first, okay?"
"Sure."
The kid had a sweet soft touch with the wheel, piloting the big car in the light traffic with assurance. He pulled to a smooth stop behind a chocolate Porsche coupe, waiting patiently for the light to change.
"Give yourself more room," I told him.
"What do you mean?"
"You're too close to the Porsche. If he stalls, or just decides to sit there, you can't go around him without backing up first, see?"
"Yeah," he said, nodding.
"Drive with a zone around you, like a pocket of air. Another car comes in the zone, you adjust, understand? It's like you always leave yourself an escape route, never get boxed in."
He turned off to the highway, stayed just past the speed limit, looking over at me for approval.
"On the highway, stay with the packs, all right? Always keep cover around you. You want to pass, make sure there's another clump out ahead of you."
He nodded again, rolled into the middle lane behind a Subaru wagon. The kid held his position for a bit, then he pulled into the left lane, circled the Subaru and pulled in behind a three–car train in the middle lane.
Down in the Zero Page 12
