by Steven Brust
Marci leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Well, okay then. Let’s narrow it further. I like this game.”
“Marci, never leave me,” said Donovan.
Susan pulled her chair a little closer to the table. “Don, what could you tell from the picture?”
“Just what you said: He looked like a car salesman who never worked out a day in his life.”
“You mean, a car salesman in particular, or was that a general thing?”
“A general thing. I mean, someone who needs to keep up his appearance for the public, doesn’t do manual labor, picks out his clothes by reading Dress for Success.”
Susan said, “Could you get any hints about where he’s from?”
“No, not with the picture off the security camera. I couldn’t see, like, a suntan, or a lack of suntan, or anything like that.”
“But,” said Marci, “you could tell he didn’t work out?”
“His gait. His stride. He didn’t walk like someone who exercised.”
Marci said, “If our soon-to-be-victim could do something to this guy bad enough to make him want to give him a horrible death, then one thing we can conclude is that Mr. Victim-to-be has power, right?”
“Why do you assume ‘Mr.’?” said Susan.
“Because he has power.”
“So do Angela Merkel and Janet Yellen,” said Donovan.
“So do I,” said Susan.
“Statistically—”
“Let’s not go there,” said Donovan. “Keep saying ‘he,’ but we’ll keep in mind he might be a she. Now move on. What were you saying?”
“That he has power, that’s all.”
“What does that even mean?” said Susan.
“It means he can force his will on another through violence, the threat of violence, or economic coercion.”
Donovan nodded to Marci. “Good. So, he killed someone, he beat someone up, or threatened someone, or ordered the killing or the beating or the threat, or used money or influence.”
“A loan shark?” said Susan. “That would fit all the bills.”
“Maybe,” said Donovan. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Back the other way,” said Susan. “Anything else we can deduce about our shooter?”
“He can handle a shotgun,” said Marci. “Any conclusions from that? Like, I don’t know, a hunting background?”
Susan shook her head. “Anyone who’s motivated can handle a shotgun.”
“I can’t,” said Marci.
“If you want, I can show you in two minutes.”
“Let’s stay on track,” said Donovan. “Gun lessons can come later. I’m going to call up the video again.”
He did, and they huddled around him and watched. Damn. He seems so harmless. “Okay, it’s unscientific, and it’s unsupported, but this guy had to lose everything to get him steamed enough to do this. And that means he had something to lose. That coat he’s wearing cost five hundred bucks new, and when it was new he’d never have worn it in this condition. I won’t say he came from a long way up, but he’s gone a long way down. I wish I could see his hands. I want to know if he has ring impressions and how he keeps his nails.” He felt himself scowling at the screen and stopped.
He turned away from the computer. “There’s so much I could be wrong about—you just can’t tell a lot from a feed like that. But I’m going to bet that that man has never experienced violence in his life. Susan?”
“I don’t see anything to contradict that. He’s not, you know, hyper-aware, the way you get if you’ve been assaulted.”
“Okay, then. Could be a family member, but my money is on something economic. Job, house, maybe all of that. Maybe a car he loved; he looks like the kind of guy who might pour everything into a Ferrari and have a breakdown when it gets repo’d.”
“You know,” said Marci, “half the country got killed when the mortgage bubble burst. If it’s one of them, we’ll never find him.”
“I don’t know,” said Donovan. “How many of them would have the resources to trace his misery up the chain and find the one responsible?”
“The one? How many are there? The entire board of directors of, well, just about every financial institution in the country. How do you pin it on one person, not to mention finding him?”
“Yep,” said Donovan. “That’s exactly what we have to figure out.”
Marci shook her head. “You’re working on a whole lot of assumptions here.”
“Just what I was thinking,” said Susan.
“Maybe not as many as it seems. I mean, playing percentages. Some guy gets laid off, his house gets repossessed, maybe he loses his family—that happens a lot when money goes to hell; trust me on that. All this, and he just happens to be in a position to know who to blame. Unlike almost anyone else, he can put a name to his misery.”
“How?” said Susan. “The Mystici might be able to tell him, but if they’re the ones who are protecting the guy he’s going after that’d be kind of a weird decision.”
“Not because of the Mystici,” said Donovan. “Because of his position.”
“He’s in the field,” said Marci. “A low-level mortgage banker.”
Donovan nodded. “Someone fucked over by the institutions and the company he was serving. Can you imagine the sense of betrayal?”
“Still a lot of guesswork behind that,” said Susan.
“I wouldn’t call it guesswork. I’d call it induction with some intuitive leaps. But the good news is, if I’m right, we can test it. We’ve gotten it down to a manageable number, and we have a face.”
“That’s a manageable number?” said Susan.
“Yeah. Because it’s something a software geek could use to search on without devoting his life to it.”
“If he had access to the information.”
“Right.”
“And if we knew the right kind of software geek.”
“Right.”
Donovan pulled out his cell phone and hit a number. “Jeffrey? Got another one for you. Good news: This one is legal.”
* * *
Matt gave up after a couple of hours, and wandered off. Across the plaza was a place with awnings and chairs outside. Ah ha, he thought. My keen deductive skills tell me there will be food there.
There was. He had something with rice and cheese and a meat he guessed was either mutton or goat, and there was certainly lemon in it, and a taste that was unaccountably similar to some of the things he’d had in Afghanistan. He didn’t try to solve the mystery, however. He permitted himself one glass of wine, and was considering a second when two men approached his table. Neither one looked in the least threatening. One seemed small and pale and tidy to the point of obsession; the other was more relaxed, with shaggier hair and an easier gait. Neither one was able to handle himself in a fight. Matt remained seated.
The smaller one spoke in a precise, upper-class British accent. “I’m Manuel Becker; this is William Faucheux. We’re with the Spanish Foundation. May we join you, Mr. Castellani?”
“Please do.”
Neither one offered to shake hands, so Matt didn’t, either.
“You understand,” said Becker, “that we are careful whom we let into the building.”
“Of course.”
“There are security concerns. Frankly, Mr. Longfellow ought not to have told you where the building was.”
“He didn’t.”
“Then, may I ask how you found out?”
“It was long, and it was difficult, and it was a pain in the ass, and I was sort of hoping it would show you how gosh darned clever I am.” Matt gave what he hoped was a charming smile.
Faucheux’s accent was middle American. “At any rate, it shows your determination. May I ask why?”
“Did you see The Avengers?” Faucheux nodded; Becker shook his head. “In that case, I’ll just say that it seems like it might be a way to help, and I’d like to do that for a while.”
“We did receive your infor
mation from Mr. Longfellow,” said Becker. “I passed it on to Mr. Faucheux, who is in charge of personnel. For my part, I am, in fact, impressed with your determination. It is a rare thing.”
“But the fact remains,” said Faucheux, “that you did attempt to kill one of Mr. Becker’s team, which casts some doubt on your altruism.”
“Oh, you know about that, huh?”
“Yes. And about your dishonorable discharge, and the reason for it.”
Matt nodded.
“Unfortunately, between them, I’m afraid we can’t use you,” said Faucheux.
Cutting through the disappointment was Matt’s observation of a flicker, a twitch, from Becker. Becker had not been expecting that. Matt had the impression that a twitch from Becker was jaw-dropping amazement from someone else.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
“We will,” said Faucheux, “keep your information on file. It is possible that things will change.”
“I hope they do,” said Matt.
They both stood up, so Matt did, too, and this time they shook hands.
When they had gone, Matt sat down and finished his wine.
Okay, then. I wonder if the other team is hiring.
* * *
Delta Flight 3571 arrived at LaGuardia at ten in the morning, which meant I had to wake up around 4:00 AM to make sure I got through security. I arrived in that curious state of tremendous excitement and bone-deep weariness. I don’t remember getting to the hotel, but I did, and I even had my suitcase with me.
I tried to take a nap, couldn’t sleep, thought about going for a walk, tried to watch TV, tried to take another nap, and succeeded, getting a solid three hours of nothing. I woke up groggy, of course, and my mouth tasted funny. I took a shower and stood under the hot water for a long time. My mind drifted to what I’d do after I killed Whittier, but, as always, came up empty—that moment was like the end of the universe. If there was something that came after, it was impossible to conceive of.
Dressed in my towel, I sat down at the desk and fired up my laptop. There was an email from Charlie: “We need to meet. Go to Aire Ancient Baths, 88 Franklin Street. Give them your name as Patrick Harper and they’ll bring you to the right place. Be there by four PM.”
I checked the time and cursed, then dressed as fast as I could and headed downstairs for a taxi.
I made it with ten minutes to spare. I gave them the name as I was told, and they gave me a robe and showed me where to change and I wondered if I could afford to actually use the place when we were done. I sat in the spa for a while, and got a massage, and was left lying on a table, facedown, covered in warm towels.
“Hello, Nick.”
“You must be Lef-tenant Sharpe,” I said.
I actually heard a smile in his voice. “You caught the reference, then.”
“Yes. And thanks for the treatment. It was just what I needed. I’m ready for the bad news.”
“Bad, not catastrophic. He’s taking the rest of the week off and returning to his Connecticut home until Monday.”
“Well, at least I know the place. What do you say? Do we wait until Monday, or take him there?”
“We don’t dare wait.”
“All right. What’s the plan?”
“I’ve arranged for a town car for you. It will be at your hotel tomorrow morning. Allow two hours for the drive, in case of traffic.”
“All right. What about his security? He has to have bumped it since last time.”
“Yes. I’m afraid you’ll have to be working with someone on this. I was hoping to avoid bringing anyone else in, but you need someone who can disable the alarms and put his private security people to sleep if that’s how it plays out.”
“All right. When and where do I meet this person?”
“Tomorrow, seven PM, Little Thai Kitchen on West Avenue in Darien. You’ll be meeting a woman called Shveta. She’ll be wearing a tan pants suit and a silver choker set with onyx.”
“All right.”
“You should eat there. I’ve heard it’s good.”
“Charlie, do you really think I’m going to be able to eat?”
“Another time, then.”
“When it’s done, am I going to hear from you again?”
There was a pause; then he said, “I’m not sure, Nick. It depends how things play out on my end. I hope so.”
“In case I don’t, thanks for everything.”
“Remember I’m doing this for my own reasons, Nick.”
“I know that.”
“Then you’re welcome.”
* * *
Manuel Becker was, in fact, surprised by Faucheux’s decision—he’d thought the ex-soldier might indeed be a worthwhile addition. But Faucheux had fallen completely for the security culture that had served the Foundation so poorly; so on reflection, Becker ought to have expected it. For now, he put the entire matter out of his mind, because, speaking of security culture, there was a larger problem to face.
He took the elevator to the “Twelfth Floor,” which is to say the tenth, and spoke to Florencia Trujillo. “Good afternoon, Florencia. I wish to see Ms. Morgan. Is she available? I can wait.”
Becker knew that Trujillo knew “I can wait” is code for “This won’t wait.” She, however, gave no hint of this understanding. She simply said, “Please wait here,” and vanished into the rows of cubicles and offices. She was back in five minutes. She seated herself and said, “She will see you.”
He nodded and went back and back and back until he reached the big corner office. The door was open. As he shut it behind himself, Morgan rose and gestured toward a chair, and they sat down at the same time.
“You have something?”
“I am coming to you with a possibility, Ms. Morgan.”
“Go on.”
“There are indications that someone may be working against us from within.”
Morgan’s brows drew together. “Explain.”
“I heard from Charles Leong yesterday. We were unable to trace the call, but I believe he was lying about his current location, which he claimed was Orlando, Florida, in the United States. He also claimed to be living in Houston, Texas, and after some checking I believe he is lying about that, too. I then met with Kevin Crosheck, and—”
“You did!”
“Yes.”
“Well. I confess, I am startled. You met with him in person?”
“I authorized a slipwalk for him, Ms. Morgan. I judged it important to be able to read his face and body language.”
Morgan hesitated, then nodded. “Very well.”
“I’m going to tell Mr. Longfellow, my investigator, about Mr. Leong.”
“Of course. And about yourself?”
“I do not believe that information will be useful to him.”
“Very well. I will accept your judgment on that. Is there anything else?”
Becker nodded. “It is possible that the source of the killings is somewhere in the Foundation. To discover this, I must ask you a question, Ms. Morgan.”
“Go ahead.”
“My knowledge is limited to North America. If there were similar killings going on elsewhere, I would have no way of knowing. Now I must ask if that is possible.”
Morgan studied him for a moment. The moment dragged out. Becker remained stationary, patient. Eventually, Morgan gave a small nod, turned to her computer and used the mouse, then typed. It may have been possible for Becker to read some or all of what was on Morgan’s computer in the reflection from the window behind her, but he did not attempt to do so.
Presently she turned back to him and said, “You now have access to all relevant files.”
“Thank you, Ms. Morgan,” he said. He stood, nodded, and went back to the elevators, and so to his office. He sat down at his desk, and the files that had appeared. When he finished, he went over them again, more carefully this time.
When he was done, he stood up and walked the forty feet to another cubicle, which was labeled w
ith a simple sign that said: “Myra Kentspeth, Europe.”
“Ms. Kentspeth,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Becker?”
“Conference room. Five minutes.”
He walked away without waiting for a reply. He repeated this for Ms. Sutherland (Asia and the Pacific Rim), Ms. Mandere (South America) and Mr. Poulin (Africa). Then he walked down the hall to the conference room, sat down in the first chair he came to, and waited.
* * *
Donovan’s apartment was not made for three people to live in. No one had yet blown up at anyone else, or even, really, gotten snippy, but they were all of them being careful, and staying out of one another’s way as much as possible, which wasn’t very. And yet, Donovan found he sort of enjoyed it. They took turns cooking. Marci had a meat loaf recipe everyone loved, and Donovan baked a loaf of bread that lasted under five minutes, but Susan really impressed them with a duck a l’orange with garlic-roasted asparagus.
Donovan and Marci cleaned up, more getting in each other’s way than helping, each of them getting more irritated, and more determined not to say anything. It might have turned bad if Donovan’s phone hadn’t rung. He looked at the caller, and answered gratefully, stepping as far out of the way as he could.
“Jeffrey. You’re a lifesaver.”
“You don’t even know what I have.”
“Don’t care. If you hadn’t called, someone was going to kill someone, and I don’t like my chances in this crowd.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Eh. Company. Never mind. You find anything?”
“Got a name.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Well, damn. I didn’t think that was going to work.”
Donovan noticed there was now silence in the room—the others were clustered around him.
“Why? With all the info you gave me?”
“Well, most of that was guesswork.”
Susan mouthed, Ah ha. Donovan flipped her off.
“So, what’s the name?”
“Nicholas Raymond Nagorski, late of the Denver office of Augsburg Financial.”
“I don’t suppose you can tell me about this company?”
