by Jeff Abbott
Not enough time. Not with Evan. She thought of him in that first moment of talking with him, him buying her coffee: But you bought a ticket, teasing her about paying to see his movie. He had told her that he loved her first, but she’d known she loved him weeks before he said the words.
Carrie leaned against the car. A pall of smoke rose from the direction of Kensington Church Street. She had nowhere to go in London, no one to trust.
Evan. She shouldn’t have left him alone. She should have stayed at arm’s length. Her face ached with unshed tears. I’m sorry, sorry for what I’ve done, sorry for what has been lost, Evan, what have I done?
Carrie made her decision. Run and hide. Wait for Bedford’s call. She wiped Pettigrew’s car of prints, out of habit, and walked away from it.
She did not see the men following her from across the street, staggered apart by thirty yards, all three closing in on her.
33
E van caught Thomas Khan’s jacket sleeve just as the explosion ripped apart the bookstore. Air rushed forward, blown down the throat of the brick way by heat and force. The blast hammered Evan into Khan, shoved them both off their feet, and they sprawled onto the ground. Dust misted and heated the air.
Evan scrambled to his feet, pulling Khan with him.
‘Let me go!’ Khan tried to jerk free. Evan tightened his grip and dragged Khan to the street behind the bookstore. Coughing, they stumbled into a mad dash of shoppers, clerks, tourists, and neighborhood residents. A pillar of fire and smoke rose behind them. Khan twisted away from Evan’s grip, but Evan manhandled him by both arm and neck and hurried him down the street. He pictured where he had left Pettigrew and Carrie. Down a block, then up another two blocks, and they would come up behind Pettigrew’s BMW.
‘This way,’ Evan said.
‘Let me go or I’ll scream for help,’ Khan said.
‘Go ahead. Be an idiot. I’m with people who can protect you.’
‘You fucking bombed my store!’
Rage seized Evan. He gripped Khan by the throat. ‘You were involved in my mother’s death.’
‘Your… mother?’
‘Donna Casher.’
‘I don’t know any Donna Casher.’
‘You’re connected to Jargo, you’re involved.’
‘I don’t know any Jargo.’
‘Wrong. You just ran when you heard his name.’
Khan tried to pull free.
‘Just walk home, Mr. Khan.’ Evan released Khan’s throat. ‘Go on. I’m sure the police will have lots of questions as to why your business was bombed. Get your answers ready. I’ll be happy to talk with them, too.’
Khan stood still.
‘You’ve got both Jargo and the CIA after you, Mr. Khan. But I’m here right now, and if you don’t help me, I guarantee I will kill you. But if you help me, you’re safe from everyone who could hurt you. Decide.’
‘All right.’ He held up his palms in surrender. ‘I’ll help you.’
Evan seized the older man’s shoulder, hurried him along the street. They rounded a corner, raced up toward Kensington Church Street where Pettigrew was parked, fighting against a fleeing crowd.
‘Who sent you?’ Khan asked.
‘Me, myself, and I,’ Evan said.
They reached a block and Evan saw the CIA BMW tear out, backward, Carrie at the wheel.
‘Carrie!’ Evan yelled. ‘Here!’
But in the chaos of noise, the rush of people and cars, she didn’t see him. She spun the car and roared, awkwardly, down the street and out of sight, narrowly avoiding running pedestrians.
Evan groped for his cell phone. Gone. He’d left it in the car with Pettigrew. He shoved Khan against the brick wall of a building. ‘Jargo killed my mother. Your son wanted me to do a documentary about Alexander Bast and it got back to Jargo, and he panicked and started killing people. Now, you’ll tell me everything about my parents and Jargo, or I’ll drag your sorry ass back to the flames that was your bookstore and throw you inside.’
Khan’s eyes were wide with terror and Evan thought, I really could kill him.
‘Listen,’ Khan said. ‘We have to get off the streets. I have a place where we can hide.’ He closed his eyes.
Evan considered. Pettigrew wasn’t at the wheel, didn’t appear to be in the car. Carrie looked hysterical. Where was the CIA officer? Dead in the street, killed by the blast? Evan looked down the wrecked street but couldn’t see in the haze of smoke.
The day had gone horribly wrong. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to haul Khan back to the CIA safe house. Evan knew Khan’s offer could be a trap. He had no gun, no weapon. And no choice. He couldn’t let Thomas Khan simply walk away. Evan stayed close to the man, keeping a firm grip on his arm. Khan no longer appeared inclined to run. He walked with the frown of a man dreading his next appointment.
As they walked south to Kensington High Street Khan said, ‘May I hazard a theory?’
‘What?’
‘You came to my bookstore with the CIA. Or maybe MI5. And surprise, you’re supposed to be dead, along with me.’
Evan gave no answer.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ said Thomas Khan.
‘You’re wrong.’ No way, Evan thought. No way Carrie could have been involved if the bomb was meant for him. She could have killed him at any point in the past few days if she were against him, and he knew she wasn’t. But Bedford – he didn’t want to think the old man had set him up. Pettigrew. Maybe he was in Jargo’s pocket. Or he was one of Jargo’s Agency clients, a shadow who wanted Jargo protected.
Evan said, ‘Take me to Hadley.’
Khan shook his head. ‘We talk in private. Keep walking.’ Khan ran across the street, Evan still clutching his arm. Khan pointed toward a small bistro. ‘We need transportation. I have a friend who owns that business, he’ll be sympathetic. Wait here.’
Evan tightened the grip on his arm. ‘Forget it. I’m coming with you.’
‘No, you’re not.’ Khan smoothed down his hair, straightened his suit jacket. ‘I need you, you need me. We have a common enemy. I’m not running off.’
‘There’s no way I can trust you.’
‘You want a sign of my good faith.’ He leaned close to Evan, his jaw touching Evan’s, whispering into Evan’s ear, ‘Jargo’s clearly after me now. I am a loose end. So are you. We have a mutual interest.’
He thinks the bomb was planted by Jargo. Not the CIA. Or at least he wants me to think he blames Jargo. ‘Why are you sure it’s Jargo?’
‘I protected him long enough. But no more. Not when he’s after me now. He wants war, he gets war. Wait here.’ He shrugged free and Evan knew he’d have to fight Khan, here on the street, to keep him close, and it would attract attention. He watched Khan hurry and vanish into the cafe.
Evan waited. Panicked Londoners jostled past him, a hundred people passing him in a matter of minutes, and he had never been so alone in his life. He decided that he had made a huge mistake in letting Khan walk free. But moments later Khan drove up to the curb.
‘Get in,’ he said.
34
T homas Khan headed southeast on the A205. Evan flicked on the radio. The news was full of the explosion on Kensington Church Street. Three confirmed dead, a dozen injured, firefighters battling to bring flames under control.
‘Where is Hadley?’ Evan said.
‘Running and hiding, just like you and me.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve hidden Hadley from Jargo. I thought my influence with Jargo could survive our… recent problems. I was wrong.’
‘What problems?’
‘Once we’re safe.’
Khan exited in Bromley, a large borough of suburban homes and businesses. He navigated a maze of streets and finally steered into a driveway of a good-sized house. The driveway snaked behind the home and he parked where the car couldn’t be seen from the street.
‘I suspect we don’t have long,’ Khan said. ‘The home belongs to my sister-in-law. She
is in a hospice. Dying of brain cancer. But soon the authorities will be looking to anyone who knows me for information.’
‘Like your friend who owns the coffeehouse. He can tell them you’re alive.’
‘He won’t,’ Khan said. ‘I smuggled him and his family out of Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation. I asked for silence, he will be silent. Hurry inside. Our only advantage may be that Jargo will believe us both dead.’
They entered through a back door. It opened into a kitchen. A mineral smell of disinfectant hung in the air. In the den, antique furnishings blended with an eclectic and colorful mix of abstract art. Bookshelves commanded one wall. The house had a comfortable air, but already wore a heavy sense of abandonment.
Khan collapsed on the couch. Clicked on the TV with the remote, found a channel airing live footage of the bombing site. The reporter indicated the destroyed business was owned by an Anglo-Afghani, Thomas Khan. The reporters tossed out theories and speculations as to a reason for the bombing.
‘They got it wrong. You’re from Pakistan,’ Evan said.
Khan shrugged. ‘I have bigger worries.’
Evan went to the kitchen. Hanging along a magneticstrip were a wicked assortment of knives. He picked the largest one and returned to the den. Khan looked up at him.
‘Is that for me?’ Khan did not act afraid.
‘Only if I have to.’
‘You won’t. Stabbing is intensely close-range and personal. Nasty. Messy. You feel the person die. A sheltered boy doesn’t have enough steel in his spine.’
‘I’m just learning what I’m capable of. You’re going to help me bring Jargo down.’
‘I said no such thing,’ Khan said. ‘I said we had a mutual enemy. I can hide for the rest of my life. I don’t need to fight Jargo. He thinks I’m dead.’
‘If he’s your enemy now, surely you’d rather see him taken down than worrying about him ever finding you.’
Khan shrugged. ‘The young worry about victory. I prefer survival.’ He tilted his head at Evan. ‘I thought you would be far more interested in hearing about your parents than planning an impossible revenge on Jargo.’
Evan took a step forward with the knife. ‘You know my mother worked for the Deeps.’
‘I only knew her by her code name. But I read the American news on the Web, I saw her face on a report after her murder and I knew who she was.’
‘You saw her when she was in England a few weeks ago.’
‘Yes.’ His voice was barely a whisper.
‘Why was she here?’
‘It’s oddly liberating to tell you what I always kept secret. I feel like I’m shedding an old coat.’ Khan offered a gentle smile. ‘She stole data from a senior-level British researcher involved in developing a new Stealth-style fighter. He had classified information on his laptop; you know the sort of man, technically brilliant but chafes at rules. Lax about security. He meets his mistress for getaways from the lab at a small hotel in Dover. Your mother took photos of him and the mistress, although probably he’d let his affair be exposed rather than cooperate, but more importantly, she obtained copies of the fighter data during their stay. That’s the real leverage. Unless you’re copulating with animals or small children, sex isn’t the great lever it used to be.’ Khan almost sounded disappointed; a man wistful for the good old days.
‘So she steals the data and you sell it.’
‘No. I provide the logistics to support her, I arrange for the money to go into her account. Jargo handles the sell.’
Logistics for support. Money. He would have to know where the money came from. The client list, Evan thought. This man had it. He kept his face neutral. ‘And who would Jargo sell this data to?’
Khan shrugged. ‘Who doesn’t need information like that these days? The Russians, who are still afraid of NATO. The Chinese, who still fear the West. India, who wants to take a bigger role on the world stage. Iran. North Korea. But also corporations, here and in America, who want the plans. Because they want to get contracts or out-maneuver the avionics firm who designed the plane.’ He offered Evan a neat, practiced smile. ‘Your mother was very good. You should be proud. She followed me to where I kept the files, accessed my laptop, stole the data, and I never knew until last week.’
‘I can’t find pride in her accomplishments right now,’ Evan said.
‘Now, if we’d wanted the man dead… well, your father would have been sent. He’s quite the able killer.’ Khan studied his fingernails. ‘Garrote, gun, knife. He even killed a man in Johannesburg once with nothing but his thumbs. Or perhaps that was simply a rumor he started. So much depends on reputation.’
The knife seemed suddenly lighter in Evan’s hands.
Khan made a murmur of sympathy in his throat. ‘I know them better than you do yet I never knew their real names. Rather sad, really.’
You’re just trying to goad me. Play me into making a mistake. ‘Since we’re helping each other, tell me what my mother stole from you.’
Khan’s tongue touched his lower lip. ‘Account numbers in a Caymans bank. She copied a file that had names linked to accounts. I didn’t realize she had stolen the files, copied them, until I ran a test on my system last Thursday.’
Thursday. The day before his mother died. The day, perhaps, she decided to run. She must have known Jargo and Dezz were after her. Or Khan was lying – a distinct possibility. ‘And she got a list of all the Deeps’ clients.’
Khan frowned. ‘Yes. She got that as well.’
‘And you warned Jargo?’
‘Naturally. He didn’t know about the client list. That was my own insurance in case things ever got ugly between him and me. But I convinced him that your mother had pieced together the list from other information Jargo knew I already had.’
The other information. Khan must have it all – the name of every Deep, every financial account they used, every detail of their operations. No wonder Jargo wanted him dead. ‘I want a copy of every file.’
‘Destroyed in the bomb blast, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t bullshit me. You have a backup.’
‘I must decline.’
Evan stepped forward. ‘I’m not giving you an option.’ He moved the knife toward Khan’s chest.
‘It’s shaking,’ Khan said. ‘I don’t think you truly have the stomach for-’
Evan jerked forward and brought the point of his knife to Khan’s throat. Khan’s eyes widened. A globe of blood welled where blade met skin.
‘I’m my father’s son. The knife’s not shaking now, is it?’
Khan raised an eyebrow. ‘No, it’s not.’
‘I will kill you if you don’t help me. If you help me, there’s a man at the CIA who can protect you from Jargo. Help you and your son hide. Give you both a new life. Do you understand?’
Khan gave the slightest of nods. ‘Tell me who this man is at the CIA. I hardly plan to turn myself over to one of Jargo’s clients.’
‘You don’t need to worry about that. Talk straight. Tell me where Hadley is.’
Khan clenched his eyes shut. ‘Hiding. I don’t know.’
‘He’s hiding because he pitched me the Alexander Bast film project. Hadley set all this mess in motion.’
‘“How sharper than a serpent’s tooth.”’ Khan pressed his fingertips into his temples. ‘It is cruel to know a child could hate you so. Did you love your parents, Evan?’
No one had asked him this, ever, not even Detective Durless in Austin, which seemed like a thousand years ago but had been only a few days. ‘I do. No past tense about it. Very much.’
‘Do you still love them, knowing what they were?’
‘Yes. Love isn’t love unless it’s unconditional.’
‘So when you look at your father, you won’t see a killer. A cold and capable killer. You’ll just see your dad.’
Evan tightened his grip on the knife.
Khan said, ‘Ah. The poison of doubt. You don’t know what you’ll see. How you’ll feel. I was
clumsy a few months ago. I recruited Hadley to work for me. To assist me. I trusted him, I thought he simply needed meaningful work to bring order to his life, and I was wrong. He was given a basic assignment and he barely escaped being caught by French intelligence. He promised me he would do better, but he decided that he wanted out.’
‘You didn’t accept his resignation.’
‘He didn’t tell me he wanted to quit. It’s not a job you leave. In learning how to do my work, he found files on the Deeps – all of them, and their children. If he went to MI5 or the CIA, he knew he would be put under protective custody and my assets would be immediately frozen. He wanted the money. So he wanted Jargo and myself exposed, but not until he could make arrangements to vanish. So he could access my accounts and rob me first.’ He sounded more tired than angry.
‘You sound as though you’ve talked with him.’
‘I have. Hadley confessed all to me before he left.’ Khan gave a thin smile. ‘I forgave him. In a way I was almost proud of him. Finally he had shown daring and intelligence. You were the only child of a Deep involved in the media. He thought he could befriend you and subtly draw you out to expose the network. Tease you with the murder of Bast. Egg you on to investigate. Make you do the dirty work without him putting his own neck in Jargo’s noose.’
He’s opening up too easily, Evan thought. Like a documentary subject who won’t shut up, because the only way to convince is with a torrent of words. Or they need to hear themselves talk, maybe to persuade themselves as much as convincing you and the audience. How far is he playing me? Evan wondered. ‘But he didn’t respond to my e-mail about the Bast package.’
‘A fool puts great events in motion and then grows frightened.’ Khan raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m talking freely now, is the knife necessary?’
‘Yes. The orphanage in Ohio. Bast was there, Jargo was there, my parents were there. Why?’
‘Bast had a charitable soul.’
‘I don’t think that was it. Those kids, at least three of them, became the Deeps. Did Bast recruit them for the CIA?’
