by Mel Odom
“Conjecture,” Vache said.
“Coupled with a healthy dose of paranoia. Whatever games you play with those people, play them a little closer to the vest these next few days.”
“Yeah. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
Wilson nodded and opened the office door.
“You really think Valentine’s going to work out?”
“If I don’t have to bounce him from the team for insubordination, or put him in the hospital.” Wilson let himself out.
In the hallway, he glanced at his watch and found the time to be only a few minutes after eight. Emmett Newkirk hadn’t even been dead twenty-four hours yet.
Wilson was bone tired. It was too early to visit Kasey. Mornings were always rough for her, and Wilson knew he needed to be feeling better himself before he went to the hospital to see his daughter. Guilt washed away his fatigue and leached into his nerves.
He hit the break room floor, ransomed a Diet Dr. Pepper and a Snickers’ from the machines, and headed for the file room two floors down.
*
“Computer,” Wilson called. He stood in the center of a small closet of a room that looked like the inside of an eight-foot cube. The dim outlines of the door barely registered against the dull gray finish of the interior.
“Computer on,” a feminine voice responded.
“Access requested.”
“Voiceprint.”
“Wilson, Slade Ryan. Special agent in charge, Omega Blue unit.”
There was a pause, then a familiar beep. “Authorization request permitted, Agent Wilson. How may I help you?”
“I need a batch file on DiVarco, Sebastian Vincent.” Wilson spelled it. “See attached NCIC file and reference all related materials.” He gave the file numbers.
“Working.”
Wilson waited. The acid of the Diet Dr. Pepper burned his stomach, and the candy bar had only taken the edge off his hunger. But he knew better than to eat a meal until he was able to relax.
“File coming up,” the computer said.
The lights in the room dimmed.
“How do you want the information formatted?”
Wilson studied the wall ahead of him as a head-and-shoulders shot of DiVarco came into view. “Standard play. Give me present stats on the subject, roll back for antecedent criminal activities-proven and suspected-then spread out from there to his known peer group.”
“Highlighted names?”
“Prio, Harry. No known initial at this time. Also called Balls.”
“I have a file on Prio, Araldo Picciorto.”
“Aikman, Nelson Charles.”
The photograph of DiVarco changed angles, then pulled back and became a full-figure shot.
“I’m sorry. I can find no file on Nelson Charles Aikman.”
“References?”
“None.”
Wilson nodded out of habit. The computer wasn’t geared to pick up body language. It made sense that DiVarco would choose to bend an accountant who hadn’t been popped yet. “That’s fine for now. Start cycling them through.”
“Commencing.”
Wilson listened as the computer ran down the list of businesses DiVarco was known to control inside Boston and out. News footage was interspersed with footage culled from home camcorders, shot for media consumption and ongoing investigations by other law-enforcement agencies. He said, “Freeze.”
“Freezing.”
The onslaught of pictures and verbal information halted.
“Give me a three-D,” Wilson ordered.
“Three-D coming.”
The shadows in front of Wilson shuddered, then altered shape. Seconds later, a three-dimensional hologram of Sebastian DiVarco stood facing Wilson.
Wilson studied the man. DiVarco in the flesh was a couple of inches taller and a few pounds heavier. The man’s hair was pulled back in a ponytail that left his face chiseled and hard. The dark eyes were merciless. The three-D was clothed in a long black coat, gloves, and open-throated shirt, and Dockers. The footwear consisted of polished Italian loafers.
“Display armament,” Wilson said.
“Known armament as follows: Detonics Janus Scoremaster .45 ACP is primary weapon, and is usually carried in a hip holster.”
The pistol appeared on the image, as though Wilson had suddenly donned X-ray glasses.
“Next.”
The computer moved along quickly, establishing that DiVarco knew and used a number of weapons, of both Western and Eastern origins. He’d studied martial arts for some time since starting to work his way up the ranks of Boston’s Mafia.
Wilson moved on through the files, trying to break the information down into categories in his mind, so that he could review it at a later date. Even without the Korean angle, DiVarco was going to prove a dangerous adversary.
*
Bob McDonald pressed a palm to the indent plate set into the wall. A heartbeat later the door slid aside and allowed him access. When the door closed behind him, he stood in the darkness of the room, letting his eyes adjust.
The room was one of the firing ranges on the two physical-training floors. The old-fashioned Hogan’s Alley still existed on the grassy fields outside the buildings, but most of the weapons training now was done in simulation tanks like this one.
“Mac,” Lee Rawley called out from the shadows. “Over here. Goggles are on the wall to your left.”
Mac found the goggles by feel and slipped them on. Despite the coffee he’d been drinking steadily since last night, and the blueberry muffins he’d taken time out for with Scuderi, January, and Valentine, he still felt worn down to the nub. All hollow, his grandmother used to say as she passed him more homemade butter and a pan of biscuits at breakfast time back on the farm his grandfather had maintained till his death. He’d been prepared to make the jaunt to his apartment in Alexandria, grab a few hours of sleep, and attempt to make a connection with either Robert or David. Both his sons had busy lives these days, and it was sometimes hard for Mac to remember he was a grandfather. Only on days like today did he ever feel that old.
He reached up and switched the goggles on.
Instantly the room came alive as virtual reality took over the walls, ceiling, and floor. The scenario was a jungle lush with tropical flowers and Spanish moss.
Night had draped a cooling wind around trees that would have grown through the ceiling if they’d been real. Brush and undergrowth moved with the changing breezes while the limbs above clattered. The scent of crushed blooms and rotting beauty filled Mac’s nose.
Even though he knew the odors were only computer programming, it didn’t seem any less real. He put a hand out and touched a nearby tree. The bark felt rough, solid, and a crawling insect scuttled over his fingers, leaving an itching sensation. He took his hand away and scratched.
Lee Rawley, dressed in jeans, boots, a Western shirt with pearl buttons, and the familiar Stetson stood in the center of a moonlit clearing with a Colt .45 government model in his fist. He smiled beneath the mirror sunglasses that for some reason didn’t reflect the moonlight. “Jump on in if you feel like it. Won’t take but a minute to get you into the programming.”
“No thanks. For me, gunplay is much better as a spectator sport.”
“Suit yourself.”
Mac leaned against a tree and waited. The bark seemed to chafe against his skin through his clothing.
Rawley continued walking through the jungle with the Colt .45 at the ready.
Watching the other man, Mac felt slightly disoriented as his tree seemed to float along behind. He didn’t press conversation. Rawley had invited him here. He thought about the years he’d known the man, and the gossip he’d heard about him. As far as he knew, Rawley had never asked anyone to join him anywhere.
It was history in the making.
A man in camou clothing popped up suddenly with an AK-47 cradled in his arms. The harsh aaaakk-aaaaakkk of the Russian-made weapon on full auto filled the room. Brass glinted i
n the moonlight as it spun up over the muzzle flashes.
Mac had to check an impulse to duck.
Wheeling lithely, flowing like a big cat changing directions, Rawley went under the line of fire and landed in a prone position with the .45 extended in his hand. He fired twice.
The camou-covered guy went back as the computer registered both bullets striking the guy in the face.
Mac was impressed. Personally, off balance like that, he would have gone for the body, then tried a follow-up head shot only once he had some cover or some breathing space. But Rawley was good even without the SeekNFire programming. A glance at the LED tote board floating in midair next to the crescent moon showed that Rawley wasn’t using SeekNFire, and that he’d put down fourteen aggressors before this one.
Regaining his feet, Rawley slipped a fresh magazine into the .45. The rounds were specially fitted for the simulation tanks and were in no way lethal. “The investigation regarding the Asians was quashed a little while ago.”
“How do you know that?”
The mirror shades were noncommittal. “I know.”
Mac accepted that. Rawley had a means of getting information that sometimes didn’t have anything to do with the FBI. “By whom?”
“The State Department. Turns out the guys we captured in Atlanta were part of the Korean Embassy team.”
“Does Slade know?”
“He does by now. Vache pulled him into his office about an hour ago.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“No. He’s in for a session with records. Besides, I don’t have anything to tell him. Yet.”
“Yet?”
“Yet,” Rawley repeated. He voice-commanded the simulations program to freeze, then crossed the floor to face Mac. “I have a problem with that. I figure Slade’s gonna go for the investigation however he can, but he’s gonna be working with his hands tied. Me, I want to untie them some if I can. I owe Newkirk that much.”
Mac nodded. It was really turning out to be one for the history books. No one had ever heard Rawley evidence any emotion about any of the other members of the team. Nor had he ever hit on Maggie, which was a mistake most new guys made when meeting her.
“How do you plan on doing that?”
“I’m going to call in some favors a few people owe me in D.C.The places I’m going aren’t exactly patronized for their atmosphere. I could use some backup.”
“I take it the people you’re calling the favors in from won’t be exactly amenable.”
“That’s a fair assumption.”
“Why not go to Slade with this?”
“Man just lost a friend and a guy he was responsible for. He needs some time away to get his head together. He’ll go see his little girl this afternoon, spend a few hours with his dad. By morning he’ll be chill, ready to step back into the harness. Who knows? By then we could have something for him.”
Mac listened to Rawley’s words, realizing they were spoken with conviction, and from experience. It made him wonder who Rawley had lost in one of his other lives, and how that loss had come about.
“So,” Rawley said, “are you in or out?”
“In. What time do we meet?”
“About eight. The people we’re going to be talking to don’t do sunlit hours. I’ll give you a call, let you know where.”
Mac gave Rawley his home phone number, but felt in the back of his trained investigator’s mind that the man already knew it.
Rawley said a curt good-bye.
Mac watched him go. Two camou-clad men came into view, saw Rawley, and swiveled to fire on him. Rawley put them both down without breaking stride. Mac let himself out after hanging the goggles up and losing sight of his teammate.
Rawley was an enigma. His interest in the simulations tank was legendary; usually, after any investigation by the Omega Blue group broke up, Rawley would loosen up in the firing range. Or maybe it was to keep himself in top form.
Only once had Rawley forgotten to erase the score he’d made inside the program, and the ensuing rumors had become Bureau legend. But that incident of forgetfulness had come at a time when Slade Wilson had been looking to replace the team’s armorer and makeup man, so it was possible that it hadn’t been an accident at all.
8
The limo glided into the RESERVED PARKING ONLY area roped off in golden braid in front of the restaurant. It was 10:30 A.M. , and Sebastian DiVarco had beaten the lunch crowd.
The restaurant was three stories of dining opulence, walled on the outside with chrome and glass blocks. The glass blocks were shot through with thin wire in neon colors that alternated during the day as the sun moved across them. The effect helped the Crystal Palace earn its name, and the quality of the food and service kept the monied crowds coming back. With the economy the way it was, those crowds would have been thin if it hadn’t been for the upscale criminals who patronized the place. Alexander Silverton owned the Crystal Palace and was a guiding force among Boston’s elite. He’d had to make some compromises a few years to keep his flagship investment afloat.
“You’re clear, Mr. DiVarco,” one of the Kevlar-clad bodyguards said.
Carmichael held the door open as DiVarco climbed out of the limo, straightened his jacket, and stepped onto the red carpet beneath the mirror-bright awning. Two of his security people followed him.
He wore a three-piece blue-green sharkskin suit that glistened. The Detonics .45 was in a breakaway shoulder rig that the suit had been tailored to conceal. The gun barrel had been destroyed and replaced so the bullets that had killed Jimmy Gioia couldn’t be traced back to him.
Stopping in the lobby, he purchased a Globe from the machine. The newspaper was a throwback. Most people got their news on their handhelds. The paper was expensive and unnecessary, but it set the monied apart from the common man. DiVarco folded the paper three ways till it formed a rough cylinder he could hold in one hand. It felt weighty and solid. Gripping it by the end, he walked into the main dining area.
A seductive hostess in a clinging blue chiffon dress intercepted him. Blond curls touched her bare shoulders. “Will you be joining us for lunch?’
“No,” DiVarco said. “I’m here to see Silverton.”
The girl shifted gears smoothly, showing her professionalism. “Is Mr. Silverton expecting you?”
“No. But he’ll see me.” DiVarco stared her down until she moved. He crossed the main dining area.
A few people were already having early lunches, either to avoid the rush or to conduct business out of the office. None of them paid him much attention. The tables were arranged to provide privacy: the low walls were constructed of highly varnished dark woods, with plants growing out of them and hanging from the ceiling.
The hostess stayed where she was, but DiVarco saw her twist the ornate bracelet on her wrist.
“Alarm,” the bodyguard on DiVarco’s left said. The man was glancing at a readout screen that fit comfortably in the palm of one big hand. “They’ll have someone waiting.”
DiVarco nodded. “I don’t want anybody hurt permanently, but I don’t expect you to let Silverton’s hired muscle make you guys look like kindergarteners either.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right, Mr. DiVarco.”
Pushing through the ornate double doors covered with carved fairies and dragons in bas-relief, DiVarco made his way through the wait station and into the kitchen. The room was huge and gleaming. Refrigerators that resembled standing meat lockers stood like steel soldiers along the back wall. Cooks worked furiously at the huge cauldrons and grills. The smell of exotic spices filled the air.
“Hey!” a man’s voice rang out.
DiVarco turned right and started for another set of doors. He’d never been in the rear of the Crystal Palace before. He’d only dined in the lunch and dinner areas. But money spread around in the right places had gotten him a complete schematic of the restaurant and let him know where Silverton’s office was.
“Hey, jerkweed! You can’t
go back there!”
“It’s a Pink,” one of DiVarco’s bodyguards sneered. “Kid don’t even look like he’s got his full growth.”
DiVarco glanced at the Pinkerton security man.
The Pink was in his early twenties, with a shock of punk-cut brown hair, wearing a blue coverall with built-in Kevlar jacket and tan jackboots. His hand was dipping under the waist jacket.
“Freeze it right there, buddy, or I’ll ventilate you.”
Blued steel showed in the Pink’s hand as it started to emerge from the jacket.
“Take him down, Tommy,” DiVarco ordered.
Tommy moved at DiVarco’s right, and the dulled finish of a Taser filled his hand. There was the familiar sproing as the dart flew to its target, trailing the thin wires. When the electric current hit his system, the Pink jerked into a wild dance, then collapsed. The weapon went skittering from his hand and slid under a gas range.
“You people get back to work,” D Varco advised, “or lunch today is going to be delayed.”
One of the chefs started bellowing orders, and two of the younger staff went to pick up the unconscious Pink as the rest of the crew followed DiVarco’s advice.
DiVarco went through the doors. A hallway lay beyond, stretching for a short distance behind one-way glass that made up the back wall of the giant fishbowl where the floor shows were conducted during lunch and dinner. A scattered collage of enormous clamshells, pink, white, and purple coral spiderwebs, and tall green plants covered the black rock of the fake sea floor. Bubbles spun and broke as they meandered lazily to the surface twelve feet above. A topless mermaid, latex fins encasing her lower body, hit the water in a sharp dive, then coasted to a stop on top of a clamshell. Her silver hair flowed out around her as she stretched sinuously.
Two other Pinks stood guard over the door leading to Silverton’s inner sanctum. They stood their ground uncertainly.
