The U.S. had secret prisons for people who had broken the law in the course of classified activities. The law in those facilities was a strange, surrealistic version of the law on the outside. You had rights — just not the right to leave. Administrative prisons, that was what they called them.
Well, he still had the right to leave at the moment, or at least the ability, so he damn well walked out the door. He went through the outer office and into the corridor. There were two men coming toward the office. He went the other way.
Behind him, he heard their footsteps get quicker and louder. Goddamn, he didn’t want this. He’d been part of this organization all of his adult life. He had stood before the Memorial Wall and wept a tear for fallen comrades. He had loved CIA and stood by CIA and been absolutely loyal to CIA, no matter how dumb he thought the latest director was or how misguided the latest policy.
He got the hell out of the building, hurrying out the new entrance to the west lot where he’d parked. As he got into the pretty little Saab that had been waiting in his garage for the past two years, he wondered if he would be fast enough to pass the gate or if Justin had already called them and told them to detain him.
He pulled up to the guardhouse, showed his ID card, waited. The guard looked at it, made a notation, and opened the barrier. He drove out and was soon headed for the freeway. It was a sunny summer afternoon, and once he was out of Reston, the world came to appear innocent again, even sweet. He loved the people in the cars, felt their hopes and loves with the special empathy that only a person who has killed in the line of duty can ever know. There is something about the taking of human life that makes human life seem incredibly precious. Even if killing somebody is necessary, the fact is that your dead remain with you all the rest of your days. Not your dead vampires, though. Only the people.
What if people knew that they were liable to be hunted down and killed, and it wasn’t against the law? The very notion was absurd.
On this deceptively peaceful afternoon, he knew that he had to act with the utmost professionalism and speed, or he was going to be hunted down himself. Right this minute, there was an urgent meeting taking place somewhere in the building — probably in Justin’s office — covering the issue of Paul Ward. He’d become what was known as a “runner,” an agent who, when his actions were challenged, had immediately taken off. To CIA, this response was prima facie evidence of guilt. The Company was very skilled at hunting such people down.
What he needed to do was clear: he needed to kill as many vampires as he possibly could between now and the time they did manage to catch up with him.
He took 495 to 95, thinking that he’d go to Baltimore, park the car somewhere, and take mass transit to the Amtrak station.
According to what little he knew about the vampire in America, he needed to go first to New York. The reporter Ellen Wunderling had disappeared there researching the gothic subculture. In Paul’s opinion, it was possible that she had stumbled across a real vampire, discovered too much, and been eaten.
So he’d go back to the plan of looking for her. She had disappeared in New York, so that would be his first destination.
He was a man who carried a lot of cash, always, so he’d be able to put some space between himself and his pursuers.
What a hell of a thing that he’d sacrificed lives for the French Book of Names and now he couldn’t use it. He couldn’t read a word of it himself, and he certainly couldn’t stop by NSA and ask them to help him with the translation.
When he reached the exit for Route 32, he decided to make it interesting for whoever would be coming after him. He took 32 up to Columbia, which was a big enough town to have both a bus system and a taxi company.
He went to the Columbia Mall and parked in the covered parking, where his car would be harder to spot. He turned on his cell phone and strolled into the mall. It was so nice, so damn American. He went into the Sears, strolling easily, looking at the washing machines, the clothes. He bought a couple of shirts, a pair of pants, a blue blazer and some black sneakers. When he came out of the men’s room, he looked like the same guy in different clothes. He knew that you weren’t going to be able to disguise Paul Ward, but every little bit helped.
He dropped his phone in a lady’s shopping bag. They’d follow that, for sure, probably track it down in about an hour. There was going to be some excitement in her sweet life.
He went outside and hailed a cab, which he took to the campus of St. John’s College in Annapolis. A thousand years ago, he’d been a St. Johnnie for a couple of semesters. The school followed a great-books curriculum, starting with Homer and ending with Freud and Einstein. He’d read the Iliad and the Odyssey under Professor Klein, who’d had his fingers broken by the Nazis for playing the piano better than an Aryan. Still, as much as it hurt, he had played of an evening, Debussy and Chopin and Satie . . . He hadn’t weaned young Paul away from doo-wop, but the playing had been awesome.
Paul had been the only kid in the whole school who’d favored the war in Vietnam, and also been dumb enough to put a statement up on the bulletin board about it. As a result, he’d soon found himself being recruited by CIA, and thus had begun the rest of his life. Old George Hauser, of blessed memory, had sat with him on that bench right over there under the great oak and spoken to him of what it meant to be an operations officer, how hard it really was, and just how disappointing it could be . . . and how much it mattered.
He went up the brick walk toward McDowell Hall, the administration building and meeting hall, where the choir had met. The young voices returned, calling to him from the quiet that he entered when he entered the building. Downstairs was the coffee shop, and there also was the bulletin board where his current life had begun.
There were people here and there, but the campus was quiet in midsummer. He went through the basement of McDowell and out into the little quad. There was Randall Hall, where he had lived — given a single room even though he was only a freshman, largely because they could not imagine anybody who had written an entrance essay like his successfully living in close proximity to another person. He’d written on Saint Thomas Aquinas, the Summa Theologica. In those days, he had been a fiercely ardent Catholic. How long ago that was, the days of the skinny kid with the close-cropped hair and the delicate wire glasses.
He wondered why he had come here. Was it because he was dying, and the inner man knew it? He’d seen many an operational death that started with just this kind of official abandonment. I will not go to prison, he told himself as his eyes counted windows to his old room. How small Randall Hall looked now. He remembered it as a grand place. But look at it, you could almost jump over the damn thing. A vampire probably could, or come close.
He’d gotten to this place on the back of a hell of a scholarship, the Stephens Piper Award for Scholastic Diligence. Full tuition to the college of his choice.
He thought to himself, How do I kill vampires, now that I am alone? Dare I assemble my people? No, they’d all be stopped at their ports of entry.
He’d signal Becky not to come back — stop at the college library, see if they had a public computer. He’d send her an e-mail, using the team’s own emergency code. She could share it with the ones still in Kuala. He went over to the library, which was wide open and, typical of St. John’s rather tangential approach to organization, totally unmanned.
He booted up the computer behind the librarian’s counter. No password needed, of course. St. John’s was still St. John’s. It wasn’t that they were especially trusting. It was details — they avoided them. Was it the best college in the United States? Not by all standards, but by any standard at all, it was the most intellectually healthy.
His opinion. He opened up Outlook Express and logged onto their server. One code he’d never expected to use was “sourball express.” It meant the unthinkable, that CIA had turned against the operation and everybody needed to go to ground immediately, wherever they happened to be.
When she saw it, she woul
d go into meltdown, but she would do her duty. He typed the words. Then he added, “Go to B.” There was a guaranteed job, given his recent casualties. Bocage understood American intelligence very well. He’d give her a good home.
He sighed. It was likely that he would never see Becky again, never hear from her, never know how her life played itself out. Well, hell, that was the nature of this game. You worked in total darkness. Sometimes there were other figures beside you, sometimes you were alone. He could have loved that kid, though. He could have loved her.
He sent the e-letter from the name of the person who used the computer, then immediately shut it down. There was no point in encrypting it. All of their encryption was backdoored to CIA. The point was not to write anything that would make an Echelon search possible. He hadn’t done that, he was quite sure. Pretty sure. Somewhat sure.
He went out, hurrying down toward the playing field and the bridge with its bus stop. There was the tree under which he had kissed Connie Bell. Even all these years later, he remembered just how sweet she had tasted, Connie Bell. She was the loveliest woman he had ever known, even to this day.
He recognized, abstractly, that he was crying. At least, his eyes were wet. What a damn asshole he could be. Fortunate that he was alone. He was crying for his lost career, for his despised honor, but more for Connie Bell and lost youth . . . and for Becky Driver, whom he had never gotten an opportunity to kiss.
He crossed the playing fields and came to the bridge and the bus stop. He’d take the bus into Baltimore, to Penn Station.
His pursuers would spend their time looking for cell phone usage and credit card usage and ATM usage. Nobody would take to the streets, nobody would try to think as he thought, try to follow him in the old-fashioned way, by following his mind.
He did not intend to stop killing vampires simply because he’d lost his backing. To hell with the CIA; he was going to do this thing. Maybe he’d rid the United States of the creatures before his employers caught him, who knew? Let Justin stuff that in his damn pipe. Endangered species, hell. If he rendered the damn things extinct before they could be protected, what would those White House pantywaists do — apologize to the world for allowing such a terrible thing to happen?
They were totally out of touch with the situation. If the vampires were free to hunt openly — if they had rights and legal status — oh, God, how awful that would be. Inside of a decade, they would rule the world again.
The bus came, and he paid his fare and took a seat. He leaned back, closed his eyes. “Should’ve graduated from St. John’s, asshole,” he told himself. He could’ve become a professor of classical languages, a doctor of philosophy. He could have led a quiet life, tasted of love and marriage. Except if you went through a childhood like his you were — well, you were scarred. He was a strong man. Tough guy.
But why? What motivated him to get so good with a gun, to learn the art of killing, to live in the shadows?
He knew. Hell yes, he did. This particular mystery man had himself figured out. When his dad disappeared, the world changed for him. It became a place where anything could happen and nobody was safe. He was as he was for a very simple reason: he lived in deep inner terror, and it never, ever went away.
What if his kids disappeared? Or his wife, or him? He was too insecure to be able to enjoy real love.
In his lifetime, he’d killed at least fifty men, some of them with his bare hands. He’d tortured people, done it sadly and methodically, but with the same determination that drove him now. He could see beyond the immediate tragedy to the greater reward. He had wired up the gonads of Cambodian kids to get information that would save American lives. Would the mothers and wives whose lovers and sons he’d sent home alive tell him he’d done wrong?
He transferred to another bus line and rode this one to the station. He went to the newsstand and picked up some magazines, then bought a club ticket for the 4:35 Metroliner.
There was always the possibility that the station was being watched, so he went to the men’s room and sat in one of the stalls reading. Guys came and went, toilets flushed around him. He read about elk hunting, then paged through the classifieds. Field and Stream always reminded him of the last time he had hunted, which had been with his dad. They gone up along the Chattaminimi Ridge, and just at sunrise had seen a buck to stop your heart. That had been about two weeks before Dad was killed. The vampire would have been watching him by then, for sure. It was probably only a few feet away during that walk, pacing them, waiting, doing its research on its victim. “What’s that smell?” young Paul had asked. “Bats,” Dad had said. “There’s a lotta bat caves up this way.” It had not been bats.
He waited until four-thirty-two, then left the john and hurried across the station. This would cause a sudden redeployment of officers, if there was anybody there. He knew how to flush a tail.
There was no tail, and he also nearly missed the damn train. But he did not miss it. He got in the club car and found his seat, dropped down and opened another magazine, Newsweek. He stared at it, while actually evaluating his surroundings and all the other passengers. There was a woman with two little girls, some businessmen, a couple of tourists, maybe from eastern Europe. Any of these people could be tails preset on the train. He was especially interested in the mom. That’d be a clever twist, the kind of thing they might use when a pro was the target.
Still, he didn’t think they were on him, or anywhere near him. He thought he’d have a good week before they decided to put him on wanted posters. Probably call him a serial child killer or something. Be sure to get police attention all over the damn country that way.
He gazed out the window. This was his America he was passing through, this America of rolling hills and tidy suburbs, and rusty old factories clinging to the rail line. He remembered a very long time ago when this was still the New York Central Railroad, and the cars had been painted olive drab. He’d made his first trip to New York on this line, emerging in Penn Station with saucer eyes and fifteen wadded up dollar bills in his pocket. He’d stayed at the Taft Hotel on Seventh Avenue, with three other guys from the college.
It was on that trip that he had seen his first truly great painting, Van Gogh’s Starry Night in the Museum of Modern Art. It was also on that trip that he had gone to his first opera, Turandot, about a cruel princess in a moonlit palace of long ago.
He had been a person, then — a young person, just awakening to the world around him. Fresh as the dew, drinking his first drink, smoking his first cigarette, lying in bed at night with Connie Bell on his mind.
He was a killing machine now, was Paul Ward. He’d lost his ability to love women. He could still have sex, and he did that whenever it was convenient, either with whores or causal pickups. But love? No. That part of his heart had gone out like a spent old coal.
It did not seem as though two and a half hours had passed, but they were entering the Pennsy Tunnel, sure enough.
New York. It probably wouldn’t be where matters ended, because he intended to follow this path to the last vampire in the country. He probably should have started here. But nobody they were aware of had ever even seen a vampire in those days, so Tokyo looked like found money. Too bad the Europeans had kept their programs to themselves.
He left the train last, walked up the platform alone. Nobody was watching him. He crossed Penn Station. Nobody here, either. He went out, up the stairs to Eighth Avenue.
Cabs roared past, people swarmed the sidewalks. He was tired, bone tired, and he wanted a major drink. A whole lot of ’em. He’d really love to have found some bar fighters, but he was too deep in cover for that now. First chance he got, he planned to spend some time smashing his fists into a goddamn wall.
You burned down your house, fella. Just jumped up and ran out of there. What the hell did you know? Maybe those two guys were gonna give you a decoration.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and started up the avenue. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular — just away fr
om here. He needed a place to crash, for sure. The flight from Paris to Dulles had been lousy — a middle seat, a kid with massive quantities of popcorn on one side of him, the King of Sweat on the other. Then touchdown and straight to Langley, and the shit spitting through the fan.
He was so fucking tired; he didn’t think he’d ever been this tired. Tired or not, though, he was a man obsessed, and his obsession kept him going. He was here to find and kill the parasites that had taken his dad away from him, and he was going to do it. He slogged off down the street — and soon found himself passing the Theater at Madison Square Garden. Lou Reed was giving a concert tonight, which might actually make him feel a little less miserable. Also, dipping into a crowd never hurt. He’d use it to strip tails, then find a room later. He turned the corner and went up to the ticket booth, asked for one on the aisle anywhere in the auditorium.
“Sold out.”
“What’re they scalping for?”
“Eight hundred up. Guy on the corner, black jacket, he’s got a few.”
The hell with that. He couldn’t afford anything nice, never had been able to. Intelligence work was not a comfortable life, especially not in the field. James Bond was a cruel fantasy.
He decided to hunt up a fleabag that would sell him a few hours sleep for cash. Then he would start his investigation, and he would find the parasites in their holes, and kill them all.
THIRTEEN
All Through the Night
Across the sour reaches of an uneasy day, Sarah had waited and Miriam had remained silent. At the last moment, Miriam decided not to go to Lou’s concert, saying that she was too tired. But that wasn’t it. Miriam was never tired. The truth was obvious to Sarah: she was too scared.
Whoever she was running from was obviously extremely dangerous. But who could be dangerous to her? The other Keepers might not like her, but they weren’t going to terrorize her. Could it be a human being? That seemed impossible.
The Last Vampire Page 20
