The police were quick to the scene. But not, of course, quick enough. Charlie had serenely driven south to the next exit, wheeled through Queens until he reached a suitably ripe neighborhood, and then abandoned his Agency-issued Crown Victoria with the keys in the ignition. New York being the place it is, the car was in the nearest chop shop in less than thirty minutes. And because there’s always a market for quality auto parts, it was in itty-bitty pieces an hour after that.
Charlie hadn’t even bothered to wipe his fingerprints off the wheel. He should have gotten away clean.
Too bad about the civilian with the digital camera on the seat next to him. Too bad about the photographs. Too bad about news commentators and the media mob, mad dogs each and every one, may they rot in hell.
Also too bad about the Dutch ambassador being on the Van Wyck driving toward JFK while Kahlid Hassan was headed for the Newark Airport via the Lincoln Tunnel.
An intelligence breakdown, misinformation, an honest error. Sorry you blew away the wrong man, Charlie. Honest to God, you have my deepest sympathies. But you have to understand, I’m sure you understand, that you can’t blame me, it was just one of those things, not my fault, hell, shit happens.
What about my presidential immunity?
Problem. A significant problem. It’s election season. The press is in an uproar. Our asshole allies are bitching about how light your sentence was. Half the Senate is screaming “cover-up!” The president can’t help, Charlie. If he tries, the voters will think he was involved. We can’t let that happen, you know we can’t. Our hands are tied. You understand, don’t you?
Nope.
Well, both of them knew it would end badly. One of them would be down and bleeding, and the other one no longer vengeful or even especially angry — just anxious to get it over, and be done with it.
Such was Sam’s impatient frame of mind when Schmidt asked for Charlie’s last words, and Charlie, predictably, replied with an insult, “Try to show a little class, you loser.”
Schmidt chopped his hand down, hissing “Do it!” to the man with the drill.
“Hang on, I’ve some last words for Sammy boy.” His voice was weak. Nonetheless every syllable was all too clear. “Hey, birdbrain, according to Schmidt, one of his pet psychopaths destroyed my data vault. One of my data vaults. One of ten. Sam, it is with the greatest pleasure I convey to you the fact that there are nine more left.”
Sonofabitch!
Charlie knew where he was. Sort of.
He’d been there before. Sort of.
Principal evidence: pleasant pink clouds wafting through his mind.
Further evidence: the sounds — hushed voices mostly, hushed in a way that they were nowhere else; in the background, the electrical chatter of gizmos measuring heart beat, brain activity, blood pressure, and breath. Then you had the smells. You never forgot the smells: the odor of a place scrubbed beyond ordinary cleanliness, scrubbed until only a faint chemical scent pervaded disinfected sheets, sterilized vinyl mattress pads, and the sanitized blue-green uniforms hovering at the foot of your bed.
Somebody had stuck an IV needle in his arm.
Somebody had doped him to the gills.
Jesus, I hate hospitals.
He managed to open his eyes. A guy in the inevitable white jacket was whispering to a short, plump nurse. Charlie murmured, “I know you,” although moving his numbed lips wasn’t easy.
The white jacket guy turned. Stethoscope in his pocket. Naturally. “Welcome back to the waking world, Mr. McKenzie.”
I’ve heard that line a dozen times. They must teach ’em it in medical school. He recognized that face, grasped dimly for its identity. He was…who?… a doctor, but what the hell was he called. “You’re the one with two first names, right? My son’s friend?”
“David Howard.” Sure. How’d I forget? Medium build, old acne scars, mid-forties, one of those people whose age is tough to guess. It’s the smile that does it. You can’t read a guy with a good smile. “Nurse, make a note. The patient seems cognitively alert.”
“Wrong word.” Charlie’s w’s were coming out as B’s — a little problem with his tongue. “Should be ’cognizably.’”
“The word should be ‘irascibly,’ but I can’t put that in a medical file.” Scott interned under him a decade ago. Big Kahuna on the Rez. Married a Navajo woman. Fine physician by all accounts. Also…also what? I’m forgetting something, something important. God, I hate that. “Mr. McKenzie, you’ll be pleased to know that none of your bones are broken — pretty amazing given the shellacking you took. No critical internal damage either, at least none we’ve been able to find, although some of your organs are badly bruised. Of course we’ll want to run more tests.”
Also a pilot. Goddamnit, he’s also a pilot! “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Trying to mend a cranky old coot who doesn’t seem to appreciate my services.”
He never stops smiling. That’s good in a doc. “You’re supposed to be in that crap airplane of yours. You’re supposed to be —”
“Nurse, would you give us some privacy? Yes, please close the door behind you. I’ll call when I need you.” He placed his hand around Charlie’s wrist, taking the pulse. “Calm down, Charlie. For crying out loud, your heart rate’s above a hundred and twenty, and I bet your blood pressure’s off the charts. For a man who’s just coming up from sedation —”
I’m fading. Back to dreamland. No! Damnit, no! I have to stay awake! “Where’s Irina? Why aren’t you flying her to safety?”
The doctor took three halting steps backward, pointing at his left leg. It was immobilized in a walking cast. “I figured I shouldn’t try to fly with a busted wing. But don’t worry about your lady friend. Your son’s flown my bird before.”
My son? Scott? Oh, Christ! Coldly and suddenly, Charlie was alert. “What did you say?”
“Scott flew your friend out of here. That was nine, maybe ten hours ago. They’re in California by now.”
Charlie remembered every curse word he knew. None of them would do any good. Goddamnit! I promised Mary, swore to her on my honor, that none of the kids, none of them, would ever get involved in one of my messes. And now Scott’s up to his ears in it. Dear Jesus, what have I done? “Tell me,” he whispered, “tell me everything that happened.”
The doctor shrugged. “Not much to tell. Scott and I were waiting for you at the airstrip. She — you said she was called Irina — showed up right on schedule. She said you were in hot water and to get some law down to Mitchell Canyon. We could hear gunfire in the distance. Scott figured you were holding the shooters off — or was he wrong about that? No? Okay, then I made the right decision. I told Scott I’d call the Navajo police while he got that gal to safety. So he took my plane, and they were off the ground before I limped to the hangar and found the phone. Half hour later the cops showed up. They went out to the canyon rim. They came back with you. By the way, once you’re up to it, they’ll have some questions to ask you.”
“Any word from Scott? Has he called?”
Howard shook his head. Charlie recognized it as a melancholy shake, the gesture of a worried man. “Nope. Before he left he told me he wouldn’t risk using the phone. I didn’t ask why. Long time ago he said…well…he said his father was one of those folks nobody should ask questions about because…” His voice faded into a sigh. “Hey, you know, I’m a doctor. So I know better than to smoke. But I sure could use a cigarette right now.”
“Indulge yourself.”
“The nurses would have a shit fit. I can wait.”
“I can’t.” Charlie shifted his weight, trying to roll his legs off the edge of the bed. Oh, hell! I can’t feel my feet! They’ve shot me full of enough dope to knock out an elephant.
David gave Charlie a slow look. “With all due respect, climbing out of that bed would be a monumentally damfool stunt.”
“With all due respect, doc, I’m getting out of here or I’ll die trying.”
“It�
�s a possibility.”
Betrayed by his own body, Charlie slumped back, weaker than before. “How long before the drugs wear off?”
“Six or seven hours. If I don’t order another needle stuck in your butt.”
“Only if you want your other leg broken.” He could feel slumber creeping toward him, soft narcotic peace, an irresistible urge to shut his eyes and find comfort in oblivion. No way! Clawing at the mattress, he tried to pull himself upright.
The doctor hobbled to the bedside, his smile still strong, no artifice in it. “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. Look, you’ve taken one hell of a pummeling. Want to know how bad? Every Sunday morning I have a dozen patients in the trauma room. Saturday night they drive down to Gallup, get ripped, get ugly, get into fights. Big-time bar fights. The kind where a room full of mean drunks kick the shit out of you with steel-capped pointy-toed boots. And Charlie, you look like you’ve been in three of those fights in a row.”
He was holding on to wakefulness as hard as he could. He wasn’t sure he could hold on much longer. “You said I’m okay.”
“What I said is I haven’t found any life-threatening trauma. Yet. More tests, old man, and maybe I’ll find something different.”
“Write this down on your little clipboard. ‘Patient declined further treatment. Patient demanded immediate discharge.’ Then call that nurse, and get me a release form to sign. If I die, I don’t want you catching hell for it.”
“Charlie, there’s nothing you can do. Scott’s gone. It’s almost nighttime and I don’t —”
He was slipping. Damn, damn, damn. His mind was shutting down, and there was nothing he could do about it. “They’ll kill her. They’ll kill Scott too. Those guys. The ones who beat me up. I’ve got ’til noon tomorrow to stop them. No one else can. No one else will.”
David Howard laid the back of his hand across Charlie’s forehead. He started to speak, then paused to collect his thoughts. Charlie dug his finger-nails into his thighs, hoping pain would keep him awake. He could barely feel his own touch, even though he was gouging hard enough to draw blood.
The doctor leaned down. “I’m not giving you stimulants. Not in your condition. Well, maybe some coffee. That’s the most I’ll risk. And I will listen to what you have to say. If Scotty’s in trouble, I’ll let you out of the hospital. I guess I don’t have much choice. But first, I need to make sure you’re…you’re…Charlie? Charlie? Can you hear me?”
I do.
By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.
Mary, I gotta say, waking up next to you is the sweetest thing that ever happened to me.
C’mere. I’ll show you something sweeter.
Charlie, do you know, having a grandson makes me feel mighty fine.
Pleased to be of service.
Next time you should have a daughter. Daughters are pretty darned good, too.
Mary and I will see what can be arranged.
Uh, different subject, Charlie. Well, the same subject, really. Olivia and I…well, we’ve been talking things over. We want to set up a trust. For our grandson, I mean.
Don’t. Too much money —
Yup, I know. God knows, I know. Being rich as Croesus isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Money makes everything too easy. Unless you’re careful, you lose life’s zing.
That’s one problem I’ve never had. Easy, I mean.
Bet you’ve never had a problem with the zing, either.
Not since Mary came along.
Dad would never take a vacation in Africa. Every animal under the sun makes him sneeze.
To be denied the company of cats. God, Mary, is there a worse fate?
Hey, what about being denied me!
Your husband just put his foot in his mouth. I offer you a kiss by way of apology.
Take your foot out first.
Wiseass.
Mmmmm…
And you are very welcome. You know, Mary, my whole life I’ve wanted to do this: sit in a canvas chair, watch the sun set over the Serengeti, sip a cold drink, kiss my best girl, and…hey, where are you going?
There’s something I’ve always wanted to do in the Serengeti, too. And I think we ought to do it in our tent.
Two grandsons and a granddaughter. Don’t know why I feel so proud. You and Mary did all the work.
Mary, I’d say. I just happened to be in the neighborhood.
The thing is, Charlie — and I hate to bring this up again — but life isn’t getting any cheaper. You’ve got three kids now, and a government salary doesn’t go very far. I want you to think about coming into my company. It would be a good fit, and the pay is a whole lot better.
Paychecks aren’t the only thing in life.
I’m thinking about your children. About my grandchildren.
Oddly enough, so am I.
What is it, Charlie?
A check from your father. A damned big check. In point of fact, a whopper.
I told him not to do that. Just send it back.
You sure?
Unless you think it can buy more happiness than we have.
Never happen.
Give it to me, Charlie. I’ll write him a note. It will be better coming from me than from you.
It’s a graduation present, Charlie.
We’ve had this discussion before.
I’m putting my grandson through medical school. And you’re going to live with it because you don’t have a choice.
Like hell.
Oh, Charlie, give up. Who do you think I’m doing this for? You? Scott? Nope, I’m doing it for myself. Seeing Scott through the best school in America is a present I’m giving myself. Indulge me. I’m getting on in life. Don’t deny an old man with only a few years left to him the pleasures that remain.
You are an astonishingly creative liar.
It takes one to know one.
Tell you what, let’s leave it up to Mary.
Nice try, but I already cleared it with my daughter.
I’ve lost this one, haven’t I?
Yup. Try to be gracious about it.
How do I look bald, Charlie?
As beautiful as ever. More beautiful.
They say it will grow back. Once the chemotherapy is over, my hair will come back.
I don’t give a good goddamn about your hair. Just get better, okay?
Mr. McKenzie, I regret telling you this, but your petition for compassionate parole has been denied.
My wife is dying.
Sir, I wrote the strongest recommendation I could. The parole board endorsed it. Seven votes for, none against. Washington overruled us. That’s unprecedented. In all my years in the penal system, I’ve never seen anything like it. If there is something else I can do…well, Mr. McKenzie, you would have my whole hearted support.
She doesn’t have long left. There’ll be a funeral soon. See if they’ll let me attend. Even if I have to go in handcuffs, I want to be there.
Hi, sweetheart. I brought you some flowers. Big damned bouquet. It’s got all sorts of stuff in it. Roses, carnations, mignonettes, mums, and a whole bunch more. Wish you could see it. You loved…love flowers. Next to the kids and the cats, and maybe me, flowers were closest to your heart. Are closest to your heart. Here, let me put them next to the stone. Maybe you can smell them. I hope so. You’ll get a fresh bouquet every week. I’ve set that up with the people who run this joint. Don’t worry about the cost. Your dad is helping with the bills. And I’ll be by too — pretty much every day, I suppose. I don’t have anywhere else to go. Besides, there’s no place I’d rather be, no place I ever wanted to be, than with you. We can talk. We’ve still got a lot to talk about. All the stuff we never got around to saying, and especially the stuff I could never bring myself to say. Oh, damnit, Mary, I love you so much, and you always deserved a better guy than me.
REM, doctor. He’s dreaming now. The sedative is wearing off.
Give him until morning before waking him up. He’s not young a
nymore, and he’s got a lot of healing to do.
Live oak, old olive, and liquidambar shaded suburban Livermore’s streets from the thirsty sun of a California afternoon. Irina drove cautiously beneath blue shadows.
Had she not known the address, one of dozens memorized for emergency use, she wouldn’t have given the house a second glance.
Think Russian, she ordered herself. I must begin to think in Russian. I am going home, and should no longer think in English.
Within minutes she’d be safe in an ordinary-looking house on an ordinary - looking street, the first stop on the underground railway that would carry her, triumphant, to victory.
The house was just ahead, to the right. She slowed, studying it.
Think Russian.
Kvartira-lovushka — middle-class simplicity in wood and stone: blue-grey with white trim, a picture window and half-drawn curtains, a small front yard surrounded by a low hedge, a chocolate-colored door with no windowpanes. George and Sue might live there, or Alice and Mike. Their last names would be Jones or Ford or Smith, because only single-syllable Americans would live in a dwelling such as this.
So the house appeared. Appearances are deceiving.
Kvartira-lovushka. Translation: mousetrap.
The lady of the house would speak English more naturally than Irina. The week before, or the month before, or whenever the mouse met her, she would have sounded like the girl next door, although she’d look much better than that.
Inside, the mouse would find comfortingly familiar furniture. From Sears, perhaps, or Levitz. Nothing flashy, nothing out of the ordinary. Mice felt safe in such surroundings. That was the point.
Well, yes, the mouse might be a little nervous about the husband. However, Sue or Alice told him there was nothing to worry about. During those long phone calls, or the exchange of e-mail messages that began so innocuously, but later became less so, she complained of her spouse’s busy travel schedule, later turning complaints into hints, and, after all, it would be so easy to visit her on a quiet, suburban afternoon.
Komprometiruyushchikh materialakh.
A video camera behind the bedroom mirror, and another in the lighting fixture above. A microphone concealed beneath the nightstand. Tape decks in the attic. Two agents sweating at the monitors, exchanging the usual jests as the mouse took the bait.
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