by Nina Mason
Whatever Connolly intended to tell him, he was almost certain was on that recording. But, even so, it wouldn’t be enough. A tape could too easily be made to disappear by any friend of Babylon within the department. And there were some, weren’t there? If not the attorney general himself. That was why he needed the journalists. The power of the press—such as it was anymore. A story, especially one in The New York News, would still bring public and political pressure to bear, forcing his higher ups to act.
Or so he hoped.
And maybe, just maybe, it would win for Thea Hamilton that Pulitzer Prize she’d long deserved. Unfortunately, though, for now at least, he was trapped in a Catch 22: he couldn’t help them until they broke the story and, from the sound of Buchanan’s message, without his help, there would be no story.
With an empty feeling, he returned to his chair and positioned his fingers on the keyboard. He had to think hard about what he would post, considering that whoever was after Buchanan was almost certainly monitoring his news site. Did Zahhak and Osbourne know about Aslan and the recording? If so, the old man was in mortal danger (hadn’t he tried to warn him?). And so were Buchanan and Thea, now that they had it. The thought of what might befall the journalists tied his stomach in knots. Taking a breath, he settled at last on what to write: Break the story and untie my hands. He only hoped they would live long enough to heed his advice.
* * * *
Buchanan, having read Lapdog’s missive, was standing at the counter, computer put away, briefcase in hand, scoring a couple of hot beverages while asking the barista if there was a motel in the vicinity that was both cheap and clean.
“There’s nothing like that around here,” the girl told him with a wavering smile. “But there’s something out toward the airport—a motor lodge with a cocktail lounge.”
That was all he needed to hear. As knackered as he was, he could do with a couple of stiff belts to take the edge off. He still felt incredibly tense—about what was on that tape, about Lapdog’s inability to help, and about what might lay ahead for him and Thea.
Good and bad.
Returning to the car, he handed Thea her drink and pulled out onto a dark stretch of road. He planned to drive out to the airport, abandon the car in long-term parking, and take a taxi back to the motel.
Turning to her, he said, “We need to file the story. Without it, he says he can’t help.”
She sat there a minute, as if gathering wool, before she asked, “Who’s going to break it? You or me? The Voice would be quicker, of course, but The News has more clout.”
“If we go with The News, could we share a byline?”
“It would be unorthodox, given that you’re not on the staff,” she told him. “But I’m willing to ask.”
“Good. Then The News it is. Let’s go over what we’ve got. And what we still need.”
“We’ve got the tape,” she said. “But in fairness, we should call Zahhak and probably try to find out the names of his investors. And call them, too.”
He gave her a slicing look. “Won’t that tip them off?”
“Yes, but—it’s standard procedure. And Glenda won’t be satisfied if I don’t at least try to get a reaction.”
“They’ll only deny it,” he said, playing devil’s advocate. He knew damn well what protocol demanded, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
“Maybe so,” she acknowledged. “But that hardly justifies negligence. How would it look if I wrote that I didn’t bother calling anyone at Babylon because I knew they’d only deny it anyway?”
She had a point, he conceded, compressing his lips.
“So, when do we make the call?”
The time difference, he knew, was the same as Scotland, meaning it was four o’clock in the morning right now in Riyadh.
“Sometime after midnight,” he suggested.
“And what do we do in the meantime?”
“Try playing the interview again,” he said. “Let’s see if there’s more.”
She set her drink in the center cup holder before switching on the player. There was a lot of hissing before Connolly said, “That’s why, when this shark attacked out of the blue, I offered to step in as Osbourne’s White Knight—to gum up the works.”
“Someone is mounting a hostile takeover against Golden Age?”
Aslan sounded as shocked by the news as Buchanan felt.
“Yes,” Connolly confirmed. “And by all accounts, he plans to break it apart, which will put an end to their scheme—for the time being, at least. And that’s why I plan to pull a Lady MacBeth and side with the Black Knight in the end.”
“Oh my God,” Thea cried, startling Buchanan so much he almost dropped his coffee.
“What?”
“There was a rumor going around the newsroom,” she began to explain rather breathlessly. “Just before I left. That Titan was going to step in as Golden’s White Knight. Do you think they got wind of Connolly’s plan to change sides? And, knowing Quinn Davidson, he planned to do the same. Do you think that’s why they killed them?”
Buchanan gave her a hard look. “You knew about the takeover attempt?”
“Yes, but, I didn’t see how it might be relevant.”
“What about Davidson’s successor? If he goes forward with the deal, he’ll be playing into their hands.”
“I need to warn him,” she said, flushing as she pulled out her iPhone.
“You have access to the CEO?”
“No, but Glenda does.”
* * * *
Zeus, having traded the tuxedo coat for a black-velvet smoking jacket, was lounging in his private boudoir at Tartarus, re-reading his copy of Justine, an erotic novel about the uselessness of virtue by the Marquis de Sade, another of his heroes. The book, subtitled Good Conduct Well Chastised, told the story of a damsel in distress who, though determined to remain pure, repeatedly found herself debauched by everyone she turned to for help.
As he read, Depeche Mode’s Master and Servant pulsed out of the surround-sound speakers—the first track on a special mix of mood music inspired by the Torture Playlist used by the U.S. military. Like theirs, his was designed to induce sleep deprivation and disorientation, and drown out the screaming. As he recalled from time spent at Abu Ghraib, the tracks included Fuck Your God by Decide, Die MF Die by Dope, White America by Eminem, and, of all things, the obnoxious jingle from the Meow Mix commercials as well as the banal theme song from the children’s show Barney.
I love you,
You love me,
We're a happy family,
with a great big hug,
and a kiss from me to you,
Won't you say you love me too?
When a moan rose above the beat, he cranked up the volume. The professor was still alive, but wouldn’t be for much longer. An hour ago, he’d been moved to a cell equipped with a gas valve. Now that the journalists had located the recording of the old man’s interview with Malcolm Connolly, there was no reason to keep him alive. Unfortunately, he now had a new problem: what to do about those goddamned reporters?
He tried to warn Zahhak that Connolly, being an “empath,” might well prove a security risk. And now look. Empaths were the so-called “normal” people. They understood the difference between right and wrong, generally lived by a moral code, and experienced emotions like compassion and empathy. They might do bad things now and again—lie, cheat, steal, or even murder—but, afterwards, they typically experienced some feelings of guilt or remorse.
Unlike him, Osbourne, and the rest of the cartel.
When his cell phone—a 4-G ThunderBolt—began to ring, he set down the book and lowered the music. He answered it gruffly.
“We have lost the scent,” Mr. Kidd informed him immediately.
“Then we must find a way to smoke them out,” Zeus replied.
“How are we supposed to do that?”
“It’s very simple, Mr. Kidd,” he said, rolling his eyes. “If you want smoke, you must first light a fire.
”
* * * *
Thea, unable to reach Glenda at either the home or office, had left a message, but her editor had yet to return the call. It was now after nine and they were pulling up outside the motor lodge in a taxi, having dumped the Honda at the airport. Buchanan paid the driver in cash and got out. He got a bad feeling as soon as he entered the lobby—partly because it reeked of stale cigarettes, piss, and jizz, and partly because the front desk was behind a glass barricade. Bulletproof, he presumed. There were a handful of women hanging around. Hookers, he guessed, from the look of them.
He threw a wary look at Thea, who appeared to be taking it in stride. With some trepidation, he approached the clerk, a skinny Black woman with a gold cap on one of her front teeth.
“I’d like a smoking room,” he told her, “preferably with two beds.”
Behind him, he heard Thea clear her throat, but he couldn’t say to what she was reacting: that he’d asked for one room or that he’d requested two beds. He didn’t feel like explaining, but the second bed was insurance—in case things didn’t happen for one reason or another. As much as he wanted her, he was dead tired. And he had no condoms and no blue pills. The condom problem could probably be remedied. He’d be willing to wager there would be a vending machine offering a colorful range of prophylactics in the lobby men’s room. But what if he couldn’t get it up or keep it up, as often happened? Helene always got very pissy about it. Would Thea, too? If she kicked him out of bed over it, he did not want to end up on the floor. The sheets in this place were probably bad enough. The carpets, he would rather not think about.
“All we got left is a king,” the clerk said with a shrug. “Take it or leave it.”
“That’ll do,” he said, seeing no other choice.
Besides, he was ready, wasn’t he?
Against his better judgment, he paid with a credit card. He was running low on cash and there hadn’t been time to stop at an ATM. (Or, for that matter, time to stop to buy new underwear. Ergo, he’d been “going commando” for the past couple of days.) But then, come to think of it, if the guys who were after them had the resources to trace his credit card, they’d also have the resources to track his withdrawals, wouldn’t they? So what did it matter?
He took the key, spun around, and made a beeline for the lounge, which was dimly lit and thick with smoke. One glance told him it was the kind of place Charles Bukowski might have frequented. The bar ran the length of one wall. Behind it was a burly bartender—a Colm Meany type with small eyes, a square jaw, and kinky hair. There was a flat-screen mounted on the wall behind, which Meany was watching as he dried a glass, his back to the room. Con News was on. Buchanan shook his head. Knowing what he knew, the network’s name was more apt than ever.
On one of the stools, hunched over a drink, was the only other patron in the place. The wiry man’s posture told Buchanan it wasn’t his first beverage of the evening. He turned as they came in. Something about the look in the man’s eyes made him think of his da. He walked up beside him, fighting the urge to punch him in the nose, and set his elbows on the bar. He waited, but the bartender didn’t turn. Glancing over his shoulder at Thea, he asked what she wanted.
“Whatever you’re having, I guess,” she replied with a shrug.
“I’m having Glenfiddich,” he told her. “Assuming they’ve got it.” He scanned the shelves behind the bar for the familiar black and gold label. Finding it, he added, “That all right with you?”
As she nodded, his gaze scanned the room like a minesweeper. There was a jukebox on the back wall near a small parquet dance floor. If he got juiced enough, he just might muster the nerve. It had been years, but he liked to dance, even used to be pretty good at it, before the bum leg.
Moving on, he spotted a row of tall tables under the covered windows. Nodding toward them, he suggested she go grab one while he got the drinks. He watched her walk away. Her shapely bum was ringing like a bell in that tight skirt of hers. He imagined bending her over the bar, pushing aside her panties, and fucking her right in front of these two wankers. The thought was making his cock swell. Flushing, he turned back to the bartender, now waiting.
“What’ll it be?”
“Two Glenfiddichs. Neat.”
While Meany poured, he turned to the drunk, who was checking out Thea. He felt a pang of possessiveness, which surprised him. Turning, he looked at her himself. When their eyes met, the fire in his groin flared hotter. Despite the wear and tear of the past few days, she still looked remarkably alluring. The image of her laying on the bed in her black underthings slipped into his mind.
What are you waiting for, tiger?
The engorgement in his trousers—not to mention, the entrapment—was becoming uncomfortable. It hit him like a pie in the face: he fancied her. And not just for a fuck. He swallowed hard. Bloody hell. Was he actually falling in love? He hadn’t believed it possible. Pulse quickening, he paid for the drinks and limped over to her, grateful for the dim lighting. Ducking behind the table to hide his condition, he set down the glasses with a clunk and took a breath.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
He felt the scorch of a blush when their gazes met.
“About the story?”
“No,” he replied, sitting awkwardly across from her. “About us.”
Stare burning into his soul, she smiled.
“Oh?” She sipped her drink and licked her lips. “Well then. Do tell.”
He shifted in his seat, adjusting. His cock hadn’t shown this much interest in ages. Maybe he wouldn’t end up on the floor after all.
“I spoke with Helene,” he began. “While you were in the vault. At the bank.”
She looked confused. Had he failed to mention the name? He couldn’t recall.
“The woman I’m, erm,” he began, feeling as nervous as a schoolboy, “well, you know. My landlady.”
“Ah,” she said, still holding his gaze. “And?”
“I told her about, well, us.”
She looked pleased, but didn’t comment. He felt a sudden, overwhelming rush of desire. Face heating, he leaned in to kiss her. Their lips met softly, but with an undertone of urgency.
“Shall we go up?” he asked when it was over.
“In a minute,” she replied. “First, I need to tinkle.”
He watched her, lusting hard, until she disappeared through the door of the loo. While he waited, he lit a cigarette and nursed his drink. A few minutes later, she reappeared, meeting his gaze across the room with an alluring smile. His groin hummed with anticipation. He got up, snuffed out his cigarette, and glanced toward the bar, balking when he saw that both men were gaping at him unflinchingly. Puzzled, he looked about for an explanation, choking when he caught what was on the telly. His reaction must have told Thea, who was now less than a yard away, something was wrong, because she spun around to have a look for herself.
“Oh dear God,” she gasped. “It’s us.”
All the desire he felt fizzled as he moved closer to the set, straining to hear what the anchorwoman was saying: “Investigators are asking for your help tonight in locating the two people you see on your screen. They are wanted for questioning in the disappearance two days ago of Riley Witherspoon, a longtime employee of the National Parks Service. According to eyewitnesses, the suspects were seen talking to Mr. Witherspoon outside his office building shortly before he disappeared. Investigators have reason to believe he may have been abducted. The suspects have been identified as Alexander Buchanan and Dorothea Hamilton, last seen driving a stolen Honda Accord. A light blue two-door with Pennsylvania plates.” She read off the number. “We are asking that anyone who sees the suspects call our crime buster hotline at the number on your screen. Do not attempt to approach or apprehend these individuals, as they are considered armed and extremely dangerous….”
“Fuck me,” said Buchanan, paling as he turned to her.
She looked as peaky as he felt. “What should we do?”
&nb
sp; The drunk was gawking at them. The barkeep already had the phone in his hand and was punching in numbers. Not knowing what else to do, Buchanan grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward the door.
They made it outside just as a car was pulling up. There were two men inside. Frat boys, from the look of them, looking for some action. A memory surfaced. He and Kenny as teens back in Edinburgh, daring each other to go into the local brothel, where they’d both scored their White Pins by and by—in a threesome with an Asian whore called Lily.
The passenger got out and pushed past them while the driver remained behind the wheel with the engine running. Letting Thea go, he drew his Glock, but kept it out of sight as he approached. Stepping up to the driver’s window, he smiled congenially as he opened the door.
“Get out, arsehole,” Buchanan barked, sticking the gun in the young man’s face. “And so help me God, if you try to be a hero, I’ll blow your fucking brains all over the pavement.”
Chapter 20
“What now?” Thea asked as they sped away from the motel, keeping a watchful eye out the back window. As luck would have it, he’d managed to heist a generic vehicle—a late-model Toyota Camry in a muted shade of gold.
“Try not to get caught, I suppose.”
“That’s it? That’s your big getaway plan?”
He shot her a slicing glance. “If you’ve got a better one, feel free to share it.”
“Maybe we should pull off someplace we won’t be seen and try to get some sleep,” she suggested. “You look tired.”
“If you see someplace that fits the bill, let me know,” he said.
With rising desperation, she looked out at the road, which was dark and winding. Trees surrounded them like a tribunal of demons. The highway was mostly deserted. One or two cars passed going the other way, blinding her with their headlights. There was a spooky, sinister feeling to it all.
