Inside Man

by Jeff Abbott

  Maybe, I thought. We’d see how tomorrow unfolded. But tonight, I had work to do, work Cori couldn’t know about, so I just smiled and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

  28

  MY BODY ACHED, but I couldn’t sleep. My long nap in the afternoon after the fight meant I was awake, watching the moon, thinking through the twists and turns of the day.

  Ricky had followed me back to the guest hallway after I said good night to Cori.

  “I can find my own way back to my room,” I said.

  “You think you’re cute,” Ricky said. “You’re not.”

  “You’re right. I’m not. Of course, getting into actual fights will reduce one’s attractiveness.”

  He didn’t smile. He always looked angry. “Cordelia is a bit flighty. She’ll throw a guy like you over. And what will happen to you then, huh? Knowing all you know. It’s never good to be a security risk.”

  “Wonderful then that the Varelas have you on their side,” I said.

  “Sam. Look, I’m sorry. You and I, we don’t have to be snapping at each other. We can get along.” He offered his hand and reluctantly I shook it. “I’ve been around this family a long, long time. They’ve been very good to me. But Galo knows what loyalty is. Cori, I’m not sure. She has a weird idea about what’s right and wrong.”

  “What’s right, like not smuggling money?” I said.

  “Your Lada guy in Prague, how much he move a year?”

  “A few million in counterfeit cigarettes and software, mostly.”

  “That’s nothing. And I don’t mean in terms of cash. What the Varelas do is far more. Far more important.”

  “Important.”

  “What they do affects the whole world,” he said in a whisper.

  I started to make a joke and then I didn’t. Ricky’s face was grim. “Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

  “Because it’s important work. Good work that saves lives. That helps keep us all safe. And because Cordelia could screw it up. There might be a lot of money in it for you to keep her busy. Keep her mind off the family business. Occupy her time even after the current crisis chills down.”

  “Is this a message you’re delivering on someone’s behalf? Maybe Galo’s?”

  “Galo wants his sister happy. Cori needs things to care about. That could be you. You could keep her occupied.”

  “Message received,” I said. “If Cori wants me she’ll have me. If not…”

  Ricky flexed a smile. There was an emptiness in his gaze that unsettled me. His breathing was sharp and shallow behind the smile. In his mind, if Cori didn’t want me…then I knew too much. Buy me off yet worry about me talking again, or kill me.

  “Thanks for the escort, Ricky. I get so scared wandering around this big old house by myself.”

  “Go rest up from your fight, big man,” he said. “Who knows what tomorrow will bring?”

  I stepped inside the room and he shut the door.

  There is no walking away knowing what I knew now. Message received.

  So it was time I made myself super-useful to the Varela family. I checked where I’d hidden the other half of Steve’s casino chip, dangling down the bathtub’s drain, tied with a piece of thread to the plug. It was still there.

  I didn’t have a weapon, but I’d packed—in case there was a bit of trouble—a set of Israeli lock picks, hidden in a false compartment in my shaving kit. I removed them and assembled them and slid them under the mattress on my bed. I laid out fresh clothes on the chair: black slacks and a dark mock turtleneck, long-sleeved. I’d packed these decidedly nontropical clothes in case of (a) nightclubbing or (b) stealth. Okay, mostly stealth.

  In my boxers, with my shoulder and back still heavily bandaged, I eased between the sheets. To wait for the house to sleep.

  The family had had a long day, and finally the house felt settled in its uneasy quiet. After a moment I went to the door and opened it. The hallway was empty. No more guards. I went back and I dressed in the black clothes and slipped the lock picks into my pocket.

  29

  I KNELT BEFORE the door to Kent’s office and picked the lock.

  I opened the office door. The lights were out and I shut the door behind me and relocked it. I didn’t turn on the light. I remembered the arrangement of the room from sitting on the couch while they’d called Lada. The office had been set up for a blind man, so the layout was simple, nothing between desk and door to impede Kent. Five steps and I could feel the edge of the desk. Ran my fingers along the Braille keyboard, traced the cord to the laptop. I suspected he probably used his computer more with voice commands and used the keyboard only when necessary.

  I opened the laptop. It wasn’t passworded; he’d just set it to sleep and it awoke with a gleam of light. He kept a lot of programs open, which made sense if he was using voice commands—simpler to know that the program was already up and running rather than waiting and hoping it started up properly. I would have to be careful not to change any settings or close any programs.

  I checked first his search history on his browser. There were searches for “Sam Chevalier” and for “Lavrenti Nesterov.” Then in the gleam of the light from the screen I saw, sitting next to the laptop, was a driver’s license from Florida. Lavrenti Nesterov was the kidnapper. They hadn’t thrown his ID out with the body. An address in Miami. Not a Colombian, like the guys who’d killed Steve. Maybe that meant something, maybe not. The only interesting search result showed he’d been a decorated police officer who had resigned from the force. There had been accusations of improper behavior, kept vague, but no charges filed. But he’d stopped being a cop.

  Nesterov. Russian. Zhanna was Russian. But there were many Russian expatriates in Miami. Coincidence or not?

  Kent had done a property search on the Chevalier name in Miami. He’d found the fake social media pages August had set up for Sam Chevalier—who didn’t have many friends and whose last status update was nine months ago.

  But then I saw there was a short call history in another text window on the screen—the call history for the phone I was using as Sam Chevalier.

  The Varelas had friends in important places, like my prepaid phone carrier.

  They had my phone, too. I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket. A small act of defiance.

  On Kent’s e-mail account I found he’d sent notes to people in Moscow, Budapest, and Prague, asking if they knew of a Sam Chevalier—all time-stamped earlier this afternoon. FastFlex, thanks to having a Russian founder and first having served eastern European routes, had lots of contacts, but I didn’t recognize any names. No e-mails about me to anyone in Miami—yet. If they were thinking of getting rid of me, they wouldn’t want local people remembering they’d asked about me. Or maybe they were accepting my story, finally, bolstered by Cori.

  But no further queries about Lavrenti Nesterov. It suggested to me again that they knew who’d sent him, that he was simply a hireling. And that the Varelas knew that.

  I looked at Kent’s incoming e-mails. The most recent was from an account simply called “Nanny.” The e-mail read: I will ask re your request on Chevalier. Below was Kent’s original e-mail: Ask the guests about the name Sam Chevalier. Extras for those with provable information. Might need a new spacesuit.

  The guests? Extras? Spacesuit? That had to be a code.

  I searched the computer for “Steve Robles.” No matches. But that proved nothing.

  I found spreadsheet files, but every one of them was passworded. A whole series of them were titled “Transport Schedules.” I couldn’t see into how money was moved here, or how any illicit profits being run under the legitimate businesses were tracked. One was a list of charities, tied to Cori’s work.

  Then I saw it, on the corner of the desk. A smartphone. I turned it on. The app that was up was a Cyrillic phonetic keyboard. Lavrenti Nesterov’s phone. I went to his text messages, all written in Russian. There were messages exchanged with only one number, with a Miami area code, from yester
day and then again earlier in the day:

  Lavrenti: Arrived in SJ. Following him. He’s at his house in the hills.

  Miami number: Our demands have to be made clear.

  Lavrenti: They will comply to get him back.

  Miami number: What will you do with him?

  Lavrenti: I have a place for him where I can question him.

  Miami number: Good luck.

  Then a gap in time. Then Lavrenti texted, after the attack:

  Have him but there is a problem. I need you to come to SJ.

  But that was a lie. Lavrenti was dead by then. This was Kent’s trap he’d mentioned.

  Miami number: Where? When? There’s nothing on the news.

  Lavrenti: Because they want no police. Meet me tomorrow at 12 noon at Castillo San Cristobal, plaza on the street near the entrance.

  So the Varelas were setting a trap.

  They couldn’t question Lavrenti, but they could question his accomplice. I knew Castillo de San Cristóbal was the biggest of the ancient forts that abutted the coast, in Old San Juan, designed to protect the island from invaders.

  I had a few choices. I could text, in Russian, that it was a trap, not to come, then delete the whole text conversation so the Varelas wouldn’t know what happened. I could do nothing. I could capture the accomplice myself, before the Varelas did, and find out who was behind the attack. And maybe find out who was behind Steve’s murder.

  Or maybe I’d work my own trap. I have a place for him where I can question him. The whole tone of the conversation suggested the accomplice wasn’t here to help in the kidnapping. Lavrenti probably drove his own car or boat.

  No sign of car keys along with Nesterov’s wallet. No receipt for a rental car in the wallet. So where was the getaway vehicle, to get Rey away from his family? It had to be close by.

  This had become so much bigger than Steve. The Varelas were doing something seriously dangerous, crimes beyond killing Steve. What we do affects the world, Ricky said by way of warning. I didn’t think he was exaggerating.

  That odd message haunted me. Nanny. Guests. I needed to know what that code was.

  I carefully repositioned the windows the way I’d seen them and closed the laptop. I put the Russian’s phone back where I found it. I kept mine in my pocket.

  I left the office unlocked and shut the door silently.

  And then I went back to my room, and out through the window.

  30

  I CREPT ALONG to the edge of the roof. The wind off the sea was loud, which meant no one might hear me but I might not hear anyone approaching. I made it to the edge of the roof and studied the courtyard below in a flickering gleam of moonlight. The compound itself wasn’t bathed in light—there were lights aimed out at the periphery, away from the house. I figured the Varelas didn’t want their own bedrooms flooded with glare so they couldn’t sleep. I lay there and watched the guards.

  Two of them circled the house, staying along the stone walls that faced the road and the side that bordered the cliff overlooking the beach. I watched them, timed their orbits in my head. The other two guards—well, one at least presumably would be asleep. That left Ricky. I could tell by their strides that neither guard on duty was Ricky. He was the leader and presumably the most dangerous one. So where was he? Inside the house? Maybe opening doors, finding my room empty.

  Maybe searching for the other half of the casino chip.

  I didn’t feel so clever all of a sudden. If he found my bed empty, then he’d raise an alarm, and I’d have to run.

  I decided it was worth the risk.

  I felt stiff from the bandages. I would have to be careful how I moved. If I opened my wounds and bled on the courtyard stones, it would be a telltale clue that I had been there.

  I had a three-minute window when the guards weren’t in sight of the wall where I would descend. Three minutes, to climb down stone, in the dark. The glow of the lights wouldn’t help that much with the nuance of where to place foot and finger.

  I watched the guards make their turns, the window of time opened, and I swung my legs out from the roof, found a place to settle my feet. And began to climb down.

  If I slipped, I was dead or crippled. I got a sure grip with my hands, one at a time, as I let go of the roof. Hunched like a spider, I put my feet lower on the wall, found the stray bits of stone that could give me enough purchase.

  I clambered down the wall. The constant wind from the ocean had worn the stone; some of the places my feet found were only stubs. I wore a pair of shoes that had a dressy top but a sole designed for gripping. Leonie had them custom made as a gift to me, presumably to help keep me alive in a dangerous situation.

  I heard the wind die, and then the soft tread of a guard. My three minutes were up. I was still twenty feet above the courtyard.

  I froze, trying to melt into the shadows. The clouds hugged the moon. I felt a tightness on my bandages. Barely enough space, and strength, to hold my balance. I risked turning slightly, to see the guard’s progress.

  He’d stopped to light a cigarette.

  I could see the ember glow, then vanish, hidden by his head. No doubt the guards were wired on tobacco or caffeine or the thought that they’d failed in their jobs earlier and could not fail again.

  My hands felt like they would cramp. Hold, hold.

  The guard started to walk off. I could trace him out of the corner of my eye from the glow of the lit cigarette. He kept going, and I slowly continued my scrabble down to the courtyard. I stepped onto a stone pane that fronted a window, then eased myself down to the ground.

  Where was the second guard? His orbit should have crossed with the smoker’s, but I hadn’t heard him. So either he was about to arrive, or I’d missed him.

  I crouched low against the stone. I heard the second guard speak for a moment to the first guard, asking a question.

  I was caught. One leaving, the other coming. I had to go now, before the guard came around the corner. Which he could do at any second.

  I was on the same level as the stone patio where I’d started my search for Rey, but about forty feet away from it, between the ocean and the road. I listened, heard the guards chatting, then bolted toward the protective stone wall and clambered up and atop it. If I was going to be spotted, it would be there, as I stood on the wall.

  I heard them chatting, then the rush of the wind.

  So I jumped from the wall to a low-hanging branch of a tree, whipped low by the constant sea wind.

  I don’t recommend this after you’ve been pummeled in a fight.

  I felt an ache in my side open up as I dangled, holding on to the branch. Not the stitches. The sore ribs. I kicked my legs up, caught them around the branch, and began to shimmy down. I reached the main trunk and eased myself to the ground.

  Still too much light around me. I hurried into the deeper darkness. Toward the sea. I stopped before I reached the beach. Because there could be a guard there, I realized—if Galo felt sure the kidnapper’s approach had been by water, then they might try again. I waited in the undergrowth, watching the silvered light on the sand.

  And then I saw him. Galo. He had broader shoulders, a bigger build, than any of the guards. He was patrolling the beach. Protecting his own. I moved back. Hard to sleep after you kill a guy. And it’s sad I know this.

  I remembered the antique maps in the kitchen, made by Galo’s grandfather. I could follow the coast up, toward the road that crept past the house. There were rocky cliffs, shallow inlets, areas where the land eased down to the sea. I didn’t think the kidnapper had brought a boat. Too many complications, too easily spotted from the air when the family raised the alarm.

  I tried to think about how I would have done this.

  He’d come alone.

  He had one person who was his confidant, who wasn’t here with him—maybe his version of Mila. I figured he’d kept it simple and brought a car. Boats, alone, were a hassle.

  I thought the kidnapper would want to get Rey into
a car unseen, and then get him onto the road. But Ricky and the guards hadn’t found one, so it was well hidden.

  I headed into the heavy growth. I used my phone’s flashlight application. It gave off a tiny glow but I shielded the brightness with my palms.

  Eventually, heading downhill, I found a path. It was overgrown, neglected. Then I found a fence. I climbed over and the path became smooth gravel, and led to a boat dock. Empty. Beyond, a house loomed in the dark. Not as large as the Varelas’, but a good size. All the lights out. The driveway stood empty.

  I frowned. I’d made it to a neighbor’s property. And it would be a risk to park there, if they were at home…although maybe they were part-time residents, like Rey. Surely the guards would have checked here, would know if the neighbors were around or not…but the guards were from Miami, like Ricky. Maybe they didn’t keep tabs on the neighbors. It was a fair distance from the Varela property. I circled the neighbor’s house. Dark.

  On a back patio I carefully let the light play along, keeping it away from the windows. I didn’t want to scare anyone into calling the police. Patio furniture, outdoor kitchen, bar, a pool…and then, a metal sign leaning up against a wall. A For Sale sign from a high-end global real estate agency, showings by appointment only. It had been tucked nearly out of sight.

  This house was for sale. I wonder if the guards knew that, in that quick search they’d done before being recalled back to the Varela house to help get rid of the body and stick close to Rey.

  I went around to the garage. There was a lock on the garage door; I knelt and studied it. The lock had been neatly cut and put back into place so that it looked, to the casual viewer, secure. I unhooked the lock. Slowly I raised the door and it creaked in the quiet of the night. I stopped. Waited. No response from the house. I slowly raised it again, enough to wriggle under the door.

  I played the light around the three-car garage. It was empty except for a GMC Yukon SUV, with darkened windows. I tried the driver’s door. It opened, unlocked. The keys, ready, dangled in the ignition. Ready for a fast getaway. I climbed inside. Nothing else in the front; in the back, the seats had been folded down. A blanket lay spread next to a large aluminum case. I opened it. An expensively stocked medical kit, not so different from the ones you might see at an agency safe house. A syringe preloaded with adrenaline. Smelling salts. Bandages. Adult diapers. Plastic cuffs. Thick tape, to bind the mouth and the hands. Another syringe, preloaded, labeled with a brand-name tranquilizer. It might have been the same dope that Nesterov had given Rey.