Late in the Day

by Mary Calmes

  “Precisely.”

  I scoffed. “So let me understand. The doors protect those ten people that I would give you the names of, but not me.”

  “Correct. Not you. You’re responsible for your own protection. That’s what the court is for.”

  “Explain.”

  “Only a handful of people know the identity of the vault. We protect the people on your list purely for your benefit and in case you slip up and disclose who you are. No one wants to see the vault pressured into giving up secrets.”

  “Right.”

  “We protect your people, and your handpicked team protects you.”

  “Five people on my team?”

  “Yes, and one of them, your knight, must be on your master list of those we protect. There has to be an overlap between the two teams.”

  “Why?”

  “So someone will be left standing to report back to us in case we lose you.”

  “I thought the bishop did that.”

  “They do, but if somehow, the bishop is killed as well, then the last person standing is the knight.”

  “The key code then goes from the bishop to the knight.”

  “In extreme circumstances, yes,” she agreed solemnly, her expression concerned. “But we’ve never had that happen in over a hundred years.”

  I already knew who I was going to tap to be my knight, the guy watching my back. I would put his name on the list, and it would be done. I really hoped he was still in Boston. It would be damn annoying if he was dead.

  I wanted Ceaton Mercer to be my knight. The last time I laid eyes on him, he was an Army sniper. Soon after that, he’d been discharged for not following orders, but those orders would have left me and my team unprotected in a war zone. Though I had been unsuccessful in saving his career, I would now be able to return the favor and get him out of the life of crime he currently found himself in. He’d fallen on hard times and went to work for Grigor Jankovic, head of the Serbian mob in Boston. I had no doubt that even though Ceaton was not doing what I would have wanted for him, he was still a good man with a conscience. If I needed him, I had no doubt I could present a compelling enough argument to get him. I could be quite persuasive when I put my mind to it.

  “Conrad?”

  “Sorry,” I said quickly as fjord shrimp lightly smoked in juniper, lumpfish roe, and oyster soup was set down in front of me.

  “Did you hear what I asked.”

  “No.”

  Her smile was kind. “I need your answer. Will you take the job?”

  “You think it’s that simple?”

  “It is.”

  I searched her face. “You actually want me to decide right this second?”

  “I do.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Why do you hesitate? You accept only the occasional contract these days, you’re not active with the company as a freelancer anymore, and from what I can tell, you’ve been in Detroit providing protection to a low-level gun runner. What’s stopping you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, perhaps the enormity of the task?”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “You’re ridiculously overqualified, and if the court you choose is anything like you, I’m excited to see what you can do in the job. What you could grow it into.”

  I scowled.

  “You already have people in mind, don’t you?”

  I wasn’t about to tell her I was already excited about the new opportunity open to me. I’d been floating along for so long, to have a solid purpose would be more than welcome. “It seems like a lot of work for one person,” I grumbled.

  “It’s not only one person,” she corrected. “It’s a whole network of people.”

  “You mentioned doors.”

  “I did. Let me explain.”

  I listened as she explained that the vault was the overseer of an international group of people called doors, like openings to be walked through, going deeper and deeper toward an inner sanctum until finally reaching the center: the vault. All these individuals reported to the vault—never knowing the real identity of their boss—collected objects, data, people, substances, any and all things the vault agreed to take in. They were intermediaries for transactions and nothing more.

  “They go by the name Global Research and Development. All those people would report to your bishop.”

  “And who are you?”

  “You mean ‘me’ as in those who would place you in the position of the vault?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re a cartel, an organization like any other, except we don’t do anything but facilitate the operation of the vault.”

  “So you all have no day-to-day interaction with the doors or the bishop or me and my protection team headed by the knight. You only work when there’s no vault.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So, then what, you all have day jobs?”

  She nodded, happily digging into the plate of pickled carrots, smoked pork fat, and melted vesterhavs cheese set in front of her.

  “This whole operation, then, Global Research and Development, that’s just a front for the vault.”

  I received no answer, just her eyes closed, head back—she was clearly lost in the complete and utter joy of gourmet food.

  “Sello?”

  I’d had no idea how there could be twenty courses that took almost four hours to eat, but I understood once I saw the portions. They were small but perfect, and she was over the moon with her meal and juice. My company had very little to do with her current happiness.

  “I’m so glad you’re here with me,” she said, her gorgeous dark liquid sepia eyes drifting open. “It would only be better were my husband here.”

  As compliments went, it was a good one. “Why is that?”

  “You have a very solid, quiet way about you that’s terribly comforting, your voice is a silky rumble that’s quite sexy and soothing at the same time, and you’re very nice to look at.”

  “Yes, well, you too,” I replied gruffly.

  She beamed at me. “Now, to your point, there is no day-to-day contact between us, those who put the vault in place, and you. Once you’re on the throne, as it were, we leave you alone. All of it, the mechanics of the job, are on you, your bishop, and your knight.”

  “I need an example of how things work.”

  “All right,” she agreed, her long fingers delicately lifting her wine glass filled with juice. “Give me a hypothetical.”

  I thought of my friend Duncan Stiel and what he’d asked me to do. “Okay, let’s say someone asks me to keep a gun.”

  I’d been in Chicago on a job, finishing up some reconnaissance for Javier Aranda. He’d wanted to make sure a friend of his was safe, so I shadowed the doctor who’d saved his mother. I’d debated killing the man on general principle, but just because I could, didn’t mean I should, so instead I reported in that he was safe and well. I was on my way back to Detroit when Duncan called.

  We met at Three Happiness, our favorite dim sum place down on Cermak, and sat there talking over beers until he carded his fingers through his thick dirty blond hair one too many times.

  “For God’s sake, what’s wrong?” I asked my childhood friend.

  We’d been friends since the fifth grade, when I went into WITSEC. Years later, the past hardly mattered, only the fact that we’d reconnected when I was done being a CIA operative and could step back into my life.

  As soon as I could see him, I did. I couldn’t tell him where I’d been for many years after we joined the Army together, and he’d never asked. I was certain he assumed the worst—I’d been a mercenary or something worse—but that was better than the alternative. I enjoyed being back in his life, even if we didn’t see each other as much as I’d like. The best part was that I finally could give him my number, and he was using it.

  Simple changes in my life like that were good.

  He still wasn’t answering me, so I leaned forward and wrapped my hand loosely around his wrist. “Duncan?�
��

  “I have a gun I need to get rid of, T.”

  He’d always known me as Terrence Moss, and I’d never corrected him. “That all?”

  His head snapped up. “I just—I’m never alone, and I can’t tell Aaron.” He choked. “He thinks I’m a good guy.”

  “You are a good guy.”

  “I’m getting rid of a gun for someone.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s the worst of it,” he said sadly. “I’m doing it to protect my ex.”

  I had to think. “Your ex was a college professor, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nate something?”

  “Quells, yeah, but his husband killed the guy who tried to kill Nate.”

  “And did what with the gun?”

  “Ditched in a sewer.”

  “And let me guess, someone else saw him.”

  “Yeah.”

  I nodded. “Where do you come in?”

  “The gun came across my desk with a lot of others being transferred to the Justice Department, and once I saw what case it was attached to—I made sure it didn’t leave.”

  “You know,” I said, grinning at him, “that’s really idiotic.”

  He groaned loudly.

  “Where’s the gun now?”

  “In my glove compartment.”

  I snorted.

  “What?”

  “You’ve been just driving around with it.”

  “I told you, I’m never alone.”

  “Why call me?”

  He took a breath. “I needed to tell someone I could trust.”

  And when I looked at his face, in his eyes, I knew the truth. He had not called me to fix this; he only wanted to share his secret before he exploded.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” I began. “When we’re done eating, we’re going to walk outside together, and you’re going to give me the gun.”

  “What?” He was surprised. I heard it in his voice, with the relief and shame.

  “Yes.”

  “Fuck no,” he yelled, getting up. “That is not what this was about. I didn’t call you to—”

  “I know,” I soothed. “Sit down.”

  He sat.

  “I have very few friends,” I explained flatly, taking hold of his shoulder. “Let me do this.”

  “My intention was not—”

  “Stop.” I shut him down. “Listen to me, just this once.”

  “I—”

  “I have something to tell you.”

  He took a breath. “G’head.”

  “I don’t want you to call me Terrence anymore.”

  He squinted, and I explained, and after he took a few long minutes to absorb the news, I saw the smile I was hoping for. “So you’re going to use the new name and give me the weapon.”

  And after a moment, with his gunmetal eyes on mine, he nodded silently. We didn’t talk anymore about it.

  Sello broke into my thoughts. “The vault would never take a gun,” she said. “Many guns, yes. Enough to use in a revolution, certainly. But not a single pistol or rifle or whatever.”

  “What if it was a weapon that proved someone’s guilt or innocence?”

  “The vault would be given a person if he or she were important enough, but not a gun that would incriminate them.”

  “So the vault takes in people and does what? Protects them? It’s like witness protection?”

  “No, it’s like being erased. People are remade through surgery, documentation, and other available resources. That person basically dies and there is no record of them.”

  “Like I did,” I said matter-of-fact. “After I left the Army and went to work for the company.”

  “Yes, but you still have your own face,” she pointed out. “Someone who knew you twenty years ago could still pass you on the street and know whatever name you went by the last time they saw you.”

  “You’re saying people given to the vault are unmade and then remade.”

  “Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “How does the vault police its contents?”

  “The doors, again. They keep the records of everything.”

  “And how is that hackproof?”

  “The best hackers in the world work for the vault, and we pay them what they’re worth. They understand their value, as do we.”

  It made sense. “Give me an example of how items in the vault are tracked.”

  She thought a moment. “A year ago, two men who had placed items with the vault needed to withdraw them so they could make an exchange.”

  “I hesitate to ask.”

  “One was a lost Van Gogh, the other was VX gas.”

  Jesus.

  “The man making the purchase wanted to decimate a small town in Yemen.”

  I remained stoic, not letting her see how much that scenario terrified me.

  “The vault made the exchange, so everyone could see and hear that the vault merely facilitated the transaction, and all was well.”

  “But what really happened?”

  “The vault killed the man who bought the gas, making it look like an accident, and then killed the man who sold the gas and made it look like it was from natural causes.”

  “It wasn’t suspicious, them dying so soon afterwards?”

  Sello shrugged. “Things happen all the time, especially in our business.”

  “True.”

  “It looked like the vault did what was asked without any repercussions. Only we know what really happened.”

  “Then the vault is, in fact, a watchdog.”

  “Yes, one now presently in possession of a lovely Van Gogh and several canisters of VX gas.”

  “What you’re telling me is that basically, the vault plays God.”

  “Yes.”

  I took a breath. “The hubris is incredible.”

  “It is and isn’t,” she apprised me. “What makes these choices any different than a general’s during wartime? What makes that any different from any man—or woman—who commands troops? Can that not be said of any leader throughout history?”

  There was that.

  “How is that decision any different from any other life and death one?”

  It wasn’t, she was right.

  “Eat your food,” she ordered, pointing at the morels, sunflower seeds, and truffles on the plate that had just been delivered to the table.

  “Are there seriously twenty courses?”

  She grinned as she nodded. “There were eight appetizers alone.”

  “With all the dishes coming and going from the table, this might not have been the best place in the world for us to have this talk.”

  “Perhaps not, but you have to live life to the fullest,” she informed me, a bit high-handed, “and really, no one is going to listen in on our conversation.”

  “No, I know, but—”

  “And for the record, these ethical quandaries that you’re grilling me about—oh dear Lord, that’s amazing.” She whimpered over the food. “Those instances of having to choose what’s right are few and far between.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because most people who contact the vault do so quietly, secretly, not wanting to alert another living soul as to their plans.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because it’s either for personal gain or they’re working against time and are scared to death of the consequences.”

  “You’re saying that in most instances, someone is entrusting the vault with something that will save their own life.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “We don’t have weapons of mass destruction. I’m not saying that we would never—that’s a ridiculous statement to even contemplate—but what we have is a lot of diaries, written correspondence, photographs, a server full of deleted correspondence, and gems. Our collection of precious stones rivals any museum’s in the world.”

  “Because money is more easily transacted in that form.”

  “Yes.”

  “
Is there a central place where items are housed?”

  “No. Things are kept in giant impenetrable safes in banks in Switzerland and in plain sight in people’s homes. Only the vault has the key code which unlocks the master list.”

  “What you’re basically telling me is that only the vault knows where the bodies are buried.”

  “Precisely.”

  “How is it done?”

  “That’s a very broad question.”

  It was. “Tell me, how do people use the vault? How does anyone know what’s in there, and how do they contact the vault to begin with?

  She grimaced. “My answer is going to sound very prosaic. There’s a website.”

  It took me a minute.

  “I told you.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She shook her head.

  “A website.”

  A quick nod and a wince, like she knew it was ridiculous.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said sarcastically. “If you search for Global Research and Development, that’s the website.”

  “Yes,” she acceded with a shrug. “One navigates to the website and there’s a single box where you enter the item you want placed in the vault.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

  “It’s not stupid, it just lacks grandeur and imagination.”

  I shook my head. “What did they have before the Internet?”

  “Letters,” she disclosed, scowling at me as though I was the one with the ridiculous answers. “That seems obvious.”

  “You know you should be—”

  “I wonder if they would give me the recipe for this currant juice,” she asked me.

  “No, they won’t,” I said, just to be a wet blanket. “Now, what if someone wants to know if an item is in the vault? Is there a search function on the website?”

  She chuckled. “After a fashion, dear. If you know the name of the item, for example, Stalin’s diary—”

  I couldn’t stifle my gasp.

  “It’s an example,” she chided.

  “Ah.”

  “You could also search by the name of a person, and if there is anything remotely relating to Stalin that is a ledger, diary, journal, anything like that, then the entire screen becomes green to let you know that the item is, in fact, with the vault.”

  “So you can check to see if the vault has something.”

  “Absolutely, and people do, every day.”