Night Fall

by Nelson DeMille

  “Neither.”

  “What’s in the refrigerator?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “I opened a bottle of white wine.”

  “Good.” I went into the kitchen. In the refrigerator was a half-finished bottle of white wine and some soda water. I poured Kate a glass of wine and made myself a Scotch and soda.

  Truly, the game was up. Less than forty-eight hours since the memorial service. I’d have to remember to congratulate Liam Griffith and shake his hand when I kicked him in the balls.

  I went back into the living room, handed Kate her wine, and we clinked glasses. I said, “To us. We gave it a good shot.”

  She sipped her wine thoughtfully and said, “We need to get our stories straight.”

  “That’s easy. Tell the truth.” I sat in my La-Z-Boy and swiveled toward her. I said, “Screwing up is not a crime, but perjury is a felony. Federal prisons are full of people who lied about something that wasn’t even a crime, or was at most a misdemeanor. Remember the CIA motto—The truth shall set you free.”

  “I could lose my job.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I was told five years ago not to do anything on this case, except what I was asked to do.”

  “So, you forgot. Hey, Griffith told me forty-eight hours ago not to nose around this case.”

  “He’s not your boss.”

  “Good point. Look, the most that’s going to happen tomorrow is a chewing out, maybe an official reprimand, and a direct order to cease and desist. They don’t want to make a big deal of this because that draws attention to it. I know how these things work. Just don’t get caught in a lie, and you’ll be fine.”

  She nodded. “You’re right . . . but it won’t do my career any good.”

  “Well, that will be offset by the fact that you’re married to me.”

  “This is not a joke. This is important to me. My father was FBI, I worked hard to—”

  “Hold on. What happened to truth, justice, and patriotism? When you took that first step over the line, the slope got steep and slippery real fast. What did you think was going to happen?”

  She finished her wine and said, “Sorry. Sorry I got you into this.”

  “These last two days were fun. Look at me. Nothing bad is going to happen tomorrow. Do you know why? Because they have something to hide. They are worried. And that’s why you should not worry and not hide anything.”

  Kate nodded slowly, then smiled for the first time. She said, “Older men have a good understanding of how the world works.”

  “Thank you for the compliment.”

  “I feel much better. Nothing bad is going to happen tomorrow.”

  “In fact,” I said, “something good may happen.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. But whatever happens, it’s time for us to put in for annual leave. We need to get away. Foreign travel will be good for us.”

  “That’s a great idea. I’d like to go to Paris. Where are you going?”

  Mrs. Corey was developing a sense of humor. I said, “I’d like to see where Dewar’s Scotch is made. I’ll send you a postcard.”

  She stood, came over to me, and sat in my lap. She put her arms around me and her head on my shoulder and said, “No matter what happens tomorrow, we can handle it because we’re together. I don’t feel so alone anymore.”

  “You’re not alone.” But as soon as I said that, I had an unsettling thought; if I was Jack Koenig, I knew how I would handle Mr. and Mrs. Corey.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Captain David Stein did not keep me waiting, and at 9 A.M. sharp, I walked into his corner office.

  He didn’t stand, but he never does unless you’re the police commissioner or higher, and he motioned me to a chair across from his desk. He spoke first and said, in his gruff and gravelly voice, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” I couldn’t read anything in his face. I mean, he looked pissed, but he always looks like that.

  NYPD Captain David Stein, I should mention, has a difficult job because he has to play second fiddle to FBI Special Agent-in-Charge Jack Koenig. But Stein is a tough old Jew who doesn’t take much crap from anyone, me included, and Jack Koenig in particular.

  Stein has a law degree hanging on his wall so he could talk to the FBI in their language when he needed to. He had come to the task force from the NYPD Intelligence Unit, formerly known as the Red Squad, but there weren’t too many Reds around these days so the NYPD IU has shifted its focus to Mideast terrorism. Stein once said to me, “I liked the fucking Communists better. They played the game with a few rules.”

  Nostalgia’s not what it used to be.

  Anyway, Stein, like me, probably missed the NYPD, but the police commissioner wanted him here, and here he was, about to get up my ass about something. Stein’s problem, like mine, was divided loyalty. We worked for the Feds, but we were cops. I was sure he wasn’t going to be hard on me.

  He looked at me and said, “You’re in a world of shit, buddy.”

  See?

  He continued, “You fuck some boss’s wife or something?”

  “Not recently.”

  He ignored that and said, “Don’t you even know how you fucked up?”

  “No, sir. Do you?”

  He lit the stub of a cigar and said to me, “Jack Koenig wants your balls on his pool table. And you don’t know why?”

  “Well . . . I mean, it could be anything. You know how they are.”

  He didn’t and wouldn’t respond to that, but it did remind him that we were brothers.

  He puffed on his cigar. There hasn’t been smoking allowed in Federal buildings for about five years, but this was not the time to bring this up. Actually, Stein’s ashtray was sitting on a NO SMOKING sign.

  He looked at a note on his desk and said to me, “I have word that no one could reach you yesterday, by phone or beeper. Why’s that?”

  “I turned off my cell phone and beeper.”

  “You’re not supposed to ever turn off your beeper. Ever.” He asked me, “What if there was a national alert? Wouldn’t you like to know about it?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “So? Why’d you turn your phone and beeper off?”

  “No excuse, sir.”

  “Make one up.”

  “I’ll do better than that. The truth is, I didn’t want to be tracked.”

  “Why? You fucking somebody?”

  “No.”

  “What’d you do yesterday?”

  “I went out to the Hamptons.”

  “I thought you were sick.”

  “I wasn’t sick. I took a day off.”

  “Why?”

  Remembering my own advice to Kate, I replied, “I’m doing some work on the TWA 800 case. On my own time.”

  He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then asked, “What do you mean on your own time?”

  “The case interests me.”

  “Yeah? What’s so interesting?”

  “The bullshit. Bullshit interests me.”

  “Yeah, me, too. So, you mean, no one told you to look into this case? It was your idea?”

  “I went to the five-year anniversary memorial service on Tuesday. It got me thinking.”

  “You go with your wife?”

  “I did.”

  “And that got you thinking about TWA 800?”

  “Right.” I added, “I think there were a few things missed on that case.”

  “Yeah? And you’re going to get it straight?”

  “I’m trying. On my own time.”

  He thought about that awhile, then said to me, “Koenig wouldn’t tell me why you were in deep shit. He told me to ask you. I think this TWA thing is the reason. What do you think?”

  “That’s probably it, Captain. They get all weird about that case.”

  “Corey, why do you stick your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

 
; “I’m a detective.”

  “Yeah, I’m a detective, too, sport. But I follow orders.”

  “What if they’re not lawful orders?”

  “Don’t pull that John Jay shit on me. I’m a lawyer. I have more bullshit in my little finger than you have in your whole fucking body.”

  “Yes, sir. What I mean is—”

  “Did anyone tell you directly not to poke around that case?”

  “Yes, sir. Liam Griffith. At the memorial service. He was there for some reason. But I don’t work for Liam Griffith. Therefore, his order—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay, listen up. I like you, Corey. I really do. But you’ve caused me a lot of problems in the short year you’ve been here. You get away with some shit because, one, you’re a contract agent, two, you were wounded in the line of duty, twice. Three, you did a good job on the Khalil case. And four, and I mean this, you’re good at what you do. Even Koenig likes you. Well, he doesn’t like you, but he respects you. You’re an asset to the team. And so is your wife. People like her, even if they don’t like you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But you’re a loose cannon. You’re not doing her career any good. You have to start behaving. Or you have to leave.”

  It looked like I was getting off easy, but I smelled something bad and it wasn’t just Stein’s cigar. I said, “Well, if you’re asking for my resignation—”

  “Did I say that? I gave you a choice of getting yourself under control or resigning. Is that such a hard decision? Just tell me you’ll be a good boy. Come on. Tell me.”

  “Okay . . . I’ll . . .” Change the subject. “Captain, I can’t believe they didn’t tell you what this was all about. Maybe I’m confessing to the wrong thing.”

  “What else have you done wrong?”

  “I play video poker on my government computer.”

  “Me, too. You know Chaplain Mike Halloran? You know him, right? The priest.”

  “Yeah, he—”

  “Here. He taught me something. Look.” Stein raised his hand with the cigar in it and made a little waving motion. “All your sins are forgiven. Go and sin no more.”

  And I thought I was nuts. I said, “That’s great. Well, then I’ll—”

  “I got a few more things here.” He shuffled around his untidy desk and said to me, “I got an assignment for you. This is straight from Koenig.”

  “Speaking of which, Kate is talking to him right now.”

  “Yeah. I know that.”

  “Does he want to see me?”

  “I don’t know.” He found a manila file folder and opened it. I hate when people do that.

  He said, “You remember Mission: Impossible?”

  “Uh . . . not very well. I’m an X-Files guy.”

  “Yeah. Well, this is Mission: Impossible. How’d that go? Your mission, if you choose to accept it . . . like that. Right?”

  I didn’t reply.

  He looked down at the folder and said, “You following this shit about Aden?”

  I hoped he meant the bartender at Dresner’s.

  “You up on this?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am. Ambassador Bodine has barred John O’Neill from returning to Aden because he wasn’t behaving. Personally, I think—”

  “She’s full of shit. That’s what I think. But that doesn’t leave this office. Anyway, as you probably know, we got some people over there—FBI and NYPD task force guys. Well, they’ve requested a few more.”

  “There’s probably enough there now.”

  “That’s what Bodine said. But O’Neill got permission to send a few more in exchange for him getting kicked out and not making a fuss.”

  “Bad deal. He should make a fuss.”

  “Career Feds do what they’re told. Anyway, Koenig has recommended you to join the team over there.”

  “Where?”

  “Aden. Port city of Yemen.”

  “Is this for real?”

  “Yeah. It’s right here. This is considered a hardship assignment, so the good news is that this will give your career a big boost.”

  “That’s really good news. But I’m not sure I deserve this.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “How long is this plum assignment?”

  “Couple of months. I mean, the place really sucks. You speak to any of the guys who’ve been there?”

  “No.”

  “I did. It’s like a hundred twenty degrees in the shade, but there is no shade. The good thing is that there’s a woman behind every tree. But there are no trees. The hotel’s nice, though. We got a whole floor in a nice hotel. The bar is okay, according to these guys. You can’t take women up to the rooms either. But you’re married, so that’s no problem. Also, unmarried sex is a capital offense, punishable by beheading. Or is it stoning? I think she gets stoned to death; you get your head chopped off. Anyway, you’ll get briefed over there. You should pay close attention.” He added, “This is a good career move.”

  “For who?”

  “You.”

  I replied, “As tempting as this sounds, I’m afraid I have to take a pass.”

  Captain Stein looked at me through his cigar smoke, then said, “We can’t force you to take this assignment.”

  “Right.”

  “It has to be voluntary.”

  “Good rule.”

  “But I have the feeling if you don’t take it, your contract may not be renewed. I mean, I can’t say that because it sounds like coercion.”

  “I wouldn’t interpret it as coercion. Sounds more like a threat.”

  “Whatever. Hey, it could be fun. Take the job.”

  “I teach two courses at John Jay. I need to be there on the Tuesday after Labor Day. It’s in my contract.”

  “We’ll try to get you back in time. Talk it over with your wife.”

  “I can tell you right now, Captain, I’m not going to fucking Yemen.”

  “Did I mention the extra pay? And ten days administrative leave when you get back? Plus the annual leave you build up over there, and you got a real vacation.”

  “Sounds great. I can think of a few married guys with kids who need the money. If there’s nothing further—”

  “Hold on. I gotta tell you a few more things that can help you decide.”

  “Look, Captain, if you’re going to tell me that my wife’s career will be screwed up if I don’t take the assignment, then that’s unethical and probably unlawful.”

  “Yeah? Well, then, I won’t say that. But that’s the way it is.”

  I didn’t reply for a while, and we stared at each other. I said, “Why does Koenig want me out of town?”

  “He doesn’t want you out of town. He wants you off the fucking planet. And it wasn’t the beeper thing, sport. And I’ll tell you this—whatever he’s got on you is good. And whatever he’s got on your wife is very good. He was royally pissed off at both of you, and he wants you someplace where you have lots of time to think about how you pissed him off.”

  “Well, you know what? Fuck him.”

  “No, Corey, not so much fuck him, but more, I think, fuck you.”

  I stood without being dismissed and said, “You’ll have my resignation on your desk within the hour.”

  “That’s your call. But talk to your wife first. You can’t resign without a note from your wife.”

  I started to leave, but Captain Stein stood and came around his desk. He looked at me and said in a quiet voice, “You’re under the eye, kiddo. Watch yourself. That’s friendly advice.”

  I turned and left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Kate was not at her desk when I left Stein’s office, and I asked her cube mate, Jennifer Lupo, “Where’s Kate?”

  Ms. Lupo replied, “She had a meeting with Jack in his office. I haven’t seen her since.”

  Apparently Jack Koenig and Kate Mayfield had more to talk about than David Stein and John Corey had. I didn’t like the smell of this.

  I went to my workstation, which I
hadn’t done prior to my meeting with Stein. There was nothing new on my desk and nothing urgent on my voice mail. I punched up my e-mail. Usual garbage, except for a message from the FBI travel office in Washington that said Contact this office ASAP, Re: Yemen.

  “What the hell . . . ?”

  Harry Muller looked up from his computer and asked, “What’s up?”

  “Bad horoscope.”

  “Try mine. I’m a Capricorn. Hey, what did you do yesterday?”

  “I was sick.”

  “Stein was looking for you.”

  “He found me.”

  Muller leaned toward me and asked, “You in some kind of trouble?”

  “I’m always in trouble. Do me a favor. Kate’s in with Koenig. When she comes out, tell her to meet me at that Greek coffee shop down the street. Parthenon, Acropolis, Sparta—whatever.”

  “Why don’t you leave a note on her desk?”

  “Why don’t you just do me a favor?”

  “Every time I do you a favor I feel like I’m an accessory to a felony.”

  “I’ll bring you back some baklava.”

  “Make it a corn muffin.”

  I stood and said to Harry, “Keep this to yourself.”

  “Toasted, with butter.”

  I made a hasty exit for the elevator. On the way down, I thought about what my instincts were telling me to do. First, get out of the building in case Koenig wanted to speak to me after he grilled Kate. Second, the next person I needed to speak to was Kate, alone and away from the Ministry of Love. These were good instincts.

  I got off the elevator, went out on Broadway, and walked south toward the World Trade Center.

  The coffee shop—the Acropolis—had the advantage of high-backed booths, so the customers couldn’t be seen from the street. Also, the horrible, tinny, piped-in Greek music covered conversation, and every five minutes or so there was the sickening sound of smashing crockery. This was piped in, too, and was supposed to be funny. I guess you had to be Greek to get it.

  I took a seat at an empty booth in the rear.

  I had the feeling that things were closing in on me—that I shouldn’t use my cell phone or my office phone, or my e-mail, or even my apartment phone. When the Feds get on your case, you’re toast.

  The waitress came over, and I ordered coffee.