The problem was, she knew what he looked like—and therefore she had to be removed. An assassin couldn’t leave loose ends. It was the loose ends that came back to bite you, he knew.
His satphone vibrated in his trouser pocket, disrupting his chain of thoughts. He plucked out the satphone and consulted the caller ID. He took the call.
“Have you got it yet?” said the mastro di giornata in a brittle voice.
“Not yet,” said Marcello. “Tonight.”
“You’re taking too long. Take him out and bring back the suitcase.”
The mastro di giornata terminated the call.
He had no inkling Marcello was a great artist. The mastro di giornata didn’t have an artistic bone in his body and had no appreciation of art. As John Keats said:
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; It will never
Pass into nothingness.
The mastro di giornata had never heard of the poet Keats, Marcello decided, nor of William Blake.
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame they fearful symmetry?
You had to dare to create art because art was created out of violence, Marcello knew, just as Blake had known.
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dead grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
Marcello put away his satphone. He wished he knew what the suitcase held that was so important. All he had to do was be patient, he reminded himself. He would find out later tonight. He figured he knew why the possessor of the suitcase, Lyndon Fox, had to die. Because Fox had stolen the suitcase. But the mastro di giornata had explained nothing to Marcello.
Marcello wasn’t supposed to know anything other than his orders. His only mission: to obey.
Chapter 95
Deirdre and Valerie sat on the sofa in the living room. Standing in front of them Lyndon had gathered them there for a discussion.
“What’s happened to us?” he said. “We used to be a close family. We used to do things together, have fun together. Now we’re splitting apart, everyone going their own way. What happened?”
“You’re the one going your own way,” said Valerie, who had more or less pulled herself together after doing too much coke.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re running around.”
Deirdre realized even Valerie must have suspected Lyndon was playing around, though she had never confided her suspicions to Deirdre. Likewise, Deirdre had not confided her suspicions about Lyndon to Valerie.
“I am not,” said Lyndon. “Where did you get that idea?”
“Your late hours. You’re hardly ever here. You’re the one breaking up the family.”
“Me?” said Lyndon, flabbergasted.
“She has a point,” said Deirdre.
“Oh, that’s right. Blame everything on me. I’m always the fall guy.”
“How can we do things together when you’re not here?”
“I have to work. I have to put a roof over our heads.” Lyndon turned to Valerie. “What about you? Even when you’re at home, you never spend any time with us. You’re off in your room or in the pool or with your boyfriend. You’re the one that never wants to share any time with us.”
“I’m not a baby anymore,” said Valerie. “I have my own life to live.”
Lyndon rounded on Deirdre. “And what about you? You’re so suspicious of me you won’t talk to me. Even when we’re together, you’re off in your own world.”
“I’m not an idiot,” said Deirdre. “I think you’re seeing someone on the side.”
“How many times do I have to tell you I’m not?”
“Just once, and mean it.”
“You’re the one that’s breaking up our family. You sicced a PI on me to investigate me. How can there be any trust between us when you do that?”
Seething, Deirdre sprang to her feet. “How can there be any trust if you’re cheating on me?”
“I’m not.”
“I want to believe you,” she said, becoming morose, her voice halting.
“You got all that prime meat working for you,” said Valerie. “How can you keep your hands off them?”
“You’re too young to know what you’re talking about,” said Lyndon, glowering at Valerie.
“There you go again—treating me like a baby.”
“What’s happening to us?” said Deirdre. “Why are we snapping at each other?”
“He started it,” said Valerie.
“You’re turning into a drug addict. You’re out of it,” said Lyndon.
“It’s all this stress we’re under,” said Deirdre. “All these people attacking us. It’s driving us apart.”
Lightning flashed beyond the French doors, marbling the night sky and lighting up the pool outside. A thunderclap cracked overhead. Their nerves already stretched to the breaking point, they jumped at the explosion.
“I need a drink,” said Lyndon, setting off for the wet bar.
Deirdre picked up on Valerie staring at Lyndon as he reached his destination.
“That’s your answer to everything,” said Deirdre.
“We need to relax, OK?” said Lyndon, withdrawing a can of cold beer from the refrigerator.
“How can we relax when we’re getting human heads sent to us in the mail and arrows shot at us?”
“That’s no reason for us to take it out on each other.” He took a pull on his beer. “We need a little togetherness and we can get through this thing.”
“How can we have togetherness when you’re keeping secrets from us?”
“I’m not keep secrets from anyone. Why are you two ganging up on me?”
“We shouldn’t have to live in fear for our lives all the time.”
“For once we agree,” said Lyndon, and toasted her with his beer can.
“What do they want from us?” said Deirdre in anguish.
Lyndon gazed out the French windows. “That bodyguard must be getting soaked outside. It’s coming down pretty hard.”
“We’re lucky we have him, since you won’t call the cops.”
Lyndon turned on her. “Do you really want bad publicity?”
“I want to be alive tomorrow.”
“That bodyguard—what’s his name—Lomax?”
“Lopez.”
“He scared the guy away the last time. He’ll keep him away again.”
“What if there’s more than one after us?”
“Why do you say that?”
“The point is, we don’t know.”
“Has anybody even seen this guy?”
“Lopez must have.”
“He said he couldn’t make him out in the dark. He scared the guy away with a gunshot.”
Deirdre shrugged. “I guess the answer is no.”
Chapter 96
Brody returned to Deirdre’s house via Sunset in the storm, the silver rain glowing like so much static in the wash of his headlamps, his windshield wipers humming and thumping methodically as they cleared away the raindrops sluicing down the glass.
He hoped he would arrive there before the archer. He wasn’t sure how much of a head start the archer had. The rain was hampering Brody’s speed. By the same token it was hampering the archer’s speed, which gave Brody some consolation.
With the advent of the rain the oils in the tarmac were rising to the surface and creating a condition ideal for hydroplaning. The rain wasn’t coming down too hard at this point, but the weather could change any second. A mile away it could be raining cats and dogs. He had to get to Deirdre’s as fast as possible. He didn’t want Victor to face the archer alone.
Brody felt his smartphone vibrate in his trouser pocket. He couldn’t dig the phone out of his trouser pocket and drive at the same time. He took the next right and pulled over to the side of the road
to take the call.
The caller ID said Private.
“Hello,” he said, listening to the myriad raindrops impinge on the Mini’s roof.
“Caligula,” came the whisper.
This was getting old, decided Brody. “What’s this about? Who are you?”
“Caligula.”
“Is that all you can do is whisper? Stop calling me if you don’t have anything to say.”
The caller terminated the connection.
Brody put away his cell. What did the guy want? he wondered. OK, so the guy knew Brody was a member of Elysian Fields and had epilepsy. So what? It could be some sort of threat to expose Brody. But what was the nature of the threat? What did Caligula want? The guy never said anything over the line.
All Brody knew about the guy code-named Caligula was what the guy had said in the chat room—which gave Brody nothing to go on. He hadn’t felt threatened by anything Caligula had said in the chat room.
How was he supposed to read Caligula’s mind? Brody wondered. It might not even be Caligula, he realized. Why couldn’t it just as easily be Margaux Hemingway or Teddy Roosevelt? Margaux Hemingway could be a man, for all Brody knew. Either she or Teddy Roosevelt could be pretending to be Caligula. But again the question came to mind: why? What did the guy want?
What did the Elysian Fields chat room have to do with Lyndon Fox, if anything? Brody didn’t see any connection. Maybe there was none. Maybe the guy was a loner prankster. This was how he got his jollies. So why even think about it? Because it was driving Brody nuts. And he had the feeling, though unsupported by facts, that it had to do with the Fox case.
How was Brody supposed to figure out what a guy wanted when all the guy ever said was “Caligula”?
Brody had to put it out of his mind and get to Deirdre’s. He would have to think about it later.
He hung a U-turn and drove back onto Sunset toward Deirdre’s. He pulled behind a truck whose rear tires churned through a puddle and splashed a sheet of water over Brody’s windshield thudding against the glass, blinding him for a while as his wipers fought to sweep it away. He slowed down so he wouldn’t tailgate the truck.
OK, so somebody in the Elysian Fields chat room knew his real name, decided Brody. So what? Why was this person letting Brody know that he knew? That was the question. Brody got the distinct impression the guy was threatening him over the phone.
He caught himself thinking about it again. Forget about it, he told himself, hunching forward in his seat to see through the rain and strengthening his grip on the steering wheel, his warm breath fogging the windshield. He turned on the defogger.
Startled, he felt his iPhone vibrating in his trouser pocket.
Not him again.
No, he wasn’t going to answer it.
The next thing you knew, the vehicle behind him rear-ended Brody.
Chapter 97
His head jerking backward, Brody cursed and glanced in the rearview mirror to see who had hit him. He couldn’t make out much because the rear window was streaked with rain. He hated getting in accidents, especially ones in the rain. Not only that, he was in a hurry to get to Deirdre’s. Her life could be in danger even now.
There was nothing for it. He had to stop and exchange information with the reckless driver behind him. He pulled over to the narrow shoulder on Sunset and flicked on his emergency flashers.
The other driver parked behind him.
Brody wanted to get this over with without delay.
He clambered out of his Mini and, hunching his shoulders, stood in the driving rain, wishing he had brought a raincoat or umbrella. He squinted circumspectly through the rain at the car behind him. You never knew what kind of person you were going to meet up with in a car accident.
Cold water trickled down his face and dripped from his chin as raindrops pelted him.
The driver left his headlights on as he climbed out of his BMW, the pair of conical high beams blinding Brody. Clad in a dark suit, the driver popped a black umbrella above his head obscuring his face as he rose from his car seat and approached Brody.
The rain was chilling Brody as it ran down his neck and back and soaked his Windbreaker. He couldn’t see the guy’s face because of the umbrella the guy was holding over his head shielding him from the hissing rain. The guy’s suit helped put Brody more or less at ease because guys in suits generally wouldn’t want to start a fistfight. On the other hand, Brody knew from experience you couldn’t count on anything when dealing with strangers—and that went double for reckless drivers that had just rear-ended you.
The suit approached him.
Brody blew rain off his mouth. “What’s your insurer’s name?”
He hoped the guy had insurance. In the last car accident Brody was involved, the reckless driver hadn’t had insurance. Brody had to call the cops to report it so he would have supporting evidence to make an uninsured motorist claim with his insurance company.
Brody didn’t need another hassle like that.
Through the rain he scrutinized the damage to his Mini. It didn’t look bad. He didn’t even see a dent. With any luck, he could get this over with in minutes. He prepared to jump out of the rain and back into his car.
When the guy got close enough, he lifted his umbrella over his and Brody’s head affording Brody the opportunity to discern the guy’s face.
Brody realized with astonishment it was Peltz.
“Peltz. What’s going on?” said Brody, befuddled.
“If you’d answer your phone, I wouldn’t have to resort to rear-ending you.”
“What the hell are you doing tailing me?” said Brody, in a slow burn.
“I need to tell you we need those docs no later than tonight. The cabal is closing in on me.”
“You need to crash into me to tell me that?”
“When the fate of our country hangs in the balance, yeah, I do.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“I installed a transponder on your car when we first met. Why didn’t you answer your mobile?”
Brody didn’t want to tell him about Caligula. It was none of Peltz’s business.
“Why don’t you ever answer yours?” said Brody.
“We don’t have time to dick around. You need to get those docs from Fox tonight.”
“He says he doesn’t know where they are.”
“He’s lying.”
“I don’t think so. He seems genuinely upset about being unable to find them.”
“He’s a skilled liar. All flacks are. Especially the ones that are traitors to the country.”
“Are your men in place around Deirdre’s house?”
“They’re on red alert tonight.”
“That’ll be a change. Their track record is nothing to brag about.”
“Don’t make a habit of taking potshots at the Bureau. They can make your life a living hell.”
“When it comes to saving my client’s life, I’ll say what I think.”
“Your country takes priority over your client. The docs you get will prevent an attempted coup. Remember that.”
“Why don’t you and your feds use a warrant to enter Fox’s house and seize the docs? Why use me?”
“If we did that, it would tip off the cabal within the Bureau that a select few of us know their intentions. The last thing we want to do is let them know any of us have discovered their plot to stage a coup. They’d put us all on a hit list if they found out.”
“Why me? Why not use someone else as your cat’s-paw?”
“You’re our man on the inside. Our Johnny-on-the-spot. The perfect cover for us,” said Peltz, tapping his forefinger against Brody’s chest. “You happened to be in the right place at the right time. Uncle Sam wants you.”
“I’m doing my best.”
“More bad news. And this is another reason you gotta get your ass in gear. The director of the Bureau issued a FISA warrant against me, and the judges approved it.”
“FISA?”
> “Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act. It means the Bureau has permission to tap my phones to see if I’m working for a foreign government. A supersecret federal tribunal approved the warrant.”
“Are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why do they think—?”
“Somebody in the cabal in the Bureau suspects I’m onto them, and they’re trying to destroy my reputation and discredit any intel I uncover about their conspiracy.”
“That doesn’t change anything. I can’t get the documents until I know where they are.”
“We’ve wasted enough time here. Next time answer your phone when I call you. And get back to Fox on the double.”
Peltz returned to his car, taking his umbrella with him, exposing Brody to the elements. Lightning flashed in the sky splitting the thunderclouds and shimmering.
Flinching under the slashing rain, Brody ducked back into his car, not eager to get any wetter than he already was.
Chapter 98
The thunder and lightning were making Deirdre edgy as she and Valerie sat on the sofa in her living room with Lyndon, who was standing and gazing out the French windows at the storm, a half-full beer can in his hand. He could feel chill wind blowing into the room through the holes in the window punched out by the crossbow bolts.
Deirdre glanced at her wristwatch wondering what was taking Brody. He had said he would be back soon.
Lyndon turned around to face Valerie and clapped his eyes on her.
“You’re the one that took the blue suitcase, aren’t you?” he said.
“No,” said Valerie.
“You took it and found out what was in it, and now you won’t give it back to me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why don’t you admit it?” said Lyndon, lightning flashing behind him and lighting up the pool, which gleamed an eerie turquoise.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why do you blame everything on me?”
“Stop playing the innocent victim. It doesn’t suit you. Now where is it?”
Bolt Page 27
