Edge

by Jeffery Deaver

  A sliver of moon kept appearing and vanishing, as the thick clouds scooted by above us. Maple and oak sloughed silver leaves in the breeze and the tall hemlocks in the side yard swayed. The wind breathed easily.

  I looked around the property. "It's a lot different here now, with the primary in custody and the lifter about to be nailed. You can almost enjoy it." I glanced at the imposter's black angular machine gun. It wasn't pointed near me but if he caught on that I knew who he was I'd be dead before I could move an inch.

  The man said, "That's true--except for some deer with a suicidal personality who jumped out of the bushes over there a little while ago. We almost had venison for breakfast. Just heard him again, the same place. They're not really very bright, are they?"

  "I don't think that's why God made them." Was he suspicious? I couldn't tell. I continued, "Listen, Tony, when I get back I want to coordinate getting the Kesslers to Fairfax in the morning. Loving'll be in custody by then. But I want some protection on them for the next couple of days, until everything's resolved. Agent Frederick said you might be willing to take that on." I was vamping. Overdoing it? I wondered. I wasn't sure. A bad performance would kill me.

  "Yessir . . . if he'd like."

  I smiled. "Meaning you're not all that crazy about baby-sitting detail."

  He grinned too. "I'm happy to be of help, sir."

  "Appreciate it."

  Then a faint snap came from the front yard.

  Both of us shared a troubled look and turned toward the sound. Tense, squinting.

  "What do you think that was?" I asked.

  "Our deer?" he asked in a whisper.

  I shook my head. "Not in the front. They don't go there."

  The sound was repeated, louder.

  We trained the muzzles of our weapons in the direction of the snap.

  "The hell is it?" he asked.

  We got the answer a moment later as we saw another rock sail over the house and land in the driveway.

  "Diversion," I rasped with alarm in my voice. We both spun around fast--to see a man covering us with a silenced semiautomatic pistol. He'd come up behind us quietly, as we were staring toward the sound, after flinging the stones over the roof to distract us.

  The lean sandy-haired man was wearing the same green jacket he'd been wearing on Saturday at the assault on the Kesslers' house and at the flytrap.

  I whispered, "It's Loving's partner!"

  "His--?" the Barr-imposter began to ask. But before he finished the sentence the man in the green jacket squinted, lifted his weapon toward my leg and fired three times.

  I cried out and went down hard.

  Chapter 56

  THE BULLETS, IN fact, hadn't hit me at all.

  And the man in the jacket wasn't Loving's partner.

  He was Williams's security expert, a man named Jonny Pogue--the one who was indeed closer than I would have thought, as Williams had said, after his grunting chuckle. Pogue had been stationed directly across the road and had been shadowing us for days to make certain that Joanne and her dark secrets didn't fall into the wrong hands. That's what he'd been doing at the Kesslers' house and at the flytrap, but since he was operating undercover, he never contacted us and we'd assumed he was the partner.

  Over the phone shortly before, Pogue and I had worked out the ruse that was now unfolding, a strategy that might get to the truth about the imposter and what Loving's true plan was.

  A strategy that might also get both Pogue and me killed.

  Pogue knelt down and pretended to search me carefully; as he did so he turned his back to the imposter and was completely vulnerable. But the man, who could have shot him at any moment, was confused that Pogue was ignoring him. And further disarmed by Pogue's picking up my Glock and handing it to the phony FBI agent. "Here."

  "I'm sorry," he said, taking the weapon uncertainly, "but who the fuck are you?"

  "Pogue."

  "Henry never said--"

  "Loving doesn't know about me. I work for the man who hired him."

  This was a gamble that Pogue and I had discussed. If the imposter himself worked for the primary, the whole play would end right now--maybe bloodily.

  But then I heard him give a brief laugh and say, "Oh, sure. That explains it."

  "I've been keeping an eye on you and Henry just to make sure things go according to plan." Pogue rose and extended his hand. "What's the name?"

  "McCall."

  They shook hands briefly. Then Pogue muttered, "Well, McCall, we got a problem. You know the insider--got you the info about Barr and your picture up on the Bureau website."

  McCall nodded absently, looking around. "I don't know who it is, just somebody in that asshole Fredericks' office."

  So the mole was in Freddy's department. This was bad. I didn't react, however, just clutched my leg and moaned. McCall seemed to enjoy it.

  "Well, whoever they are, they changed their fucking mind," Pogue spat out. "They're talking."

  "Shit, no."

  "Shit, yeah." There was a mocking quality about the comment, the sort you'd hear between two soldiers on allied armies. Pogue was acting in top form.

  Sickle . . .

  McCall asked, "They know about me?"

  "I don't know. Maybe not yet but they will. It's just a matter of time till they figure out that you clipped Barr."

  Defensively McCall said, "The body's in a storm drain. Take 'em days to find it."

  "You can fucking hope. But the point is we've gotta bail. Get to Henry and warn him--we can't use the phones or radio. They have all our numbers and frequencies."

  "What about him?" McCall pointed my own Glock at me.

  "He's coming with us. There's things my boss wants to know. But the priority is we've got to get to Henry. I mean, now. Where is he?"

  "Last time I talked to him he was pretty close." McCall smirked. "They bought all that crap about him going to Philly."

  "Well, let's get to him. Before they track him down. Where is he exactly?"

  Careful, I thought to Pogue. I was worried he might be overdoing it.

  "He was going to facility, after he and the crew picked up the target."

  Pogue asked, "The target? Joanne Kessler?"

  McCall frowned. "No, no, man. She doesn't have anything to do with this. . . . I mean, the real target. Amanda, the daughter."

  Chapter 57

  AMANDA . . .

  She was the Kessler they were after? Not Ryan or his wife?

  I desperately tried to piece together how this could be.

  Recovering, Pogue said, "I know that. I just thought Henry'd want to take Joanne and her husband out."

  McCall shrugged. "Maybe. But he didn't say anything to me about it."

  Pogue muttered, "I want to get the fuck out of here now. We'll meet him at the facility. Where is it again?"

  This was a good try. I probably would have waited a little longer to pry some more details out, but there it was.

  And I could tell by the thick silence that followed that the ruse was over. McCall had grown suspicious.

  I couldn't take a chance he'd discard my Glock--it was unloaded--and go for his machine gun. I rolled to my feet. "Now. Take him."

  Gasping, McCall reacted fast, lifting the only weapon in his grip, my Glock, toward us.

  Pogue muttered calmly, "It's empty." He targeted McCall with the suppressed Beretta. I stepped forward and grabbed my Glock from McCall's hand, reloaded, drew the slide and released it.

  I covered McCall, gaping at us in shock, as Pogue slipped restraints onto his hands, cinching them tight. I took my phone and quickly dialed the detention center.

  Lyle Ahmad now appeared from the bushes, where he'd been stationed with his own M4, a night scope mounted. I'd sent Ahmad into the woods to target the imposter while Pogue and I put on our little performance to see what we could learn from the man.

  Grasping how completely he'd been suckered, McCall muttered, "I'm fucked." He was staring at my leg, where the bullet
holes should have been. "I am so fucked."

  I spoke to the supervisor at the detention center and learned that he still couldn't get in touch with the guards who were escorting Bill Carter and Amanda back from the rendezvous point.

  I exhaled slowly between gritted teeth. Now that I realized Amanda was the target I knew that McCall would have told Loving the girl and Bill Carter were leaving the detention center. He wouldn't know the rendezvous spot specifically but Loving or other partners could have been waiting outside the prison for the car to emerge.

  "Call me the minute you hear anything."

  "Yessir."

  I disconnected. I knew the mole was in the Bureau so I couldn't call Freddy for a tactical team. And I couldn't contact anybody in our organization, even Claire, in case the traitor was in touch with someone there.

  I debated and decided to call local police and county troopers, sending them to search the road between the detention center and the rendezvous spot--a strip mall in Sterling, Virginia. There was a possibility of a kidnapping, I told them. I warned them that the suspect or suspects were armed.

  I slipped the phone away and crouched beside McCall, who was sitting slumped forward on the grass. His eyes met mine every fourth heartbeat.

  "You were the one shooting at us in North East, at the warehouse?" I asked. "And you were the one who got the trackers onto my car?"

  He said nothing but a flicker in his eyes told me that I was on the money.

  "And at Bill Carter's place, you were in the woods across the road?"

  McCall's lips tightened but still he remained silent.

  "Why do they want Amanda?"

  No response.

  "Where is this facility? What is it?"

  "I'm not saying anything."

  In a raspy voice, Pogue said, "You just admitted killing Tony Barr, a federal agent. You have no leverage here."

  McCall whispered, miserable, "Whatever you'd do to me, it doesn't come close to what Loving would do if he found out I talked. I've got family, friends--Loving'd take them out in a minute. Or do worse."

  "We'll protect them," I said.

  "From Loving?" McCall laughed coldly. "Right."

  "You said you didn't know the primary's name. What do you know about him?"

  Silence.

  My phone buzzed. I stepped away and quickly hit ANSWER. "Corte."

  It was a captain with the state police. "Sir, some of my troopers found William Carter. He's alive. Wounded but alive. A security guard from Northern Virginia Detention is dead."

  "And the girl?"

  "Afraid she's gone. They were about six miles from the prison. Carter said a black SUV ran them onto the shoulder, shot out the tires. Three men inside. None of them fit the description of the suspect, Loving."

  Three other actors?

  "Carter didn't get any look at the tag."

  "What happened there?"

  "Amanda kicked one of the suspects you know where. . . . Then she turned around and shoved Carter down a steep hill into a creek--to save him, you know. Kid was a real hero, Carter said. She started to jump after him but they got her."

  A hero, like her father.

  "They fired on him but they didn't want to wait around. And took off. Winged him in the ankle but he'll live."

  "Which direction did they go?"

  "No idea, sir. We put it out on the wire but so far, nothing. Follow up?"

  "No. Keep it quiet for the time being."

  "Yessir."

  After we disconnected I looked at the house, where the girl's father and stepmother waited. I looked over the fields around the house, growing lighter and darker as passing clouds squelched the moonlight from time to time. Debating. Were the three men in the SUV the primaries? Or were they muscle too? Or other partners of Loving?

  I wondered again, what information could a primary possibly want to extract from a sixteen-year-old girl?

  I glanced at Pogue, then crouched down in front of McCall.

  Calm, Corte. Whatever happens you have to stay calm. When you look into your opponent's face, when you talk to him, it should be like you're discussing cornflakes. Never more emotional than that. . . . Emotion's deadly.

  What's the goal? I asked myself.

  What's the most efficient way to achieve it?

  I knew these questions. I knew them in my heart. Yet for some reason now I grabbed McCall by the collar, gripped until he started to choke and shouted, "Where did they take her?"

  He shook his head, as best he could.

  "What's the facility, where is it?" Twisting harder. I felt Ahmad's eyes on me. He'd never seen me like this.

  Spittle formed in the corners of McCall's lips.

  "Where?" I raged.

  His terrified eyes turned toward me. But he still remained silent.

  I released him, stood up. I didn't want to take him into the house with my principals. I glanced toward the panic house, a small outbuilding about the size of a detached three-car garage. It didn't look substantial but it was. People could flee inside, seal the doors and be safe from any kind of armament up to the level of a rocket-propelled grenade.

  "Get him inside."

  Ahmad and Pogue dragged McCall roughly into the outbuilding.

  I remained on the dewy grass and looked toward the panic house. The heavy steel door was open and the lights were on inside. I could see McCall shackled to a kitchen chair. His face wasn't defiant; he was scared.

  The place was brightly lit and painted in easy colors--yellow and pastel blue--on the theory that if there was an extended siege, the occupants might be less inclined to surrender if the setting was cheery. Little things like that make a difference.

  I turned away and walked to the main house. I punched in the key to the door. I wasn't looking forward to delivering the news.

  All of my principals were clustered around a window, staring out. I hadn't explained to them about my suspicions of the man posing as Barr. But I now gave them the details of how he'd gotten inside and how Zagaev was a feint.

  "Oh, Christ," Maree said. "He could've killed us. While we were asleep he could've, like, cut our throats."

  Ryan asked, "Who's the other one, the tall guy?"

  It was Joanne who spoke. "His name's Jon Pogue. He works for my organization." Then her voice faded, as she looked at me. "Why would they need a feint, though, Corte? Getting a mole inside here should've been enough. What else is going on?"

  I inhaled a little deeper than usual. "It's Amanda they're after. And they've got her."

  Joanne's mouth tightened and Ryan growled, "Where, where is she?"

  "We don't know. But there's no doubt. Amanda was the Kessler they wanted."

  "No, no," Maree whispered.

  Joanne said in a voice as calm as mine, "Why? What does she know?"

  I shook my head.

  Ryan's face was red. "Those pricks! My little girl . . . what . . . ?" Then, it seemed, forming words became too much for him.

  "And Bill?" Joanne asked.

  "Minor injuries. He'll be okay. They killed the detention center guard who was with them. We believe they've taken Amanda to a rendezvous site nearby. Loving's on his way there. But we don't know where. We tried to find out from McCall but he caught on and he's not saying anything."

  Ryan muttered, "Well, Jesus, what're we going to do?"

  I said, "I could use some help." My eyes on Joanne.

  She lifted an eyebrow.

  I said, "Part of McCall wants to cooperate. I can tell. He's on the borderline. I'm thinking if you could talk to him, he might help us out."

  "Appeal to his sense of decency?" she asked.

  "As Amanda's stepmother, yes."

  Her eyes swung to the wedge of light falling on the grass from the open door of the panic building. "I'll give it a try."

  Chapter 58

  POGUE AND I stood outside the closed door to the outbuilding.

  I observed him closely for the first time.

  The head beneath tha
t sandy hair was long, a predator's skull. His features were pinched--they'd circled in on themselves--and a scar curved forward from his chin, short and narrow, from a knife, not shrapnel. He didn't smile or offer much expression and I doubted that he ever did. No wedding ring, no jewelry. I noted remnants of stitching where insignias had been removed from his green jacket. I supposed that it was a personal favorite and that he'd had the garment for years.

  His narrow hips were encircled by a worn canvas belt. It held a special holster--a clamp basically, fitted for a silenced pistol--and a number of magazine holders, along with a knife and several small boxes whose purpose I couldn't guess.

  Unlike Ryan Kessler, Pogue didn't constantly tap or fidget with his weapons. He knew where they were if he needed them. On the ground beside him was a battered dark nylon rucksack, whose contents were heavy. I'd heard a clank when he'd set it down.

  He stood with his arms crossed, looking over the property with the eye of a shepherd, as if he weren't aware of my presence. Finally he said, "Missed this one."

  Meaning Barr, I assumed.

  He continued, "I had information. Bits of it. But nothing fit together."

  Though that wasn't completely true. The bits did fit together, like a machine-cut jigsaw puzzle. I'd been focused on the individual pieces, though. Not the image as a whole. I'm not much of a jigsaw player--it's not really a game--but I know the strategy generally is to do the outer border first, so that you have a framework, and then fill in.

  Exactly what I hadn't done here. I'd made a lot of assumptions.

  He looked at my back. "You like that Glock?"

  "I do."

  "They're fine firearms." Then, with a hint of criticism: "Prefer a little longer barrel myself."

  "Interesting holster." Nodding down at his hip.

  "Hmm," he replied.

  More silence. Pogue said, "Evolution." There was some thoughtfulness in his voice.

  While pursuing my various college degrees I usually found time to take some courses for no reason other than that I was curious about the topic. Once I'd taken a very good class in medical school, called Darwin and the History of Biology (also because the lecture hall was next to where Peggy was taking Anatomy). I was curious what Pogue meant and I glanced his way.

  "Weapons reflect efficient evolution more than anything else in society, don't you think?"

  Survival of the fittest, in a way, but not quite what Darwin was thinking of.