Edge

by Jeffery Deaver

  Peggy barked a laugh. Small but strong, face dusted with freckles even into her fourth decade, the brunette flung her arms around me and, with the packages, I nearly went over backward. She steadied us both--strong, I was saying--and, her arm hard around my lower back, we walked into our house.

  "You're back early." She frowned. "Should I tell my lover to get out by the bedroom window?"

  "Can he cook?" I said. "Ask him to stay."

  Peggy gigged me in the ribs, laughing again. Setting down the bundles, I gripped her hard. Our lips met and kissed for a lengthy moment.

  "So the project finished up early?" I noted that she glanced at herself in the mirror and straightened her dark wiry hair. She hadn't been expecting me home until tomorrow. She usually got dolled up for my arrival after I'd been away. This was one of the things I loved about her. I hadn't called because I didn't want her to go to any trouble and because I liked to surprise her--like this, as well as for birthdays and anniversaries; our fifteenth was coming up in two weeks.

  "What happened to your head?"

  "I'm a klutz. You know that. Crawling around in a construction site."

  "Hardhat," she admonished.

  "I usually do." I asked, "Are your mom and dad still coming this weekend?"

  "Yep. With Oscar."

  "Who?"

  "Their dog."

  "Did I know they got a dog?" I asked. I honestly couldn't remember.

  "They mentioned it."

  "What kind?"

  "A pick-a-poo or something. I don't know. A corga-doodle."

  I looked around. "The boys?"

  "Jeremy's in his room, on the phone with your brother. Sam's in bed. I'll make you some supper."

  "A sandwich, maybe. Some wine. A big glass of wine."

  "Come on." Peggy stowed the luggage in the hallway I'd been meaning to retile, ever since a bathroom pipe committed suicide a month ago. She led me into the kitchen and dug in the refrigerator. Before she started assembling the food she dimmed the lights and lit several candles.

  She poured a French Chardonnay, a Cote d'Or, for both of us.

  We touched glasses.

  "How long you home for?"

  "Four days."

  "Really!" She stepped forward, pressed her entire body against mine and kissed me hard, her hand sliding down my back and pausing in the exact spot where my holster had been only a few hours before.

  After a moment or two, when she stepped back, I said, "Did I mention I'm home for five days?"

  "What do I have to do to make it a week?" she whispered, lips against my ear.

  I smiled, though even with Peggy I wasn't the best smiler in the world.

  A few more kisses and when she finally escaped from my arms I said, "Look what I found." I stepped into the hall, grabbed the shopping bag and pulled out the game that had been delivered on Saturday. I unwrapped it and set the box between us.

  "Oh, my . . ." Peggy isn't the board game aficionado that I am but since there are more games in the house than books she's become something of an expert by osmosis. "Is that what I think it is?"

  "An original."

  We were looking down at a first edition of Candy Land, the simplest and arguably the most popular of all children's board games. One I had grown up playing with my brothers and our friends. You draw cards and move your pieces around a landscape that includes a chocolate swamp and a gumdrop mountain.

  "Jer's too old, I'd guess. But Sammy'll like it."

  "No, with you, Jeremy will play."

  I realized she was right.

  "Now, go sit and relax," Peggy told me. Then the smile faded. I was sized up. "You working out or something and not telling me? You've lost weight."

  "No good fast food where they sent me."

  "Hm."

  As she pulled open the refrigerator door, I walked into the den. I eased into my wheezing armchair, surrounded by the 121 games on the shelves. A thought occurred to me, a thought directed to one of my recent principals: You're more right than you know, Joanne. It's not impossible to have the two lives. The public, the private. The dark, the light. The madness, the dear sanity.

  But that balancing act takes so very much work. Superhuman, it sometimes seems.

  You have to force aside every memory and thought of your other life, your life with your loved ones when they pop into your head. If you don't, the distraction could be fatal.

  You have to accept the loneliness of a secret life. Like the one I live four or five days at a time, or more, on the road, in safe houses and in the Alexandria town house, which the government subsidizes so I can be on call, near the office. Even though it's near my beloved gaming club, even though it's filled with some of the favorite games in my collection, even though it's decorated with certificates and commendations I've received from the Diplomatic Service and from my present organization, it's essentially an empty place, smelling of cardboard and paint. It just isn't home.

  And, most difficult of all--if you want to lead this double life--you must deceive.

  Peggy knows I work for the government but, because of my degree in math, she thinks it has something to do with scientific analysis of secure federal facilities here and abroad. I've told her I can't say anything more and I assure her it's not dangerous, just highly classified. A lot of numbers crunching. Boring.

  She understands, I think, and accepts that I have to be tight-lipped.

  And, conversely, I share little about my home life with my coworkers--all but the closest, like Freddy. Buried deep somewhere in federal government human resource departments, of course, are full records about me and about Peggy, the boys, my mother--she lives in San Diego--and my three older brothers, one an insurance executive and two college professors. Those files will be relevant should benefits and retirement and beneficiary issues arise but like so much else in my life, I've done everything I humanly can to make sure facts about me are NTK.

  Need-to-know . . .

  To most of the people I come across in my job I'm single, childless, a resident of Old Town Alexandria and probably a widower with a tragic past (the stalker story I told Maree was true, though it didn't end as dramatically as I suggested when making my point to the young woman). I'm a stiff federal employee who doesn't tell jokes or smile much. I prefer to be called by the pretentious, one-syllable "Corte."

  Gratefully, I was now drawn from these thoughts by a high-pitched shout of youthful joy from behind me. I rose, turning and smiling.

  My youngest, Sammy, had awakened and stood in the doorway. "Daddy, you're home!" He was in SpongeBob pajamas and his hair was tousled and he looked adorably cute.

  I immediately set the wineglass down. I knew the boy was going for a running leap. Greeting me this way had become a recent tradition. And sure enough, bare feet thumping, he sped toward me, ignoring his mother's laughing plea from the kitchen to be careful.

  But I encouraged him. "Sammy, come on, come on!" I called, sounding, I'm sure, as enthusiastic as I felt. And, as he took off into the air, I braced myself firmly and made absolutely certain that my son landed safe and unharmed in my waiting arms.

  Acknowledgments

  Corte's strategies involving game theory and his ideas about rational irrationality come largely from The New Yorker writer John Cassidy and his marvelous (and sobering) book, How Markets Fail.

  Many thanks to the folks who have made this book what it is: Sarah Hochman, Carolyn Mays, Deborah Schneider, Vivienne Schuster . . . and, as always, Madelyn, Jane and Julie.

  CARTE BLANCHE

  JEFFERY DEAVER

  Available in hardcover from Simon & Schuster

  Turn the page for a preview of the latest 007 novel . . . Carte Blanche

  Chapter 1

  HIS HAND ON the dead-man throttle, the driver of the Serbian Rail diesel felt the thrill he always did on this particular stretch of railway, heading north from Belgrade and approaching Novi Sad.

  This was the route of the famed Arlberg Orient Express, which ran from Gree
ce through Belgrade and points north from the 1930s until the 1960s. Of course, he was not piloting a glistening Pacific 231 steam locomotive towing elegant mahogany-and-brass dining cars, suites and sleepers, where passengers floated upon vapors of luxury and anticipation. He commanded a battered old thing from America that tugged behind it a string of more or less dependable rolling stock packed snugly with mundane cargo.

  But still he felt the thrill of history in every vista that the journey offered, especially as they approached the river, his river.

  And yet he was ill at ease.

  Among the wagons bound for Budapest, containing coal, scrap metal, consumer products and timber, there was one that worried him greatly. It was loaded with drums of MIC--methyl isocyanate--to be used in Hungary in the manufacture of rubber.

  The driver--a round, balding man in a well-worn cap and stained overalls--had been briefed at length about this deadly chemical by his supervisor and some idiot from the Serbian Safety and Well-being Transportation Oversight Ministry. Some years ago this substance had killed eight thousand people in Bhopal, India, within a few days of leaking from a manufacturing plant there.

  He'd acknowledged the danger his cargo presented but, a veteran railway man and union member, he'd asked, "What does that mean for the journey to Budapest . . . specifically?"

  The boss and the bureaucrat had regarded each other with the eyes of officialdom and, after a pause, settled for "Just be very careful."

  The lights of Novi Sad, Serbia's second-largest city, began to coalesce in the distance, and ahead in the encroaching evening the Danube appeared as a pale stripe. In history and in music the river was celebrated. In reality it was brown, undramatic and home to barges and tankers, not candlelit vessels filled with lovers and Viennese orchestras--or not here, at least. Still, it was the Danube, an icon of Balkan pride, and the railway man's chest always swelled as he took his train over the bridge.

  His river . . .

  He peered through the speckled windscreen and inspected the track before him in the headlight of the General Electric diesel. Nothing to be concerned about.

  There were eight notch positions on the throttle, number one being the lowest. He was presently at five and he eased back to three to slow the train as it entered a series of turns. The 4,000-horsepower engine grew softer as it cut back the voltage to the traction motors.

  As the cars entered the straight section to the bridge the driver shifted up to notch five again and then six. The engine pulsed louder and faster and there came a series of sharp clangs from behind. The sound was, the driver knew, simply the couplings between wagons protesting at the change in speed, a minor cacophony he'd heard a thousand times in his job. But his imagination told him the noise was the metal containers of the deadly chemical in car number three, jostling against one another, at risk of spewing forth their poison.

  Nonsense, he told himself and concentrated on keeping the speed steady. Then, for no reason at all, except that it made him feel better, he tugged at the air horn.

  Chapter 2

  LYING AT THE top of a hill, surrounded by obscuring grass, a man of serious face and hunter's demeanor heard the wail of a horn in the distance, miles away. A glance told him that the sound had come from the train approaching from the south. It would arrive here in ten or fifteen minutes. He wondered how it might affect the precarious operation that was about to unfurl.

  Shifting position slightly, he studied the diesel locomotive and the lengthy string of wagons behind it through his night-vision monocular.

  Judging that the train was of no consequence to himself and his plans, James Bond turned the scope back to the restaurant of the spa and hotel and once again regarded his target through the window. The weathered building was large, yellow stucco with brown trim. Apparently it was a favorite with the locals, from the number of Zastava and Fiat saloons in the car park.

  It was eight forty and the Sunday evening was clear here, near Novi Sad, where the Pannonian Plain rose to a landscape that the Serbs called "mountainous," though Bond guessed the adjective must have been chosen to attract tourists; the rises were mere hills to him, an avid skier. The May air was dry and cool, the surroundings as quiet as an undertaker's chapel of rest. Bond shifted position again. In his thirties, he was six feet tall and weighed 170 pounds. His black hair was parted on one side and a comma of loose strands fell over one eye. A three-inch scar ran down his right cheek.

  This evening he'd taken some care with his outfit. He was wearing a dark green jacket and rainproof trousers from the American company 5.11, which made the best tactical clothing on the market. On his feet were well-worn leather boots that had been made for pursuit and sure footing in a fight.

  As night descended, the lights to the north glowed more intensely: the old city of Novi Sad. As lively and charming as it was now, Bond knew the place had a dark past. After the Hungarians had slaughtered thousands of its citizens in January 1942 and flung the bodies into the icy Danube, Novi Sad had become a crucible for partisan resistance. Bond was here tonight to prevent another horror, different in nature but of equal or worse magnitude.

  Yesterday, Saturday, an alert had rippled through the British intelligence community. GCHQ, in Cheltenham, had decrypted an electronic whisper about an attack later in the week.

  meeting at noah's office, confirm incident friday night, 20th, estimated initial casualties in the thousands, british interests adversely affected, funds transfers as discussed.

  Not long after, the government eavesdroppers had also cracked part of a second text message, sent from the same phone, same encryption algorithm, but to a different number.

  meet me sunday at restaurant rostilj outside novi sad, 20:00. i am 6+ feet tall, irish accent.

  Then the Irishman--who'd courteously, if inadvertently, supplied his own nickname--had destroyed the phone or flicked out the batteries, as had the other text recipients.

  In London the Joint Intelligence Committee and members of COBRA, the crisis management body, met into the night to assess the risk of Incident 20, so called because of Friday's date.

  There was no solid information on the origin or nature of the threat but MI6 was of the opinion that it was coming out of the tribal regions in Afghanistan, where al-Qaeda and its affiliates had taken to hiring Western operatives in European countries. Six's agents in Kabul began a major effort to learn more. The Serbian connection had to be pursued, too. And so at ten o'clock last night the rangy tentacles of these events had reached out and clutched Bond, who'd been sitting in an exclusive restaurant off Charing Cross Road with a beautiful woman, whose lengthy description of her life as an underappreciated painter had grown tiresome. The message on Bond's mobile had read, NIACT, Call COS.

  The Night Action alert meant an immediate response was required, at whatever time it was received. The call to his chief of staff had blessedly cut the date short and soon he had been en route to Serbia, under a Level 2 project order, authorizing him to identify the Irishman, plant trackers and other surveillance devices and follow him. If that proved impossible, the order authorized Bond to conduct an extraordinary rendition of the Irishman and spirit him back to England or to a black site on the Continent for interrogation.

  So now Bond lay among white narcissi, taking care to avoid the leaves of that beautiful but poisonous spring flower. He concentrated on peering through the Restoran Rostilj's front window, on the other side of which the Irishman was sitting over an almost untouched plate and talking to his partner, as yet unidentified but Slavic in appearance. Perhaps because he was nervous, the local contact had parked elsewhere and walked here, providing no number-plate to scan.

  The Irishman had not been so timid. His low-end Mercedes had arrived forty minutes ago. Its plate had revealed that the vehicle had been hired today for cash under a false name, with a fake British driving license and passport. The man was about Bond's age, perhaps a bit older, six foot two and lean. He'd walked into the restaurant in an ungainly way, his feet turne
d out. An odd line of blond fringe dipped over a high forehead and his cheekbones angled down to a square-cut chin.

  Bond was satisfied that this man was the target. Two hours ago he had gone into the restaurant for a cup of coffee and stuck a listening device inside the front door. A man had arrived at the appointed time and spoken to the headwaiter in English--slowly and loudly, as foreigners often do when talking to locals. To Bond, listening through an app on his phone from thirty yards away, the accent was clearly mid-Ulster--most likely Belfast or the surrounding area. Unfortunately the meeting between the Irishman and his local contact was taking place out of the bug's range.

  Through the tunnel of his monocular, Bond now studied his adversary, taking note of every detail--"Small clues save you. Small errors kill," as the instructors at Fort Monckton were wont to remind. He noted that the Irishman's manner was precise and that he made no unnecessary gestures. When the partner drew a diagram the Irishman moved it closer with the rubber of a propelling pencil so that he left no fingerprints. He sat with his back to the window and in front of his partner; the surveillance apps on Bond's mobile could not read either set of lips. Once, the Irishman turned quickly, looking outside, as if triggered by a sixth sense. The pale eyes were devoid of expression. After some time he turned back to the food that apparently didn't interest him.

  The meal now seemed to be winding down. Bond eased off the hillock and made his way through widely spaced spruce and pine trees and anemic undergrowth, with clusters of the ubiquitous white flowers. He passed a faded sign in Serbian, French and English that had amused him when he'd arrived:

  SPA AND RESTAURANT ROSTILJ

  LOCATED IN A DECLARED

  THERAPEUTIC REGION, AND

  IS RECOMMENDED BY ALL

  FOR CONVALESCENCES AFTER

  SURGERIES, ESPECIALLY

  HELPING FOR ACUTE AND

  CHRONIC DISEASES OF

  RESPIRATION ORGANS, AND

  ANEMIA. FULL BAR.

  He returned to the staging area, behind a decrepit garden shed that smelled of engine oil, petrol and piss, near the driveway to the restaurant. His two "comrades," as he thought of them, were waiting here.

  James Bond preferred to operate alone but the plan he'd devised required two local agents. They were with the BIA, the Serbian Security Information Agency, as benign a name for a spy outfit as one could imagine. The men, however, were under cover in the uniform of local police from Novi Sad, sporting the golden badge of the Ministry of Internal Affairs.