by Greg Cox
Sophie slid the book toward Parker. “Give it a chance. You might be surprised at how easy it is to get caught up in a great story.”
Parker eyed the book warily.
“The book may be a work of fiction,” Nate observed, “but its portrait of illicit black ops, of covert assassinations and shady arms deals, has the ring of truth.” He had stayed up reading the book as well, over a well-aged bottle. A mild hangover throbbed behind his eyes. “Gavin got all the details right.”
“Yeah, about that.” Hardison skimmed the book on his e-reader. “How’d a globe-trotting cameraman like Gavin learn so much about all this cloak-and-dagger stuff? He wasn’t actually a spook, was he?”
“Nah,” Eliot said. “Gavin was a straight shooter. He wasn’t mixed up in any of that. He was all about reporting the truth, not covering it up.”
“Are you sure of that?” Sophie asked. “How well did you truly know him?”
“Well enough,” Eliot said. His tone challenged anybody to disagree.
Nate was inclined to trust Eliot’s instincts where his friend was concerned, especially when there was already a plausible explanation for the book’s verisimilitude.
“According to Denise,” Nate explained, “Gavin had an anonymous informant, referred to only as ‘Tarantula,’ who provided much of the background material for the book. Gavin’s version of ‘Deep Throat,’ basically.”
“Deep who?” Parker asked.
“I’ll explain later,” Hardison promised. “Don’t google it.”
“And Denise has no idea who Tarantula is?” Sophie asked.
Eliot shook his head. “Gavin never told her, he said it was safer that way.” He gave his buddy the benefit of the doubt. “He just wanted to protect her.”
“How mysterious,” Sophie said. “The plot thickens.”
“The real plot, right?” Parker cautiously cracked open the novel, as though suspecting a trap. “Not the fake story plot?”
“As far as we know, Tarantula is quite real, whoever he or she might be. He was Gavin’s window into the shadowy world he and Denise hoped to expose.” Nate rejoined them at the table. He decided it was time to get the briefing properly under way. “But Tarantula is not our target. Gavin’s brother, Brad, is.” Nate nodded at Hardison. “You’re up.”
Hardison took his customary place in front of the wall screens. The team’s resident hacker and techno-wizard, he generally handled the background research on their targets. With pretty much the entire Internet at his disposal, including back doors into dozens of confidential databases, he could dig up dirt on people who thought they were spotless. Gesturing toward the monitors, he clicked the remote in his hand.
Mug shots appeared on the screens, providing front and side views of a middle-aged Caucasian male who fit the profile Denise had provided them. Brad Lee was distinctly piggish in appearance, with a ruddy complexion, sagging jowls, and a receding hairline. Bloodshot eyes peered out from the mug shot. A swollen red nose, lined with bulging veins, advertised a drinking problem. He scowled petulantly at the camera.
Nate glanced over at Gavin’s author photo. Not much of a family resemblance.
“Meet Brad Lee,” Hardison declared. “High school dropout. Two-time loser, with convictions for burglary, grand theft auto, a convenience-store robbery. Pretty low-rent stuff. Currently out on parole—and living large on his dead brother’s literary success.”
He clicked the remote again and an aerial view of a conspicuously large and ostentatious mansion took over some of the screens, along with a recent real estate listing. The house’s garish exterior was a jumble of mismatched architectural styles: Greco-Roman, Tudor, colonial, and New Jersey. Corinthian columns clashed with Gothic turrets, French windows, and random terra cotta roofs. An excess of ornamentation overran the stone-veneer façade. Marble cherubs and nymphs cavorted in a faux-classical fountain in the manicured front yard. An infinity pool, complete with waterslide, sparkled in the back, between the tennis court and putting green. Oversize satellite dishes looked like they could pick up signals from Jupiter and beyond. A Hummer was parked out front.
“Brad just moved into this ridiculously overpriced McMansion on Long Island. Six thousand square feet, eight bedrooms, ten baths, a home theater with working snack bar, sauna, hot tub, wine cellar, tennis court, and a split-level, four-car garage complete with car elevator. He’s currently in the process of tearing up the rose garden and koi pond to put in a dog-racing track.”
“How very nouveau riche,” Sophie commented. “People with poor taste shouldn’t be allowed to have that much money.”
Maybe we can do something about that, Nate thought.
“What’s the security like?” Parker asked.
“The usual,” Hardison said. “Wireless alarms, motion sensors, security cameras, door/window sensors, off-site monitoring, panic button…”
Parker snorted in derision. “That’s all? Seriously?”
By her standards, anything less than Fort Knox was a joke. And Nate had his doubts about Fort Knox.
“So what do we think?” Hardison asked. “Did Brad knock off his brother?”
“Hard to say,” Nate said. He reviewed Brad’s file. “Brad’s not exactly an upstanding citizen, but there’s nothing in his record to indicate that he’s particularly violent or dangerous. Even with the convenience-store holdup, he was just driving the getaway car, and claimed that he didn’t know what his drinking buddies were up to until they pulled out their guns.”
“Do we believe him?” Sophie asked.
“Not necessarily,” Nate said, “but I’m not exactly seeing Al Capone here.”
“I don’t know.” Eliot stared intensely at Brad’s mug shot. “Killing your own brother. That’s pretty cold.”
“But millions of dollars in royalties and movie deals is an awful big temptation,” Sophie pointed out. “And you don’t have to be a criminal mastermind to run somebody down with a car, especially if you already know where they live. Brad could have been tailing Gavin for a while, learning his routines.”
“And the book signing Gavin was walking home from the night of the accident had been well publicized,” Nate admitted. “Anybody could have been lying in wait.” Nate looked up at Hardison. “Do the police have anything on the accident?”
“Not really,” Hardison said. “The NYPD investigated it as a hit-and-run, but according to the police reports, which I just happened to hack into, they ran seriously short on leads. By now, the case is as cold as last night’s pizza.” Copies of confidential police files cascaded across the monitors. He refrained from calling up any grisly crime-scene photos, probably out of respect for Eliot’s feelings. “But I can do some more digging if you like.”
“Do that,” Nate said. “In the meantime, we need to get Gavin’s literary estate back into Denise’s hands.”
Righting injustices like this were his crew’s raison d’être. For four years now, they had been providing… well, leverage for ordinary people who got screwed over by the system. Nate liked to think that his team picked up where the law left off.
“And how do we do that, Nate?” Sophie looked to him to call the play. “What’s our angle?”
Nate had been giving this question plenty of thought even before their first meeting with Denise. The trick to any successful con was figuring out what the mark really wanted—and dangling it in front of them. Nate contemplated the lavish mansion on the screen. Spinning wheels clicked into place inside his head.
“Brad’s seen what one bestseller can do for his bank account and lifestyle,” he told the others. He smiled slyly in anticipation.
“I’m thinking sequel.”
| | | | | | THREE | | | | | |
FRANKFURT
The Frankfurt Book Fair was the biggest in the world. More than seven thousand exhibitors, from all over the world, crammed the seemingly endless exhibition halls. Close to three hundred thousand publishers, editors, agents, authors, publicists, and bibliophiles roa
med the crowded aisles, hoping to strike lucrative rights deals—or maybe just catch a glimpse of their favorite writer. Open booths proudly displayed blown-up book jackets and author photos. Junior editors, assistants, and interns handed out catalogs, posters, bookmarks, and other promotional materials, while their bosses huddled over tables, doing business in dozens of different languages. Milling fairgoers carried tote bags weighed down by freebies. The first three days of the fair catered exclusively to publishing professionals, but the event was open to the general public on the weekend, which made the teeming corridors all the more packed.
Nate soaked up the atmosphere as he strolled through the exhibition hall, settling into his role. This wasn’t his first time at the trade fair; he had attended Frankfurt several years ago, back when he was still legit, working as an insurance investigator, in order to get to the bottom of a high-profile case of plagiarism. That was before his own company screwed him over—and he found out that he could do more good on the other side of the law. He glanced around the hall. If anything, the fair had only grown more immense and overwhelming since his last visit. The babble of countless conversations competed with the spiels of eager publishing employees trying to entice people into their booths. Lines formed for book signings, readings, and giveaways. A six-foot-tall plush purple Pomeranian, modeled on a popular children’s-book character, waved at Nate as it skipped down the aisle.
He didn’t wave back.
“Everything set?” he murmured, seemingly to himself. “You reading me?”
“Loud and clear,” Hardison answered via the electronic bud nestled in Nate’s left ear. Bone conduction transmitted his voice and could pick up Nate’s speech as well. The concealed devices allowed the crew to stay in touch during a con. “We are good to go.”
“All right, then,” Nate said, confident that the others were already in position. He approached a large booth at the end of the aisle. Shelves of recent titles, turned face out, adorned the walls of the carpeted booth. Book trailers played upon mounted video screens. Conversation nooks allowed for meetings and deal making. “It’s showtime.”
He found Brad Lee holding court in the booth set up by Gavin’s American publisher. According to Denise, Sussex House had originally scheduled Gavin himself for this slot, but Brad had graciously volunteered to take his place. A large cardboard mock-up of the book cover advertised his appearance. Nate took his place in line behind a small crowd of interested parties. He guessed that the real author would have drawn a bigger crowd.
“I can’t tell you how impressed I was by Assassins Never Forget,” a stylish Italian woman gushed. “It was like an inspired combination of Stieg Larsson and John le Carré.”
“Who?” Brad said. He had cleaned up some from his mug-shot days, having picked up a shave and a better haircut. A new suit looked expensive. A pinkie ring glittered on his right hand. Nicotine stained his pudgy fingers. A world-famous romance novelist walked by, but Brad didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t strike Nate as much of a reader. Nate wondered if Brad had even bothered to peruse the book that was making him rich.
“Such a tragedy what happened to your brother,” the woman continued. “He had a remarkable talent.”
“Yeah, yeah, it was a damn shame,” Brad said, for no doubt the thousandth time. He made the effort to sigh mournfully. “I’m still broken up about it, you know.” He shrugged and tried to peek down the woman’s blouse. “But life goes on, I guess.”
“Indeed.” The woman offered him a business card. “I’m not sure what your schedule is like, but I’d love to talk to you about possibly doing a graphic-novel adaptation of Assassins.”
“Take a number, sister. I’ve already got plenty of offers on the table. Comic books, manga, computer games… you name it. Everybody wants a piece of the action.” He gave her an appreciative once-over, leering shamelessly. “But, sure, we can talk about it later. Maybe over drinks in my room?”
“Um, I’m kind of booked up tonight,” she said, retreating. Nate noted the ring on her finger, even if Brad hadn’t… or maybe Brad just didn’t care. The woman attempted to salvage something from the encounter. “Give me a call if you want to talk business.”
“Yeah, right,” he said sourly as he watched her walk away. He tore up her business card, littering the floor of the booth. He reached for a glass of ice water, only to find it empty. Twisting around in his chair, he called to one of the assistants working the booth. “Hey, sugar, any chance I can get a real drink around here?”
“There’s a decent bar on Level Three,” Nate supplied, stepping up to the table. “Let me buy you a beer?”
“Now we’re talking!” Brad shoved away from the table and lumbered to his feet. “I’m outta here,” he declared. “I’ll be back later… if I don’t get a better offer.”
His handlers made no effort to keep him from leaving. Nate guessed that the good folks at Sussex House were having second thoughts about letting Brad meet the public.
“This way,” Nate said. “To be honest, I could use a drink myself.”
“A man after my own heart.” Brad paused in the aisle to look Nate over. “So who are you anyway?”
“Max.” Nate held out his hand. “Max Dunfee. Antipodes Press.”
“Never heard of you.” He shook Nate’s hand regardless.
“Really? We’re the second-largest, up-and-coming publisher of quality suspense fiction in New Zealand. Maybe you read our most recent bestseller, The Kiwi Conundrum?”
“Must have missed that one,” Brad said. “But, hey, you’re buying, right?”
“Absolutely.” They made their way down the aisle. Throngs of avid fairgoers jostled them as they walked. It was a pickpocket’s dream; Nate hoped Parker was behaving herself. “I gotta say, Mr. Lee—can I call you Brad?—that your brother’s book is really going great guns Down Under. I’ve been in the business twenty years now and I’ve never seen anything like it. You’re sitting on a gold mine, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Tell me about it. Little brother did me a solid, I’ll give him that.”
“But what about the girlfriend?”
Brad bristled. “What about her?”
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” Nate said, throwing up his hands. “I just heard a rumor that she might have some legal claim on the property.”
“You heard wrong,” Brad insisted. “Just because that chick was shacking up with my bro when he died doesn’t mean she’s entitled to one thin dime. I’m Gavin’s next of kin. I own his work free and clear.”
“Great. That’s all I wanted to know,” Nate assured him. “Just wanted to make sure there weren’t any messy legal complications before we talked business.”
“What sort of business?” Brad asked. They rode an escalator up to the next level, where a corner beer garden offered weary fairgoers a chance to rest their feet and slake their thirst. Every table was occupied, but they managed to find a couple of seats at the bar. “I think we already have a deal for Australia, or New Zealand, or wherever.”
“For the first book, sure,” Nate agreed. He ordered a couple of local beers. “But what about a sequel? I don’t need to tell you that a lot of people, including Antipodes, would pay good money to find out what happens next. Assassins primed the pump. People are going to want more.”
“You and everybody else,” Brad said. “As it happens, I’m already talking to a couple of experienced writers about, you know, carrying on my brother’s vision. I’ve even had a few ideas about the story myself.” He puffed out his chest. “Gavin didn’t get all the talent in the family, you know.”
“If you say so,” Nate said skeptically. “I mean, you could do that, of course. Hire some anonymous hack to churn out a cheap imitation of your brother’s work. And, yeah, it would probably sell… somewhat.” He let his interest flag noticeably. “But can I be honest with you? That sort of manufactured product wouldn’t be nearly as valuable as a genuine sequel by the original author. I can tell you now that An
tipodes would pay a lot more for a real sequel than for some ghostwritten hack job. And so would anybody else.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” Brad admitted. “From other publishers.” Their beers arrived and Brad took a deep quaff. “But can’t we just say Gavin wrote the new book, too? Who’s going to know?”
“Readers. Critics,” Nate said. “They can always tell. Trust me on this. Your brother had a singular voice and vision. Trying to fake it would be like trying to counterfeit a brand-new classic by Graham Greene or Eric Ambler.”
“Who?”
“Never mind,” Nate said. “Are you absolutely sure your brother didn’t have some sort of work in progress when he died? Not even a first draft or partial manuscript?”
“Not that I know of.” Brad shrugged. “Sorry.”
“That’s too bad.” Nate glanced at his watch. “Crikey, look at the time. I’ve got an appointment in Hall Five in ten minutes.” He gulped down the last of his beer. “Been good talking to you, but I’ve got to run.” He handed Brad a card with a chain of islands embossed on it. “Let’s stay in touch anyway. Maybe we can still do some kind of deal.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Brad said. “Thanks for the brew.”
Nate left Brad at the bar. He waited until he was safely out of earshot before speaking in a low voice.
“Okay, the hook has been baited. Let’s see if he bites.” He passed Sophie on his way out. “Your turn.”
“Brad? Brad Lee?” Sophie sat down at the bar beside him. She was professionally attired in a tailored blue dress suit and skirt. A pair of retro cat-eye glasses rested on her nose. She’d traded her usual English accent in for something with a hint of Queens. “I must say, you’re a hard man to find.”
He leaned back to inspect her, obviously liking what he saw. “Who’s looking?”
“Veronica Drury. Of Drury and Associates.”
“You an agent?”