by Greg Cox
Aside from that business with the stalking, she thought.
“How unfortunate for him, then,” Beria said, unmoved.
Larry gulped.
“Hey, chief,” Carl interrupted. He held a bloody Kleenex over his nose. “What about Drake and McCullough?”
Sophie assumed these were the henchmen Parker had dropped with her stun gun. They had been left behind at Trinity.
“They know better than to say anything,” Beria said, “even in the unlikely instance that they are picked up by the authorities.” The spymaster appeared unconcerned about the missing men. He made Nate seem warm and fuzzy. “Chances are, the local constabulary will simply assume that our comrades got caught up in the commotion at the churchyard. At worst, they will be charged with trespassing and/or disturbing the peace.”
Carl still looked worried. “Yeah, but—”
“I will handle matters if necessary,” Beria said curtly, annoyed by Carl’s persistence. “I have the connections to protect them. You know that. But at the moment I am more concerned with our new guests.” He regarded the hostages warily. “Scan them.”
Carl got the message. “Yes, sir.”
Rummaging beneath his seat, Carl produced an electronic wand of the sort employed by airport security personnel. This wand proved to be somewhat more sophisticated, however; within moments, an electronic beep betrayed the presence of Sophie’s hidden earbud.
“Ah,” Beria said. “It appears we did not search you quite thoroughly enough before.”
Bollocks, she thought. I was afraid of this.
“Fine.” She cast a warning glance at Carl. “You can keep your grubby paws to yourself.” Letting go of Larry’s hand, she extracted the comm from her ear and handed it over to Beria. “There. Satisfied?”
“Tsk, tsk,” he said. “Such subterfuge could be seen as a violation of our agreement.”
You’re one to talk. She shrugged. “You never said I couldn’t accessorize.”
“I suppose not,” he conceded. “Still…”
He rolled down the window, letting in a gust of cold air, and tossed the bud out of the limo. Sophie imagined it being run over by the next passing vehicle. Hardison and the others were likely to get a burst of static in their ears.
I’m a one-woman show again, she realized. At least for the time being.
Carl scanned Larry next. No beeps resulted. “He’s clean.”
“I told you so,” Sophie said.
“You’ll forgive me if I doubt your word,” Beria said. “My world is not a trusting one.”
Larry couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “This really isn’t a movie, is it?”
“I’m afraid not,” Sophie told him.
The limo headed southwest on Broadway, toward the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel. The tunnel entrance swallowed the vehicle, which headed under the East River, leaving Manhattan behind. Carl peered out the back window.
“Nobody following us, chief.”
“I would hope not,” Beria said.
Carl confiscated Larry’s wallet and handed it over to Beria for inspection. He then searched Larry’s backpack. “Hey, chief, take a look at this.”
He passed Larry’s scrapbook to Beria, who switched on an overhead light to examine it. Beria flipped through pages of photos and playbills documenting Sophie’s on-again, off-again acting career. She found herself wishing that Larry had been a little less diligent in his devotion.
“‘Sophie Devereaux,’” Beria read aloud. He lifted his eyes from the scrapbook to contemplate the woman sitting across from him. “An actress?”
“A great actress!” Larry insisted. “The best!”
“And yet I’ve never heard of you,” Beria said.
No need to rub it in, she thought. “It’s my cover story. One of many.”
“So you say.” He frowned, troubled by this latest revelation. “And yet I find myself with more complications… and questions.”
“Take your time mulling them over,” she stalled. “It’s not as though I’m going anywhere… except our final destination, that is.”
“Final?” Larry quailed at the word. “What exactly do you mean by that? Do you mean ‘final’ as in just the end of this trip, or…”
“Silence,” Beria said. “I need to think.”
He leafed through the scrapbook, a pensive expression on his face. Sophie was inclined not to disturb him. Although not part of the plan, Larry’s scrapbook was proving useful in distracting Beria from the alleged sequel in the briefcase, and muddying the waters a bit. With luck, Beria was too busy trying to figure out where Sophie Devereaux came from, and how she fit into the picture, to take a closer look at Assassins Remember.
Good, Sophie thought. We don’t want him reading the whole book just yet.
Traffic was light at this hour, so the limo made good time. Exiting the tunnel, they continued south along the expressway, hugging the western edge of Brooklyn. Before long, a metallic green exit sign pointed the way toward Coney Island. The limo took a left onto Shore Parkway.
Coney Island slumbered outside the van. The world-famous playground was only a shadow of its legendary glory, having been in a slow, steady decline for decades. The amusement area had shrunk to a few seedy blocks between Surf Avenue and the Boardwalk. The Cyclone roller coaster, having attained landmark status, had survived, but the towering Parachute Jump ride was now just a sky-high relic that had been out of commission for nearly half a century. The limo cruised down sleeping streets lined with shuttered flea markets, furniture stores, clam bars, and sideshows. Sophie caught an occasional glimpse of beach and ocean shore. Ugly high-rise apartment buildings loomed farther inland.
“Almost there,” the driver announced. A Cuban accent betrayed her roots. She wore a chauffeur’s livery, complete with cap. She seemed roughly the same age as Denise. A replacement or contemporary? Sophie thought she recognized her from Assassins Never Forget.
Right, Sophie thought. “Marisol,” the fiery Cuban refugee who was Yvette’s colleague and rival. Sophie had personally killed her off in the sequel.
“Thank you, Pilar,” Beria said. “A smooth ride, as usual.”
Unlike the one that ran down Gavin, Sophie thought. But, of course, Beria had been behind the wheel that time. Sophie wondered if “Pilar” had balked at doing the deed herself. Driving a getaway car was one thing; running down an innocent man was something else altogether.
I couldn’t do it, Sophie thought. Except to save someone I cared about.
A bumpy side road brought them to the entrance of what appeared to be an abandoned amusement park. Not one of the famous ones from the turn of the previous century like Luna Park or Steeplechase; those had all been consumed by fires and financial reversals. This park appeared to be of more recent vintage, yet another failed attempt to recapture Coney’s illustrious past. JOYLAND read the unlit neon sign above the front gate.
JunkLand was more like it.
A chain-link fence, topped with razor wire, surrounded a weed-infested ghost town composed of rotting booths, cracked concrete foundations, a few skeletal rides, and boarded-up games and concession stands. Graffiti defaced the weather-beaten structures. Broken glass, beer cans, and other refuse littered overgrown pedestrian pathways. Pools of stagnant water filled gaping potholes. A faded sign, posted at the front gate, announced the park’s GRAND REOPENING IN 2007!
From the looks of things, that had been a tad optimistic.
Towering over the grounds was an old-fashioned wooden roller coaster at least eighty feet tall at its crest. Nature was in the process of reclaiming the dilapidated ride; brown vines and moss infested its undulating climbs and dips so that it resembled an ivy-covered trellis more than a thrill ride. Letters composed of busted neon lights spelled out the defunct coaster’s name: LIGHTNING-BOLT.
Sophie thought it looked more like a firetrap.
The limo came to a halt outside the entrance. BEWARE OF DOGS! read another sign.
She hoped it was obso
lete as well.
“End of the road,” Pilar announced. She turned around in her seat and snapped photos of Sophie and Larry. “Say ‘cheese!’”
The flash made Sophie’s eyes water. She wondered why the driver had taken their pictures.
Nothing good, I’m sure.
Carl uncuffed Sophie and Larry from their seats before getting out of the limo to open the gate. He stood to one side as the vehicle drove a short ways into the park, passing a deserted ticket booth and heaps of frosty rubble. He yanked the side door open and ordered the hostages out. He waved his new gun.
“Hurry it up!”
Sophie helped Larry out of the limousine, instead of the other way around. They had barely set foot on the ground when a chorus of earsplitting barks and growls startled Sophie and caused Larry to jump in fright. A trio of vicious-looking Dobermans came dashing out of the ruins toward the new arrivals. Foam flew from their jaws. Sharp teeth gleamed in the night. Tapered ears stuck up like the horns. Beware of Dogs, Sophie remembered. She couldn’t help visualizing those teeth tearing into her, but she stood her ground. Beria had not brought them all this way just to feed them to his pooches.
Presumably.
“Halt!” Carl barked at the guard dogs, who slowed to a stop. The ferocious barking quieted, although the Dobermans continued to eye Sophie and Larry warily, suspicious of the strangers. Carl smirked at Larry, enjoying the fan’s obvious terror. He patted the lead Doberman on the head. “Good doggies.”
“I’m more of a cat person myself,” Sophie said.
“Not spiders?” Beria asked. He got out of the limo behind them. “I would have expected you to keep a pet tarantula… or perhaps not.”
Was he implying that she wasn’t really who she was claiming to be? Sophie chose to keep him guessing. “I’m seldom that obvious.”
“You might reconsider your strategy,” he said. “The time for evasion is rapidly coming to a close.”
Leaving the limo behind, the party advanced toward the decrepit coaster. Carl and Pilar flanked the hostages while Beria, as ever, led the way. As they drew nearer to the coaster, more evidence of its obsolescence presented itself. Weeds sprouted through the lower tracks, while the motor and lift chain had practically rusted away. Birds and bees nested in the upper trusses. Derelict coaster cars were parked in the thick brown grass around the base of the tracks, their once-brilliant paint jobs scratched and faded. Horsehair sprouted from ripped leather seats. Despite her dire situation, Sophie couldn’t help being struck by the decaying ruins. There was a certain melancholy beauty to the setting, as time slowly ate away at the bygone pleasures of summers past. If you listened closely, you could almost hear the ghostly screams and laughter of the coaster’s long-departed joyriders.
Or maybe that was just the wind from the shore.
“Move it,” Carl grunted, killing the mood. “We haven’t got all night.”
Larry gazed up at the creeper-covered coaster. He turned slightly green as well. “I’m not really into roller coasters. They make me nauseous.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Sophie said. The coaster had obviously been out of operation for years, maybe even decades. “I doubt we’ll be taking a ride.”
“Step lively,” Beria said. “My home away from home is just ahead.”
To Sophie’s surprise, there was a house built under the far end of the coaster, nestled within the looming steel supports. Dingy white paint, mottled with greenish mold, peeled off the two-story building’s timber walls. A rusty tin roof was impaled by one of the coaster’s steel support beams. Clotted gutters dangled precariously from the eaves. A brick chimney was badly in need of repointing; it looked like it was on the verge of caving in on itself. The windows were boarded up with two-by-fours or else painted black. The weeds around the building were knee-high and growing out of control. At first glance, the house appeared to be just as forlorn and neglected as the coaster above it. Any casual observer would assume it hadn’t been inhabited in years.
A closer inspection, however, offered hints that the house was not quite as vacant as it appeared. Sophie spotted security cameras discreetly mounted to the coaster’s trusses and support beams, keeping the grounds under watch. A satellite dish, in excellent condition, connected the house to the wider world beyond. Rather than hanging on its hinges, the front door of the house appeared both solid and secure. A wasp’s nest above the doorway, no doubt intended to discourage unwanted visitors, looked to be a well-crafted fake.
This is no squatter’s dump, she deduced. This is a going concern.
An overgrown pedestrian pathway led to the front door. Carl undid the locks and hustled them toward the door. Larry balked at entering the crumbling house, but Sophie gave his hand an encouraging squeeze.
“It will be all right,” she whispered. “Just let me do the talking.”
Larry nodded and stepped inside. “No autograph is worth this,” he murmured unhappily.
Sophie felt mildly betrayed.
Carl switched on the lights as they entered. In contrast to the house’s ramshackle exterior, the interior had been fully restored and brought fully into the twenty-first century. The living room had been converted into a working command center, not unlike the one back at Nate’s apartment. A state-of-the-art computer station was set up in a corner. Flat-screen monitors occupied one wall. Open doorways offered glimpses of a kitchen, bathroom, and living quarters. A stairway climbed to the second floor. A cherry-red coaster car, in much better condition than the derelict ones outdoors, had been transformed into a padded sofa. Logs were piled in a fireplace. A Persian carpet was spread upon the floor. Old carnival posters, mounted on the walls, paid tribute to the house’s Coney Island roots. Sophie suspected that Hardison would feel quite at home.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” she said. “Most safe houses are so lacking in character.”
Beria took off his coat and hat. The room was comfortably heated, compared to the cold night air outside. He wore a gray bespoke suit. He deposited the briefcase on top of an antique mahogany desk.
“This house has quite the colorful history,” he informed her. “Built over a century ago, it has served, at various points, as a hotel, a brothel, a speakeasy, and even a private residence for the ride manager and his family. The coaster itself was built over the hotel back in the Roaring Twenties. I’ve read that the coaster cars racing overhead sounded like thunder to the residents of the house. But, of course, that was long before my associates and I took possession of the property. The coaster closed some thirty years ago and, as you saw, has since fallen into a state of disrepair.”
“And now the house makes a nicely private, secure location for certain clandestine operations?” Sophie supplied.
“Precisely,” Beria said. “I would offer you a tour, but we still have business to conduct.” He nodded at Carl and gestured dismissively at Larry. “Secure our other guest. I wish to speak to Ms. Devereaux first.” He chuckled wryly. “Or would you prefer I call you Tarantula?”
“Sophie will do,” she said. “Since the object is to get to know each other.”
“Indeed.”
One of the coaster’s vertical supports actually pierced the ceiling, rising up like a solid steel pillar from the center of the room. Carl handcuffed Larry to the beam so that the unlucky stalker was left standing on his feet. He didn’t look particularly comfortable.
Sophie fared somewhat better. Pilar pulled out a stool for her to sit on while Beria sat down behind the desk. He opened the briefcase and took out both the electronic tablet and the bound manuscript, which he placed next to Larry’s scrapbook. Pilar shed a few layers before seating herself at the computer station. Carl sought out a first-aid kit and began tending to his Eliot-inflicted injuries. He winced as he applied antiseptic to his cuts and scratches.
“Finally,” Beria said to Sophie, “I can give you my full attention.” He settled in for the interrogation. “Let me get straight to the point. Who a
re you, truly?”
She indicated the scrapbook. “You have my entire career in front of you, such as it is.”
“Your obscure acting credits do not interest me.” He poured himself a drink from a bottle of scotch on his desk. Yet another trait he shared with Nate. “Is Sophie Devereaux your real name?”
“No,” she confessed. When in doubt, tell a truth.
“Very good,” Beria said. “Now we are making progress. And what exactly is your real name?”
Sophie had no intention of answering this question. That particular bit of biography was something she shared only with her closest friends and lovers. She had even kept it from Nate for years.
“You really expect me to cough that up right away?” She looked pointedly at the bottle of whiskey. “At least fix me a drink first. All that running around in the cemetery has left me positively parched.”
Beria’s face hardened. He did not oblige her.
“Do not think that you can charm or distract me with your witty repartee. Such banter was amusing up to a point, but that time has passed. You are not performing before a besotted audience now. I expect answers, not evasions, and I am losing patience with your theatrics.”
The story of my life, she thought. Just ask the critics.
“And here we were having such a good time,” she quipped.
“Speak for yourself.” He toyed ominously with a stainless-steel letter opener, letting its sharpened edge catch the glare from the fluorescent lights overhead. He scrutinized her features once more, perhaps looking for the telltale signs of plastic surgery. “Does the name Vicki Rhodes mean anything to you?”
Keep stalling, Sophie thought. “Should it?”
“Vicki Rhodes is a woman who is supposed to be dead, but would have known of the events alluded to in the first book. You do not resemble her, but you are the right age and gender…”
“Nice of you to notice,” Sophie said. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment…”
Beria contemplated the letter opener, holding it like a scalpel. “How long have you had that lovely face? I wonder.”