It was a good day’s work, all told. Winter dusk swirled into corners and alleys, rain clouds moving in from the north as Josiah settled himself across the table from Martin Chilwell.
The dapper man’s gaze flicked over Anna once as he laid his tan driving gloves down on the red checkered tablecloth with prissy care. Here in the back of the restaurant, the booth was relatively safe, chosen for its position near the fire and kitchen doors as well as the shelter afforded from peering eyes on the street.
Chilwell was all narrowness, from his slit eyes to his compressed balding head, his slender shoulders, and his skinny, polished wingtips. He wore a natty double-breasted suit tailored to fit over the bulge of his sidearm, and his long dark coat shouted spook.
Unfortunately, Chilwell wasn’t CIA. If the intelligence community was a family, Chilwell would be the cousin nobody ever wanted to talk about or see, working for an agency nobody would admit to even suspecting the existence of. He’d been Josiah’s contact for a good decade, from back in the heyday, and was now—if you could believe the hints he gave—mostly retired, or doing administrative work.
The busboy came, silently setting out goblets of ice water with lemon. “Thank you,” Anna murmured habitually. She always thanked servers, bank tellers, even florists and dry cleaners. It was one more thing he’d missed about her, the tiny graceful manners she took as a matter of course.
Chilwell’s eyebrows went up a little. This was his preferred type of meeting place: good food and several potential escape routes, not to mention a slightly shabby type of elegance. Chilwell’s meets tended to be in cafés that had either outlived their best days or were trying to muscle their way up, right on the fringes of the popular districts. For a man so thin and wasted, he certainly spent significant time stuffing his face.
Josiah laid the file on the table, close enough that Chil could take it if he wanted to. The threadbare red velvet on the wall muffled all sounds. Schumann played softly through hidden speakers and the tables were lit by tiny oil lamps. “Evening, Chilwell. How’s the wife?”
He had no idea if the man was married, though he wore a wedding ring. Often, Chil’s answers were maddeningly imprecise and perverse, and could be taken to refer either to a flesh-and-blood Mrs. or the agency he had given his life to.
“Demanding as ever.” Chilwell’s voice was colorless, a simple murmur. “What is this, Wolfe?”
Josiah laid it out in a few clipped sentences: a journalist, dead; interviewees, missing; the editor, dead; his own tangle with the Mob and the police. The file, in which some very odd accusations were made—but what would doubtless interest Chilwell more, the debits and credits portion. Someone was making a hell of a lot of money with this, and it could, Josiah hinted, have a bioterrorism aspect.
The agency was extremely sensitive to those kinds of things.
Plus, Chilwell had been Josiah’s handler in Tunisia long ago, and had believed Josiah and Hassan about the woman with the rats. He’d had to; she’d sicced the animals on all three of them. After that, the man had started hinting at retirement.
Who could blame him?
So Josiah told him just enough about the attackers turning into dust to whet his appetite, and closed with the tidbit that neither Eric’s death nor Anna’s disappearance was being officially investigated.
This was long work, especially with the waiter gliding up at intervals. Chilwell ordered tomato bisque to start with. By the time Josiah finished, plates of roast lamb á la Grecque with new potatoes and winter greens had appeared for both Chil and Anna, who waited for Josiah’s nod before she ate.
She had such exquisite manners. The bruise on her face was going down, thank God. He hadn’t even suggested hiding it with makeup; that would only accentuate the discoloration. He wished he was here alone with her, refilling her glass, listening to her low clear laughter.
Being as normal as someone like him could ever be.
Chilwell thought about it, picking up his wineglass and swirling the rosé inside. “How is it?” he asked Anna, solicitously.
She glanced at Josiah again. He gave a fractional shrug. “Very good, thank you.” Her tone was just as soft and polite as his. “The vinaigrette is particularly nice.”
“The chef here is a traditionalist.” The narrow man sighed. “Wolfe, you’ve gotten yourself into trouble this time.”
You don’t think I know that? “So I’ve noticed.”
“I can’t offer you backup.”
“Don’t want it anyway.” I never have, you had to twist my arm to get me to work with Hassan.
“Nice not to ask for what you can’t have. What do you want?”
“New identities for me and her, a guarantee for my staff, and latitude to finish this off. Plus any help you can provide making sure this”—he tapped the file with two fingers—“gets to the right people.”
“Who do you think the right people are, Josiah?” Chil took another bite of lamb, closed his eyes briefly.
“The agency. If there is something with…potential…in here, they might be well disposed toward me for bringing it to their attention. In any case, if this gets out, or into the wrong hands…” He left it at that.
“Indeed. We can always count on your self-interest, can’t we.” The man’s gaze rested on Anna, who studied her plate, a faint flush rising in her unwounded cheek. Her eyelashes veiled her own gaze, and that natural elegance of hers made everything around her seem a little brighter. “Which is why this is…surprising, to say the least.”
“Call me sentimental. She’s a witness, she needs protection.” If you didn’t know I was involved with her, you’re radically redefining my status as trustworthy. I kept this secret successfully, I’m sure I did—if only because I infiltrated and found my files held no mention of her, even after I retired.
Still, nothing was certain. His file could have been doctored. Eric got hold of part of it, too. Friends in high places? Or had a reporter’s snooping alerted the agency that Josiah had entanglements?
Lots of unpleasant alternatives to be had, in this situation.
“I’m interested in exactly how she came to your attention.” Chilwell signaled the waiter for a fresh basket of bread. “More wine, Miss Caldwell?”
“No, thank you.” She set her fork down. Conversation ceased until the waiter was out of earshot again.
“Her brother left my contact number in the file. I was bored.” Josiah shrugged.
“Is that so.”
It’s the only explanation I’m going to give. “She’s a noncom, Chil. Come on.”
“Sometimes there must be sacrifice, Wolfe. You know that.”
“Not this time.” I gave you everything else. Her, I’m keeping. And if you try to hurt her, you’re going to be one more obstacle in my way. You taught me to be very, very good at getting rid of obstacles.
“Don’t tell me you’re involved.” Chil’s tone was more eloquent than a whole book. Disbelief and artful half suspicion.
“Does it matter?” Josiah’s heartbeat hitched up a notch. In a few moments he would turn cold, getting ready for God only knew what and estimating just how much blowback killing Chilwell would generate.
This was not a good turn for the conversation to take.
“Are you going to do something stupid?” Chil permitted himself another sip of wine.
Why are you even asking me? “Not yet.”
That evidently wasn’t the right answer. “You’ve gotten yourself into some deep waters here. I’d feel a lot better if I knew you weren’t going to be led around by your dick.”
“My dick’s the least of your worries, Chil.” He leaned forward, hands flat on the table. “I did my time, goddammit. I’m bringing this to you rather than hopping the border and taking what I know to a foreign fucking power. I need identities when this is over, and I need contacts who can break this thing. I don’t trust anyone local further than I can throw them.”
“Don’t get dramatic.” Chilwell sighed. A faint blus
h had kindled in his sallow, freshly shaven cheeks. “I must admit, I was a little surprised to hear from you. Especially since…well. This is a delicate situation.”
Josiah’s skin shrank two sizes and grew a coat of ice in the same second. There’s another operation going on out here. Fuck. Isn’t that just my luck. The smell of the wine drifted through his nostrils, the alcoholic tang suddenly very attractive. Getting really drunk seemed like an excellent avoidance mechanism, except he’d already tried it and that hadn’t worked out well at all. “Delicate.” He managed to make the word as flat and unhelpful as possible.
Chilwell actually laughed, a dry cricket-rustle of honest amusement Josiah had heard only once or twice before. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to cut you loose; you’re too potentially useful. We want to know what’s going on inside that brownstone on Morris, and we want to know what Denton and Marshall are selling that had so many investors flocking to the table.”
Marshall? The mayor. Great. “How many other agents have you sent in?” It was only a guess, but a good one. The man’s face puckered as if he was sucking on a lemon.
“Four. None came back.” Chilwell’s gaze skittered over Anna, whose eyes had grown very large. “None of them were liquidators. Just coverts.” His fingers stole out, whisked the file off the table. Josiah let him. “Which is why it’s so surprising to hear from you. Your name was…shall we say, bandied about?”
Think. Think very quickly, Josiah. And for God’s sake be careful. If the agency had considered a liquidation agent with Josiah’s record for a domestic operation, something else had to have happened. Not only that, but Anna was squarely in the middle of the tangle, the one place he didn’t want her to be. Chilwell had a visual on her and there was enough in the file for them to dig—and if they did, they could put two and two together about Josiah’s sudden change from a cold, levelheaded liquidator to a half-suicidal monkey who’d needed help to handle a simple erasure in Cairo.
That would make things decidedly sticky.
“Always nice to be popular,” he said easily. “I assume I’m given the usual prerogative?”
“License?” Chilwell tapped his fingers precisely once on the tabletop. He wasn’t batting an eyelash at Anna’s continued presence during this conversation. Again, very bad. The game had suddenly mutated into a new shape, one Josiah didn’t like the look of at all. “We’ve never had a complaint about your methods. Bring us usable information, that’s all we ask. Will a safe house be necessary for your…witness?”
Fuck it all, they know. “She’s staying right where I can keep an eye on her. Standard fee?”
“You mean, standard fee plus the new identities and guarantees for your two misfits? I suppose you can’t simply do this as a favor. For old times’ sake.”
You cheap son of a bitch. “No.”
“I didn’t think so.” Chilwell reached for his pocket, nice and easy. His hard, narrow hand came up with a brown paper envelope, which he placed on the table and pushed toward Josiah. “The rest will be deposited in the usual account. I assume the number’s still good?”
It certainly is, but after the money gets there it will be bounced a few times to one I know is clean. “Pleasure doing business.”
“Josiah.” The man’s gaze was level and cold as a dead fish’s. “It has been remarked that you thought to bring this to us. We appreciate your discretion and loyalty. But this is very, very delicate. We will disavow, and we will cut loose, if necessary. Be careful.”
Josiah’s throat was parched and sandy. He rose smoothly. “Thanks for the warning.” He managed to sound normal.
At least, he tried to sound normal, and Chilwell didn’t push.
There wasn’t a need.
Anna gained her feet with a lurch. It was painful to watch her move; she was obviously hurting. “Thank you for dinner,” she said, awkwardly, as if she had been slightly embarrassed at a party. Her hair fell forward over her shoulder, glowing under the mellow golden light. It was hard to look at her and keep the wall in his head up, keep his mind ticking through the maze of percentages and alternatives.
“It was my pleasure.” Chil sounded genuinely pleased. “We do these things so we can have people like you on nice sunny streets, Miss Caldwell. I hope Josiah doesn’t forget it.”
That’s enough. “Leave her out of this, Chilwell.”
“Take your own advice, Wolfe.” He fluttered his long, skinny fingers. “You’re ruining a good meal. Go away.”
“See you.”
Anna didn’t protest. She limped alongside him; Josiah’s arm slid over her shoulders, both to hide her distinctive gait and to offer a little comfort. He scanned the front of the restaurant, the windows not blind with approaching night because the street outside was lit by lamps and the pale glow from shop windows. Not a hair out of place, not a single wrong note.
So why did he feel so unsettled? Chil would cut him loose in a heartbeat to serve the agency’s needs, but the agency needed Josiah alive, especially if they’d lost four ops in the brownstone.
Anna pulled her coat closed. “What do we do now?” she whispered as he palmed the door open, nodding to the maître d’.
He waited until the door was closed, taking a deep breath of night air tainted with exhaust and full of shifting shadows from the trees lining the street, their bare limbs turning the street glow into lace. It smelled like damp, rain on the way. “Now we find a room, and you get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”
“We’re not going to the post—”
“Not enough cover in the middle of the night. Come on.” His arm tightened, pulling her closer as wind ruffled the ends of her hair.
“Josiah?” Dammit, she was going to start asking questions again.
After the conversation he’d just had, he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer any more goddamn questions today.
“Be quiet, baby doll. In a minute.” Let me get my head together. You’re bad for my detachment.
And I’ve never needed it more.
“Never mind,” she said quietly, and the note of finality in those two words managed to do what Chilwell had not.
It hurt.
Chapter Eighteen
He took her to a hotel off Maple, ironically not so far from the Blake but not nearly as nice. The check-in clerk barely glanced at them or at Josiah’s ID, and Anna managed a glimpse at the names Jo signed them in under. Apparently they were now Bob and Kelly Duncan, and the ID was from Idaho.
She felt only a faint weary surprise and a low hum of physical pain, her back and shoulder and head and feet all contributing their voices to the chorus. Jo kept glancing at her, as if he expected her to start talking again, but she kept her mouth firmly shut.
There really wasn’t any point, and she just wanted to sleep. Even the meeting in the restaurant with the man who looked like her ninth-grade English teacher had taken on a dreamlike quality. It felt like she’d pulled two or three all-nighters in a row, either in college or for work, with the world comfortably behind a distant haze broken only by whatever task she had to finish next.
He gave up trying to talk to her. Anna took the small blue pill he offered and fell asleep in one tightly made twin bed without even brushing her teeth or taking her shoes off. Her last conscious thought was that feels good, when Josiah worked her left boot free of her aching foot.
Whatever was in the pill made her sleep dreamless-deep. She woke in the blackest part of night, the hushed time a few hours past midnight when sunlight is only a distant memory and even nurses and cops get lethargic.
She surfaced, in fact, with an immediate jolt and the sense that something was terribly, hideously wrong.
Cool air drifted across her face as she struggled to sit up, her body singing its concert of aches and pains. Her head was stuffed with fuzz.
I hope I don’t catch a goddamn cold to top everything off.
Two realizations hit her at once. One, the window leading out to the breezeway running past all t
he second-floor rooms was wide open, cheap motel curtains blowing in the freshening rain-heavy wind.
Two, there was a slight shuffling and an exhalation of effort. The picture she saw didn’t make any sense at first, but as she reached stupidly and habitually for a lamp—reached out to the wrong side, too, as if she was trying to turn on her bedside tensor at home—she realized that someone was holding someone else up against the wall across from her bed. The sharp little sounds were punches striking home.
Josiah! She thrashed uselessly out of the bed, stocking feet hitting the floor, and scrabbled for the gleam of cold metal on the nightstand. It was there, heavy and solid; she remembered Josiah laying the gun down and giving her an odd look, his eyes suddenly dark and distant. Shuttered.
For the first time in her life, Anna Caldwell held a gun, and she lifted it with trembling hands. “Josiah?” The word dropped down into the dark well of the room, vanishing without a ripple.
Both figures jerked. One—the one with its back to her—had long, deformed hands and hunched shoulders. He had Josiah against the wall, and a random reflection of light showed a bone-white curve of cheek, long strands of greasy hair. Her brain, used to putting together shapes before drawing them on paper, struggled briefly with the utter impossibility of what her eyes were relaying.
Then the man dropped Josiah and rounded on her, and impossibility became terror.
I’d shade in those cheekbones, if I were you, a weary, practical voice spoke up in the middle of her head. But I wouldn’t worry about it too damn much, because you’ve gone crazy. There’s no other explanation.
The face floated in midair, mostly because he wore dark clothing. He wasn’t just pale. Luminescent skin stretched tight over wide, low cheekbones and a thin mouth, heavy eyebrows painted with a thick brush over coal-black pits that had to be eyes, except for the glittering vertical slots of red revolving in their depths.
His lips hung slightly open, the creature making a small asthmatic sound because he couldn’t quite close his mouth properly.
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