by Chris Mooney
"I did."
"And?"
"And he had the security clearances. Or so the computer says."
"So now you think the computer's lying to you."
"You of all people know how easy it is to doctor those things."
"You search the computer systems here?"
"Our communications system that tracks and records all the IWAC conversations was destroyed. The backup tapes were also removed, so I don't know where Raymond was when he called you." Her voice was so calm, so level when she spoke, it was as if her words contained an inoperable truth.
"And before you ask, the answer is yes, someone raided the databases for information on Angel Eyes."
"What about the tape backups and blueprints on the suit?" They were stored at a private company called Wentz Enterprises.
"They're missing," Pasha said.
"Sounds like Angel Eyes to me."
"Stephen, you cannot ignore the possibility that Raymond " "I deal with facts. Fact: We know that John McFadden has sold out us and some of our top agents to the Russians. We also know that Misha, a member of the Russian Mafyia, is involved in this case. Fact: Delburn Systems was raided for information on Angel Eyes."
"It could have very well been staged."
"And how do you explain the pictures left for me inside the hospital room? Why would Bouchard go to all that trouble?"
"I'm looking into it."
"And why would he be connected to Misha?"
"Again, I'm looking into it."
"Come to me with hard facts and then we'll talk," Conway said.
"I think the larger issue is that you're afraid I may be right."
"I think the explosion seriously fucked up your head."
Pasha turned and limped her way to the window. She stared outside, her face as remote and cold as a storm soldier overlooking a field of graves.
Nice job, ace. Why don't you just go over there and kick her in the head to drive your point home.
The wall clock read ten minutes before four. He didn't want to think anymore. All he wanted was to go home with Pasha and get some serious sleep, talk about it in the morning when he was rested. He rubbed his eyes to get some wetness in them, then stood up and joined Pasha at the window.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Pasha leaned against the wall, quiet. He stared at her, this intelligent and resourceful woman who possessed such unnatural strength and character, her body haggard and bruised and mending. Her eyes remained still and did not move when she spoke.
"I realize what I am suggesting. I know who Raymond is. What he means to you." Pasha turned her broken face to him.
"I was the one who rushed into that basement and saved you from Armand.
You were on the floor, your heart had stopped beating. I kept you alive until the paramedics arrived."
"I know."
"And when you left without me for Colorado and wanted to be alone, I watched you, made sure you were safe, had people in place when Armand's team made another rush at you. You've trusted me all this time. I've never lied to you. Why won't you trust me now?"
Conway didn't have an answer for her. She was right, of course. She had never lied to him. She had been his protector, his teacher and mentor and lover, and with the exception of his two friends back east, Pasha Romanov was the one person in this life he knew he could trust.
"All I'm asking is for some time to look into things," Pasha said.
"If I'm wrong about Raymond, then I'm wrong, but the only way I can do my job is to make sure he doesn't know I'm alive. I think I'm being fair. In fact, I know I am."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to meet with Raymond tomorrow. He's coming to Austin."
"How do you know that?"
"After you left the condo, an encrypted e-mail was sent to our home computer. I already read it. He wants to meet you at Mount Bonnell tomorrow evening. Tell him about Rombardo but don't tell him about me.
This meeting never took place."
Pasha reached inside her suit-jacket pocket and came back with a Palm Pilot wrapped with an elastic band. She handed it to him. Conway flipped the Palm Pilot over and saw a credit card and the torn piece of a matchbook that had a phone number written on it.
"I have a phone listed under Sally Johnson," Pasha said.
"That's the number on the matchbook. Call me only in an emergency.
You're probably being watched and traced."
"What's the credit card for?"
"It contains a transmitter. Carry it with you at all times. That way I can track you."
"To do it, you'll have to stay close. This doesn't have a great range."
"I have the equipment."
Conway looked into her eyes and in that moment felt some deep part of himself become whole.
Pasha leaned forward, carefully, kissed him on the mouth, and then slid her cheek against his. He could feel her breath whispering against his ear.
"I'll find out who did this to us," Pasha said.
"We both will. If you find out anything, drop it in my locker at the gym. You know the combination."
Gently, Pasha moved away from him. He was about to walk out the conference room door when she called out for him.
"Stephen?"
Conway turned back to her.
"You can trust me, Stephen. Always. I'll never lie to you."
"I know."
Satisfied, Conway turned and left her alone in the darkness.
Raymond Bouchard, an only child, was sixteen years old when his father had the bright idea of committing suicide at home. His father sat in his favorite leather chair, the one by the bedroom window where he would read his history books and smoke his cigars, and wrapped his lips around the double barrels of a shotgun. Using his bare toe (suicide rule number one: always use the bare toe because with socks you might slip and fuck up the job), he blew his problems out onto the back wall of family portraits. The maid was off that day, and his mother was, of course, at the club.
Raymond discovered his father's body. For a reason to this day he couldn't explain, he went outside and waited on the porch for his mother to return, and when she did, around five, sunbaked and shit-faced as always, he told her that Dad was upstairs and had something important to show her.
The child psychologist, a chubby man with a beard and glasses who fancied himself an intellectual, had wanted to know why Raymond didn't call the police or cry. The shrink was especially fascinated by the manner in which Raymond chose to tell his mother. The reason Raymond gave was that he didn't know the man. His father, a businessman who owned and operated several shoe stores, was an invisible presence in the family's life. Raymond knew the man only as The Provider, the one who had provided the lavish mansion in Dover, Massachusetts; the country club memberships; the twice-yearly flights to Paris so his mother could go shopping. What was the point of grieving for someone you didn't know or love? Then the shrink started in with questions about Raymond's mother, Fiona.
Fiona had refused to discuss the incident. How could she? The textbook narcissist was too immersed in her rage about the position she had been left in, the one who now had to take control and sort out this financial mess and for once play the dual role of mother and adult.
She, like her husband, like Raymond himself, was an only child; no aunts or uncles came by the house, no neighbors or friends, not even his father's business associates. It was as if everyone viewed the suicide as some sort of lethal airborne virus.
For hours she would scream at her husband as if he was still a living presence in the house. You filthy son of a bitch. You fucking coward.
You selfish, no good prick. She would keep up with it, even at night, and Raymond would lie still in his bed and listen to her ranting, wondering more about the fear that was fueling her voice. He knew about the will had heard her talking it over with the lawyer. His father had drained all the accounts to pay off bad debts and had left her with nothing. Less than a week after the funer
al (a miserable turnout; Raymond had seen more people waiting inside a dentist's office) the moving trucks came and packed his world into boxes and took it all away. They moved to a cramped home in Arlington, Virginia, where seven years later, his mother married an investment banker. The man stayed a year and left with his secretary.
To escape, Raymond would seek refuge in the shower. He still did. Now, alone in steam and the hot water that pounded around him with the cleansing intensity of a thunderstorm stripping the city of its grime, Raymond Bouchard could relax and think. Three days had passed since the Boston incident and no word from Jonathan Cole. Bouchard had no idea if Cole had found John Riley's girlfriend, Renee Kaufmann, or if Cole was, in fact, even looking for her.
Cole was good but had for reasons unknown become unpredictable and unstable. Somewhere in his mid-forties, Cole had begun to see himself as some sort of mythological underworld deity who possessed special powers that the world needed in order to survive. He took on side projects, mercy or vigilante killings that had nothing to do with company business. Assignments were taken and rejected based on the unknown internal design of his dyslexic moral framework. It was time to deactivate him but first, sic Cole on Misha.
The water started to cool. He shut the water off and opened up the glass door. The entire bathroom was filled with a cloud of steam so thick he couldn't see the blue-and-gray tile, the two sinks, or in the corner, the three-person whirlpool bath with the windows that overlooked the backyard stretch of woods. Then he remembered: He had forgotten to turn on the fan.
Raymond reached out into the mist and reached for the towel on the hook only to discover it wasn't there. Odd. He remembered placing it there. Raymond was a strict creature of habit; the barometer of his mood was based on the order he injected into his life. This past year, he had started to notice his forgetfulness, little things like misplacing his keys and wallet, or worse, forgetting who he was calling after dialing a number. A fresh towel was in the linen closet; that much he remembered.
Dripping wet, he stepped onto cold tiled floor and almost tripped.
Careful. At fifty-three, he was in great shape he could still see most of his abdominal muscles, how many fifty-year-old men could brag about such an accomplishment but if he slipped and fell, he wouldn't heal as fast. Taking slow, measured steps, he watched his feet as he made his way through the fog to the linen closet, regretful that he was unable to take a moment to view his body in the mirror.
"Hello, Raymond."
Startled by the familiar voice, Raymond turned, slipped and fell backward. His hands reached out to absorb the impact, but his body was slippery, and when he landed flat on his ass, he fell sideways and slammed his head against the door. He grimaced and clutched the back of his head, the pain bursting behind his eyes like dozens of exploding fireworks.
"Careful. If you split your head open and pass out, you wouldn't be able to call an ambulance. You could die right here on the floor.
Alone."
Raymond slid to his right side and winced fuck, the pain was brutal. He looked up and through the steam saw the pair of black work boots on the tile, stone-colored pants against the edge of the whirlpool bath, a white shirt and the tanned, familiar face of Jonathan Cole. Dizzy, Raymond pushed himself up to his knees. Cole threw a towel at him.
Raymond found anger in any form distasteful and ugly; he had seen it transform grown men into petulant little boys. When he felt the heat rise into his throat, he swallowed it back. He needed Cole's skills.
Let Cole be the alpha dog.
"Do you have Renee Kaufmann?" Raymond asked. He rested his back against the linen-closet door and propped his arms on his knees.
"No."
"Where is she?"
"My guess is she's back here."
"Didn't you check the flights?"
"I did. She didn't fly under her own name. This woman is no dummy, Raymond."
"If you don't have her, then why are you here?"
"You called and I came."
"I didn't ask for you to meet me here, in my house."
"And I didn't ask to be pulled from the Fletcher case. I finally managed to track him down, and you've denied me access to my men."
"They don't work for you, Jonathan. They work for me."
"I'm taking them with me. Today."
"You work for the Agency, Jonathan. You have a problem remembering that I'm your boss."
"You don't own me. I'm not your dog that you can call."
"I have a project that requires your specialized cleaning services."
"Housekeeping matters bore me. Send one of your stable boys."
"I need you."
That made Cole pause. A moment later, he asked, "What do I get out of it?"
"Freedom."
Cole leaned forward, his elbows sliding across his thighs and then stopping to rest on his knees. Cole's fine blond hair was parted on the side and neatly combed, his face tanned, the skin stretched tight.
With his all-American boyish good looks and his casual dress, he looked like the kind of dedicated father seen in the stands at his son's hockey game.
"I'm listening," Cole said.
"You know Misha Ronkil?"
"I'm familiar with his sloppy work."
"I want you to kill him."
"Misha's a hot zone. The feds are keeping a close eye on him and Alexi."
Raymond knew that the best way to get Cole to come over to the other side of the fence was to feed into the man's savior complex. For once, Raymond told the truth.
"So you sold out your own men to save your hide," Cole said when Raymond was done.
"Misha is out of control. He won't listen to reason."
"Because he wants the decryption code for this military suit. Why is this suit so important? You didn't say."
Again, Raymond fed into the man's God complex.
"The suit offers total invisibility using a technology called optical camouflage."
"Cloaking."
"Yes. You climb inside the suit, punch in the code, and you're invisible."
Some of the steam had cleared; Raymond could see the possibilities working behind Cole's blue eyes. That's it, take the bait, you arrogant fuck. Raymond kept his face neutral and hid his pleasure.
"Who has the code?" Cole asked.
"I believe Steve Conway."
"The only survivor of your IWAC group."
"That's right. I'm meeting him later today. I'm going to send him to Boston."
"To attend his friend's funeral. The man you killed."
"Conway believes Angel Eyes is behind all of this. You'll be Con-way's handler. Once he hands over the code, you'll kill him. I want every loose end tied up."
"I haven't accepted the job yet."
"I'm offering you your freedom."
"I don't believe you'd let me go so easily, Raymond."
"I'm going to retire soon. I want to be left alone. Name your terms."
"I want the military suit."
Cole would never get it, of course. Raymond pretended to think about it. Then he said, "You get the Russians out of my life, you can have it."
Cole smiled.
"Then we have ourselves a deal."
"You need to find the Kaufman woman. She might have recorded evidence of what happened inside the condo."
"She'll pop up at the funeral."
"Or she won't. She could go to the police or worse, the feds."
"Did Owen post people?"
"We've got the Boston PD and the federal building at Government Center covered. If she goes in, we'll catch her. We know what she looks like."
"I'll be in Boston tonight. Send Conway to me." Cole stood up and walked over to the door. His hand on the knob, he looked down at the naked Raymond Bouchard.
"I heard you injected this man Riley with cocaine and rat poison." Cole grinned.
"I never thought you were capable of such things."
"I'll contact you after I talk to Conway."
"Just on
e last item. If you try to fuck me, Raymond, I'll eat you alive, piece by piece."
Reaching the top of Mount Bonnell required a steep climb of one hundred-plus stone steps that left even the athletic winded. Those willing to undertake it were rewarded with sweeping, panoramic views of Austin and Hill counties.
It was a quarter to six, and Conway stood in a round clearing that held a circular stone table with benches. The sun was setting, and right now the place was dead. But that would change later tonight, when teenagers and UT college kids looking for privacy or a romantic place to drink or talk or to get high or get laid would sneak inside sometime after 10:00 P.M." the time the park closed. Such an undertaking was dangerous. With only the light from the stars and moon as your guide, and with steep cliffs surrounding you, a slip or a false move could result in death. Not long ago, three pledges plummeted to their deaths when a UT fraternity had the bright idea of staging a hazing ritual here.
"Stephen."
Conway turned around. Framed against the darkening sky was Raymond Bouchard, dressed in a commanding black suit and jacket, his tie blowing in the breeze. A thin film of dust covered his black shoes. A pair of blue mirrored Revo sunglasses hid his eyes.
"Let's take a walk," Bouchard said and without waiting, turned and started down a path. Conway jogged over to catch up.
Bouchard did not appear to be in a rush; he ambled his way through the bumpy, winding path with his hands deep in his pockets his head bowed forward as he watched his feet moving across the dirt. Conway didn't talk, just followed. He looked into the infinite expanse of stars and wondered if a satellite were locked on them right now, watching, ready to record his voice and analyze it later. Computers now had the ability to tell whether or not someone was lying.
Pasha's words from just last night: You can trust me, Stephen. Always, I'll never lie to you.
All day Conway had thought of this moment, rehearsing what he would say, how he would answer Bouchard's questions. Lying to the man would jeopardize the one thing he cared for besides Pasha: his career. But Pasha… Conway's need to protect her was so intense he was willing to take on any risk, including lying to his boss. She had saved his life twice now and he loved her, so naturally, he felt protective and loyal.