World Without End

by Chris Mooney

  Conway couldn't see a way around it.

  "She left a note for me with the director of the funeral home, asking me to meet her at the Aquarium," he said.

  "I went up to the top floor and found her, and that's when Misha came in. He took her away before I got a chance to talk with her."

  "And now Misha's shark food."

  "You sound crushed."

  Cole laughed.

  "Actually, I couldn't think of a better ending for Misha. This note from the funeral home, you got it with you?"

  Conway had the note in his back pocket. It was wet, dissolved probably.

  "I shredded it," he said.

  Cole pulled over into the breakdown lane, parked the car, left it running. He twisted sideways, his left hand still draped over the steering wheel.

  "You mind if I search you?" he asked, smiling.

  "Go for it."

  Cole looked like he was considering it. Then his eyes cut sideways, out the front window. He licked his lips and then rubbed them together for a moment.

  "The guy sitting in the back of the van with us, Parker, he look familiar to you?"

  "No," Conway said.

  "He should. He was at the funeral home, the night of your friend's wake."

  Conway thought back to it but couldn't remember seeing his face.

  "After you left, he talked to the funeral director and then went to a pay phone and placed a phone call. I traced the number. It belongs to a man named Chris Wiley. He's a counterterrroism expert with the FBI.

  He's also a friend of John McFadden."

  "The dead mole."

  Cole looked back at Conway.

  "You're starting to see the big picture? We got a goddamn spy network within the CIA. Can you imagine what would happen if this sort of news got out?"

  "You're sure about this?"

  "I'm sure about Parker. He bought a Rolex in downtown Boston a few days ago. I replaced it with an identical watch, only this one had a bug in it. I heard him talking with the funeral director and heard the whole conversation with McFadden's friend, Wiley. Raymond thinks and I happen to agree with him that these two boneheads are part of a spy ring that is feeding information to Angel Eyes."

  It made perfect sense, of course. But how did Conway know this guy was telling the truth?

  You live in a wilderness of mirrors. Be careful, Stephen. Jackals surround you.

  "This guy Parker, he's been with Bouchard since the beginning. Parker's run all sorts of black ops," Cole said.

  "When you finally figure out the decryption code and hand it over to Bouchard, Parker's going to blow a bullet through the back of Ray's head. So when you do figure out the code, you are to tell no one but me. Understand?"

  "Sure."

  "Why do I get the feeling you and I are not on the level here?"

  "You calling me a liar?"

  "I think you just survived one hell of an underwater ride and right now you're confused and scared and to top it off, you have this psycho playing head games with you. I don't think you know who to believe."

  Conway stared out the window at the passing traffic and thought, Why didn't Angel Eyes take me in when he had the chance?

  "Has he made contact with you?"

  "No," Conway lied.

  "Don't let him get inside your head and make you start thinking you can't trust the good guys."

  Conway looked back at him.

  "I know who to trust," he said.

  Cole reached inside his jacket pocket and came back with three items: a Palm Pilot, a phone, and a bulky Citizen's diver's watch. He handed them to Conway.

  "The watch is a little different," Cole said.

  "Release this button here and you have a garroting wire so sharp you can cut off a person's head. You get in an emergency situation, you press down on the glass and it turns on the emergency transponder and throws me into action. If for some reason you can't activate it, don't worry. There's a transmitter inside the watch. I can track you down anywhere."

  Conway fastened the watch to his wrist. It felt heavy. Bulky.

  "The Palm's different too," Cole said.

  "It's based on the IIIc model and has the same color screen and functionality as the one you're used to, only this one's a tad bit wider. That's because there's a sheet of Semtex inside. You hold down these two buttons and then the program comes up on the screen, see?"

  Cole showed him. On the color screen came a box asking him to place in a time.

  "Enter the time, hit the button here, and you got yourself an improvised explosives device that can take down a car. The Palm acts as the charge. Just make sure you're far away when this puppy goes off."

  Conway thought, I'm going to have a bomb attached to my hip.

  "The phone Raymond gave you," Cole said.

  Conway reached into his pocket and brought out the phone. It was wet, worthless. He handed it over.

  "Here, take mine," Cold said.

  "Before you take the car back to the city, stop somewhere and buy some new clothes and get a haircut.

  And I want you to stay with your buddy, Booker. Stick with him. That way I can watch both of you."

  "Where you want me to drop you off?"

  "I'm going to get off here."

  Cole opened the door, the inside of the car filled with the rush of traffic whizzing by. Conway climbed behind the wheel, but Cole didn't shut the door. He leaned one arm on the opened door, the other on the roof, and looked down into the car.

  "Steve, I know you're dealing with a lot right now. I can appreciate what you're feeling. But remember this: Angel Eyes was the one who killed your friend."

  Only one way to find out.

  "We're on the same team, Steve. You understand?"

  "Absolutely."

  "My numbers are programmed into your phone. Call me if you find out anything."

  Conway looked up and smiled.

  "You can take that to the bank."

  The neighborhood in this section of Lynn was made up of the lower-middle-class homes that had seen better days, the kind of place that acted like a black hole where you could disappear off the face of the earth. No one paid attention to you, they didn't want to stop and talk. No one cared. It was the perfect place to conduct personal matters without raising suspicion.

  Cole pulled his car, a rented Nissan Maxima, into the driveway of a house on the end of the street, near the Commons. The ramshackle, two-floor unit had a fresh coat of yellow paint and a chain-linked, fenced-in backyard that was full of rotting leaves, decaying dog turds, and a rusted swing set that leaned to the side, as if it were sinking into the ground. It was after five, the world dark now, the front and back porch lights turned off, the shades drawn.

  Cole got out of the car and walked up the rickety back steps. He opened the back door and moved into the kitchen with the peeling blue-and-white diamond-patterned linoleum floor and oak cabinets hung crookedly on nicotine stained rose wallpaper. The air was stale, heavy with the noxious fumes of takeout Chinese food.

  Inside the living room, the TV was on, turned to the top news story of the day: the Aquarium bombing. Cole moved through the living room and walked down the small length of hallway. The basement door was cracked open. Far below, waiting in the sound-proofed, gray-concrete belly of the house, he heard the whimpered cries behind the prayers coming from a TV gospel show.

  Through the bedroom door on the right, the light inside dimmed, Cole saw Raymond Bouchard leaning against the wall. Ray rubbed his forehead with one hand as he stared with wide, still eyes at a silent video screen that played recorded footage of the person who set up the strip of explosives against the Aquarium tank. Steve Con-way was inside the water, trapped below the bulk of Misha, who was being ripped apart by the three sand sharks.

  "Who do you think it is?" It was the voice of the techno-weenie, Owen Lee, the man-boy wearing his baseball cap backward and sucking a lollipop as he sat in a swivel chair in front of a grouping of desks that held surveillance and digital
editing equipment.

  "Pasha," Bouchard said, and then ground his teeth together.

  "I thought she was dead."

  "Her body hasn't turned up."

  "You sure it's her? These Aquarium tapes don't have sound, so I can't hear her voice. And the way those two Russian dudes went down? I don't think a chick could do that."

  "You've never seen Pasha in action. I have."

  "Let me play around with the tape, find the best angle for the face.

  Then I can enhance the image and we'll know for sure."

  "How long will that take?"

  "Give me an hour."

  Ray's head slumped forward. Cole smiled to himself. Time is running out for you, Ray. The small holes in the dam are leaking, threatening to burst at any moment now, and once the tidal wave breaks free, nothing will be able to stop the force that -will topple your personal empire. How fun it was going to be to watch Ray drown, slowly, inch by inch.

  On the screen the explosion followed, water and fish and what was left of Misha pouring onto the floor in a gushing waterfall. Cole stood in the hallway, in the shadows, invisible as he watched. Slaughter them all now? Tempting.

  The stolen military suit and its cloaking abilities hung downstairs, waiting for him. All Cole needed was the decryption code. Then he could slip inside and become invisible to the world. Forever.

  On the video monitor one of Misha's men, a Russian dressed up as a Boston cop, was up on his feet, his gun drawn and pointed at the back of Conway's head. Conway was oblivious as he crouched on all fours hacking up water. Gunshots and the Russian went down and here came a new player, a white man with a shaved head. Look behind you. Too late. The other Russian with the busted leg fired off a shot and Egghead was on the floor, clutching his stomach, already bleeding out.

  "The guy's mouth is moving," Lee said.

  "He's trying to say something to Conway."

  "Can you isolate it?"

  "Like I said, this video doesn't have sound, but I can zoom on the guy's face, have the computer try to read his lips."

  "I want to know what he said, and I want to know who the hell this person is."

  Cole could hear the strain in Raymond's voice, trying to hold up the foundation to his empire. Time to remove another brick from the wall.

  "Don't bother," Cole said.

  "The bald man belongs to Angel Eyes."

  Bouchard and Lee jumped at the sound of Cole's voice. Then Raymond moved off the wall, coming closer, his eyes bloodshot. Owen Lee went back to working on the computer, the muscles in his back tense.

  "How do you know this?" Bouchard demanded.

  "Angel Eyes is in Boston."

  Bouchard was speechless. His throat swallowed at a feverish pitch.

  "He ambushed me and my men at the hotel today," Cole said.

  "Wait when did this happen?"

  "This morning."

  "Why the fuck didn't you call me? Why didn't your men " "They work for me. At least, some of them do," Cole said, and focused his eyes on Lee, who wouldn't turn around.

  "Impossible," Bouchard said.

  "There is no way Angel Eyes could know we're here."

  "Apparently you have a leak."

  "McFadden? He didn't know about us. That part I made up."

  "Say what you want, but Angel Eyes is not only in the game, he's become a major player."

  "Did Conway give you the decryption code?"

  "He claims he doesn't know it."

  "That's bullshit."

  "Maybe. He's been fed a lot of different stories. I can tell you this much: our boy is spooked."

  "You saying he's holding out?"

  "I'm saying he doesn't know who to trust." Cole reached into his shirt pocket, retrieved the small card Conway found stuck in the flowers at the funeral home, and handed it to Raymond.

  "You had someone follow Conway to the funeral home," Raymond said, his eyes glued to the card.

  "Yes. Tony Romano."

  "What did he say? Did Conway talk to anyone?"

  "Someone blew Tony's brains out this morning. I didn't get a chance to talk to him."

  Raymond started pacing. He pressed his hand against his forehead, his eyes wide with disbelief. The rare sight of the emperor becoming unglued. Marvelous.

  "We also have a problem with Misha's boss, Alexi," Cole said.

  "Misha's shark bait, and two of his prized goons are lying dead in the morgue dressed as Boston cops. The FBI is going to put the heat on Alexi."

  "We can pin Misha's death on Angel Eyes."

  "Alexi doesn't listen to reason."

  "Then I'll bring him here and you'll kill him."

  "The body count's getting high, Ray."

  "If Angel Eyes took you and your men down, he could have taken Conway in. Why would he let him go?"

  "My guess is that Angel Eyes wanted to use Conway to bring the girl out. That way, he would not only have the person with the decryption code, he would have the witness to her boyfriend's murderer. Those are powerful bargaining chips for the suit. Personally, I don't think he's after the suit. I think he wants something far more valuable."

  "What could be more valuable than the suit?"

  "Your head hanging above his mantel."

  Raymond stared at the floor as the idea sank in.

  "You used his name to stage a phony raid and he found out. The whole world knows about him now. You have the suit he was after and to top it off, today one of his men got killed trying to save Con-way," Cole said.

  "I don't know the guy personally, but if I had to guess, I'd say he's rather pissed off."

  "What did the girl want?"

  "You mean Renee Kaufmann."

  "Who the fuck do you think I'm talking about?"

  "I don't know. They didn't get a chance to talk."

  "That's what Conway told you."

  "Yes."

  "Then he's fucking lying."

  Raymond was coming unglued. Wonderful. Cole said, "Have you talked to her?"

  Raymond took a breath and unconsciously looked down at his hand and flexed his fingers. They were cut and looked swollen.

  "Couldn't make her talk, Ray?"

  "She's downstairs, waiting for you. I want answers and I want them tonight. Understand?"

  "So Miss Kaufmann's alive?"

  "Of course she's alive. You think I killed her?"

  "I thought you might have stuck a syringe full of rat poison in her neck. For fun."

  Owen Lee said, "The person who blew Conway out of the tank was Pasha Romanov."

  Cole and Raymond turned to Lee, who swiveled around in his chair and moved to the side. On the color screen was a blown-up picture of a woman wearing a baseball cap. It was clearly Pasha.

  "One other thing," Lee said and took the grape lollipop out of his mouth. His tongue and part of his lips were stained purple.

  "I managed to isolate what the bald dude was saying to Conway."

  "I thought the video didn't have sound," Bouchard said.

  "It doesn't, but our computer has software that can read lips."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said, "Bouchard's dirty. He's setting you up. Stay away from him and his partner, Cole. You can't trust them." Cole saw the anger and fear spark in Raymond's eyes. He drank it in and smiled. Enough. Time to get to work.

  "We'll deal with Stephen tomorrow. Right now, I'm going to have a talk with Renee, see what she told Stephen," Cole said.

  "In the interim, Raymond, please try to keep yourself together. The ride is going to get very bumpy."

  When she was eleven, Renee Kauftnann learned that her grandfather had terminal lung cancer. She didn't believe it. This man had survived the worst hell on earth, the Holocaust, and although she didn't know the specifics of his ordeal (Zayde never talked about it), he did say, once, that he knew he would survive that never-ending stretch of nightmare because he had prayed to God every day. God, he had told Renee, never let good people down.

  So when Zayde got s
ick, Renee knew God wouldn't let her down. She went to Temple, she prayed, she believed in God, she could feel Him deep in her heart, the kind of warm comfort that reminded her of the way bed sheets smelled after coming out of the dryer. Deep in her heart she knew God wouldn't take away such a brave man from her, this old man with thick glasses who loved to do magic tricks with cards and make coins materialize into dollar bills, his clothes always smelling of smoke and Vicks Vapor Rub. Besides, Grandpa looked fine. But here was her mother crying in the bedroom, her father next to her, trying to comfort her but not knowing how, Renee standing in the hallway and watching, not knowing that the second man she loved would collapse from a heart attack a year later in the basement while working on a cabinet for her mother.

  Zayde sat upright in the hospital bed, his smile bright (he was always smiling) when she came in, alone, Mom waiting out in the hallway.

  "Well, hi there, Button!" He loved to call her Button because, even at eleven, she was so small.

  "Mom says you have cancer."

  "You were always blunt, Renee." Then he laughed and coughed and hacked, the deep, wheezing sounds of a man struggling to breathe.

  "Don't ever lose that. It will help you weed out the bad ones later in life."

  "You didn't answer my question."

  No change of expression in his face. He reached over and grabbed the paper cup of water and drank it out of a straw, his eyes dropping to the bed, glancing at the skin of his wrist painted with the blue numbers. In the harsh sunlight pouring in from the window, he suddenly looked so old and frail.

  "Come sit with me," he said, patting the bed with a shaking hand.

  Renee sat next to him, close to his sour breath and the smell of medicine and alcohol, her eyes staring at the hanging bottle of clear fluid attached to a tube that ran into Zayde's wrist.

  "You don't look sick," she said.

  "I am, Button."

  "Are you in pain?" she asked, her voice low, afraid of the answer, but more afraid if he said yes, she knew, even at that age, there would be nothing she could do to take his pain away.

  "I'm never in pain."

  "Never?"

  "No. I want to share something with you. A secret." He leaned in closer, conspiratorial. When he whispered, she could smell the smoke on his breath.

  "When I was stuck in the camp, I would close my eyes and think of a special place that no one could touch. It's beautiful. It's full of gardens and open fields, the sky is always blue and the air is cool and sweet and smells like apples. But what makes it so special is that your great-grandmother and grandfather are there, my friends, my dog Piper, all of the people and things I've ever loved are always there, waiting for me."