World Without End

by Chris Mooney

  "Yeah, that beauty parlor stuff takes up a lot of time." Booker grinned, his eyes moving away from the paper to Conway's new haircut and his unshaven face.

  "You starting to get that city look. Going out and hitting the clubs.

  You planning on sticking around?"

  "I figured I'd go with you to work today, see I can figure out where you landed the gelt for such a place like this."

  "Only way a brother can do it: hard work."

  Camille walked out from behind the island counter and moved into the kitchen carrying two plates stacked with omelets and wheat toast. She was tall for a woman, almost five-ten, her body long and slender under the jeans and red cardigan sweater. Her hair was tied up in a bun, her face free of makeup and still radiating that tough but youthful look of the nineteen-year-old business major from UNH who had fought her way through college and life with a blend of natural intelligence and street smarts. Camille was gentle and loved to laugh, but she also was outspoken and rarely held her feelings back; you always knew where you stood with her at any given moment. Conway had known her since college and knew that right now she was biting down hard on a subject matter that had, for the time being, divided the air between her and her husband.

  Conway hated the uneasy silence; it reminded him of foster homes. The eternal stranger with the unknown history, the one always stared at and studied like a zoo specimen. When Camille placed the plate of food in front of him, he said, "Thanks again for letting me stay with you, Camille."

  "You're welcome, Steve." But the words were forced and so was the smile. She placed a steaming plate of food down in front of Booker, her body rigid, and walked back into the kitchen where she picked up the orange halves and started making freshly squeezed juice.

  "This is quite the pad," Conway said, wanting to take off the edge.

  "When am I going to see this place on Cribs'?"

  "On what?" Booker said.

  "MTV Cribs." Conway looked at the massive living room with its big-screen TV Color security cameras were mounted above the screen.

  "That where you and the soldiers kick back and watch Scarface?"

  "I get it. Us black folks get our homes featured on MTV Cribs while the old and crusted cracker types get Architectural Digest."

  "You tell Steve about the phone call?" Camille asked.

  Book didn't look at her.

  "I was getting to it," he said.

  "A woman called for you yesterday. She asked if you were staying here, Camille said yes, and then the woman said she would call back and hung up."

  "She didn't leave a phone number?"

  "She said you would know how to get in contact with her. Said she had some good news for you."

  Conway nodded and ate a piece of toast. Had to be Pasha. He glanced at his gym bag in the living room. The mikes in his watch, Palm, and cell phone were stuffed deep in his bag, so Cole and Raymond couldn't listen to this conversation.

  "Who's the girl?" Booker asked, his eyes even.

  "Must be someone from work checking in on me. I left this number."

  "And here I was, hoping you had a steady. How long you out here for?"

  "A couple of weeks. More if I need it. You got time to show me around the company this morning?"

  "Only if you're serious about keeping your ass here."

  "It's a possibility," Conway said.

  "Book's been asking you for years to come work for him," Camille said.

  She had stopped squeezing the oranges. The red-colored fingernails of her right hand danced across the lever of the juicer.

  "Why the sudden interest now?" she asked.

  "Life is short," Conway said.

  "I'd like to explore my options."

  "You're right, Steve. Life is very short. It's a very precious thing that should never be taken for granted," Camille said, her eyes locked on her husband the entire time.

  Booker's company was located on the twenty-first floor of 100 Summer Street in Downtown Crossing less than a fifteen-minute walk from his Beacon Hill condo. Conway followed Book through the narrow maze of one-way streets shaded by the tall, red brick-faced apartments, condos, and townhouses. The first snowstorm of the season had left a little over two inches of snow. Thirtysomethings were out walking their dogs or strolling their kids bundled in coats and hats and mittens; others were brushing off their cars or on their way to work, well-dressed city professionals in a race to get downtown, everyone's face red, their breaths puffing in the cold, sharp morning air.

  Book lumbered with his hands in his pockets and chewed his gum with methodical care. He said nothing, his eyes covered behind his black-lens sunglasses. They crossed the street and walked down the steps, and entered Boston Common. The wind picked up again and rattled the branches of the balding trees.

  "Late yesterday afternoon, Camille took Troy and Trey to the Public Garden and her cell phone rang," Booker said. They were walking through the park now, heading toward Tremont.

  "Some dude gets on and says, "I've got Troy locked in my crosshairs right now. You tell Conway to deliver the decryption code by tomorrow or I'll blow one through the head of your little boy." "Those were the exact words?" Conway asked. He felt pins and needles dance across his scalp and race down his spine. He looked around. No people close by.

  "I asked Camille for the exact words. That's what she told me."

  Angel Eyes wouldn't speak like that. The words didn't match the polished man Conway had talked with on the phone last night.

  It's got to be Cole.

  A moment later, they crossed the always busy Tremont Street and walked down Winter Street, a small, red-brick-lined alley that led straight into the heart of Downtown Crossing. Set up on the corner of Filene's department store was a grocer with a green apron selling fresh fruits and vegetables and fresh-cut flowers out of pots. Crowds of people poured out of the T's orange line stop and marched down Summer Street's cobblestone walk toward work.

  Any one of these people could be part of Angel Eyes's group or Cole's.

  Conway had left his stuff in Booker's condo, but that didn't mean someone close by couldn't pick up on his conversation.

  Booker's in danger. You 've got to tell him the truth.

  But not here. Cole's men could be lurking close with surveillance gear. It was easy to do.

  A Starbucks was on his right. Conway had an idea.

  "Let's grab some coffee," Conway said.

  "I got coffee at the office."

  "But not those fancy croissants you love." Conway opened the door and with a jerk of his head motioned for Booker to join him.

  The walls of the Starbucks coffeehouse were painted in shades of yellow and gold; the place buzzed with activity and energized jazz music, the warm, rich air packed with the soothing aroma of fresh coffee and perfume from the well-dressed, good-looking women who crowded the counters as they waited for their venti-size lattes and cappuccinos. A few minutes passed, and a tired kid with blond hair and a pierced nose yelled out, "Next."

  Conway ordered a large coffee and two croissants and handed the kid his Visa card. When the kid handed Conway the receipt to sign, Conway signed one copy and on the back of the other wrote a note: We're being followed and watched. Will explain everything but need a room where we can talk without fear of electromagnetic eavesdropping.

  Conway held out the receipt so Booker could read the writing and said,

  "Hold this for me, will you? I've got my hands full."

  Conway grabbed the plastic bag and his coffee and headed out the door.

  Booker's office was long and wide and had the mark of a professional interior decorator. A mahogany bookcase lined the far east wall, the shelves filled with framed pictures of Booker with his family and friends and various A-list actors and several high-profile Boston politicians. No overhead lights, just desk lamps that, along with Miles Davis playing low over the ceiling-mounted speakers, gave the room a warm, inviting feel.

  His secretary, a bubbly, beautiful redhe
ad named Robin Tigges, came inside the office holding a silver tray with milk, sugar, and plates for the croissants. She was dressed in a gray power suit and wore a gold watch and tasteful gold loop earrings. She placed the tray on the small table next to Conway's chair and then left the office, shutting the door behind her.

  Booker sat behind a mahogany desk that was the size of a moat. A small, white circular device the size of a fire alarm was on his desk.

  He pressed a button and the light on the device turned green.

  "It's safe to talk, even if you're wired," Booker said, his tone all business.

  "You wired now?"

  "Not anymore."

  "Where is it?"

  "The items are stored inside a freezer bag inside my gym bag at your condo."

  Conway sat in one of the two oversize leather chairs backed up against the wall. Behind Booker were windows partially overwhelmed by the view of a drab, gray-concrete skyscraper. As Conway stared at the world outside, he replayed the events from Austin, John Riley's death, and meeting Angel Eyes all of it so overwhelming, avalanches threatening to topple. Where to begin?

  "Why you wired?" Booker said.

  Conway looked back at Booker, who chewed his gum, waiting for an answer. The man sitting across from you is the last remaining member of your family, a voice said. His wife and his kids have been targeted. No more secrets, Steve. You owe it to Booker, and you owe it to Riley. Fuck protocol and get it all out in the open. Now.

  "I can't help you unless you talk," Booker said.

  "I work for the CIA."

  Booker stopped chewing his gum. The skin stretched tight across his face. His eyes were motionless. It was the first time Conway had seen his friend surprised. Booker leaned forward in his chair and spread his arms across his desk.

  "You telling me you're a spook?"

  "It's a unit called IWAC," Conway said.

  "Information Warfare Analysis Center. We deal with technology proliferation. We're after a guy known only as Angel Eyes. He's been stealing high-tech, cutting-edge military weapons stuff that could destroy a nation if it got in the wrong hands."

  "I got ex-CIA guys here. Never heard of IWAC."

  "That's because it doesn't exist."

  "Black op?"

  "Something like that. We're not on the radar screen."

  "Explains why you moved around so much, why you couldn't stick around here. Got to keep the secrecy thing going."

  "In part."

  "Yeah, the other part is you enjoy playing the emotional nomad. Don't like to let anyone in. CIA loves guys like you. No family, no kids or connections, you get wiped off the planet nobody going to start asking the wrong questions."

  "I met Renee Kaufmann yesterday."

  Booker leaned back in his chair.

  "Goddamn, you're full of surprises this morning. And it's only nine."

  "She left a note for me at the funeral home. She asked me to meet her yesterday. Alone. At the Aquarium."

  "Let me guess. That picture of the guy in the tank on the newspaper and on the news, that was you."

  Conway nodded.

  "Who blew the hole in the tank?" Booker asked.

  "Pasha Romanov, an IWAC member who is supposed to be dead."

  "And the shark food?"

  "A Russian mobster named Misha. He was looking for the decryption code for a high-tech military suit that uses a technology called optical camouflage. The company in Austin Praxis they were developing this technology along with the army. The operation went south. I was inside the lab when it went down."

  The guilt that had been festering inside his chest rose again, swelling, like a tidal wave about to come crashing down, overwhelming in its intensity. He tried to push it back and a voice said, Get it all out in the open. He looked back up at Booker.

  "I thought I hit the speed dial to call for our backup team. I accidentally called John Riley."

  Booker stared back for a moment, unblinking, and then slowly turned and faced the window. Outside, a plane climbed high into the blue sky. On the opposite building, the sun reflected like balls of white fire in the dozens of windows. Several minutes passed. The Miles Davis song ended and the CD player shifted to another compact disc, some classical thing.

  "Renee didn't want to put you or your family in danger, that's why she wanted to meet alone with me," Conway said.

  "The people who killed Riley, Renee saw the entire thing. My name was mentioned. I was the next target. That's why she wanted to meet me.

  They think I know the code."

  "Do you?"

  "I think so."

  "So now they see you hanging around me and my family, and they're going to come after us. Use us as a bargaining tool to get the code from you."

  "That's the way it looks."

  "Where's Renee now?"

  "I have no idea," Conway said, and felt suffused with guilt again, as if he willingly led her into the slaughter. It wasn't supposed to go down like this.

  She could be alive. She'd make a powerful bargaining chip.

  Conway took in a deep breath and then said, "She saw the entire thing, Book. And she recorded it."

  Booker turned around.

  "Video-conferencing software," Conway said.

  "She burned it onto a CD. It's stored in a safety deposit box. At the Eastern Bank on Broadway in Lynn."

  "So why didn't you drive there and get it? You got CIA backing you up, why you here telling me all this?"

  "The people who killed Riley…" Conway's face clouded. He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor.

  "I think these people are on my side of the fence."

  "You know this for a fact?"

  "Yesterday, at the Aquarium, one of Angel Eyes's men saved my life and then warned me about my boss."

  "Angel Eyes," Book said.

  "That's the dude from Texas who blew up the airport parking lot."

  Conway nodded, rubbed his palms together. He told Book the rest of what happened in Austin. When he was done, Conway said, "All this time, I've been told that Angel Eyes killed Riley out of revenge, to bring me here to Boston."

  "Because Angel Eyes wants the decryption code."

  Conway nodded.

  "Before I met with Renee, I was supposed to meet with my handler. Only it was Angel Eyes. Right there he had the opportunity to create some clever lie and take me in. But he didn't. He let me go so I could rescue Renee."

  "And you believe, what, he's on your side?"

  "I don't know what to believe anymore."

  "One thing I do know. A contact I got in the department, I bumped into him last night. The cops who were shot at the Aquarium weren't real cops. They're Russian gangsters."

  "I want to get inside that safety deposit box. Can you get me an ID with Riley's name on it?"

  "I can have that made within an hour. Now we need to make arrangements."

  " We don't need to do anything. This is my mess. I'll clean it up."

  "With what? You just said your boys are dirty."

  "I don't know that for sure."

  "But you will when you see the CD. You expect me to sit here and leave you to fend for yourself? Not my style, hoss."

  "These guys are pros. They wipe people off the board without getting their hands dirty. Go home and be with Camille and " "Camille and the boys are going to stay home. They're covered, and they're safe." Booker picked up the phone and hit an extension.

  "Bobby? Gather up the boys and meet me in my office." Then Book hung up the phone and looked at Conway from across the desk, his eyes veiled.

  "All this time, you've been a spook." Book grinned, flashed his white teeth.

  "Never would have guessed that one."

  I have a feeling my employment days are numbered, Conway said to himself.

  "I need a phone, preferably one with one-twenty-eight-bit encryption," he said.

  "I got access to stuff the NSA boys can't crack. Who you need to call?"

  "
Pasha."

  "That your spook girlfriend? The one who called the house?"

  "Yeah."

  Booker stared at him, preparing a question.

  "I trust her," Conway said.

  "How much?"

  "As much as I trust you."

  Booker nodded, blew out a bubble and then popped it.

  "You CIA guys love to give code names to operations, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "We'll call this one Operation Oreo. Soft white center protected by hard black shells. Don't worry, Steve, the guys after you, they ain't going to be pissing in the playground much longer."

  Jonathan Cole sat in a swivel chair in the back of a bulky Channel 5 Action News van that was parked near the State House. He drank a cup of green tea with skim milk serenity tea, the woman at Starbucks had called it and over the steam watched as Owen Lee sat hunched over the controls of the surveillance equipment. Owen had the ear pad of a headphone set against the side of his head. Lee's partner, Mark Alves, also known as the Elf, sat behind the wheel.

  Lee tossed the headphones onto the console and pivoted around in his swivel chair. He wore jeans, Timberland boots, and a red bandana. When he removed the Blow-Pop from his mouth, his lips made a wet, smacking sound. A gold loop dangled from each ear.

  "I still can't hear a goddamn thing," Lee said.

  "Then move your men closer," Cole said. They had men with surveillance equipment shadowing Conway.

  "I can't without spooking Conway. The dude's a pro. Why the fuck would he remove all of his gear? I can't hear anything off the bugs."

  Because I called and threatened to kill his friend's kids that's why.

  Cole placed the call late yesterday afternoon. He wanted to throw Conway's balance off, overload his brain with concern for the safety of his friend's family. By the end of this evening, Cole would have Conway and the cloaking suit.

  "I say we bring him in now," Lee said.

  "Make him spill what he knows."

  "He won't talk."

  "What did you manage to get out of the girl? You were down there for a long time."

  "Renee told me she witnessed everything and burned it onto a CD."

  Lee swallowed and licked his lips. He looked pale. The Elf turned around in the driver's seat. Cole drank his tea, waited, enjoying this.