World Without End

by Chris Mooney

"A CD," Lee said.

  "Yes."

  "Where is it?" Lee asked.

  "She wouldn't say." Which was true. The woman's heart gave out from terror or blood loss, Cole wasn't sure, but she stopped talking and faded away before giving up the location of the CD.

  But he was sure that Steve Conway knew about the CD and its location, and that Conway was going to use his friend to help him retrieve it. If Cole could get his hands on the CD, he would trade it for the cloaking suit. That morning inside the bathroom, he knew that Raymond had no intention of handing it over. Cole always suspected Raymond wanted him out of the way. The woman's story now confirmed it.

  "She say anything else?" Lee asked.

  She also tipped me off on what you and Raymond have planned for me. I'm going to love watchir?you scream, Owen.

  Cole said, "Did you bug Mr. Booker's office?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Can't get inside there without tripping the alarms. I tried, believe me. Look, I think Conway's onto us. We should bring him in, right now."

  "Stephen doesn't trust anyone and doesn't want to talk. Everyone around him is lying and scheming. Frankly, I can't blame him for being secretive."

  "That what he told you during your private ride yesterday?"

  "Something like that."

  "Yesterday at the Aquarium, the broad must have told Conway something.

  He's got to know about the CD."

  "We'll follow Stephen and see what the day brings us. Are you feeling okay, Owen? You're sweating."

  "I don't like having this psycho Angel Eves in the "I thought it might have had something to do with hosing down the basement."

  Lee wiped his brow against the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

  "I just want to put this gig behind me. Take some time off."

  Cole's callused fingertips were stained a dull brown with Renee Kaufmann's blood. He rubbed the tips of his fingers across his lips and nose, inhaling the still-lingering coppery scent, and remembered the way her ear tasted in his mouth, his tongue cupping the hard edges of the cartilage in a moment of rapture before spitting it out.

  "Patience, Owen. Everyone's going to get exactly what they deserve."

  Booker pulled his black Lincoln Navigator against the curb, right in front of the Eastern Bank on Broadway in Lynn, a half-hour ride north of Boston. It was just after three-thirty in the afternoon, and as always during this time of the year in New England, the light in the sky was performing its quick fade. In less than an hour, the world would turn pitch black. Conway watched the people, tough lower-middle-class types, walk in and out of the bank.

  "Lynn, Lynn, the city of sin," Booker said.

  "You ever spend any time here?"

  Conway thought about his Palm Pilot and watch. He told Booker about how each item worked, and after much discussion, Conway went back to the condo to retrieve the gear from his gym bag. He hoped Cole and his men were tracking him right now. It was the only way the plan would work. So he kept talking.

  "I had a short stay in a foster home right across the street, up on that hill. Boynton Street," Conway said. Through the bank's glass doors he could see the small line of people huddled between the red ropes as they waited for the next teller. Inside the bank, he spotted two of Booker's men, black guys dressed in identical sharp blue suits, black overcoats, and black shoes, both of them carrying burgundy-colored leather briefcases. Conway was dressed in the same suit and carried an identical briefcase. Booker's men stood against the wall near the chairs where people were seated as they waited to talk to a bank representative. Beyond the desks was the entrance to the safety-deposit boxes.

  Conway shifted his attention and looked back out the front window. One van, black, was parked across the street in front of the small, modest, ramshackle homes. Was Cole in there? Or Angel Eyes.

  I won't let them burn yu, Stephen, Angel Eyes had said. I'll protect you. I give you my word.

  The world was darkening and Angel Eyes was somewhere out there, hiding.

  Planning.

  "You nervous?" Booker asked. He knew this conversation was being monitored.

  "Angel Eyes is here. The second I step back out of the bank I'm a target."

  "We went over this."

  "I know."

  Conway turned to Booker, who leaned against the driver's-side window and chewed his gum, his eyes serene, as if he had kicked back in a beach chair and was now looking out at the calm water lapping under a magnificent sunset. The SUV's windows contained a transparent layer of armor made up of resilient polycarbonate, similar to that used in military jet canopies.

  The Lincoln Navigator was an armored vehicle with a level-five rating, its shell strong enough to withstand a shot from a high-powered military rifle. The entire SUV, in fact, came with an exhaustive list of features: concealed gun ports that allowed a passenger to safely return fire from within the vehicle; an encrypted satellite-communications system; hands-free night-vision goggles to allow the driver to turn off the headlights and drive in the dark; a kidnap recovery system; and a host of countersurveillance measures to protect the occupants. Booker had used the armored SUV for the company's bodyguard work, mainly high-profile celebrities and government officials who needed to feel reassured by the extra protection in a vehicle that by all rights belonged in a James Bond movie. The same company who had provided the armored SUVs to Booker's company had worked on vehicles for the president and a number of prominent senators and businessmen.

  "Want to run through the game plan one more time?" Booker asked.

  Conway shook his head. He reached down and picked up his briefcase.

  "I'll call you when I'm ready," he said, and opened the door and stepped out into the raw November air that whipped around him.

  Cole was on the encrypted phone, speaking to the van across the street:

  "Stephen is to be picked up when he steps out of the bank," Cole said.

  "He isn't to be harmed. When you have him, bring him to me."

  Cole hung up. He sat in his swivel chair in the warm, growing darkness inside the back of the van, which was parked in a diner lot at the end of the block, less than 100 feet away from the bank.

  The driver's door opened and in came the Elf holding two white paper bags take-out food from the diner. He handed one to Lee and then turned around and settled behind the wheel. Lee sat the bag up on the console and took out the cup of coffee. On the color monitor, the black Lincoln Navigator slid away from the curb. Outside the front window, Lee could see the other van parked across the street, the one with the sniper.

  Lee flipped back the lid on the coffee and listened over his headphones. If Conway played the CD in the bank, Lee would be able to hear the recorded conversation between him and Raymond over the bug in Conway's watch. It was all there including Raymond's order to take Cole off the playing board.

  Lee moved one of the headphone's pads off his ear and said, "We should pick Conway up. Now."

  "We will. When he leaves the bank," Cole said.

  "Why not get him in the room?"

  "The bank is monitored by security cameras. Plus, it's a confined space. We have no way of controlling what might go down in there, but when Conway steps outside, he's ours."

  Lee shook his head.

  "Problem, Owen?"

  "This reminds me of the Mosier gig. I told you the guy was suicidal. I told you to pick him up before he met our operative and what happened?

  Mosier shoots the guy in the back of the head and then decides to dine on a bullet himself. A year's worth of work got flushed."

  "Your voice is off, Owen. This isn't like you."

  "We couldn't hear what Conway and his crew were planning at the office, and now suddenly we can hear everything? Plus, we got this psycho Angel Eyes to deal with. What if he's inside the bank now and makes a run on Conway while we're sitting out here waiting?"

  Cole didn't respond.

  Lee gulped about a quarter of his coffee, set it down on the conso
le, and then grabbed his black North Face jacket from the floor and put it on over his sweatshirt. He said, "Last night you carved that broad into dozens of pieces. She wasn't a threat at all, but this guy Angel Eyes, he's a major threat to the success of this operation and you won't take it seriously. He knows we're here. That's why we should go inside the bank now."

  "Don't you wish you could be inside there with Stephen," Cole said.

  "To watch his face when he discovers his boss injecting rat poison into his friend's neck. Talk about a Kodak moment. The bug in Stephen's watch I want to listen. Play it over the speakers. I want to hear everything."

  Lee turned around, faced the monitor, and grabbed his coffee from the console. As he drank it, his left hand slid inside his jacket. He could feel the.38 in the hidden pocket. No way was Cole going to hear what happened in Riley's condo. Lee undid the snap and got himself ready.

  An attractive young woman with blond hair pulled back into a bun ushered Conway into a private room so he could view the contents of the safety deposit box. Typical bank decor: silk potted plant in the corner, a cheap framed watercolor painting of flowers hanging on the drab cream-colored wall, and a table made of pressed wood complete with one of those plastic, hard-back chairs.

  Conway placed the steel-gray safety-deposit box on the table and smiled at the woman as she shut the door. Then he locked it and got to work.

  Booker's laptop was in the briefcase. Conway parked the briefcase on top of the table and then removed the small Sony laptop and a pair of Sony Walkman headphones. He didn't want Cole or his men overhearing this just yet. Conway placed the laptop on the desk, flipped opened the screen and powered it on. While the laptop booted up, he flipped open the safety deposit box lid and inside saw the CD locked in a clear jewel case.

  John Riley's final conversation with Renee Kaufmann, his final moment of life his murderer every question Conway needed answered was stored on this shiny silver platter, waiting to be unlocked.

  Pandora opened the box and unleashed all the evils back into the -world, Angel Eyes had said. So it will be with you. Revelations are at hand, Stephen. Be prepared to have your foundation shaken to its core.

  His chest felt tight. Different images and imaginary scenarios swirled around in his head.

  The laptop was ready now. Waiting.

  Are you sure you're ready to confront this?

  A press of the button and the laptop's CD tray slid open. Conway removed the CD from the jewel case, placed it on the tray, and then slid the tray shut. A whirl as the computer came to life, the laser reading contents stored on the CD. Conway sat down in the chair and moved his body close to the desk. His face hovered just inches from the laptop's small screen.

  The Windows Media Player program opened up and there, alive on the tiny window, was Riley's crooked Irish nose and smile as he looked directly at a Web camera mounted on top of his monitor. The picture quality was so real, so lifelike on the active matrix screen, it was as if his friend was merely standing behind a window.

  Conway slipped the headphones over his ears. Riley talked about video conferencing software and Renee gave an update on Amsterdam a doorbell rang. Riley stood up and walked to the door, oblivious to the fact that he was about to invite his killer inside. Out of the camera's frame, a door opened. Muted conversation, too far away to be heard.

  Here it comes.

  Lines of static flashed across the screen.

  Had to be a jamming unit.

  The white lines grew and the picture started to blur, the words garbled. Conway couldn't make out Riley's face or the face of the man he had let inside.

  Shit. Slowly, Conway fast-forwarded through the static.

  The man in the chair stood up. Conway hit the PLAY button. The static was still there, the words inaudible, but through the static he could make out the blurred figure of John Riley sitting on the couch.

  The screen was swimming with static now. Conway couldn't see a thing.

  Revelations are at hand, Stephen.

  Then the static was gone. Conway looked at the man standing over John Riley's body and felt a sharp, cold chill explode at the base of his spine and burst across his face so fast that his skin tingled.

  On the screen Raymond Bouchard held a jamming unit in his hand. Inside the condo with him was the man who had posed as skydiving instructor Chris Evans. Conway listened as Bouchard instructed the man called Owen Lee to plant the drugs around the condo. Listened as Bouchard and Owen Lee talked about Misha.

  The Austin operation was a lie. Staged.

  Angel Eyes's involvement: a lie.

  Everything over the past three years, all that work all of it was one big fucking lie. Raymond Bouchard had staged an operation and massacred his own people so he could own the military suit and its cloaking technology.

  Pasha, what she said… she had been right all along.

  For a moment Conway felt numb and useless as his heart struggled to fight off an awful and now undeniable truth.

  The phone in his briefcase rang.

  His hands shaking, Conway took off his headphones and then reached inside the briefcase and removed the new phone that Jonathan Cole had given him. Conway pressed the phone against his ear, knowing that Cole would be listening.

  "You ready?" Booker asked.

  "Yeah." Conway's voice was dry and tight.

  "Exit by the back door like we talked about. See you in ten," Booker said, sticking to the script. A click and he was gone.

  Conway placed the phone on the desk. On the screen Bouchard explained how they would use Jonathan Cole to get Renee Kauf-mann.

  Lies. All of it lies.

  Bouchard calmly walked out of the condo, back out into the clean air back out into his life.

  You lying son of a bitch.

  If Conway brought this evidence to the CIA, they would try to sweep it under the rug, keep it nice and quiet. Had to protect the Agency.

  Conway wanted Raymond Bouchard to go down in flames in front of the world. He wasn't about to give him an opportunity to hide.

  You're right, of course. But you know being right and having the truth on your side doesn't change political agendas. You carry out your plan, your CIA career will be over.

  On screen Conway saw Owen Lee and a short, dark man Lee called the Elf plant the drugs around Riley's apartment and talk about where to place the surveillance gear. He slammed the laptop shut, ripped off his earphones, and shoved it inside the briefcase. He had to leave his watch on. He wanted Cole and his men to be able to track him.

  Inside the briefcase was a rubber Halloween mask. Conway removed it and looked at the stark white face and red hair the mask of serial killer Michael Myers from the Halloween horror movies. Conway fitted the mask over his head and then put on his black leather gloves to hide the skin color of his hands. He knew Cole had men waiting outside, maybe even inside the bank, ready to pick him up. Hopefully, the mask and the elaborate setup to follow would confuse Cole just enough to allow Conway to pass off the briefcase with the evidence.

  Conway's phone rang again. He hit the button and pressed the phone against his rubber ear.

  "Don't be afraid, Stephen," Angel Eyes said.

  "I'll protect you. I give you my word. We'll travel this road together."

  Conway hung up and shoved the phone inside his pocket. Then he locked the briefcase and moved behind the door, his hand on the doorknob, ready. His equilibrium seemed off. He felt like a man who had staggered away from a terrible accident. He sucked in air. He could smell his stale, sour breath along with the rubbery stench of the mask.

  The fire alarm sounded. Conway opened the door and ran, navigating his way through the short maze, and then headed into the lobby. Four of Booker's men were dressed identically, all of them wearing the same masks and holding the same briefcases, people already on the floor, cowering, thinking it was a robbery. Booker's men fell into line with Conway. He exchanged briefcases with one of them and then they all raced for the front door.
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  Owen Lee couldn't believe his fucking luck. Man. He expected to hear the CD play over the speakers inside the van Cole had leaned forward in his chair, waiting, and Lee's hand gripped the revolver inside his jacket.

  But no sound ever came. Conway must have plugged headphones into the laptop. They could hear the dude breathing heavy, then heard the phone ring twice and listened as he talked to Booker and then to that spooky motherfucker Angel Eyes.

  Cole was only a couple of feet away. Lee thought, Kill him now.

  And he would have if it weren't for the fire alarm. He could hear the goddamn drilling sound here in the van, a block away.

  Cole, calm and in control cocky was what it was on the headset to the men: "Stephen's going to exit the back. Be ready."

  Lee's attention shifted to the monitor showing the back door wait, what the fuck was this: on monitor four, here came Conway bursting through the front entrance, the area lit up by the bank's outside door lights.

  The glass door burst wide open and oh shit, here came four no five, guys, all of them running. They were all dressed in long black jackets and held briefcases and what the fuck, all of their faces were covered by masks with creepy orange hair that stuck straight up.

  "What the hell is this shit?" Owen said.

  "He's trying to confuse us. Lock onto his transmitters."

  Lee worked the console, his heart beating against his ribs. It didn't feel right. And why was he sweating so much? He had done this shit hundreds of times and never had he sweated like this.

  Cole had moved directly behind him. Shoot him now. No. Got to deal with Conway first.

  New action on monitor two, a live shot from the van across the street: five black Lincoln Navigators had pulled up against the curb. The people about to enter the bank had thrown themselves against the snow-covered ground and lawn, their shaking hands covering their heads.

  Conway and his boys were at the SUVs.

  "I've got all of Conway's transmitters locked: He's the middle guy, right here," Lee said and tapped a finger against at the screen.

  "What do you want to do?"

  Cole spoke into the headset to the sniper: "Take them down."

  Conway was inside. The SUV, its engine throbbing beneath him, hadn't moved away yet. The first vehicle pulled away. Through the eye slits in the mask Conway saw Booker, his face calm as he gripped the steering wheel, ready to move.