Patriot Acts

by Greg Rucka

  “There’s a lot of pressure they could bring to bear to convince him to change his mind. Especially if they have Vadim in custody.”

  “No, you misunderstand,” Alena said. “He doesn’t want to talk. Given the choice, he’ll take their worst. He thinks of it as proving himself.”

  “To who?”

  “God only knows,” Alena said. “He’s always been like that. Most of the spesnaz I dealt with seemed to feel they hadn’t earned their place unless they’d been wounded or tortured first.”

  “If they’ve got Vadim…”

  “He’s younger, I don’t know about him.” She shook her head. “We will learn soon enough, I think.”

  The news sobered me, took the last of the joy I had been feeling at being reunited with her and turned it to air. Despite the sleep, I felt suddenly tired, and on that came another desire, almost childlike in its simplicity: I wanted to go home. I wanted to go back to Kobuleti, back to the house and Miata. The want didn’t last for long, just long enough to make itself known to me, and then it was chased away with the knowledge that, much as I might want it, it wasn’t going to happen, not as things stood now. It probably would never happen again.

  Montana had changed the game, and if the cabin in the woods hadn’t proven it, what had followed in Lynch sure as hell did, and the developments on the news made it even clearer. The further we went, it seemed, the less we knew, and instead of being manipulated by one force—presumably whoever it was who so badly wanted us dead—there was now a new player who maybe didn’t. Or wanted something else from us entirely. There were strings being pulled that we not only couldn’t see, we couldn’t even begin to understand.

  We weren’t in over our heads. We were already under and about to lose our last breath. There was no getting off this ride until it ended.

  “What are you thinking?” Alena asked me.

  “Honestly?”

  “Of course honestly.”

  “I’m thinking about the end to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, that’s what I’m thinking.”

  She managed a smile. “I thought we were Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Take your pick, they both end the same way.”

  The smile faded. “If we go, we go together.”

  There was nothing much more to say after that.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  Louis Woodburn wore khaki slacks and a faded yellow shirt, and a tan that could only have come from a bottle or a bed. He didn’t wear a tie.

  Alena and I watched as he made his way over to us from behind his desk at Cape Fear Marine and Yachts, which was about as straightforward a name of a business as one could ask for. The receptionist who had beckoned Woodburn over, a busty blonde with lipstick the color of a stoplight, made the introductions.

  “Louis, this is Miranda and Simon Cole,” she said. “Apparently, they’ve been referred to you.”

  “Really?” Woodburn’s face lit with unexpected pleasure. “Wonderful! What can I do for the two of you?”

  “He wants to buy a yacht,” Alena said. It came out flat, as if she was indulging her husband, but only barely.

  “Well, that’s what we sell here, yachts.” Woodburn smiled brightly at me, then at Alena. “You don’t sound convinced, Mrs. Cole.”

  “I think they’re awfully expensive.”

  “Some of them can be very reasonable, you’d be surprised. And you can’t forget it’s a great investment.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice, his Carolinian drawl thickening slightly. “And, depending on your accountant and your business, a hell of a write-off.”

  “See, that’s what I mean,” I said to Alena. “It’s an investment.”

  “Exactly,” Woodburn said, taking a step back towards his desk, and motioning us to follow him. “Why don’t we take a seat, look at some of the brochures, figure out what you’re looking for. There are a lot of choices. Would either of you like something to drink? Iced tea, bottled water?”

  “Bottled water.” Alena sniffed. “Still water, not bubbling.”

  “Nothing for me,” I said.

  Louis Woodburn ushered us to the leather-upholstered chairs opposite his desk, then went off, presumably to find Alena a bottle of still water. I took another glance around the showroom, at the shiny displays and brightly colored posters. There were two other salespeople working at nearby desks, and an older couple browsing one of the catalogues. I suspected this was the off-season for yacht sales.

  Woodburn returned with a bottle of Evian, which he was wiping down with a paper towel as he approached. He handed it over to Alena with all the ceremony of a sommelier presenting the pride of his cellar, then took his seat behind the desk. I put him on the cusp of fifty, and despite his exuberance—or perhaps precisely because of it—he seemed to be taking to it well. If the ring on his finger and the photographs on his desk were to be believed, he was currently on his second, or perhaps even his third marriage.

  “So, what kind of vessel are you thinking about? Something like a Funship, or maybe something in the cruiser line? The Four Winns Vista series are excellent yachts, perfect for entertaining or for entertainment.” He shuffled the papers on his desk, searching for brochures, beginning to lay them out before the two of us. “There’s also the Cruisers Yachts line. I highly recommend looking at those. They’re manufactured right here on the Cape Fear River. They’re really the yacht of choice.”

  I extended my hand, and he filled it with one of the brochures.

  “What size are you looking at?” Woodburn asked.

  “Twenty-eight feet,” Alena said.

  “Closer to fifty,” I said, examining the brochure.

  Alena lowered her bottle of water and shot me a glare. “That’s not what you said earlier.”

  “Let’s see what he’s offering,” I told her, then turned to Woodburn. “The problem is, Miranda doesn’t have an idea what we’re talking about. She’s got horrible spatial perception.”

  “Simon!”

  “C’mon, it’s true, honey, you know that. Admit it, you don’t have the first idea between a fifty-footer and a yacht that’s twenty-eight feet.”

  “Twenty-two feet,” she said.

  Woodburn laughed softly, and he was good, because he made it clear he was appreciating Alena’s wit, and not the reproach that had come with it.

  “It’s a significant twenty-two feet,” he said. “But, yes, it’s certainly hard when you’re dealing in the abstract like this.”

  “Twenty-eight feet, there’s not a lot of room below,” I told Alena. “Not like you’re going to want.”

  “Tell you what,” Woodburn said. “Let’s go take a walk around the shop and the service department, you can see the different sizes. We can’t really go aboard them, of course, but that way you can get a better picture of the kind of scale we’re talking about.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said, and got to my feet, Woodburn following suit. We both looked at Alena expectantly.

  She sighed, and then, with convincing reluctance, got to her feet.

  We let him do his song and dance for much of the next hour, following Louis Woodburn as he escorted us through the service shop, listening attentively as he pointed out the amenities on this model, the appointments on that one. He played more to Alena than to me, though he never forgot I was there, and Alena did a good job of allowing herself to be won over, little by little. By the time we’d finished with the tour, it was nearly four in the afternoon, and Alena was even laughing at Woodburn’s jokes.

  On our way back to the sales office, Alena said to me, “Jake was right. He’s very good.”

  She indicated Woodburn, less for my benefit than to make certain he knew who we were talking about.

  “Yeah, he was, wasn’t he?” I agreed. “I’ll have to thank him for the recommendation.”

  “Let’s wait until we actually buy one of them,” Alena said.

  “Jake?” Woodburn asked.

  “Our friend who recommended w
e come talk to you,” I told him. “Jacob Collins.”

  He was smooth about it, and very quick, which I supposed was what made him so ideal as a contact person. “No kidding? Now, that’s funny. That’s…that’s funny.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I haven’t talked to Jake in quite a while.” Louis Woodburn checked his watch, then added, “Aw, Christ, I didn’t realize how late it had gotten. I’m sorry, Mr. Cole, Mrs. Cole, I’m going to have to cut this short. My stepdaughter has a softball game I need to attend. Let me hand you off to one of my associates, how about that?”

  “We were enjoying dealing with you,” Alena said.

  “I appreciate that, I really do, but I have to go.” He smiled at us, and it was almost the same smile he’d been using before, but not quite. I wasn’t reading fear in it, but instead something closer to confusion, perhaps mixed with a mild alarm. He reached out for my hand, gave it a firm and practiced shake, then nodded to Alena, and then he was heading for his car parked outside the sales office, a silver Cadillac, one of the new models.

  We watched the Caddie pull onto Market Street and disappear into traffic.

  “So, if he’s still your guy, he does what now?” I asked Alena. “Calls the latest number Sargenti sent him and says that Miranda and Simon Cole came by?”

  “Most likely.”

  “His reaction seem odd to you?”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know. Like maybe we weren’t the first people to actually mention Mr. Jacob Collins to him in person recently. Instead of, for instance, over the phone.”

  Alena nodded slowly. “We should head back to the hotel. I’ll call Nicolas, tell him to check the box and report back to us.”

  We headed to where we’d parked our rental, and I took the wheel and started us back in the direction of the river and the hotel. I checked the mirrors a couple times, and twice I thought that maybe we were being followed by a blue BMW, but then I thought that maybe I was being overly paranoid. Market was pretty much a long, straight shot back into downtown, and while there were plenty of places to turn off of it, it was heavily traveled, and the BMW certainly wasn’t the only car that seemed to be heading in our direction.

  That’s what I told myself, at least, until we’d parked back in the lot of the Wilmingtonian and I was out of the car and Alena was joining me.

  “The car at four o’clock,” she said, not indicating it in the slightest. “That car was behind us all the way here.”

  It had parked some sixty feet away, and there was a man getting out of the vehicle, and already I didn’t like what I was seeing. It wasn’t that he was big, certainly no taller than either Alena or myself, but there was something in his carriage that reminded me immediately of Dan. As he turned towards us I saw his right hand going into his jacket, and I liked that even less. If he was going for a gun, we weren’t going to be able to do much but run or bleed. But the hand came out as smoothly and quickly as it had gone in, and there was no gun in it that I could see as he continued on his line towards us.

  I put a hand on Alena’s back, turning her and myself towards one of the five buildings that made up the Wilmingtonian Hotel, and, specifically, the suite we’d taken.

  “Coming up from behind.”

  “So you give him our back?” Alena muttered.

  “I want you inside,” I said.

  “You’re being a fool.”

  She stopped and turned around and so I did, too.

  The man had closed to about twenty feet. Both of his hands were visible, at his sides, but he was focused on us, and as we faced him he called out, saying, “Pardon me, I beg your pardon.” He had a deep voice, not quite from the gravel at the bottom of the quarry, but not many feet above it, either.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  He slowed his approach, easing off and giving first Alena, then me, a quick eyeballing. His expression wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t in neutral, either. Wary, perhaps. His skin had the rich warmth of a good tan or a Mediterranean heritage, and given the absolute black of his hair and the deep brown of his eyes, I was leaning to the latter. Maybe Italian extraction, more likely Sicilian. He was wearing khakis, with a black T-shirt under his open coat, and the coat itself was almost the same brown of his eyes, and thin, as if optimistic at the promise of spring. When I checked his feet, I saw he was wearing boots rather than sneakers or loafers, and that the boots had a squared toe. The clip to a folding knife hung over the lip of his left front pants pocket.

  He was military, or he had been, and I wondered for a moment if this wasn’t another of Sean’s friends.

  “You dropped this,” he said to me, and then he closed the rest of the distance, extending his right hand.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “You did.”

  Then he showed me what he was holding in his hand.

  It was a picture of Natalie Trent.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  His name was John Panno, at least according to his driver’s license and the business card he showed us when we got into our suite. The license had been issued by the State of Maryland. The business card had come from a firm calling itself Phoenix Resource Consultancy. Apparently, Phoenix Resource Consultancy didn’t have a street address, just an e-mail address and a phone number. I didn’t recognize the area code on the phone number.

  “Another fucking contractor,” I said, handing the card back to him. In my other hand, I was holding the photograph of Natalie.

  “PRC is not Gorman-North,” he said, easily.

  “No, it’s the People’s Republic of China. You might want to change your name.”

  “Eight fucking months I’ve been watching Cape Fear Marine and Yachts. Eight months waiting for one of you to make contact with Louis Woodburn. Eight. Fucking. Months. You couldn’t have maybe connected the dots a little sooner?”

  I turned the photograph of Natalie in my hand. It had a date written on the back in script, and it wasn’t Natalie’s handwriting. If my memory was right, the date would’ve been roughly around the time we’d gone into business together. I flipped it around once more, examining the picture. It was a candid, reduced to walletsize, caught while she was grinning at someone who wasn’t the photographer.

  I set the photo on the antique coffee table in the center of the sitting room portion of our suite, then stared at Panno, seated on the couch beyond it. He returned the stare evenly, as if telling me that whatever I might have thought of myself, he wasn’t impressed.

  “The picture got you in the door,” I said. “Doesn’t get you farther than that.”

  “How far do I need to go?” he asked. “Considering that you’ve got most of the law enforcement in the country coming down on your ass at this very moment, I mean.”

  Alena, seated to the side in one of the high-backed easy chairs, leaned forward. “You’ve been waiting eight months, you say. Why here?”

  “It’s where he told me to look.” Panno hadn’t moved his gaze from me.

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think?” He flicked his eyes to the photograph, then back to me. “Her father.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Alena look to me for verification.

  “It’s possible,” I told her. “Elliot Trent was Secret Service before he started Sentinel. He even worked the presidential detail at one point. He has connections in D.C.—intelligence, military—and I’d be surprised if some of them weren’t at a high enough level that they could have dug up the protocol for him.”

  Panno shook his head slightly. “You don’t know anything about him, do you?”

  “I know enough.”

  “Trent was Army Intelligence before he went to Treasury. He’s got more connections than you have hairs on your ass.”

  I glanced at Alena. “See, it’s the sophisticated level of conversation you get from soldiers that makes me miss the Army most.”

  “He wants to talk to you,” Panno sa
id.

  “Me alone or the both of us?”

  “You, specifically, though the conditional was that, if she was with you, she was to come along.”

  “He retired,” I said. “Trent. He sold Sentinel, packed it in.”

  “Last year. He had another heart attack. He’s had three since she died. He’s not going to run much longer.”

  The news bothered me, more than I would have expected. There was no love lost between me and Elliot Trent; there never had been, and I knew that there never would be. But the knowledge that he was dying brought a deeper sadness than I’d have imagined. He’d lost his wife, he’d lost his daughter, he’d given up his business. What else was there for him to do now but die?

  Except, apparently, hire a contractor from an organization I’d never even heard of before to watch Cape Fear Marine and Yachts in the hopes that we would, one day, show up. If Panno wasn’t exaggerating, if he’d really been on the job for eight months, that was quite a feat; someone should have noticed him, and if no one had, he’d done it very well, indeed.

  I decided he had to be exaggerating, and turned away from him and Alena, running a hand over my mostly bare scalp. New hair was already coming in, and it felt like needles against my palm.

  “Mr. Trent wants to talk to you, Kodiak. I’m supposed to take you to him.”

  “What does he know?” I asked, turning back and pointing to the picture of Natalie, resting faceup on the coffee table. “About how she died?”

  “Almost all of it,” Panno said. “It’s taken him the better part of three years, but he’s got almost all of it, now, from Gorman-North on up.”

  “He knows who bought it? Who put it into motion?”

  “He knows that you were involved.” John Panno tilted his head slightly to include Alena. “Her, too.”

  None of us spoke for a second.

  “He hates your guts,” Panno added. Then he smiled a smile that said based on that endorsement alone, he was going to, as well. “I mean, he really hates your guts.”