“What’s supposed to get plugged in?” Bessemer asks again.
“I gave Prager some information on a jump drive—information about my business, and some of my colleagues abroad. It should give him a better idea of what I’ve got to offer.” Which only seems to make Bessemer more nervous. Bobby and Mike exchange looks, and Carr smiles thinly.
“Why don’t you sit in the sun a while, Howie,” he says. Bessemer shrugs and carries his gin and tonic to the terrace.
Bobby shakes his head. “Seriously—how long will that shit hold up?”
“Not long,” Carr says. “The names are real, and they’re really diamond dealers, all over the world, all active in the gray market. But only one of them—a guy in Singapore—knows the name Greg Frye, and that’s because he’s been paid to know it. I told Prager that the Singapore guy’s the only one with approval to talk about my business. I told him if he likes what he hears, I’ll okay the others to talk too.”
“And this Singapore guy—what’s he gonna say?”
“Something plausible. Given what Boyce is charging us, it better be. With a little luck, though, Howie will have done his thing and we’ll be gone before it’s an issue.”
Latin Mike looks out at Bessemer, and then looks at Carr. “How did he do today?”
“He was fine,” Carr says. “Kept it together, didn’t speak unless he was spoken to, focused mainly on the food.”
“And you think he’ll keep on keepin’ on?”
Carr nods. “He has only one more thing to do, once Dennis tells us the drive’s been plugged in.”
“So I guess it doesn’t matter that he’s asking a lot of questions,” Mike says, nodding. “ ’Cause pretty soon it won’t matter how much he knows.”
“He’s my problem, and I’ll take care of him.”
“He’s everybody’s problem if you don’t, jefe.”
“I said I’d take care of him.”
Mike looks at him, and doesn’t look away when Bobby clears his throat. Bobby puts a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “Once that thing’s plugged in, we zip up and get out, amigo, so we better start packing.”
Bobby and Mike depart, and Carr collapses into an armchair. The two of them seemed to take up more than their usual share of space and oxygen, and Carr is relieved to be alone. His breath leaves him in a long sigh, and the tensions of the day—Prager’s relentless skepticism, Rink’s barely veiled hostility, the constant fear of a wrong word from Bessemer, the constant feel of cameras on him, like a finger tapping incessantly on his skull, and all the pumping adrenaline—hit at once. His shoulders cramp, his legs tighten, and the sweat that stayed away, even through the day’s heat, rises suddenly through his shirt. A bitter taste washes through his mouth. His stomach twists, and for an instant he feels his lunch coming up. And then his cell burrs.
“You’re answering the phone,” Tina says. “That’s a good sign.”
“I’ve got all my fingers and toes too, at least so far.”
“Prager was interested?”
“We’ll see just how much.”
“No word from Dennis yet?”
“Not yet.”
“What’s taking so long?”
“Prager’s a busy guy. I assume he’s got some other things to do before he gets around to researching me.”
“You’ll call when you hear?”
“I’ll call.”
To stay in the chair is to sleep, Carr knows, so he hoists himself up and goes to the bar. He fills a glass with crushed ice, club soda, and limes, and looks at Bessemer on the terrace. He’s numb in a lounge chair, his head to one side, a leg dangling—a puppet without strings. His round face is empty, and Carr thinks again of Bessemer’s son, Simon—his watchful eyes, his suspicion. Bessemer’s glass is balanced precariously on his belly, in the grip of limp fingers. Carr opens the terrace door and retrieves it. Bessemer mutters something he can’t make out.
Carr showers and changes his clothes, and when he steps into the living room again, he finds the daylight fading and Bessemer sprawled on the sofa. His shoes are off, and his shirt is untucked, but he’s out just as cold. Carr shakes his head and picks up the room service menu.
He’s just about made his choices when his phone rings again. Carr crosses the room at a run.
“You don’t call?” Valerie says. “I’ve got to depend on Mike to let me know? What’s the matter, you tired of me?”
He sighs. “I figured you’d call me.”
“I guess you figured right. It went well?”
“So far so good, but he hasn’t done anything with the drive yet, and that’s what matters. Chun is back from New York?”
“Yeah, and she has no trips planned for a couple of weeks.”
“And her security?”
“Nothing new since last time,” Valerie says. “You going to let me know when you hear something, or am I going to have to keep chasing you?”
“I’ll let you know.”
There’s a long pause, filled by the soft hiss of the ether, and then Valerie sighs. “It’s just around the corner now. You come to any decisions about what you’re going to do with yourself afterward?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Carr looks at Bessemer and can’t imagine him going anyplace, and decides against room service. He has a light dinner in one of the hotel restaurants, and afterward he kicks off his shoes and rolls his pant legs and walks along the shore. The beach is empty but for a few couples, strolling arm in arm, and Carr gives them a wide berth. The sea breeze has turned cold, but a tropical lassitude still trails him across the sand.
Too long on the roller coaster, Declan called it. “Yer jacked up so long, you get used to it—used to the fright and paranoia, and then you get stupid. You know you’re supposed to stay scared, to stay alert, but you can’t seem to care enough to make it happen. Too tired and bored to save yer own goddamn life. And it always comes at the worst feckin’ time—right at the end, when you need to be on top of the game.”
Right at the end—it’s where Carr is at last: Dennis says the word, Howie makes his call, and then it’s Valerie’s turn, a matter of little more than typing. And then … what? A flight north, to watch his father disintegrate? A flight south, to watch Tina’s men sift ashes? A flight into the sunset with Valerie? One too many options to settle by the toss of a coin, and Carr wonders if it really matters which he picks. Too tired and bored to save yer own goddamn life. Too tired, certainly. He thinks about Bessemer, in a heap on the sofa, and of Latin Mike’s admonition: He’s everybody’s problem if you don’t … His throat tightens and a clammy sweat breaks out across his forehead.
The incoming tide is lapping around his ankles when his phone goes off, and he answers without looking at the number.
“Dennis?”
“Who’s Dennis?” Arthur Carr asks, and Carr can tell right away that his father’s been drinking.
“Someone I work with. Is everything okay?”
“I’ll call some other time, if you’re working.”
“It’s fine. Are you all right?”
“All right?” Arthur Carr snorts. “You know she’s leaving, don’t you?”
“Who’s leaving?”
“Eleanor Calvin—who else would I be talking about?”
“She told you she was moving away?”
“The question is, Why didn’t you tell me? She said you’ve known for weeks. Is this privileged information? Maybe you think I’m a security risk.”
“I didn’t want to say anything until I’d made new arrangements.”
“New arrangements—what the hell do I need those for? I didn’t like the old arrangements you made, and now that she’s walking out, I don’t need any goddamn new ones. The hell with that disloyal bitch.”
“Is she there?”
“What if she is?”
“Put her on the phone.”
His father’s laugh is jagged. “Well, she’s not here. She walked out on me. Said I could fix my own dinner if I d
idn’t like her cooking, and that if I was going to curse—”
“What did you say to her?”
“I had no idea her sensibilities were so—”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing much, and I can’t imagine she hasn’t heard the word whore before.”
“For chrissakes!” Carr says, and he realizes he’s shouting, and that the few people on the beach are staring.
Arthur Carr laughs again. “In fact, I’m sure she’s heard worse.”
Carr sighs and walks toward the jetty that marks the edge of the hotel property. “You can’t talk to her that way, Dad,” Carr says softly. “You can’t expect her to put up with it.”
“Do you have any idea what I’ve put up with?”
“You can’t talk to people that way.”
“People? She’s not people—she’s my goddamn wife, and I’ll talk to her any goddamn way I please.”
The breath catches in Carr’s throat, and there’s a rushing noise in his ears. When he speaks, his voice is soft and even. “We’re talking about Mrs. Calvin, Dad.”
There’s angry silence on the other end, and then an embarrassed cough. “What the hell are you saying? I know who we’re talking about.”
A wave catches Carr as he reaches the jetty, lifting him and banging his knees on a rock. The sound of surf against stone drowns out the sound of his father’s hasty good-bye.
“Fuck,” Carr says aloud.
When his phone rings again, he thinks it’s his father calling back, but it’s not.
“Jesus, Dennis, I’ve heard from everybody but you today,” Carr says, leaning against a rock. “Please give me some good news.”
“I would if I could.”
“The fucking thing’s still not plugged in?”
When he answers, Dennis’s voice is thin and tired. “I got the message ten minutes ago. It’s plugged in all right, just not into Prager’s computer.”
36
Bobby has exhausted his many variations on fuck this. He hunches forward on the sofa in the sunny front room of the workhouse and runs his hands though his hair. When he looks up at Carr, he looks as though he’s come through a hurricane.
“It’s the worst fucking Plan B I’ve ever heard,” Bobby says.
“No argument,” Carr says. “It sucks. So give me an alternative.” He looks at Latin Mike, who stares longingly at a jet dwindling in the sky.
“It’s for shit,” Mike says, “but I got nothing better.”
“You can get the hardware?” Carr asks Bobby.
“That’s not the problem. I’ve got the boat; a couple of WaveRunners won’t be an issue. The problem is all the fucking variables.”
“And the putty?”
Bobby shakes his head. “I know where I can get it, the det cord too—equipment’s not the problem. The problem is too many variables—too many places where the fucking wheels can fall off.”
“Let me worry about those.”
“That’s not a lot of comfort,” Bobby says. “No offense.”
“Then give me an alternative,” Carr repeats.
Bobby shakes his head and puts his hands through his hair again. Carr looks at Dennis, who is thinner than ever—a ghost-eyed wheat stalk. “And you’re sure it’ll load, even if the screen’s locked?”
“Screen locked, power-saving mode, waiting for a password, whatever—I’m working down below the operating system. If the computer’s switched on, it’ll load. Fifteen seconds, max. The LED will blink green.”
“What if the computer’s not switched on?”
“Then switch it on—it’ll load. It’ll just take a little longer—a minute, maybe.”
Latin Mike gives up on the airplane, lights a cigarette, and blows smoke at the ceiling. “What about Bessemer—can he handle it?”
“It’s a party—mostly he has to handle eating and drinking. He’s good at that.”
“He’ll have to say his piece to Prager in person. You think he can do it?”
Carr nods. “A case of nerves will make him more plausible.”
“Long as he doesn’t crap his pants, jefe.”
Carr stands and stretches. He hasn’t slept and his eyes feel like an ashtray. “I’ll let you guys start putting it together.”
Still bent forward, Bobby laughs bitterly. “You don’t know what they’re going to do with a party going on. How do you know they won’t call the locals? I don’t want to find myself playing hide and seek with a coast guard cutter.”
“Rink won’t do that,” Carr says. “She’s still new. She wants to prove herself.”
“You don’t know,” Bobby says, shaking his head. “You don’t know shit.”
Carr shrugs and walks to the door. “No argument there, Bobby.”
There’s a tin-roofed shack, painted bright blue, on the side of the road to the airport, where the fat counterman serves fresh fish-and-chips and cold beer, and where Carr meets Tina. It is well past lunchtime, and they’re the only ones sitting at the open-air counter. Carr drinks an iced tea and eats fries from Tina’s plate, which is otherwise untouched.
Tina watches heat rise from the asphalt. Her voice is low and tight. “Isn’t that your job, to plan for these things?” she says. “To have a fallback when shit goes wrong?”
Carr laughs. “I did plan for it. Of course, my plan assumed that Eddie Silva was still running security, and I didn’t find out he wasn’t until I was standing in Prager’s offices. Remind me again who’s responsible for that triumph of intel.”
“Fuck you,” Tina says, without much conviction. “You think this will fly?”
Carr shrugs. “The bigger question is whether Greg Frye will last until the party.”
“It’s not much longer.”
“Yeah, but Dennis tells me Rink’s been busy. She’s poring over what was on the flash drive, Googling like mad.”
“Doing it herself?”
“Apparently.”
“I’ll call Singapore—make sure our guy remembers his lines.”
Carr nods. “If he does, and if Rink stays focused on the info on the flash drive, Frye might last. If she starts digging deeper into his criminal record—trying to talk to arresting officers or prosecutors—we’re hosed.”
Tina’s jaw clenches. “Just a few days more,” she says, and she jabs her fish with a fork.
Carr has a laptop open and aerial photos of Prager’s property spread out on the coffee table. He’s looking at a floor plan of Prager’s house when Howard Bessemer walks in. Bessemer is fresh from the hotel spa, wrapped in spa terry cloth, shod in spa slippers, and admiring his new spa manicure. He stops when he sees Carr and stares at the coffee table.
“That doesn’t look like packing, Greg,” Bessemer says.
“Don’t worry, Howie, we’re going home—right after the party.”
Bessemer’s spa glow vanishes, replaced by a nervous pallor. “You said we were leaving before then.”
“Change of plans.”
Bessemer looks down at his terry-cloth slippers, and then at the tabletop again. “That can’t be good.”
“It’ll be fine, Howie,” Carr says, and he returns to his work.
“What do we—”
“It’ll be fine,” Carr says again. “Just think about what you’re going to do afterward. It’ll be fine.” Bessemer looks at him skeptically and Carr ignores him until he goes away.
Carr isn’t lying to Bessemer. An uncharacteristic calm settled over him the night before, as Dennis delivered the news, and it hasn’t abandoned him yet. The adrenaline started pumping as he began laying flesh on his skeletal fallback plan, and it’s built with every detail he’s added, but it hasn’t jangled him. In fact, there’s something oddly comforting about it.
He studies the photos and drawings, memorizing points of entry and egress, camera fields and blind spots, alternate routes and dead ends, and it reminds him of his training days at the Farm. His heart rate is up, his fingers are drumming on the table, and there’s
a hum in his gut that he recognizes as eagerness. Carr can almost hear the rough brogue and smiles to himself. Roller coasters—after all this time, here, on his last job, he’s finally developed a taste for them. Declan would be proud.
The call comes in the empty night, when it seems even the ocean is still. The voice on the other end is held together with tissue paper and trembling breath, and Carr almost doesn’t recognize it as Eleanor Calvin’s. When he does, he’s certain she’s calling to report a death, but he’s wrong.
“He is … I don’t know … I can’t find him anywhere. I came over this afternoon and … the ambassador was gone.”
37
Carr ignores the phone twitching in his pocket for the third time in ten minutes, for the hundredth time since dawn, and focuses on the Stockbridge cop shifting nervously on the porch steps. He’s young and earnest, and every time he speaks his Adam’s apple jumps behind the collar of his uniform shirt. He reminds Carr of Dennis.
“There’s nothing new since the Lenox PD called this morning, to say they found his Volvo in the town lot. They haven’t found anyone who saw the ambassador park it yet.”
Carr bites back the reflexive correction and nods. “My mother is buried in Lenox. He may—”
“Mrs. Calvin told us. Lenox has a man doing drive-bys in case he shows up there, but they haven’t seen him yet.”
“Did they check the local inns?”
“Lenox checked the inns in town, the Staties checked the motels along Route Seven. Nobody’s seen him.”
“How about the car? Did it look like he’d slept in it? Did it look broken into?”
“Broken into?”
Carr sighs. “Is it possible it was stolen from someplace else and dumped in Lenox?”
The cop reddens. “I … Lenox didn’t say anything special about it, but I can ask them.”
“I’ll ask myself, when I go up there. What about the temperature last night?”
“The temperature?”
“How cold did it get up there?”
The cop squints, and then it dawns on him. “No, no—he would’ve been okay. It was in the low sixties last night.”
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