The Truth Itself

by James Rayburn

  A bargain in which he offered his eternal fealty in exchange for the subjugation of the enemies that circled him like wolves.

  Benway smacked the glass down onto the desktop and laughed away this primitive impulse, something ur-human and low, that had squeezed itself through his consciousness like curd cheese through muslin.

  He stood, the shrapnel from his old injury knifing into a nerve in his spine, and let the pain clear his head. Crossing to the window he opened the drapes and stared out at a day as gloomy and monochromatic as a scene from the Ingmar Bergman movies his wife liked to watch on the TV in the living room, curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, eating chocolates and drinking vodka.

  The thought of Nadja had him wincing at more than the pain in his back and he marveled at how oftentimes love and hate couldn’t be separated by a cigarette paper.

  A familiar policeman’s knock had him turning from the window.

  “Yes,” he said, and Morse entered, bringing with him a faint whiff of disinfectant.

  Did he bathe in Lysol?

  Morse closed the door and stood with his back to it, at parade rest. He said nothing as he stared at a spot above Benway’s head. An irritating habit.

  “Okay, spit it out. Did you hear from our man in Thailand?”

  Morse shook his head. “He’s gone dark, sir.”

  “I’m hoping that’s a reference to his tan?”

  Morse, a humorless creature, merely shook his head again.

  “What were your instructions?” asked Benway. “Just to keep tabs on Hook?”

  “I may have incentivized him a little, sir.”

  “How?”

  “I may have mentioned that if he didn’t find proof positive that Kate Swift is alive Burmese pirates would take his wife.”

  Benway stared at Morse. “Jesus Christ, Morse, this is farcical.”

  “He’s a stoner, sir. A slacker. A lazy man given to evasions and eliding.”

  There was another knock at the door, this time the light drumming of fingertips on the wood.

  Benway waved Morse from his path as he crossed to the door and opened it.

  Nadja stood outside. She wore a very plain black dress and black pumps. Her legs were bare of nylons, the ankle monitor an obscene limpet clinging to her right talus.

  “Lucien, darling, I think you should turn on your TV.” She smiled poisonously and walked away.

  Benway closed the door and located the remote on his desk, activating the TV set, Good Morning America fading up. He heard his own name spoken by David Burke who was in conversation with George Stephanopoulos, the bearded hack spewing a confection of fiction and falsehood that could only be the work of Philip Danvers.

  SIXTY

  When Janey Burke was nervous she ate. No, she fucking gorged herself, stuffing everything from ice cream to candy bars to leftover mac and cheese down her throat. Not that it ever showed on her skinny frame.

  Her yoga teacher had once told her that her Ayurvedic constitution was vata. She’d googled it and found that vata women were tiny and flat-chested with turned-up noses; were highly imaginative, spendthrift, anxious, easily sexually aroused but quickly satiated, produced little urine and their shit was dry, hard and small. Like a hamster’s.

  All true, but still eew.

  Waiting for David to return to the apartment after his morning as a media man-whore (she’d killed the TV and powered down her laptop and iPad so intense was her consternation at what she’d seen and read) she’d raided the fridge and stuffed herself.

  When she heard the scrape of his key in the lock she capped the Ben and Jerry’s Boom Chocolatta and shoved it back into the freezer, wiped her mouth and stood with her flat ass to the counter wearing, she hoped, a neutral expression.

  “Hey, babe,” he said, shedding his jacket and scarf and flinging them onto the couch as he crossed to the coffee maker.

  “Dave, what are you doing?”

  “I’m getting some coffee.”

  “No, what are you doing to yourself? To us?”

  He blinked at her as he pushed down the plunger. “You’re talking about the Fingergate thing?”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Do not reduce it to a buzzword.”

  “Hey, it’s more than a buzzword, baby. It’s a hashtag. It’s a goddam meme.”

  “Fuck off, Dave. A woman is dead. A child, too. Not to mention all the other people on that plane. And you’re soundbiting it like some Fox hack?”

  “Christ, Janey, I’m the one who is out there shouting about this.”

  “Slow the fuck down, Mr. Sockpuppet.” She saw she had stung him and flapped a hand. “Dave, I’m sorry. You’ve been brave and you’ve done good, but I’m scared for you, don’t you get it?”

  “What? Must I just shut up?”

  “No. But realize how vulnerable you are. You’re the mouthpiece of Philip Danvers and how sure can you be of his agenda?”

  “Jesus, I resent that, Janey. I’m not just a mouthpiece. I’ve researched this. I’ve dug deep into this fucking cesspit.”

  “And now you’re as good as accusing Lucien Benway of downing that plane?”

  “With good reason. Look at the evidence.”

  “Evidence? Where did you get this evidence, Dave?” He stared at her without replying. “It was handed to you by Danvers, wasn't it?”

  “It checks out.”

  “You think you’re Woodward and Bernstein all rolled into one, don’t you? You want to be forever legendary as the guy who brought down an administration?”

  “Only if that administration deserves to be brought down.”

  “You’ve winging it, Dave. Flying solo. You don’t have the Post or the Times or some monster network with their lawyers and their ombudsmen and their fucking muscle behind you.”

  Glugging coffee from the mug he burned his tongue and cursed.

  “Let’s go away, Dave.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Go away where?”

  “Anywhere. Let’s just get out of D.C. Away from all this craziness.”

  “Janey, Jesus, this is a career-defining moment for me. This is where it all comes together.”

  “I’m scared, Dave.” She sat down at the table and felt tears on her face.

  He crossed to her and touched her with one of his big, warm, clumsy hands. “Hey, baby.” She shrugged him off. “I’m visible, now, Janey. I’m known.”

  “You can’t see past your mega ego, can you?”

  “I’m not being egocentric, I’m being practical. The more visible you are, the safer you are. Fame is like a fucking superpower, baby. It keeps you safe.”

  Janey stood and walked back to the refrigerator and removed the Ben and Jerry’s while her husband carried on talking, filling the apartment with his addle-headed rationales but she didn’t listen to him, just dug deep into the tub and ate ice cream until she was ready to puke.

  SIXTY-ONE

  When Harry Hook emerged from the pathway through the jungle, Kate, prowling the beach, saw that something was different. It wasn’t only the new outfit he sported (red and blue check shorts made from a nasty synthetic fabric, a canary-yellow T-shirt and a Nike cap pulled low over his face—the cheap clothes typical of the tourist stalls on the main beach) there was a change in his walk, the determined jauntiness that had made him, at a distance, appear almost youthful was gone, replaced by a tread both slower and heavier.

  Kate crossed the sand, meeting him near the hut. Suzie and JP were far down the beach, foraging for shells, and hadn’t seen him arriving.

  “What happened?” Kate asked.

  He sat down in the shade of a palm and told her everything in the kind of forensic detail that only a man with his training could’ve mustered. But it was more than a hyper-detailed debriefing, it brought with it shadows of the confessional and she had to remind herself how different he was from her.

  When he was done she said, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.”r />
  “You’re sure?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve never killed anyone before.” He smiled sourly. “Back in the day there were always others to do the dirty work.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “He was you friend.”

  Hook shook his head. “He was Lucien’s lackey.”

  “You never suspected?”

  He rubbed his swollen lip. “No. Naïve of me, I suppose, to think Lucien would let me drop off the grid.”

  “Yes.” She looked at him, and saw her twin self reflected in his sunglasses. “There are going to be repercussions, Harry. This Bob guy had a wife.”

  “Yes, but he told her he was in Phuket.”

  “He called you from the beach and he spoke to his wife from the Zodiac. The cell phone tower on this island will tell the real story.”

  “Any kind of investigation is days away. We have time.”

  She looked across at Suzie and JP. The girl waved and as Kate waved back she came to a decision. “I’m taking Suzie and going, Harry.”

  “Going where?”

  Kate shook her head. “Anywhere. Just far away from Thailand. I feel like we’re fish in a barrel.”

  He stood and moved close to her. She could smell soap on his skin. “What about you wanting to go back to America?” he asked.

  “I think it’s time to retire that pipedream.”

  “So, you’re going to raise Suzie on the run? Always looking over your shoulder?”

  “Your plan worked, Harry. Well, the first part, anyway. As far as the administration is concerned we’re dead.”

  “For now.”

  She stared at him, moving a tendril of hair from her face.

  “Lucien isn’t going to give up,” Hook said.

  “Lucien’s resources are limited. I’ll outrun him.”

  “That may be true today, but there’ll be a new administration in office next year. And Lucien could well be back in favor. And the new guys will be keen to discredit their predecessors.”

  “You think they’ll question our deaths?”

  “Yes, I do. There’s more than enough doubt for that.” He glanced across to Suzie and JP who were walking their way. “We need to finish this now.”

  “How?”

  “By finishing Lucien.”

  “He’ll never come here. He’ll send his creature.”

  “Yes. But if we capture Morse we can finish Benway.”

  Hook watched the approaching man and child. Suzie called his name and started to run toward him.

  “So let’s return to the mainland and bait the hook,” he said.

  “And I’m the bait?”

  “Yes,” Hook said as he waved to the child, “you’re the bait.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  Nadja sat on the edge her bed, her knees together, her spine as straight as if she were in deportment class, listening for something.

  Quite what she didn’t yet know.

  It wasn’t the avid growl of the media who were camped on their sidewalk, growing in number throughout the day as Lucien’s supposed role in taking down that plane in Thailand had gone viral. Reporters had pounded on the front door like debt collectors, demanding a statement from Lucien—who’d stayed barricaded in his office—until a patrol car had arrived and a couple of cops had shoved the mob back onto the sidewalk and threatened them with arrest if they approached the door again. So Lucien, even in his reduced state, still had a little clout with the police.

  Nadja heard Mr. Morose leave Lucien’s office, closing the door after him. For a big man his movements were ominously soundless and the only clue that he was on his way down to the hallway was the creaking of the stairs. When the gabble of the news hacks rose in volume she knew that he had exited the house.

  After a few shouted questions the throng subsided into a sullen silence.

  A few minutes later she heard the distinctive whisper of Lucien’s office door opening, the fit so secure it was almost like an airlock. She waited for the soft click as it closed and the deadbolt engaged, but it never came and instead she heard the scuff of Lucien’s shoes on the carpet as he walked from his office to his bedroom and closed the door. A minute later she caught the soft hiss of the shower in his en-suite bathroom.

  And then it struck her: what she had been listening for had not been a sound, but rather the absence of one.

  Nadja, silent in her pumps, crossed her bedroom and peered out into the corridor. Astonishingly, the door to Lucien’s office stood slightly ajar, which spoke volumes about his alcohol consumption and his state of mind.

  She quelled a sudden, paralyzing jolt of fear and walked quietly toward the room that she was forbidden to enter.

  Lucien had said that to her in as many words two years ago when he’d had to move his operation here, into what had been a never-used guest room.

  Once the bedroom furniture had been replaced with a desk, a file cabinet and a wall-mounted TV he’d stood in the doorway one evening, apprehending her as she was on her way to bed and said, “Nadja?”

  “Yes?” she’d said, her fingers on the antique brass handle of her bedroom door.

  “Think of this room as my lair.”

  “How very feral, Lucien. What do you do in there? Strip naked and bay at the moon?”

  He’d smiled one of his smiles that never touched his cold little eyes and said, “I’d appreciate you never coming in here.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Lucien,” she’d said and disappeared into her bedroom.

  And she never had. The closest she’d come had been that morning, when she’d tapped on the door.

  Fear consumed her as she approached the office. Fear that very nearly had her turning on her heel and fleeing for the sanctuary of her bedroom.

  But she breathed through the terror and pushed open the door. The heavy curtains were drawn against the media horde and the only light came from the Anglepoise on the desk top.

  The air was heavy with the stink of Lucien’s cigarettes. She saw the overflowing ashtray, the empty bottle of Cutty Sark on the desk and the smeared glass.

  These very visible signs of Lucien’s unraveling cheered her.

  She went behind the desk and looked at his computer. It was off and she knew that he would have it password protected.

  The drawers of the desk were locked.

  There was nothing for her to find, nothing that would bolster her intuition about what had really happened in the Levant.

  Disappointed, she was about to leave the room when her eyes were drawn to the wire wastebasket that stood beneath the desk, almost invisible behind the black leather chair.

  She shifted the chair, its castors making a little ticking sound, and kneeled down by the wastebasket.

  It held a few empty Samsun packs and today’s Washington Post, the headline yelling about Lucien and the Fingergate business. But there was something under the newspaper, something crumpled. Moving the Post aside she saw it was an airplane boarding pass stub.

  The light was too poor to read it, so she lifted the stub and palmed it, ready to rise from beneath the desk.

  Nadja froze when she heard the click of Lucien’s bedroom door opening. He’d been uncharacteristically rapid in his shower.

  She listened to the whisper of his shoes on the carpeted corridor and then the drumming as he stepped into the office and walked across the wooden floor, the sickly sweet smell of his aftershave setting her nostrils twitching.

  Feeling at once terrified and absurd, she shrank beneath the desk.

  In the gap between the desk and the floor she could see Lucien’s tiny chukka boots. A succession of clicks and a fume of tobacco reached her as he lit a cigarette. He coughed and she saw his feet moving her way.

  A glass chimed and she knew he had lifted the empty Scotch bottle and the tumbler. His footsteps receded and the light was extinguished. The door closed and the lock caught.

  She waited a few moments and hurried to the door, a new terror tightening her chest.
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  What if she couldn’t open the door from the interior?

  Fumbling in the dark, she found the cool plastic of a recessed button. She pressed it and with a little cluck, like a tongue against a palate, the lock released and she opened the door and stepped into the corridor, shutting it behind her.

  Heart pounding she flew into her bedroom and locked herself inside. She sat on the bed and unfolded the boarding pass stub.

  And there it was.

  Below the red Emirates logo was proof that Lucien had flown from Amman to Dubai on the day Michael was killed.

  She opened her desk drawer, removed a copy of Kundera’s Life is Elsewhere and slipped the stub inside. She walked to the window, staring out blindly at the vultures below. They spotted her and pointed cameras and microphones and yelled questions, calling her “Nadja” in their over-familiar manner.

  She pulled the drapes closed and stood a moment with her forehead against the cool plaster of the wall, hugging herself, wild thoughts of revenge setting her pulse racing.

  SIXTY-THREE

  As the long-tail skirted the last of the limestone cliffs and hit open water Hook was thrust against the side of the boat, Bob Carnahan’s pistol, shoved into the waistband of his shorts, jamming into his ribs. He’d offered the weapon to Kate but she’d refused, insisting that he keep it.

  Keep it to protect her daughter.

  Waves buffeted the boat, drenching the passengers, and Hook put an arm around Suzie, the girl made bulky by the orange life jacket he’d insisted she wear. The jackets, shoved under the seats of the boat, were soiled and poorly maintained and the other passengers (five Korean tourists) had ignored them. But Hook had searched for the smallest and cleanest and tied the child into it, shaking his head at her protests.