Never Say Die / Whistleblower

by Tess Gerritsen

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “You don’t even know how to contact him!”

  “He’ll contact me.” He spun around and looked at Milo. “He must’ve been watching your house all this time. Waiting for one of us to turn up. That’s where he’ll call.”

  “If he calls,” said Polowski.

  “He will.” Victor touched his jacket pocket, where the two vials from Viratek still rested. “I have what he wants. He has what I want. I think we’re both ready to make a trade.”

  The sun, glaring and relentless, was shining in her eyes. She tried to escape it, tried to close her lids tighter, to stop those rays from piercing through to her brain, but the light followed her.

  “Wake up. Wake up!”

  Icy water slapped her face. Cathy gasped awake, coughing, rivulets of water trickling from her hair. She struggled to make out the face hovering above her. At first all she saw was a dark oval against the blinding circle of light. Then the man moved away and she saw eyes like black agate, a slash of a mouth. A scream formed in her throat, to be instantly frozen by the cold barrel of a gun against her cheek.

  “Not a sound,” he said. “Got that?”

  In silent terror she nodded.

  “Good.” The gun slid away from her cheek and was tucked under his jacket. “Sit up.”

  She obeyed. Instantly the room began to spin. She sat clutching her aching head, the fear temporarily overshadowed by waves of pain and nausea. The spell lasted for only a few moments. Then, as the nausea faded, she became aware of a second man in the room, a large, broad-shouldered man she’d never before seen. He sat off in a corner, saying nothing, but watching her every move. The room itself was small and windowless. She couldn’t tell if it was day or night. The only furniture was a chair, a card table and the cot she was sitting on. The floor was a bare slab of concrete. We’re in a basement, she thought. She heard no other sounds, either outside or in the building. Were they still in Palo Alto? Or were they a hundred miles away?

  The man in the chair crossed his arms and smiled. Under different circumstances, she might have considered that smile a charming one. Now it struck her as frighteningly inhuman. “She seems awake enough,” he said. “Why don’t you proceed, Mr. Savitch?”

  The man called Savitch loomed over her. “Where is he?”

  “Who?” she said.

  Her answer was met by a ringing slap to her cheek. She sprawled backwards on the cot.

  “Try again,” he said, dragging her back up to a sitting position. “Where is Victor Holland?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You were with him.”

  “We—we split up.”

  “Why?”

  She touched her mouth. The sight of blood on her fingers shocked her temporarily into silence.

  “Why?”

  “He—” She bowed her head. Softly she said, “He didn’t want me around.”

  Savitch let out a snort. “Got tired of you pretty quick, did he?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I guess he did.”

  “I don’t know why.”

  She shuddered as the man ran his finger down her cheek, her throat. He stopped at the top button of her blouse. No, she thought. Not that.

  To her relief, the man in the chair suddenly cut in. “This is getting us nowhere.”

  Savitch turned to the other man. “You have another suggestion, Mr. Tyrone?”

  “Yes. Let’s try using her in a different way.” Fearfully Cathy watched as Tyrone moved to the card table and opened a satchel. “Since we can’t go to him,” he said, “we’ll have Holland come to us.” He turned and smiled at her. “With your help, of course.”

  She stared at the cellular telephone he was holding. “I told you. I don’t know where he is.”

  “I’m sure one of his friends will track him down.”

  “He’s not stupid. He wouldn’t come for me—”

  “You’re right. He’s not stupid.” Tyrone began to punch in a phone number. “But he’s a man of conscience. And that’s a flaw that’s every bit as fatal.” He paused, then said into the telephone, “Hello? Mr. Milo Lum? I want you to pass this message to Victor Holland for me. Tell him I have something of his. Something that won’t be around much longer…”

  “It’s him!” hissed Milo. “He wants to make a deal.”

  Victor shot to his feet. “Let me talk to him—”

  “Wait!” Polowski grabbed his arm. “We have to take this slow. Think about what we’re—”

  Victor pulled his arm free and snatched the receiver from Milo. “This is Holland,” he barked into the phone. “Where is she?”

  The voice on the other end paused, a silence designed to emphasize just who held the upper hand. “She’s with me. She’s alive.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “Word, hell! I want proof!”

  Again there was a silence. Then, through the crackle of the line, came another voice, so tremulous, so afraid, it almost broke his heart. “Victor, it’s me.”

  “Cathy?” He almost shouted with relief. “Cathy, are you all right?”

  “I’m…fine.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t know—I think—” She stopped. The silence was agonizing. “I can’t be sure.”

  “He hasn’t hurt you?”

  A pause. “No.”

  She’s not telling me the truth, he thought. He’s done something to her…

  “Cathy, I promise. You’ll be all right. I swear to you I’ll—”

  “Let’s talk business.” The man was back on the line.

  Victor gripped the receiver in fury. “If you hurt her, if you just touch her, I swear I’ll—”

  “You’re hardly in a position to bargain.”

  Victor felt a hand grasp his arm. He turned and met Polowski’s gaze. Keep your head was the message he saw. Go along with him. Make a bargain. It’s the only way to buy time.

  Nodding, Victor fought to regain control. When he spoke again, his voice was calm. “Okay. You want the vials, they’re yours.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “Then I’ll throw myself into the bargain. A trade. Is that acceptable?”

  “Acceptable. You and the vials in exchange for her life.”

  An anguished cry of “No!” pierced the dialogue. It was Cathy, somewhere in the background, shouting, “Don’t, Victor! They’re going to—”

  Through the receiver, Victor heard the thud of a blow, followed by soft moans of pain. All his control shattered. He was screaming now, cursing, begging, anything to make the man stop hurting her. The words ran together, making no sense. He couldn’t see straight, couldn’t think straight.

  Again, Polowski took his arm, gave it a shake. Victor, breathing hard, stared at him through a gaze blurred by tears. Polowski’s eyes advised: Make the deal. Go on.

  Victor swallowed and closed his eyes. Give me strength, he thought. He managed to ask, “When do we make the exchange?”

  “Tonight. At 2:00 a.m.”

  “Where?”

  “East Palo Alto. The old Saracen Theater.”

  “But it’s closed. It’s been closed for—”

  “It’ll be open. Just you, Holland. I spot anyone else and the first bullet has her name on it. Clear?”

  “I want a guarantee! I want to know she’ll be—”

  He was answered by silence. And then, seconds later, he heard a dial tone.

  Slowly he hung up.

  “Well? What’s the deal?” demanded Polowski.

  “At 2:00 a.m. Saracen Theater.”

  “Half an hour. That barely gives us time to set up a—”

  “I’m going alone.”

  Milo and Polowski stared at him. “Like hell,” said Polowski.

  Victor grabbed his jacket from out of the closet. He gave the pocket a quick pat; the cigarette case was right where he’d left it. He turned and r
eached for the door.

  “But, Gersh!” said Milo. “He’s gonna kill you!”

  Victor paused in the doorway. “Probably,” he said softly. “But it’s Cathy’s only chance. And it’s a chance I have to take.”

  “He won’t come,” said Cathy.

  “Shut up,” Matt Tyrone snapped and shoved her forward.

  As they moved down the glass-strewn alley behind the Saracen Theater, Cathy frantically searched her mind for some way to sabotage this fatal meeting. It would be fatal, not just for Victor, but for her, as well. The two men now escorting her through the darkness had no intention of letting her live. The best she could hope for was that Victor would survive. She had to do what she could to better his chances.

  “He’s already got his evidence,” she said. “You think he’d give that up just for me?”

  Tyrone glanced at Savitch. “What if she’s right?”

  “Holland’s coming,” said Savitch. “I know how he thinks. He’s not going to leave the little woman behind.” Savitch gave Cathy’s cheek a deceptively gentle caress. “Not when he knows exactly what we’ll do to her.”

  Cathy flinched away, repelled by his touch. What if he really doesn’t come? she thought. What if he does the sensible thing and leaves me to die?

  She wouldn’t blame him.

  Tyrone gave her a push up the steps and into the building. “Inside. Move.”

  “I can’t see,” she protested, feeling her way along a pitch-black passage. She stumbled over boxes, brushed past what felt like heavy drapes. “It’s too dark—”

  “Then let there be light,” said a new voice.

  The lights suddenly sprang on, so bright she was temporarily blinded. She raised her hand to shield her eyes. Through the glare she could make out a third man, looming before her. Beyond him, the floor seemed to drop away into a vast blackness.

  They were standing on a theater stage. It was obvious no performer had trod these boards in years. Ragged curtains hung like cobwebs from the rafters. Panels of an old set, the ivy-hung battlements of a medieval castle, still leaned at a crazy tilt against the back wall, framed by a pair of mops.

  Tyrone said, “Any problems, Dafoe?”

  “None,” said the new man. “I’ve reconned the building. One door at the front, one backstage. The emergency side doors are padlocked. If we block both exits, he’s trapped.”

  “I see the FBI deserves its fine reputation.”

  Dafoe grinned and dipped his head. “I knew the Cowboy would want the very best.”

  “Okay, Ms. Weaver.” Tyrone shoved Cathy forward, toward a chair placed directly under the spotlight. “Let’s put you right where he can see you. Center stage.”

  It was Savitch who tied her to the chair. He knew exactly what he was doing. She had no hope of working her hands free from such tight, professional knots.

  He stepped back, satisfied with his job. “She’s not going anywhere,” he said. Then, as an afterthought, he ripped off a strip of cloth tape and slapped it over her mouth. “So we don’t have any surprises,” he said.

  Tyrone glanced at his watch. “Zero minus fifteen. Positions, gentlemen.”

  The three men slipped away into the shadows, leaving Cathy alone on the empty stage. The spotlight beating down on her face was hot as the midday sun. Already she could feel beads of sweat forming on her forehead. Though she couldn’t see them, by their voices she could guess the positions of the three men. Tyrone was close by. Savitch was at the back of the theater, near the building’s front entrance. And the man named Dafoe had stationed himself somewhere above, in one of the box seats. Three different lines of fire. No route of escape.

  Victor, don’t be a fool, she thought. Stay away…

  And if he doesn’t come? She couldn’t bear to consider that possibility, either, for it meant he was abandoning her. It meant he didn’t care enough even to make the effort to save her.

  She closed her eyes against the spotlight, against the tears. I love you. I could take anything, even this, if I only knew you loved me.

  Her hands were numb from the ropes. She tried to wriggle the bonds looser, but only succeeded in rubbing her wrists raw. She fought to remain calm, but with every minute that passed, her heart seemed to pound harder. A drop of sweat trickled down her temple.

  Somewhere in the shadows ahead, a door squealed open and closed. Footsteps approached, their pace slow and deliberate. She strained to see against the spotlight’s glare, but could make out only the hint of shadow moving through shadow.

  The stage floorboards creaked behind her as Tyrone strolled out from the wings. “Stop right where you are, Mr. Holland,” he said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Another spotlight suddenly sprang on, catching Victor in its glare. He stood halfway up the aisle, a lone figure trapped in a circle of brilliance.

  You came for me! she thought. I knew, somehow I knew, that you would….

  If only she could shout to him, warn him about the other two men. But the tape had been applied so tightly that the only sound she could produce was a whimper.

  “Let her go,” said Victor.

  “You have something we want first.”

  “I said, let her go!”

  “You’re hardly in a position to bargain.” Tyrone strolled out of the wings, onto the stage. Cathy flinched as the icy barrel of a gun pressed against her temple. “Let’s see it, Holland,” said Tyrone.

  “Untie her first.”

  “I could shoot you both and be done with it.”

  “Is this what it’s come to?” yelled Victor. “Federal dollars for the murder of civilians?”

  “It’s all a matter of cost and benefit. A few civilians may have to die now. But if this country goes to war, think of all the millions of Americans who’ll be saved!”

  “I’m thinking of the Americans you’ve already killed.”

  “Necessary deaths. But you don’t understand that. You’ve never seen a fellow soldier die, have you, Holland? You don’t know what a helpless feeling it is, to watch good boys from good American towns get cut to pieces. With this weapon, they won’t have to. It’ll be the enemy dying, not us.”

  “Who gave you the authority?”

  “I gave myself the authority.”

  “And who the hell are you?”

  “A patriot, Mr. Holland! I do the jobs no one else in the Administration’ll touch. Someone says, ‘Too bad our weapons don’t have a higher kill ratio.’ That’s my cue to get one developed. They don’t even have to ask me. They can claim total ignorance.”

  “So you’re the fall guy.”

  Tyrone shrugged. “It’s part of being a good soldier. The willingness to fall on one’s sword. But I’m not ready to do that yet.”

  Cathy tensed as Tyrone clicked back the gun hammer. The barrel was still poised against her skull.

  “As you can see,” said Tyrone, “the cards aren’t exactly stacked in her favor.”

  “On the other hand,” Victor said calmly, “how do you know I’ve brought the vials? What if they’re stashed somewhere, a publicity time bomb ticking away? Kill her now and you’ll never find out.”

  Deadlock. Tyrone lowered the pistol. He and Victor faced each other for a moment. Then Tyrone reached into his pocket, and Cathy heard the click of a switchblade. “This round goes to you, Holland,” he said as he cut the bindings. The sudden rush of circulation back into Cathy’s hands was almost painful. Tyrone ripped the tape off her mouth and yanked her out of the chair. “She’s all yours!”

  Cathy scrambled off the stage. On unsteady legs, she moved up the aisle, toward the circle of the spotlight, toward Victor. He pulled her into his arms. Only by the thud of his racing heart did she know how close he was to panic.

  “Your turn, Holland,” called Tyrone.

  “Go,” Victor whispered to her. “Get out of here.”

  “Victor, he has two other men—”

  “Let’s have it!” yelled Tyrone.

  Victor hesitat
ed. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigarette case. “They’ll be watching me,” he whispered. “You move for the door. Go on. Do it.”

  She stood paralyzed by indecision. She couldn’t leave him to die. And she knew the other two gunmen were somewhere in the darkness, watching their every move.

  “She stays where she is!” said Tyrone. “Come on, Holland. The vials!”

  Victor took a step further, then another.

  “No further!” commanded Tyrone.

  Victor halted. “You want it, don’t you?”

  “Put it down on the floor.”

  Slowly Victor set the cigarette case down by his feet.

  “Now slide it to me.”

  Victor gave the case a shove. It skimmed down the aisle and came to a rest in the orchestra pit.

  Tyrone dropped from the stage.

  Victor began to back away. Taking Cathy’s hand, he edged her slowly up the aisle, toward the exit.

  As if on cue, the click of pistol hammers being snapped back echoed through the theater. Reflexively, Victor spun around, trying to sight the other gunmen. It was impossible to see anything clearly against the glare of the spotlight.

  “You’re not leaving yet,” said Tyrone, reaching down for the case. Gingerly he removed the lid. In silence he stared at the contents.

  This is it, thought Cathy. He has no reason to keep us alive, now that he has what he wants….

  Tyrone’s head shot up. “Double cross,” he said. Then, in a roar, “Double cross! Kill them!”

  His voice was still reverberating through the far reaches of the theater when, all at once, the lights went out. Blackness fell, so impenetrable that Cathy had to reach out to get her bearings.

  That’s when Victor pulled her sideways, down a row of theater seats.

  “Stop them!” screamed Tyrone in the darkness.

  Gunfire seemed to erupt from everywhere at once. As Cathy and Victor scurried on hands and knees along the floor, they could hear bullets thudding into the velvet-backed seats. The gunfire quickly became random, a blind spraying of the theater.

  “Hold your fire!” yelled Tyrone. “Listen for them!”

  The gunfire stopped. Cathy and Victor froze in the darkness, afraid to give away their position. Except for the pounding of her own pulse, Cathy heard absolute silence. We’re trapped. We make a single move and they’ll know where we are.