Kotler studied Coben. Everything about the man was strategic, calculated. The comfortable pose, hinting at openness but with a touch of being guarded. The smile, placating but welcoming. Open up to me, his body was saying. Tell me all the secrets and all the true things. Tell me who you really are and what you want most in the world.
That was what Coben’s calculated body language was asking, and so Kotler could deduce a few things, make a few educated guesses.
Coben knew Kotler’s background. He knew not only Kotler’s public history but his hidden history as well. Not just the FBI work—that would have been easy. There were files, reports, video of debriefings. Coben would have access to all of it.
It was clear, though, that he knew some of Kotler’s hidden personal background. The details that Kotler had kept off record as much as possible.
Nothing sinister. Nothing Kotler was ashamed of or needed to worry over, if they came to light. But a lot of those details led to parts of Kotler’s past that hurt for him to think about. They were avoided out of self-preservation, rather than some clandestine agenda.
Coben was probing into things Kotler had buried, so that he wouldn’t think about them, and was using them to imply that Kotler might be playing some sort of long game.
Which meant that despite everything Coben clearly knew about Kotler, he hadn’t yet worked out Kotler’s motives. He was probing to find out what Kotler really wanted, why he’d moved to position himself as an independent consultant with the FBI, why he had bothered to learn about history and physics, psychology and codebreaking. Coben saw Kotler as an enigma, and the NSA had a long and robust history of finding trouble on the other side of an enigma.
Kotler laughed.
Coben frowned. “What is it?”
Kotler shook his head. “I don’t have one,” he said.
Coben was confused, and for the first time, Kotler saw a genuine expression flicker across the man’s features. “I’m sorry, what don’t you have?”
“An agenda,” Kotler said. “A plan. I don’t have anything motivating me to be part of the FBI or any other agency. I’ve only ever been after one thing, and it has nothing to do with government agencies. Except that sometimes our interests overlap.”
“And what is that one thing, Dr. Kotler?”
Kotler grinned. “The meaning of life, Agent Coben. At least, that’s the shorthand for it. I’ve studied the things I’ve studied so I could make an effort to solve the oldest riddle in history. I want to know why people are the way they are. I want to know what the purpose of humanity is, what it means to be alive, to think. I study history because I want to find a reason for it to exist. And I study physics because I want to find the cause of it all. That’s it. That’s all I was ever after. It’s a lifelong pursuit. Probably impossible.”
Coben waved this off. “I know this already. You don’t exactly make a secret of any of this. You say this line in every interview, and you write it into every personal thesis. The whole world knows the ‘why’ you’ve chosen for yourself.”
“So you know that I’m not after anything that should concern the NSA,” Kotler said.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Coben replied. “You could genuinely be as idealistic as you seem to be. But you’ve managed to get yourself into an influential role with one of the most powerful agencies in the country. One where idealism can be disastrous. Idealists do things that put lives in danger.” He studied Kotler for a moment, his composure slipping back into place. The mask was back. “I think there’s more motivating you than even you realize. And in my experience, it’s the motives men hide even from themselves that end up being the most dangerous.”
Kotler considered this.
For two years he had more or less sidelined his life’s work, the archeological research that he’d decided was his career, in favor of helping Denzel and his new division solve riddles and crimes that had world-changing implications. He had helped to bring dangerous people to justice. Kotler hadn’t really considered himself anything more than an anthropologist, even when he was busying himself with tasks that no anthropologist would ever have to worry about. Was it possible that he had some underlying motive for this work? Something he hadn’t yet revealed to himself?
He glanced at Coben once more and saw that the man had returned to examining his phone.
The car arrived at the location Denzel had specified. The doors opened, and Coben and Kotler stepped out. They were back to relative silence, broken only by Coben issuing orders and asking for updates.
Kotler was thinking about everything that had happened over the past twenty-four hours, and a detail he’d glossed over now nagged at him.
Coben had hinted that Historic Crimes was the beneficiary of some unknown, special consideration, higher up in the echelons of the bureau, perhaps even in the government itself.
Maybe Kotler’s agenda wasn’t the one Coben was after.
The Agent was good at hiding his micro expressions, masking what he was really thinking, what he knew and didn’t know. He was unreadable.
But he’d slipped.
Kotler realized that without meaning to, Coben had posed the very problem he was trying to solve.
He didn’t know who was behind the establishment and funding of Historic Crimes.
But he believed that Kotler did.
Red Ryba had been patient, following from afar, but when he recognized what was happening, he pulled back even further.
There was an operation in progress.
The man escorting Kotler was an agent, Ryba was confident, but he was not FBI. The way this man conducted himself, the way he moved about in the world and the manner in which he had arrived and taken command at what was obviously a checkpoint—it all hinted at the man being in a more clandestine line of work. CIA, most likely. Perhaps NSA, though they were not often found in the field.
This complicated things.
Ryba left the car he’d been using and began to move around in the neighborhood on foot. He would come back for his tools, stashed in the trunk. For the moment he needed access to someplace that would give him the proper vantage point but would also allow him a means of escape.
The challenge was the notable presence of FBI and police in the area. They were everywhere. Every rooftop, every empty apartment or storefront.
They were hiding, staying out of sight, but Ryba had been trained to spot them.
He bought a Coke from a street cart and sipped through the straw as he walked casually back to the car. He’d seen enough.
This wasn’t the time. For the moment, Dan Kotler had the best sort of protection, though Ryba was certain that Kotler wasn’t aware he even needed it. This operation might have provided the perfect distraction, but there was too much activity. Too many risks, with agents everywhere.
Kotler could wait.
Ryba started the car and turned into traffic, leaving the site behind. He would find Kotler again. He knew where he lived. He would find a time when Kotler had his guard down, and he would take care of him then. There was no hurry.
For now, there were other things to deal with.
It took half an hour to get to the lot, and Ryba circled it twice to gather the intel he needed to finalize his plans. The lot closed in an hour. At that point, security would begin its rounds.
There were three gates allowing access to the lot. The first gate was just beyond a squat office with bricks so stained by city pollution it was impossible to determine their original color. Many of the windows were covered on the inside with aluminum foil. A glass door was sheathed in iron bars, with a camera directly above it, aimed at the pad of cement at the entrance.
There was a drive-thru window just in front of the gate, and a short pole with a keypad mounted to it.
This was where tow trucks would bring vehicles in from the streets. The window would be manned during business hours, in case there were questions. Otherwise, city tow trucks had the code for the gate and could make their deposits any time,
day or night.
Too public. And too many obstacles. Getting through that gate would bring more attention than Ryba was willing to deal with at the moment.
The second gate had more promise. It was a side gate that ran parallel to a side street. This was a long, ambling gate topped with razor wire that opened wide enough to bring in larger forms of transport. The lot housed a menagerie of seized vehicles one might not expect, including large boats, camper trailers, and even a parade float.
This gate was locked with a simple chain and padlock. It had potential. It was partially blocked from view, from the main street at least, by the eclectic collection of large vehicles parked just inside. The trouble was the street lamp. Directly above the entrance was a large halogen light that would cast a cone of near daylight on the spot. The neighborhood was just busy enough that someone was sure to witness someone cutting that chain.
Still, Ryba noted it, primarily for its proximity to his target. He could solve the problem of the light. There were ways.
The third gate was at the back of the lot. At first glance, it seemed the best choice. It backed up against a lot filled with junk, mostly abandoned cars. The lot beyond was encircled by its own fence, but this was in such disrepair that parts of it sagged inward. Local kids likely used the place as their own personal playground. Red and his brothers had played in a similar lot back home, and the sight of it was enough to inspire some nostalgia. It also reminded him of why he was here.
Still, this gate had promise.
There was some appeal to this gate, but there was also a downside. The alley running between the impound lot and the abandoned lot was strewn with large debris—dumpsters, crates, even the shell of an old car. There was no clear path in or out. He could be boxed in if conditions went against him, and he always worked under the assumption that something unexpected could happen.
Like the side gate, there was a chain and lock, with the chain snaked through the chain link of the gate and the fence. It was loose, though not loose enough that Ryba could slip in. He could cut the chain and leave the gate closed, and it likely wouldn’t be spotted.
This was the most vulnerable of the three gates. There were street lights, but they were on the corners of the impound lot, for use on the two streets that ran to either side. This meant the back of the facility was cast in shadow.
Night came upon the neighborhood, and Ryba parked the car several blocks away, in a parking garage that charged by the day. He would retrieve it later, perhaps in several days. He’d just leave his tools in the trunk. It would be safe enough. Later he’d retrieve it and resume his hunt of Dr. Kotler.
He did take one item out of the trunk, stowing it in the inner pocket of his long coat. He then walked back toward the impound lot, taking his time, letting local activity slow to a crawl as people returned home from day jobs and left for night shifts. He lingered for a time with a light crowd outside of a local bar, never really engaging with anyone, leaning against the wall and listening to stories of sexual conquest and American sporting events. Uninteresting stuff, but it was easy to blend in while waiting. Eventually, he left them to their conversations, having made no impression on them whatsoever.
As he walked, he scanned the environment, making sure no one was around. At one point he spotted three drunken frat boys—or what he thought of as frat boys—stumbling and laughing, shushing themselves, taking selfies. They were on the other side of the avenue, and stopped in front of yet another bar, lingering in the doorway. They were the only people out at this time of night, in this area of town. The neighborhood was rough enough to keep most people indoors.
He arrived at the impound lot ten minutes after leaving the bar and almost three hours after leaving the car. The site was now dark and quiet, as he had hoped. He turned the corner and took up a position across the street. He leaned against the wall of an auto mechanic’s shop, looking up at the halogen light above the lot’s side gate.
He had made his decision on the walk over.
The back gate would mean less opportunity to be spotted, but it was also the furthest from his target, and the debris in the alley could slow him down.
The side gate was less than forty feet from the target and had a clear path to an escape route. He could time things better, exiting onto the street and gone before anyone could stop him.
It was the best option, but far from perfect. He could make it better.
Ryba reached into the side pocket of his coat and slowly removed the pistol. It had a silencer already in place, adding to its length and bulk, but it still felt light and welcome in his gloved hand. He glanced from side to side, looking for anyone who might be on the street. When he saw no one, he raised the weapon in a quick, smooth arc and fired a single shot.
The sound was muffled by the silencer but was still loud enough that it might have drawn a glance from passersby—like firing a compressed air nail gun. The noise from the street helped to further mute the sound of the weapon, however, along with the tinkle of glass as it rained down from the halogen.
He slipped the gun back into his coat pocket. He waited.
If security had noticed the light going out, they hadn’t considered it much of a problem. No one came to the gate, no one appeared on the street.
This whole side of the impound lot was now shrouded in darkness, providing precisely the cover that Ryba needed.
He walked across the street, pulling the balaclava over his face as he went.
When he came to the gate, he took out the tool he’d hidden inside his coat—a stubby set of bolt cutters. He cut the lock and let it fall to the ground as he took hold of the chain. He carefully moved this, threading it carefully back through the gate so that it would dangle free, rather than running down the corrugated metal of the gate with a sound like machine gun fire.
He paused again, waited, listened, watched. He then rolled the gate open, as quietly as possible, until there was a gap about four foot wide.
He entered the impound lot, casting the bolt cutters into the weeds.
He knew there would be cameras, but what he was about to do would be more than enough for authorities to figure out who was responsible. His features were covered, and it would be impossible for anyone to verify his identity. But they would know. His reputation, as well as recent events, would tell them.
He found the Indian among several other motorcycles, lined up side by side on a wide pad of cement. The light here was low, but even in the dimness, Ryba could tell that there was damage. The woman had casually dropped it to the ground, in front of FBI headquarters. A mirror was shattered, and there were dents and scratches. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed or replaced. And more importantly, nothing that would prevent it from running.
This had been Cameron’s favorite thing. Red wouldn’t allow it to be sold at some police auction. He would take it, have it restored in his brother’s honor. It would be a memorial to Cameron Ryba. Red owed him that, as blood. His brother had died in the line of duty, and restoring his prized possession would be a fitting memorial.
“Hold it right there!” a voice said from behind him.
Ryba turned, feeling perturbed. This was a moment of reverence. Part of his mourning for the loss of his brother, and a price his code of honor demanded. It was a rare moment of letting his guard down, which he now realized was foolish. Mistakes such as these were the very thing that had gotten Cameron killed. Red was better than this. He had allowed himself to be soft.
Ryba turned to face the man, who was already chattering into a radio pinned to his lapel. He told Ryba to raise his hands, and Ryba complied.
With the same quick, smooth motion as he’d used for the halogen, Ryba raised the gun and fired another single shot, this time hitting the security guard in the chest.
The man toppled backward, his own weapon firing, ricocheting into the night. He was alive but severely injured.
Ryba wasted no time. He leapt onto the motorcycle, using the spare key to start it. The machine roared
to life, and Ryba throttled it to high speed, racing through the impound lot, turning down the darkened alleyways between seized vehicles. The bike’s headlight reflected crazily from boats and trailers, creating a cacophony of shifting shadows as Ryba passed.
A pulse of blue and white lights snapped on in front of him, and Ryba turned to the side, skidding the bike to a stop.
Another security guard, this time in a small pickup, had pulled in front of the gate.
“Put your hands over your head and get down on the ground, now!”
Ryba heard him, though he couldn’t see him past the lights of the truck. He glanced around, looking for any other route. He was hemmed in, however, and had very little choice.
He again throttled to full speed, racing directly toward the security truck, taking his weapon out and firing directly into the lights and windows of the vehicle.
He once again skidded to a stop and slammed the kickstand down, climbing off and moving in a crouch toward the door of the truck. He rose then, casually, without worry. He put the gun back into his coat pocket, stepping forward, peering into the truck.
The guard was slumped over the steering wheel, dead. There was country music playing on the radio. The guard had an unfired revolver still in his hand.
Ryba put the vehicle in gear and stepped aside, letting it roll out of his path until it crashed into the colorful parade float.
He stepped back and swung his leg back over the seat of the Indian. In seconds he was blasting through the side gate, onto the side street and then turning onto the main avenue. He raced down the street at high speed until he disappeared into the canyons of the city.
23
RIKERS ISLAND PRISON COMPLEX, NEW YORK
Ludlum surrendered her purse. She used her FBI identification, which helped move things along. She wasn’t allowed to carry anything into the prison, beyond her pen and notepad. That would be enough.
The Stepping Maze Page 14