The officer stooped again, “I’m sorry Agent Ludlum, I never even thought about those trails. They connect this area with a park, east of here. The public trails there have a map, and it’s possible it includes a route all the way through.”
“Can they be blocked off?”
He nodded. “I already have someone headed that way.”
She huffed. It might be too late. Ryba might already have found that route, and he could be in the area right now. “Where do those trails lead? Where do they come out?”
He nodded to her phone. “Can you pull up a map?”
For the next few minutes, he took her through the area where the trails met the road. She marked the spot, setting it as a destination. “Is there anyone who can go there? Check it out?”
“I could,” he said, “but it would mean leaving the road open here. It’ll be an hour before anyone else can get out here.”
An hour? By then, Ludlum knew, it could be too late. Ryba might already be there, as it was.
“I’ll go,” she said.
The officer nodded.
Ludlum pulled around, driving onto the shoulder and then merging back to the road once she’d passed the cruiser. She picked up speed, frequently checking to see her position on her phone’s GPS.
Her headlights reflected from a vehicle up ahead, and she slowed.
Agent Denzel’s car. Dr. Wiley’s lake house was close.
She checked GPS again.
The trails emerged a short distance past Wiley’s house, from a patch of forest that encircled the property. The road continued on from there, ending at the lake.
She cut her headlights as she came to Wiley’s property. There was a light at the gate here, which made it possible for her to see the road. She noted that the gate was standing open.
Once she was beyond Wiley’s property, she had to turn her headlights back on or risk driving off of the winding road and into the steep ditches on either side. The forest had thickened here, blocking the moonlight and making her feel closed in on all sides. It was amping up her anxiety, and she breathed through it. She reached over and opened her grandfather’s medical bag, taking out the pistol she had tucked inside. She placed this close. Just in case.
Up ahead she saw a flash of red as her headlights bounced from a reflector.
She slowed, and eventually stopped.
In her headlights, parked in a curved patch of gravel just beyond the shoulder of the road, was a motorcycle.
A vintage Indian.
She cut her headlights and pulled over, turning off the engine. She huffed, breathing heavy, feeling her pulse in her throat. Reaching for her weapon, she opened the door and stepped out into the night. She quickly turned back, leaning in and digging through the medical bag until she found her small flashlight. She straightened, closed and locked the door of her car, and moved to the motorcycle, her weapon ready.
It was exactly as she remembered it. There was a small bit of damage from where she had let it drop to the street, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. She reached out and gingerly put her hand on the engine, then jerked it away.
Hot.
Ryba hadn’t been here long.
She hadn’t seen him on the road, but this spot was close enough to Wiley’s property that he may already have gotten there. She turned, looking back the way she’d come.
Should she drive?
She didn’t want to risk it.
She decided to walk back, weapon ready, keeping it hidden. If she needed it, she’d use the flashlight. But for now, she’d rely on the slivers of moonlight making stripes on the road.
This was by far the dumbest thing Ludlum had ever done, but she couldn’t think of another plan.
She marched through the darkness to try to find Red Ryba.
35
ROBERT WILEY LAKE HOUSE, NEW YORK
The gate at the front of the property stood open, allowing Kotler and Denzel to enter the property without much obstruction. They moved quickly now, ducking low and sprinting across the property, taking cover in a small stand of trees in front of the house.
The place was impressive. Two stories, but wide enough to accommodate dozens of rooms, up and down. It stretched along the lakeshore like a palace. Moonlight reflected from its white walls, giving it an eerie sort of glow.
The place was dark except for one set of rooms on the southern end of the structure. Light from the windows cast a warm glow on the grounds. If Wiley was here, this was the most likely place.
They made their way to the house, slowly and cautiously, until they were standing against the ground floor wall. Above them, light glowed warmly from the upstairs window.
“What’s the plan?” Kotler asked.
“We need to verify that Wiley is here. And determine if he’s alone.”
“Place looks pretty empty,” Kotler said, glancing down the length of the house. “We should move around to the lakeside. If he’s hiding out here, there’s a higher probability of him being out by the lake.”
Denzel nodded, and the two of them inched along, following the contour of the house until they came to a short, brick wall. There was an iron gate embedded in an arch—an access point to the back of the property. Through the gate, they could see a path leading down to the lake, along with hints of some sort of outdoor patio. This was well lit, and there was the smell of grilled meat.
“He’s having steak?” Kotler asked, shaking his head. “He’s a lot bolder than I would have thought.”
“He may not know we’re after him yet,” Denzel said.
“Let’s get him, and then confiscate the steaks. As evidence.”
“Not the time, Kotler.”
“We skipped dinner, that’s all,” Kotler said.
They checked the gate, found it unlocked, and moved through it quietly. The ground was covered in dry leaves that crackled with each step, and they stayed to the path to minimize noise.
From here they could hear music, growing louder as they approached.
They rounded the corner, weapons raised and stopped.
No one was there.
An engine started somewhere, and they looked to see a boat come to life at a dock on the lake.
“He’s running!” Kotler shouted.
They raced down the path as the boat pulled away from the dock, speeding out onto the lake.
They stopped at the edge of the dock and Kotler, huffing, said, “Now what?”
Denzel raised his weapon, took aim, then fired two shots.
The engine of the boat made a sputtering and popping noise before going silent, drifting out on the darkened waters.
“You got the motor!” Kotler said, grinning.
“Of course I got the motor,” Denzel replied.
Kotler laughed, then stood straight, watching the water. “Now what? How do we get to him?”
Denzel was looking around, checking the area. “I don’t see any other boats.” He took out his phone. “Keep an eye on him,” he said. He started walking back up the path, toward the house, waving his phone as if looking for a signal. “I’ll call local PD, have them bring out a boat.”
Kotler nodded and walked along the shore as Denzel made the call.
He was watching Dr. Wiley as the boat drifted. He could just make the man out in the darkness.
“Why’d you do it?” Kotler shouted to him.
From the boat, Kotler heard Wiley laugh. “You know, I really don’t know? At first, it was the money. I have a daughter. I wanted to give her the kind of education she deserved. A wedding. That sort of thing. That’s what I told myself. But there was also this place, this house.”
Kotler glanced back at the house, nodding. “It’s a nice place,” he said. “Was it worth it?”
“Oh yes,” Wiley said. “For a while, it was worth it. But you kept showing up. You kept appearing on the news. You were out there, having these … well, these adventures. I’m a physicist. I was never going to see that kind of action. I was never going to disco
ver a lost city or a buried treasure.”
“So, what, you were jealous?” Kotler asked. “Was this some kind of mid-life crisis?”
“It was more than that,” Wiley said, a note of disgust in his voice. “You were always smug, Dan. Multiple Ph.D.s. All that money. All the fame and recognition. Even when you were my student, I felt like you were outshining me in everything. It was petty, I know. But it led to me obsessing over what you were doing. It led to me trying to … I don’t know … replicate your career? I started looking into historical mysteries myself. Started doing research, on my own time. I used my sabbaticals to travel and look into some of the leads I found. When that wasn’t paying off, I used my access to government databases to start following leads. I was inspired by the underground lab you found. Isaac Newton’s lab. I started following any lead that even hinted at something like that. And that’s when I found the Black Chamber.”
“And you discovered the Heisenberg machines,” Kotler said.
“And the government-sealed room. And the manuscript. All of it. It was the photos of that manuscript that led me to the Black Chamber, actually. I traced your family tree, Dan. When I found your great-grandfather, I started following his work. He was a physicist, like me. He did work I could understand. It revealed a lot, actually. About you. About your history.”
“Maybe you can tell me all about it,” Kotler said. “I’ll visit you in prison.”
Wiley laughed. “Funny,” he said. “You were always funny. But I don’t think I’ll be in prison,” he said.
“I’m pretty sure you will,” Kotler replied.
He wasn’t sure if Wiley responded, because at that moment he felt a gun pressed against the back of his head.
“Say nothing,” a man’s voice said. “Move.”
Kotler stumbled along, occasionally pushed by Ryba as the two of them moved deeper into the woods.
This was bad.
Kotler’s mind raced with possibilities, and he knew what was happening. The only reason Ryba hadn’t shot him by the lake was that Denzel would hear, even with the silencer on Ryba’s gun. It would compromise Ryba’s escape. And though Ryba might have been able to take out the Agent, the risk of being shot himself, or incarcerated, would be higher.
Ryba played a game of odds and minimized risk. The safe play was to take Kotler off into the woods, shoot him in a spot where the sound would be further muffled by trees and undergrowth, and then make his escape the way he’d come in.
It was a clever bit of deduction, Kotler decided. Too bad he was working out the details of his own murder.
“Here,” Ryba said, stepping away from Kotler. “Turn around.”
“Don’t want to shoot me in the back?” Kotler asked, not moving. His hands were raised above his shoulders. Ryba had removed his weapon and tossed it into the lake. Kotler wasn’t confident that the trained hitman would make the mistake of shooting him in the bulletproof vest.
“I will do so, if you leave me no choice. Honor will not prevent it. But I would prefer that you face me, Dr. Kotler. For your honor, more than mine.”
Kotler turned, slowly.
Could he make a break for it? Dive behind one of the trees, run deeper into the woods?
This spot was more or less cleared, with very little brush. The trees were thinner here, about half of Kotler’s body thickness. There wasn’t much cover. He’d be dead in seconds.
He faced Ryba.
“I’m sorry for your brother,” he said. He meant it. Recent events had triggered deep feelings within Kotler, concerning the relationship of brothers. Jeffrey wasn’t answering Kotler’s calls, and apparently wasn’t allowing Alex to talk to him, either. That hurt.
Ryba shook his head. “My brother was new to this life. He was learning. He had great potential. But he made mistakes. He got himself killed. But I must still honor him. There must still be a price.”
“Will it end with me?” Kotler asked.
“You worry for the woman. And for your friend,” Ryba said.
Kotler waited.
“You have my word,” Ryba replied.
Kotler nodded, took a breath, and lowered his hands to his side. “Can I remove the vest?”
“No need,” Ryba said. “I prefer a headshot. It’s immediate. You will not suffer.”
“Thanks for that,” Kotler said, and closed his eyes, waiting.
When the shot came, Kotler’s body was thrown backward, landing on the loamy, leaf-strewn ground.
His chest hurt. A lot.
But he wasn’t dead.
Ryba had shot him in the chest after all.
Kotler lay still, not sure what he should do. He felt like someone had rammed a truck into his chest. His breathing was a little labored. But he was otherwise fine. Maybe he could pretend to be dead. Maybe Ryba would just assume and make a run for it.
How had Ryba missed that shot?
“Dan?” It was a woman’s voice. Familiar. And in seconds someone was kneeling next to him, frantically pulling at his vest, trying to remove it.
Kotler cautiously opened one eye, and saw that the clearing was lit from below by a flashlight, making the leafless treetops resemble veins branching into darkness.
“Liz?” he asked, and coughed. The action made his whole body hurt, and he groaned.
Liz Ludlum was leaning over him, opening his shirt, feeling his chest with her fingers.
“Be still,” she said. She shook her head. “Bruised. No broken ribs. But you’re going to be fine.” She smiled down at him, relief plain on her face.
“Liz?” Kotler asked again, confused, but returning her smile.
She helped him to sit up, and then get to his feet.
He leaned on her for support as he steadied himself. His chest did indeed feel bruised, but he was so glad to be alive the pain of it was starting to pass.
Liz left him for a moment, stooping, and when she stood once again the light from her flashlight danced over the trees, the ground, the body.
The body of Red Ryba.
“I shot him,” she said.
“I see that,” Kotler replied.
Suddenly she put her arms around him, hugging him in a tight embrace that made his bruised chest protest. He ignored it, returning the hug, letting the moment be.
She leaned back from him, and her face was suddenly lit by a beam of moonlight.
Kotler studied her for a moment, then leaned in, pressing his mouth to hers.
She dropped the flashlight, and for a few minutes, nothing mattered but the kiss. Not the pain in Kotler’s chest. Not the events of the past few weeks. Not even the body of a hitman at their feet.
Then someone cleared their throat.
Kotler and Ludlum looked up to see Denzel, his weapon in hand, resting against his other forearm and aimed lazily off into the woods. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said.
Kotler and Ludlum stepped away from each other, but not far. They turned to face Denzel, looking at him across Ryba’s body.
In the distance, muffled by the trees, they could hear the sound of police sirens approaching.
“That’s backup,” Denzel said.
Kotler nodded. “I figured.”
There was a pause. “They’re bringing a boat,” Denzel said.”
Kotler smiled, then laughed. And Ludlum joined him.
Epilogue
Kotler watched for a moment before stepping out of the alcove. The wind picked up out here, mostly a breeze but chilly, even in the bright sunlight. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and crossed the street. He followed for nearly a block, waited, then turned into the building.
There was construction in progress. Workers carried building materials into the space as saws and pneumatic tools provided a continuous, near-painful chorus. The building, nearly a hundred years old, was getting an update right down to its bones.
It held onto its history. Kotler could feel that, and could appreciate it. This was good work.
He saw his brother talking to som
e of the workers.
“Jeffrey,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the noise.
Jeffrey looked back, and Kotler felt his stomach clench as he saw his brother’s expression change. Kotler didn’t need to be a master at reading body language to know what Jeffrey was thinking—he made no attempt to hide it.
Jeffrey moved away from the workers and walked past Kotler. “What do you want?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you since … for a couple of weeks,” Kotler amended.
“I’ve been busy,” Jeffrey said.
“I can see that.”
They came to a room with no door. Inside, a makeshift desk had been set up with saw horses and a sheet of plywood. Blueprints were spread over this, weighted with tape measures and other tools.
A coffee maker was set up in one corner, and Jeffrey went straight to it. He poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup and offered it to Kotler.
Kotler accepted, grateful for any amicable gesture at this point.
Jeffrey picked up a second Styrofoam cup, dropped a tea bag into it and poured hot water over it, letting it steep.
“What do you want?” he repeated, dunking the tea bag in and out of the water.
“Just to talk,” Kotler said. “To say I’m sorry for what happened.”
“Wasn’t your fault,” Jeffrey said.
“I feel like it was,” Kotler replied.
Jeffrey sipped his tea. “You didn’t have those men grab me. You didn’t strap a bomb to my chest. None of that was you.”
“It was done because of me,” Kotler replied.
“Because of what you do,” Jeffrey said.
And it hit Kotler for the first time. “Yes, what I do. My work.”
“With the FBI,” Jeffrey said.
Kotler shook his head, confused. “Is that what this is about? You … are you upset that I’m working with the FBI?”
“You’re an anthropologist,” Jeffrey said. “You’re supposed to be out digging in the dirt, finding old bones, old pieces of pottery. Not hunting down terrorists or disarming bombs.”
“Technically I didn’t have anything to do with disarming that bomb …”
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