Patriot acts ak-6

by Greg Rucka

  They'd played it by the book.

  I was showing my St. Louis ID and my ticket to the TSA agent at the security checkpoint while, one hundred and sixty miles away, the door to our hotel room was being smashed down. While they were clearing the hotel room and securing the perimeter around the Outlaw Inn, I was settling into my seat. Somewhere, somebody with a badge was putting two plus two together, and coming up with a stolen pickup truck.

  By the time I was changing planes in Minneapolis, the news was reporting that the truck had been found in a lot outside of Casper. Someone on the screen speculated that Danielle and Christopher Morse could be almost anywhere by now, and asked the audience to be vigilant, and report any possible sightings. If I'd been anywhere else, I might have abandoned my track then and there, gone for an alternate route. But I'd made the first connection, and the way airports work, I was already behind the security screen. I walked from my arrival to my departure gate without incident, the only attention drawn due to my spectacularly embroidered jacket. It was twenty-seven hours and fourteen minutes after I'd left Alena at the airport in Lynch before I saw her again. When she opened the door to the suite at the Wilmingtonian, I saw in her expression that she'd felt the time as acutely as I had. I came through the door, dropping my bag as she threw the locks, and when she turned back to me I was ready for her, and I took her in my arms without a word.

  I was content just to hold onto her for a very long time, then.

  She was content to let me.

  PART

  FOUR

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  I slept late into the next morning, my body greedy to make up for the rest I'd denied it over the last day and a half. By the time I got up it was working towards noon, the sun was shining, and there was no snow to be seen anywhere when I stepped out onto the balcony of our suite at the Wilmingtonian Hotel.

  I was profoundly grateful for that.

  Alena had already gone out, leaving a note asking that I stay put, and adding that she would return no later than one that afternoon. There was plenty of room in the suite, so I did yoga for half an hour before climbing into the shower to the accompaniment of the television. The yoga served as a self-diagnostic of a sort, and I was pleased to see that everything on me appeared to be in working order. The bruises were still lingering, and there was a new one on my hip from the fall I'd taken on the ice in Lynch, but that was all. Alena, I had noted the previous evening, had a companion bruise of her own, but on the right hip, not the left.

  The television was a different education altogether. After some hunting, I settled it onto CNN, and waited for the Montana Terrorists story to come back for an update as I worked through my poses. It was taking a while, and that struck me as odd, and I didn't think it was because I was being vain. Two fugitives with an unspecified amount of ricin in their possession should have ranked pretty high in the Top Stories list; instead, we were buried halfway through the cycle. When they did finally get to talking about us, what they had to say surprised me, and I turned in the pose I was holding to give the screen my full attention.

  There had been developments, but not the developments I'd expected. Given Lynch, I'd have thought the media play would have been pure hyperbolic fear, insistent and foreboding, with plenty of informative pieces about how to protect yourself from exposure to ricin and the like. Instead, there was confusion and frustration, and an odd lack of anxiety, and it took the anchor cutting to a new talking head before I began to get an explanation.

  "According to sources at the Pentagon," the anchor said, "the search for the Montana Two has now been suspended."

  "That's what we're hearing, though federal authorities are refusing to confirm."

  "How could they make a mistake like this, Jim?"

  "Well, it's important to remember, Laura, there's a lot that goes on that the general public simply isn't privy to. Remember, one of the nine-eleven hijackers had his visa renewed fully three weeks after the plane he'd been on went down-that's three weeks after his body had been identified. So it's difficult to say. This may be a simple matter of a misidentification, or something else entirely. But it happens more often than you might think. I could regale you with story after story of this kind of thing. The real tragedy here is what it does to the people involved-"

  "Danielle and Christopher Morse, in this case."

  "-yes, the alleged suspects. This has to have turned their lives completely upside down. We're now hearing that they were never even in Lynch, that law enforcement there responded to a tip that later proved to be entirely unsubstantiated."

  "No word, then, that the Morses are in custody at this time?"

  "Again, Laura, the Feds are saying no, but what we're hearing unofficially from the Pentagon is yes. Take your pick."

  "And meanwhile, there's news of this new cell-"

  "Yes, Al-Qaeda of North America, apparently. This emerged last night, that intelligence agency officials believe that what happened outside of Glacier National Park in Montana was actually the work of four Syrian nationals who had come over the border from Canada. And that it's actually this group that may be in possession of the ricin. Obviously, every effort is being made to find and apprehend these men."

  "Really is extraordinary," Laura the anchor said, turning back to address the camera and shaking her head with bemusement.

  She wasn't the only one, though I was more troubled than amused. Alena returned as I was running the razor over my face, trimming my stubble in an attempt to shape what was growing into a beard that would, hopefully, do something to conceal my features. I didn't like growing the beard; in another couple of days it would start to itch, I knew that from experience, and I'd have to fight myself to keep from scratching constantly at my neck. Still, there didn't seem to be much of a choice in the matter. Even if I could believe what I'd seen on the television, my face would still be getting far more attention than it deserved or I desired.

  It wasn't the first time my face had been seen nationally. The last time it had happened, I'd become famous, albeit briefly. Five years later, almost, it was happening again, but the fame was now infamy. I wondered how long it would last this time.

  Alena had bought more clothes, and I picked through the selections she'd made for me, getting dressed, telling her about what I'd seen on the news. It earned an arching of an eyebrow and a brief pursing of the lips.

  "Very interesting."

  "Someone's throwing up a roadblock for us."

  "You were in the Army. Could it be someone you know from those days, someone now at the Pentagon?"

  "No way. Even if I knew people in the E-Ring, which I don't. This is something else."

  "Someone doing us a favor."

  "Nothing's for free. They're doing us a favor, they'll want one in return." I pulled on the latest in what was becoming an endless stream of new blue jeans. She'd picked three shirts for me, as well, all of them plain, no logo, no slogans, one in white, one in blue, and one in green. I went with the green. My shoes, at least, hadn't needed to be replaced. "I don't want to think about what we spend on clothes."

  "You think it's bad for you, it costs two to three times as much for me," Alena said.

  I finished tucking myself in, then asked, "We have weapons?"

  "The nearest cache from here is in Philadelphia. Clearing it would take too long."

  "We might want to do something about that. Whether or not we're still number one with a bullet on the nation's Most Wanted list, I don't want to risk running into any more shooters working for Gorman-North."

  Her expression tightened, and she shook her head slightly. "I tried reaching Dan this morning when I went out. I didn't get a response, Atticus."

  "Vadim?"

  "Nothing."

  I thought about what the reporter and the pundit had been saying. "They've been picked up."

  "I think that's likely. Where and when and by whom I do not know. Before I returned to you, I was inclined to believe it would be federal agents
who had taken them in. Now, I am unsure. In either case, we must operate on the premise that one of them, if not both, are in custody."

  "Would he talk?"

  "Dan, you mean?"

  I nodded.

  "Not on his life, and not simply because of any fear or loyalty he might feel for either of us. It would be a point of pride to him."

  "There's a lot of pressure they could bring to bear to convince him to change his mind. Especially if they have Vadim in custody."

  "No, you misunderstand," Alena said. "He doesn't want to talk. Given the choice, he'll take their worst. He thinks of it as proving himself."

  "To who?"

  "God only knows," Alena said. "He's always been like that. Most of the spesnaz I dealt with seemed to feel they hadn't earned their place unless they'd been wounded or tortured first."

  "If they've got Vadim…"

  "He's younger, I don't know about him." She shook her head. "We will learn soon enough, I think."

  The news sobered me, took the last of the joy I had been feeling at being reunited with her and turned it to air. Despite the sleep, I felt suddenly tired, and on that came another desire, almost childlike in its simplicity: I wanted to go home. I wanted to go back to Kobuleti, back to the house and Miata. The want didn't last for long, just long enough to make itself known to me, and then it was chased away with the knowledge that, much as I might want it, it wasn't going to happen, not as things stood now. It probably would never happen again.

  Montana had changed the game, and if the cabin in the woods hadn't proven it, what had followed in Lynch sure as hell did, and the developments on the news made it even clearer. The further we went, it seemed, the less we knew, and instead of being manipulated by one force-presumably whoever it was who so badly wanted us dead-there was now a new player who maybe didn't. Or wanted something else from us entirely. There were strings being pulled that we not only couldn't see, we couldn't even begin to understand.

  We weren't in over our heads. We were already under and about to lose our last breath. There was no getting off this ride until it ended.

  "What are you thinking?" Alena asked me.

  "Honestly?"

  "Of course honestly."

  "I'm thinking about the end to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, that's what I'm thinking."

  She managed a smile. "I thought we were Bonnie and Clyde."

  "Take your pick, they both end the same way."

  The smile faded. "If we go, we go together."

  There was nothing much more to say after that.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  Louis Woodburn wore khaki slacks and a faded yellow shirt, and a tan that could only have come from a bottle or a bed. He didn't wear a tie.

  Alena and I watched as he made his way over to us from behind his desk at Cape Fear Marine and Yachts, which was about as straightforward a name of a business as one could ask for. The receptionist who had beckoned Woodburn over, a busty blonde with lipstick the color of a stoplight, made the introductions.

  "Louis, this is Miranda and Simon Cole," she said. "Apparently, they've been referred to you."

  "Really?" Woodburn's face lit with unexpected pleasure. "Wonderful! What can I do for the two of you?"

  "He wants to buy a yacht," Alena said. It came out flat, as if she was indulging her husband, but only barely.

  "Well, that's what we sell here, yachts." Woodburn smiled brightly at me, then at Alena. "You don't sound convinced, Mrs. Cole."

  "I think they're awfully expensive."

  "Some of them can be very reasonable, you'd be surprised. And you can't forget it's a great investment." He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice, his Carolinian drawl thickening slightly. "And, depending on your accountant and your business, a hell of a write-off."

  "See, that's what I mean," I said to Alena. "It's an investment."

  "Exactly," Woodburn said, taking a step back towards his desk, and motioning us to follow him. "Why don't we take a seat, look at some of the brochures, figure out what you're looking for. There are a lot of choices. Would either of you like something to drink? Iced tea, bottled water?"

  "Bottled water." Alena sniffed. "Still water, not bubbling."

  "Nothing for me," I said.

  Louis Woodburn ushered us to the leather-upholstered chairs opposite his desk, then went off, presumably to find Alena a bottle of still water. I took another glance around the showroom, at the shiny displays and brightly colored posters. There were two other salespeople working at nearby desks, and an older couple browsing one of the catalogues. I suspected this was the off-season for yacht sales.

  Woodburn returned with a bottle of Evian, which he was wiping down with a paper towel as he approached. He handed it over to Alena with all the ceremony of a sommelier presenting the pride of his cellar, then took his seat behind the desk. I put him on the cusp of fifty, and despite his exuberance-or perhaps precisely because of it-he seemed to be taking to it well. If the ring on his finger and the photographs on his desk were to be believed, he was currently on his second, or perhaps even his third marriage.

  "So, what kind of vessel are you thinking about? Something like a Funship, or maybe something in the cruiser line? The Four Winns Vista series are excellent yachts, perfect for entertaining or for entertainment." He shuffled the papers on his desk, searching for brochures, beginning to lay them out before the two of us. "There's also the Cruisers Yachts line. I highly recommend looking at those. They're manufactured right here on the Cape Fear River. They're really the yacht of choice."

  I extended my hand, and he filled it with one of the brochures.

  "What size are you looking at?" Woodburn asked.

  "Twenty-eight feet," Alena said.

  "Closer to fifty," I said, examining the brochure.

  Alena lowered her bottle of water and shot me a glare. "That's not what you said earlier."

  "Let's see what he's offering," I told her, then turned to Woodburn. "The problem is, Miranda doesn't have an idea what we're talking about. She's got horrible spatial perception."

  "Simon!"

  "C'mon, it's true, honey, you know that. Admit it, you don't have the first idea between a fifty-footer and a yacht that's twenty-eight feet."

  "Twenty-two feet," she said.

  Woodburn laughed softly, and he was good, because he made it clear he was appreciating Alena's wit, and not the reproach that had come with it.

  "It's a significant twenty-two feet," he said. "But, yes, it's certainly hard when you're dealing in the abstract like this."

  "Twenty-eight feet, there's not a lot of room below," I told Alena. "Not like you're going to want."

  "Tell you what," Woodburn said. "Let's go take a walk around the shop and the service department, you can see the different sizes. We can't really go aboard them, of course, but that way you can get a better picture of the kind of scale we're talking about."

  "That's a great idea," I said, and got to my feet, Woodburn following suit. We both looked at Alena expectantly.

  She sighed, and then, with convincing reluctance, got to her feet. We let him do his song and dance for much of the next hour, following Louis Woodburn as he escorted us through the service shop, listening attentively as he pointed out the amenities on this model, the appointments on that one. He played more to Alena than to me, though he never forgot I was there, and Alena did a good job of allowing herself to be won over, little by little. By the time we'd finished with the tour, it was nearly four in the afternoon, and Alena was even laughing at Woodburn's jokes.

  On our way back to the sales office, Alena said to me, "Jake was right. He's very good."

  She indicated Woodburn, less for my benefit than to make certain he knew who we were talking about.

  "Yeah, he was, wasn't he?" I agreed. "I'll have to thank him for the recommendation."

  "Let's wait until we actually buy one of them," Alena said.

  "Jake?" Woodburn asked.

  "Our friend who
recommended we come talk to you," I told him. "Jacob Collins."

  He was smooth about it, and very quick, which I supposed was what made him so ideal as a contact person. "No kidding? Now, that's funny. That's…that's funny."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "I haven't talked to Jake in quite a while." Louis Woodburn checked his watch, then added, "Aw, Christ, I didn't realize how late it had gotten. I'm sorry, Mr. Cole, Mrs. Cole, I'm going to have to cut this short. My stepdaughter has a softball game I need to attend. Let me hand you off to one of my associates, how about that?"

  "We were enjoying dealing with you," Alena said.

  "I appreciate that, I really do, but I have to go." He smiled at us, and it was almost the same smile he'd been using before, but not quite. I wasn't reading fear in it, but instead something closer to confusion, perhaps mixed with a mild alarm. He reached out for my hand, gave it a firm and practiced shake, then nodded to Alena, and then he was heading for his car parked outside the sales office, a silver Cadillac, one of the new models.

  We watched the Caddie pull onto Market Street and disappear into traffic.

  "So, if he's still your guy, he does what now?" I asked Alena. "Calls the latest number Sargenti sent him and says that Miranda and Simon Cole came by?"

  "Most likely."

  "His reaction seem odd to you?"

  "In what way?"

  "I don't know. Like maybe we weren't the first people to actually mention Mr. Jacob Collins to him in person recently. Instead of, for instance, over the phone."

  Alena nodded slowly. "We should head back to the hotel. I'll call Nicolas, tell him to check the box and report back to us."

  We headed to where we'd parked our rental, and I took the wheel and started us back in the direction of the river and the hotel. I checked the mirrors a couple times, and twice I thought that maybe we were being followed by a blue BMW, but then I thought that maybe I was being overly paranoid. Market was pretty much a long, straight shot back into downtown, and while there were plenty of places to turn off of it, it was heavily traveled, and the BMW certainly wasn't the only car that seemed to be heading in our direction.