“In my position, what would you do?”
“I would speak to him. So far, we’re no closer to finding out anything about the men involved or who was behind them.”
Gabriel darted a look at Louis. The lie had passed him by. That was good. Gabriel would wait to hear from Louis what Hoyle had to say. In the meantime, he had begun to make inquiries about Arthur Leehagen. He was not yet ready to share with Louis what Milton had told him. In everything that he did, Gabriel protected himself first and foremost. Despite any affection he might have retained for Louis, he would feed him to wild dogs before he put himself at risk.
“So they were amateurs, but their boss isn’t? Still makes no sense, unless we’re back to the possibility that someone wants to draw me into the open.”
“You’re not as hard to find as you might like to believe, as recent events have proved. We’re missing something here, and Hoyle may be the one to enlighten us. He doesn’t issue invitations to his abode every day. Under other circumstances, it might be considered quite an honor.”
Louis watched the city flash by the window. Everything-the cab, the people, the lights-seemed to be moving too fast. Louis was a man who liked to be in control, but that control was being ceded to others: Gabriel, his unseen contacts, and now Nicholas Hoyle.
“All right, make the arrangements.”
“I will. You’ll have to go unarmed. Hoyle doesn’t allow weapons inside the penthouse.”
“Gets better and better.”
“I’m sure that you can handle anything that may arise. Incidentally, I raised the federal matter with some potentially interested parties. I believe it will be dealt with to your satisfaction.”
“And who might those interested parties be?”
“Oh, you know better than to ask that. Now, if you’d just let me out here, I’ll be on my way. And please pay the cab driver. It’s the least that you can do for me after all that I’ve done for you.”
Bliss drove north, an anonymous figure on an anonymous highway, just another pair of headlights burning whitely in the dark. Soon he would leave the road and find a place to rest for the night. Rest, not sleep. He had not slept properly in many years, and he lived in constant pain. He desired peaceful oblivion more than almost anything else on earth, but he had learned to survive on a few hours of slumber brought on by the exhaustion that eventually overcame his residual agonies. The treatment of his injuries, and his efforts to stay ahead of his pursuers, had depleted him not only physically, but financially, too. He had been forced to resurface, but he had chosen his paymaster carefully. In Leehagen, he had found someone who could satisfy both his financial and his personal needs.
The bottle containing Billy Boy’s blood lay in a padded box at the bottom of Bliss’s small suitcase. Leehagen had wanted him killed on his land, but Bliss had refused. It was too dangerous. But as the knife left his hand, and he saw the look of understanding on Billy Boy’s face before he died, Bliss knew that his gifts were still intact. It gave him confidence for what was to come.
That night, as he lay on his bed in a modest, clean motel room, humming softly to himself, he thought of Louis with the ardor of a lover journeying to meet his betrothed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE HEADQUARTERS OF HOYLE Enterprises stood a few blocks from the UN, so the surrounding streets were a Babel of diplomatic plates, creating uneasy relationships between bitter international enemies now forced to share valuable parking space. Hoyle’s building was unremarkable: it was older and smaller than most of the adjacent towers and stood at the eastern extreme of a public area that extended partially into the vicinity of the neighboring blocks to the north, south, and west, creating a natural boundary between Hoyle and the edifices around him.
In the twenty-four hours since the meeting with Gabriel, Louis and Angel had sourced the blueprints for Hoyle’s building, and Angel, aided by a bored Willie Brew and a slightly less bored Arno, had watched it for an entire day. It was a precaution, an effort to establish some sense of the rhythms of the building, of how deliveries were dealt with, of shift changes and lunch breaks among the security guards. It wasn’t long enough to form any accurate determination of the risks involved in entering, but it was better than nothing.
Actually, to Willie it was worse than doing nothing. He could have been doing nothing in the relative comfort of his own apartment, instead of doing something that he wasn’t enjoying far from any comfort at all. Arno had spent most of their watch reading, which seemed to Willie to defeat the purpose of keeping an eye on the building to begin with, but then Willie supposed that Arno was just killing time, too. Louis was reluctant to have them return to the auto shop just yet, which meant that Willie could either sit in his apartment and watch TV that didn’t interest him, or sit in a car and watch a building that didn’t interest him either. One good thing had resulted from their efforts: Willie had decided that, Louis or no Louis, he and Arno were going back to work soon. Even after only a couple of days of lounging around, Willie felt as though something was dying inside him.
Hoyle’s penthouse occupied the top three floors of the building. The remainder was given over to his offices. While Hoyle-owned companies were involved in mining, property, insurance, and pharmaceutical research, among other interests, the beating heart of his operation lay behind the modest façade of the Manhattan office. This was the parent company, and it was in this building that all power ultimately resided. A small but steady stream of people moved in and out of the lobby throughout the day, the flow increasing between twelve and two, and becoming almost entirely one-way traffic after five. Angel had spotted nothing untoward during his period of surveillance, and neither had Willie or Arno. There were no men carrying RPGs stationed behind the pillars, and he could see no heavy artillery hidden among the potted plants.
Then again, as Gabriel had noted, Hoyle had approached Louis through the proper channels, a peculiarly old-world notion in this modern age, and one that depended for its force upon Gabriel’s reputation and the favors owed to him by others. If there were any breach of protocol, Hoyle would be aware of the possible repercussions. As far as Gabriel was concerned, therefore, Louis had no cause to be any warier than usual, which meant that Louis and Angel were very wary indeed as they entered the building shortly after eight that evening.
There was one security guard behind the desk, and he merely nodded them through. Only one elevator was open in the lobby, and it had no buttons inside or out. The interior was mirrored. There was no visible camera. Angel figured that meant there were probably at least three: one behind each mirrored wall, and maybe a pinhole fourth behind the small video screen displaying the numbers of the passing floors. The elevator was also likely to be miked, so neither man spoke. They merely watched their reflections in the gleaming brass of the doors, one apparently contentedly, the other critically. Angel didn’t like mirrors. As Louis had once pointed out, mirrors didn’t like him either, remarking that “even your reflection probably leaves a stain.”
When the display read “PH,” the elevator stopped and the doors opened silently. There were two men waiting for them in an otherwise empty foyer, with more mirrors on the walls and a vase of freshly cut flowers standing on a small marble plinth. Both men wore black suits and matching funeral ties, and both carried metal detector wands. They swept them over Angel and Louis, pausing to check belts, coins, and watches, then indicated that they should proceed. A pair of carved wood doors, Oriental in origin, and clearly old, opened to reveal a third man. He was dressed more casually than the others: black trousers and a black wool jacket over an open-collared white shirt. His hair was neither too long nor too short and was pushed casually over his ears at the sides, as though he cared just enough to keep it tidy, and nothing more. His eyes were brown, and Angel detected in his features a mixture of amusement, frustration, and professional jealousy. He had the build of a swimmer: broad across the shoulders, but slender and muscular overall. The jacket hung loose enough to hide a gun,
and was unbuttoned.
Angel felt Louis relax slightly, but the response was the opposite of what it appeared to be. When Louis relaxed, it was an indication that a threat was at hand and he was preparing to act, as when an archer releases a breath simultaneously with the flight of the arrow, channeling all of the tension into the flighted missile itself. The two men regarded each other silently for a few moments, then the waiting man spoke.
“My name is Simeon,” he said. “I’m Mr. Hoyle’s personal assistant. Thank you for joining us. Mr. Hoyle will be with you presently.”
Angel wasn’t sure what Simeon’s duties as an assistant entailed, but he was pretty certain that they didn’t involve typing or answering the phone. Neither was he simply a bodyguard, unlike the men who had searched them. No, Angel had met Simeon’s type before, and so had Louis. Here was a specialist, and Angel wondered why a businessman, albeit a wealthy, reclusive one like Nicholas Hoyle, might require someone with the abilities that Simeon undoubtedly possessed.
Simeon’s gaze moved briefly to Angel, decided that there was nothing there worth lingering upon, then returned to Louis. He retreated into the room behind him, extending his right hand in a gesture of welcome. He did not turn his back on Louis. It came across as a sign of respect as well as of caution.
They entered a large, open-plan living area, dimly lit, with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, occupied by a combination of books, sculptures, and ancient weaponry: blades and axes and daggers, all mounted on transparent glass supports. The room was so cold that Angel felt goose bumps rise. The floorboards were made of reclaimed wood, and the couches and chairs were dark and comfortable, giving the impression that here was the habitation of a man of arms and letters, a throwback to another era. The room itself might even have been from another century, were it not for a glass wall that looked down upon an enclosed swimming pool, the water rippling slightly and casting its patterns on the interior walls. Although the contrast was initially disconcerting, Angel decided that it complemented, rather than undermined, the decor. Unless one was close to the glass, the sunken pool was invisible, so all that remained were the ghosts of the ripples upon the walls. It was like being in the cabin of a great ship at sea.
“Boy, it’s blue,” said Angel, as he stared down at the water, and it was: unnaturally so, as though a dye had been added to it. Angel decided that, even if he was the swimming kind, he wouldn’t have taken a dip in that pool. It looked like a chemical vat.
“The pool is professionally treated every week,” said Simeon. “Mr. Hoyle likes his cleanliness.”
There was an edge to his voice when he spoke, a mild under-tone of sarcasm. It made Louis wonder just how committed Simeon was to his boss. Louis had previously met men who were more than bodyguards to their employers, but less than friends. They were like guard dogs who grow to love the men who feed them scraps, doting on moments of affection and viewing any anger directed toward them as evidence of a failure on their part. Simeon didn’t seem like that kind of guy. This was a financial arrangement, pure and simple, and as long as Hoyle continued to put money into Simeon’s account, Simeon would continue to guard Hoyle’s life. Both parties knew exactly where they stood, and Louis guessed that both Hoyle and Simeon liked it that way.
“Hey, is Simeon your first name or your last name?” asked Angel. “Does it matter?”
“Just trying to make conversation.”
“You’re not very good at it,” said Simeon.
Angel looked downcast. “I get that a lot.”
Louis was examining a lance point on one of the shelves. He didn’t touch it, merely moved its glass base carefully in order to view it point-on, as though it were aimed at his face.
“It’s from a Hyksos lance,” said Simeon. “They invaded Egypt seventeen hundred years before Christ and formed the Fifteenth Dynasty.”
“You read that somewhere?” asked Louis.
“No, Mr. Hoyle read it somewhere. He was kind enough to share the knowledge with me, and now I’m passing it on to you.”
“Interesting. You should run tours.” Louis turned to Simeon. “You work for him long?”
“Long enough.”
“That could be taken two ways.”
“Guess so.”
“Where did you serve?”
“What makes you think I’m ex-military?”
“I have good eyes.”
Simeon considered his reply. “Marines.”
“Let me guess: Recon.”
“No. Antiterrorist, out of Norfolk.”
Antiterrorist: that meant FAST, the Marines’ Fleet Antiterrorist Security Team, formed at the end of the 1980s to provide additional short-term protection when the threat was beyond the capabilities of the usual security forces. Simeon would have been trained in threat assessment, the preparation of security plans, guarding VIPs protection. Despite himself, Louis was impressed.
“This must make a pleasant change for you,” said Angel, joining them. “Now you don’t have to lift anything heavier than a wand.” He smiled guilelessly. “It’s like being a fairy godfather.”
Louis had moved on to what appeared to be a dagger and ax combined, with a vicious triangular blade.
“That’s a ko dagger-ax.” Another man had entered the room from a door to the right. He had a full head of silver hair, neatly trimmed, and wore a long-sleeved red polo shirt and tan chinos. His shoes were brown penny loafers, scuffed and comfortable. He was lightly tanned. When he smiled, he revealed teeth that were slightly uneven, and not excessively white. His blue eyes were magnified behind the lenses of his glasses. Whatever else he was, he did not appear to be vain, or had ceased to make the more obvious concessions to vanity. The only peculiar aspect of his appearance was the pair of white gloves that covered his hands. “I’m Nicholas Hoyle. Welcome, gentlemen, welcome.”
He joined Louis at the shelf, clearly enjoying the opportunity to show off his collection. “Eleventh or tenth century B.C.,” he continued, lifting the weapon so Louis could examine it more closely. “They were all the rage in Pa-Shu during the Eastern Chou, but that one originated in Shansi.”
He replaced the ax and moved on. “This item is interesting.” He carefully moved a curved dagger from its plinth. “It’s late Shang, thirteenth to twelfth century B.C. See, there’s a rattle at the end of its hilt.” He shook the blade gently. “Not for silent killing, I imagine.”
Finally, he moved on to a crude-looking ax that stood on a shelf of its own. “This is one of the oldest weapons I own,” he said. “Hungshan, from the Liao river region of northeast China. Neolithic. Three thousand years old, at least, perhaps even four thousand or more. Here, take it.”
He handed the ax to Louis. Behind him, Angel saw Simeon stiffen slightly. Even after all these years, the ax was clearly capable of inflicting damage. It looked much more recent than it was, a testament to the skill that had gone into its construction. Louis saw that the top of the ax head had been carved to resemble an eagle. He ran the tip of his index finger along the carving.
“It’s religious in nature,” said Hoyle. “The first messenger from the Celestial Ruler was believed to have been a bird. Eagles were believed to transmit human wishes to the gods; in this case, one presumes, the death of an enemy.”
“It’s an impressive collection,” said Louis, returning the ax to him.
“I began collecting when I was a boy,” said Hoyle. “I started with minié balls gathered from the Kennesaw Mountain Battlefield. My father was a Civil War aficionado and liked to take us on battlefield vacations. My mother, I seem to recall, was generally unimpressed. I even created my own mix of tallow and beeswax to lubricate them, just like the soldiers did to prevent bore fouling from black powder residue. Otherwise-”
“They’d stick in the barrel,” Louis finished. “I know. I used to collect them myself.”
“And where was that?” asked Hoyle.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Louis. “It was a long time ago.”
“Well,” said Hoyle. He seemed embarrassed that he had overstepped some mark with Louis by asking about his past. It wasn’t a situation with which he appeared to be familiar. To hide his discomfort, he indicated a pair of armchairs and twin couches surrounding a low redwood table. Louis took one of the chairs, Hoyle another, while Angel sat on a couch. Alcohol was offered, but Angel and Louis declined. Instead, green tea was served, and some Japanese candies that stuck to Angel’s teeth and filled his mouth with a taste of lemon and horseradish that was not unpleasant, merely peculiar.
“You’ll forgive me for not shaking hands,” said Hoyle. He managed the neat trick of making it sound like a request, a favor granted by another even if the decision had been entirely his own. “Even with my gloves on, I tend to be cautious about such matters. The human hand is home to both resident and transient bacteria, a veritable cesspool of germs, but it is the transients of whom we must be most acutely aware. My immune system is not what it once was-a congenital weakness-and now I no longer venture beyond these walls. Nevertheless, I remain in good health, but precautions must be taken, particularly where visitors are concerned. I hope you’re not offended.”
Neither Angel nor Louis looked offended. Louis remained impassive. Angel appeared bewildered. He glanced discreetly at his hands. They looked clean, but he knew what a cesspool was. He sipped some green tea. It didn’t taste of very much at all. He considered using it to wash his hands.
“I hear you’ve been having difficulties,” said Hoyle. He addressed his comments to Louis alone. Angel was used to such behavior. It didn’t trouble him. It meant that, in the event of a problem, he usually had an advantage over those, like Simeon and his master, who had underestimated him.
“You seem to be well informed,” said Louis.
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