Panic

34

T homas Khan headed southeast on the A205. Evan flicked on the radio. The news was full of the explosion on Kensington Church Street. Three confirmed dead, a dozen injured, firefighters battling to bring flames under control.

‘Where is Hadley?’ Evan said.

‘Running and hiding, just like you and me.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve hidden Hadley from Jargo. I thought my influence with Jargo could survive our… recent problems. I was wrong.’

‘What problems?’

‘Once we’re safe.’

Khan exited in Bromley, a large borough of suburban homes and businesses. He navigated a maze of streets and finally steered into a driveway of a good-sized house. The driveway snaked behind the home and he parked where the car couldn’t be seen from the street.

‘I suspect we don’t have long,’ Khan said. ‘The home belongs to my sister-in-law. She is in a hospice. Dying of brain cancer. But soon the authorities will be looking to anyone who knows me for information.’

‘Like your friend who owns the coffeehouse. He can tell them you’re alive.’

‘He won’t,’ Khan said. ‘I smuggled him and his family out of Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation. I asked for silence, he will be silent. Hurry inside. Our only advantage may be that Jargo will believe us both dead.’

They entered through a back door. It opened into a kitchen. A mineral smell of disinfectant hung in the air. In the den, antique furnishings blended with an eclectic and colorful mix of abstract art. Bookshelves commanded one wall. The house had a comfortable air, but already wore a heavy sense of abandonment.

Khan collapsed on the couch. Clicked on the TV with the remote, found a channel airing live footage of the bombing site. The reporter indicated the destroyed business was owned by an Anglo-Afghani, Thomas Khan. The reporters tossed out theories and speculations as to a reason for the bombing.

‘They got it wrong. You’re from Pakistan,’ Evan said.

Khan shrugged. ‘I have bigger worries.’

Evan went to the kitchen. Hanging along a magneticstrip were a wicked assortment of knives. He picked the largest one and returned to the den. Khan looked up at him.

‘Is that for me?’ Khan did not act afraid.

‘Only if I have to.’

‘You won’t. Stabbing is intensely close-range and personal. Nasty. Messy. You feel the person die. A sheltered boy doesn’t have enough steel in his spine.’

‘I’m just learning what I’m capable of. You’re going to help me bring Jargo down.’

‘I said no such thing,’ Khan said. ‘I said we had a mutual enemy. I can hide for the rest of my life. I don’t need to fight Jargo. He thinks I’m dead.’

‘If he’s your enemy now, surely you’d rather see him taken down than worrying about him ever finding you.’

Khan shrugged. ‘The young worry about victory. I prefer survival.’ He tilted his head at Evan. ‘I thought you would be far more interested in hearing about your parents than planning an impossible revenge on Jargo.’

Evan took a step forward with the knife. ‘You know my mother worked for the Deeps.’

‘I only knew her by her code name. But I read the American news on the Web, I saw her face on a report after her murder and I knew who she was.’

‘You saw her when she was in England a few weeks ago.’

‘Yes.’ His voice was barely a whisper.

‘Why was she here?’

‘It’s oddly liberating to tell you what I always kept secret. I feel like I’m shedding an old coat.’ Khan offered a gentle smile. ‘She stole data from a senior-level British researcher involved in developing a new Stealth-style fighter. He had classified information on his laptop; you know the sort of man, technically brilliant but chafes at rules. Lax about security. He meets his mistress for getaways from the lab at a small hotel in Dover. Your mother took photos of him and the mistress, although probably he’d let his affair be exposed rather than cooperate, but more importantly, she obtained copies of the fighter data during their stay. That’s the real leverage. Unless you’re copulating with animals or small children, sex isn’t the great lever it used to be.’ Khan almost sounded disappointed; a man wistful for the good old days.

‘So she steals the data and you sell it.’

‘No. I provide the logistics to support her, I arrange for the money to go into her account. Jargo handles the sell.’

Logistics for support. Money. He would have to know where the money came from. The client list, Evan thought. This man had it. He kept his face neutral. ‘And who would Jargo sell this data to?’

Khan shrugged. ‘Who doesn’t need information like that these days? The Russians, who are still afraid of NATO. The Chinese, who still fear the West. India, who wants to take a bigger role on the world stage. Iran. North Korea. But also corporations, here and in America, who want the plans. Because they want to get contracts or out-maneuver the avionics firm who designed the plane.’ He offered Evan a neat, practiced smile. ‘Your mother was very good. You should be proud. She followed me to where I kept the files, accessed my laptop, stole the data, and I never knew until last week.’

‘I can’t find pride in her accomplishments right now,’ Evan said.

‘Now, if we’d wanted the man dead… well, your father would have been sent. He’s quite the able killer.’ Khan studied his fingernails. ‘Garrote, gun, knife. He even killed a man in Johannesburg once with nothing but his thumbs. Or perhaps that was simply a rumor he started. So much depends on reputation.’

The knife seemed suddenly lighter in Evan’s hands.

Khan made a murmur of sympathy in his throat. ‘I know them better than you do yet I never knew their real names. Rather sad, really.’

You’re just trying to goad me. Play me into making a mistake. ‘Since we’re helping each other, tell me what my mother stole from you.’

Khan’s tongue touched his lower lip. ‘Account numbers in a Caymans bank. She copied a file that had names linked to accounts. I didn’t realize she had stolen the files, copied them, until I ran a test on my system last Thursday.’

Thursday. The day before his mother died. The day, perhaps, she decided to run. She must have known Jargo and Dezz were after her. Or Khan was lying – a distinct possibility. ‘And she got a list of all the Deeps’ clients.’

Khan frowned. ‘Yes. She got that as well.’

‘And you warned Jargo?’

‘Naturally. He didn’t know about the client list. That was my own insurance in case things ever got ugly between him and me. But I convinced him that your mother had pieced together the list from other information Jargo knew I already had.’

The other information. Khan must have it all – the name of every Deep, every financial account they used, every detail of their operations. No wonder Jargo wanted him dead. ‘I want a copy of every file.’

‘Destroyed in the bomb blast, I’m afraid.’

‘Don’t bullshit me. You have a backup.’

‘I must decline.’

Evan stepped forward. ‘I’m not giving you an option.’ He moved the knife toward Khan’s chest.

‘It’s shaking,’ Khan said. ‘I don’t think you truly have the stomach for-’

Evan jerked forward and brought the point of his knife to Khan’s throat. Khan’s eyes widened. A globe of blood welled where blade met skin.

‘I’m my father’s son. The knife’s not shaking now, is it?’

Khan raised an eyebrow. ‘No, it’s not.’

‘I will kill you if you don’t help me. If you help me, there’s a man at the CIA who can protect you from Jargo. Help you and your son hide. Give you both a new life. Do you understand?’

Khan gave the slightest of nods. ‘Tell me who this man is at the CIA. I hardly plan to turn myself over to one of Jargo’s clients.’

‘You don’t need to worry about that. Talk straight. Tell me where Hadley is.’

Khan clenched his eyes shut. ‘Hiding. I don’t know.’

‘He’s hiding because he pitched me the Alexander Bast film project. Hadley set all this mess in motion.’

‘“How sharper than a serpent’s tooth.”’ Khan pressed his fingertips into his temples. ‘It is cruel to know a child could hate you so. Did you love your parents, Evan?’

No one had asked him this, ever, not even Detective Durless in Austin, which seemed like a thousand years ago but had been only a few days. ‘I do. No past tense about it. Very much.’

‘Do you still love them, knowing what they were?’

‘Yes. Love isn’t love unless it’s unconditional.’

‘So when you look at your father, you won’t see a killer. A cold and capable killer. You’ll just see your dad.’

Evan tightened his grip on the knife.

Khan said, ‘Ah. The poison of doubt. You don’t know what you’ll see. How you’ll feel. I was clumsy a few months ago. I recruited Hadley to work for me. To assist me. I trusted him, I thought he simply needed meaningful work to bring order to his life, and I was wrong. He was given a basic assignment and he barely escaped being caught by French intelligence. He promised me he would do better, but he decided that he wanted out.’

‘You didn’t accept his resignation.’

‘He didn’t tell me he wanted to quit. It’s not a job you leave. In learning how to do my work, he found files on the Deeps – all of them, and their children. If he went to MI5 or the CIA, he knew he would be put under protective custody and my assets would be immediately frozen. He wanted the money. So he wanted Jargo and myself exposed, but not until he could make arrangements to vanish. So he could access my accounts and rob me first.’ He sounded more tired than angry.

‘You sound as though you’ve talked with him.’

‘I have. Hadley confessed all to me before he left.’ Khan gave a thin smile. ‘I forgave him. In a way I was almost proud of him. Finally he had shown daring and intelligence. You were the only child of a Deep involved in the media. He thought he could befriend you and subtly draw you out to expose the network. Tease you with the murder of Bast. Egg you on to investigate. Make you do the dirty work without him putting his own neck in Jargo’s noose.’

He’s opening up too easily, Evan thought. Like a documentary subject who won’t shut up, because the only way to convince is with a torrent of words. Or they need to hear themselves talk, maybe to persuade themselves as much as convincing you and the audience. How far is he playing me? Evan wondered. ‘But he didn’t respond to my e-mail about the Bast package.’

‘A fool puts great events in motion and then grows frightened.’ Khan raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m talking freely now, is the knife necessary?’

‘Yes. The orphanage in Ohio. Bast was there, Jargo was there, my parents were there. Why?’

‘Bast had a charitable soul.’

‘I don’t think that was it. Those kids, at least three of them, became the Deeps. Did Bast recruit them for the CIA?’

‘I suppose he did.’

‘Why orphans?’

‘Children without families are so much more pliable,’ Khan said. ‘They’re like wet clay; you can mold them as you see fit.’

‘Why did the CIA need them instead of using regular agents?’

‘I don’t know.’ Khan almost smiled, then closed his eyes. He gave a hard sigh, as though confession had lifted a burden from his shoulders.

‘Tell me why they needed fresh starts, fresh names, years later. Did they leave the CIA?’

‘Bast died. Jargo took command of the network.’

‘Jargo killed him.’

‘Probably. I never asked.’

‘Were Jargo and my folks, and the other kids from that orphanage, were they hiding from the CIA?’

‘Before my time. I don’t know. When Jargo took over, he gave me a job. He brought me in to run logistics for him.’

‘Were you CIA?’

‘No. But I’d helped support British intelligence ops in Afghanistan, during the rebellion against the Soviets. I knew the basics. I retired. I wanted just a quiet life with my books. No more field work. Jargo gave me a job.’

‘Well, Jargo just fired you, Mr. Khan. You work for me now.’

Khan shook his head. ‘I admire your nerve, young man. I wish Hadley had become your friend. You might’ve been a good influence.’

The phone rang. Both men froze. It rang twice and then stopped.

‘No answering machine,’ Evan said.

‘My sister-in-law hated them.’

The ringing phone bothered Evan. Maybe a wrong call, maybe someone calling for the dying sister-in-law, maybe someone looking here for Khan. ‘I want my father back. You want Jargo to stop trying to kill you. Do our interests coincide or not?’

‘It would be better if we could both just vanish.’ Khan swallowed. Sweat beaded along his face and he coughed for breath.

‘Give me what I need. We can lean on the clients to break Jargo. Trace their dealings back to him. He’s finished, he can’t hurt you or Hadley.’

‘It’s too dangerous. Better to just vanish.’

‘Forget that.’

‘I can’t think with a knife at my throat. I would like a cigarette.’

Evan saw fear and resignation in the man’s face, smelled the sour tang of sweat on Khan’s skin. He’d overstepped. He eased up off Khan, dropped the knife from his throat. Khan put his fingertips up to the slight welling of blood, dabbed into the blotches. ‘Shallow wounds. Thank you. I appreciate the kindness. May I reach in my pocket for my Gitanes?’

Evan put the knife back at Khan’s throat, opened his jacket. Fished out a pack of Gitanes cigarettes. Stepped back and dropped them on Khan’s lap.

‘My lighter’s in my pocket, may I get it?’ Thomas Khan’s voice was calm.

‘Yes.’

Khan dug out a small, Zippo-style lighter, lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke with a weary blow.

‘I gave you your goddamned cigarette,’ Evan said. ‘Now I want this client list.’

Khan blew out a feather of smoke. ‘Ask your mother.’

‘Don’t be a dick.’

‘You appear to be a bright boy. Do you really think that if your mother stole the files that could identify the clients, we would leave those accounts open?’ His voice was gentle, almost chiding, as though talking to a slightly dense but adored child.

Evan said, ‘I’m not falling into the trap. You have the accounts that the operatives – like my parents – used. That’s all I need. I can break Jargo either way.’

Khan laughed. ‘Do you think our operatives will keep working under those names, given the danger we’re facing?’

‘If they have families and kids like my folks or you, your suburban camouflage, they can’t change.’

‘Sure they can. Your mother’s account isn’t under Donna Casher, you stupid, stupid boy.’ Khan shook his head. ‘It’s under another name she used. You won’t catch anything in that net. We’re far too careful. We’ve got escape routes built in if our covers are ever blown. We’ve all been doing this a very long time, before you were off your mother’s teat.’ He stubbed out the cigarette. ‘I suggest you leave now. I will give you half the money in your mother’s account, and I will keep the rest for my silence. It is two million U.S. dollars, Evan. You can vanish into the world instead of a grave. You will not be able to get your father back. Your dying won’t bring back your mother.’ Khan pulled a fresh cigarette out with delicacy. ‘Two million. Don’t be a fool, take the money. Get a new life.’

‘But…’ And then Evan saw the hole in Khan’s offer. Accounts with false names. The explosion. Escape routes. The phone ringing only twice. A new life. This was a trap, but not the kind he’d expected.

Khan had all the time in the world sitting here in this house. Smiling at him. No dying sister-in-law. No Khan name attached to this house. Escape route.

‘You shit,’ Evan said.

Khan flicked the lighter again, holding it sideways, a blast of mist jetting from the lighter’s end. Evan threw up his jacketed arm across his face. Pepper spray seared his eyes, his throat. He staggered and fell across the Persian rug. Pain gouged up through his eyeballs, his nose.

Khan dashed across the room, knocking a thick tome from the shelf, reaching in, drawing a Beretta free, spinning to fire at Evan. The bullet barked into the coffee table by Evan’s head. He blindly seized the table, brought it up as a shield, charged at Khan, his eyes burning as if he’d had matches poked into them. Two more silenced shots and wood splintered into Evan’s stomach and chest, but he rammed the table into Khan, forced the gun downward, drove him back into the oak shelves.

Pressing and pressing and pressing harder. Evan powered his legs, his arms, the agony in his face fueling him. Flattening the man into the wall. He heard Khan’s lungs empty, heard him gurgle in pain; the man dropped to the floor, the gun still in his hand.

Evan dumped the table and snatched at the gun, Khan’s face and fingers nothing but a blur. But Khan held on to the Beretta. Evan fell onto the older man. Khan pistoned a knee into Evan’s groin, jabbed bony fingers at his clenched-shut eyes. Evan let go of the gun with one hand and punched, connecting with Khan’s nose. The man’s face was a haze through his tearing eyes. Evan seized the Beretta again with both hands, fought to turn it toward the cloud of the ceiling. Khan jerked it back, aimed it toward Evan’s head.

The gun fired.