Trust Me

12

The waiting was pure hell for Henry Shawcross. The police were gone, and he’d ignored the phone calls from the press after the brief statement he’d had to make on his front porch after the reporter showed him the Houston shooting footage. He was badly shaken; he hated to feel unprepared. He wasn’t going to speak to anyone unless it was Mouser or Luke or the kidnapper, calling to arrange another deal.

He’d watched the coverage of the disaster in Ripley for five minutes with a coolness in his heart; the crushing rains had scraped the chlorine from the sky. But the damage was done, the fuse of panic lit in the American heart. Politicians were demanding, in gusting words, to know that the cargo railways of rural America were safe, that the chemical plants around the country where chlorine was stored were secure. Of course all they cared about was covering their asses, he thought. That was all any of those jerks cared about.

But they – his clients, and his soon-to-be clients – all wanted to know what would happen next. His dozen policy papers released in the past few weeks all outlined a variety of potential attacks, some inspired by overseas trends in terror, some inspired, privately, by the ambitions of the Night Road.

Success was simple. Predict the attack; then the attack happens, and you have the ears of the most powerful people in Washington. That was the kind of power, of respect, he needed to wield. His blistering, uncannily accurate paper on a possible chlorine attack had made the rounds of the Washington power brokers last month; his voicemail was full of inquiries from potential think-tank clients. From the government, from private industry. All wanting his insights, all wanting his opinion on what the future would hold now, where the terrorists would strike next.

It should have been his shining moment. But Luke’s situation had tarnished it for him. The same pols eager to hire him would be watching the coverage of the shooting involving Luke, perhaps holding back. Which meant he had to distance himself from Luke and get his next papers out quickly so he would still be seen as the main, most authoritative voice on the next stage of terrorism. He would be respected again. He would be close to the levers of power in Washington. Luke, on the news, would fade. The country would have much more to worry about in the days ahead.

Henry remembered, with a pang, a magician his mother had hired to perform at his sixth birthday party. I don’t want a magician, Mom, and her answer had cut him to the bone: Well, Henry honey, it might make the kids want to come to your party. She’d said it without thought or malice; she was possessed of a brutal honesty and a steady disregard of others’ pain. Henry had inherited only the latter from her. So he’d sat on the cool cut grass, with neighborhood acquaintances who didn’t much like him and who he didn’t know how to make like him. While the kids who’d just come for the show and the squares of chocolate cake oohed and aahed, Henry had drilled his gaze on where the cheap-rate teenage magician didn’t want him to look: the hand in the pocket, the coin secreted between fingers, the intact paper curled up the jacket sleeve. He’d seen there was no magic, only distraction.

It etched a lesson on his brain.

Now Henry sat in his study in his Arlington, Virginia home, the chessboard Luke had given him for Christmas five years ago on the table, the pieces locked in battle. Henry imagined Luke slumped across from him, sitting the way he always did when lost in the game, leaning hard to the left on an elbow, hand trapped in his brown thatch of hair, tongue tenting his cheek while he thought, humming some rock tune Henry didn’t know. Henry played black against white, playing Luke’s side in aggressive style. He moved his own pieces with the timidity of a mouse. Luke’s bishops and knights closed in rapid conquest, his white queen shadowing Henry’s black king, defeat three moves away.

Exactly what you deserve, Henry thought. To lose and to lose badly. Just like how you lost Barbara. You’re going to lose Luke. You already have.

Henry rose from the chessboard, headed down the hall to get a cup of coffee. Steam danced above the mug. He added a dollop of milk. He took a fortifying sip. Mouser would find Luke, bring him to a safe place where Henry could question him and then make him understand. Make him see that the Night Road was the key to a golden future for them both – a road to respect, to power, to importance.

He stepped back into his study. From his left a gloved hand raced a knife to his throat, stopped the blade right above his Adam’s apple. Hot coffee, sloshing from his mug, burned his hand. Henry froze and his gaze slid to the face of his attacker. He stayed still because he knew this man would kill him without a moment for mercy.

‘Hello, Shameless,’ the man with the knife said. Henry hadn’t heard that nickname in years. The man’s voice was Southern-inflected, scraped from the bottom of an ashtray. ‘We need to talk.’

Henry forced his voice to remain calm. ‘Drummond.’

‘Let’s pour that hot coffee on the floor, please. I prefer you unarmed.’

Henry obeyed. Then dropped the cup. It shattered on the hardwood.

‘Good.’

‘You could have rung the doorbell.’ He’s here because he knows, Henry thought, he knows about the Night Road. And Hellfire. Convince him he’s wrong or kill him. ‘Put the knife down, for God’s sakes – are you crazy?’

‘When dealing with you, I prefer the direct approach,’ Drummond said.

‘The doorbell would be direct. Hiding behind a knife is not.’

‘Goodness,’ Drummond said. ‘Did you grow a pair in the last ten years, Shameless? You’re very steady. Ah, wait, now I see sweat making its debut on your forehead.’

‘Please put the knife down.’

‘Not yet. I’m not here for a casual reunion.’

‘The knife at the throat told me that.’

‘Your stepson killed one of our old friends.’

Henry’s mind went as blank as unlined paper. ‘What?’

‘The man who your stepson shot in Houston was our old buddy Allen Clifford.’

‘What?’ Henry didn’t have to pretend shock; it thrummed through his body in a wave straight from his chest. ‘That’s not… that’s not possible.’

‘You are going to tell me what you and your brat are up to,’ Drummond said. ‘If you lie, you die. We clear, Professor?’

‘Clear, Drummond.’

Drummond lowered the knife. He spun Henry around and shoved him toward the table. ‘Sit down. Hands where I can see them at all times.’

Henry sat on one side of the chessboard. Drummond stood on the other, the knife still in his grip. Drummond had always reminded Henry of a fire hydrant. Short, stocky, thick-necked, a flat bland face with a squarish nose. Drummond glanced around the room. ‘This used to be Warren’s study.’

‘Yes.’

‘I remember, when Warren was working on a paper or a project, he would have those walls covered with sheets of paper, pictures, Post-It notes, like a blizzard of ideas.’

‘I keep my thoughts in my head.’

‘I’m sure that’s a safer place for them.’ Drummond surveyed the walls: Henry’s diplomas, pictures from his travels, framed medals from the Alexandria Pistol Club. ‘You still shoot?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were always a crack shot, Henry, I give you that. Of course I taught you. You teach Luke how to shoot? Maybe how to shoot from a car at a running man?’

‘Warren taught him the basics.’

Drummond jerked his head toward the interrupted game on the chessboard. ‘Are you still so friendless you have to play chess alone, Shameless?’

The old, undeserved nickname, a cheap variant on Shawcross, made the blood surge into his face. Humiliation. He hated Drummond with a loathing that went to his marrow but he realized he needed him; he needed to know why his past and present were intersecting so violently. But he knew Drummond was trying to keep him off-balance: the drama of the knife at the throat, then the offhand compliment about Henry’s aptitude with a gun. Standard interrogation techniques, a constant shifting between threat and kindness. Henry kept a neutral expression on his face.

‘I could hear the click of the pieces on the board from the hallway,’ Drummond said.

‘Playing took my mind off my son.’ Henry cleared his throat.

‘Your stepson, you mean.’ Drummond picked up one of the chess pieces – Luke’s king – and inspected it, as though admiring the crafts-manship. ‘You always did like to play both sides.’

Henry crossed his arms. ‘You said Allen Clifford was the murdered man. Since when did he become a homeless street bum?’

‘He wasn’t. He was pretending to be.’

‘Pretending?’

‘Allen Clifford was meeting with a fellow who had ties to domestic extremists who wanted to sell some information.’

‘Information?’ Henry made his voice go weak.

‘Yes. There’s a black market, you know.’

‘And Allen Clifford was posing as a bum?’

‘At the request of the guy he was meeting. Seller wanted to meet in the open, he wanted it to look like the meeting was just two totally harmless guys talking on the street. Very nervous. I assume he was worried about being cornered in a room, or tape recorded.’

An extremist in Houston, selling information. Henry worried that the guy was going to sell his name. But no. The only ones in the Night Road who knew Henry’s name were Snow and Mouser and Eric. Who could it be? ‘How do you know all this? Who was Clifford working for? Whom are you working for?’

‘Whom? Oh, I’ve missed you, Shameless. Clifford and I both free-lance. He talked to me about the operation before he went down there. He was doing it alone, he didn’t want the guy spooked. But clearly, your stepson knew about this meeting. I want to know what he’s been doing with his life since he lost his dad and’ – here Drummond made a face – ‘got you as a replacement.’

‘Luke is harmless. He’s just a psychology student.’

‘Harmless? The Houston police disagree. But I know even more than they do. I got access to his internet records from his home account, Shameless.’

‘Stop calling me that. You sound like you’re in junior high.’

‘But you sure are pushing yourself today, aren’t you? Shameless as ever. The amazing political seer, the Freud of the terrorist mind, the guy who claims to know the terrorists better than they know themselves.’ Drummond kicked the table aside, sending the chess pieces scattering across the floor. He put the blade up under Henry’s jaw. ‘I call you exactly what I think you are. Your stepson’s internet records indicate he has been visiting hundreds of websites frequented by people with radical viewpoints. He’s been corresponding with them through these sites, using tons of different email addresses, sending them some rather fiery messages of agreement. Why?’

‘He was working on a paper about… extremist psychology. He’s been fascinated by it… ever since Warren died.’ That was true, and Henry stared hard into Drummond’s ice-blue eyes. They reminded him of the hard blue of the sky beyond a mountain peak.

‘So this reaching out to the fringes is for a research paper? No, I don’t think so. He’s compiled an avalanche of data, even for a master’s degree. I think he’s one of them.’

‘No. Not a paper; a book. He’s working on a book.’ The lie wriggled, thick in his mouth. He had to convince Drummond or Drummond would find Luke and kill him. Of that, Henry had no doubt. ‘He told me.’

‘Have you read or seen this book?’

‘No.’

‘So he could have lied to you.’ He moved the knife off Henry’s throat, let it dance along Henry’s eyelashes. Henry bit his lip. ‘Does he know about us, Henry? You and me and Clifford… and his dad?’

‘No. I swear. Luke doesn’t know about the Book Club, I swear. I never told him. And even if I did, he wouldn’t go after Allen Clifford or you or me…’ His voice trailed off. ‘He’d probably think we were all heroes.’

‘Heroes,’ Drummond snorted. ‘God. You did tell him, just to make yourself look smarter.’

‘No. I’ve never told Luke about the Book Club. Honestly, Drummond, why would I?’

‘Bragging.’

Henry gave a choked laugh. ‘Wasn’t that our great failing, Drummond – not telling the world what we knew?’

‘In your mind, Shameless, in your mind.’

‘We both know that if we’d been listened to, the world would be a very different place today, Drummond.’

‘I don’t care to dissect history. I care about dissecting the present. You say Luke doesn’t know about our past. But he knows about a meeting between Clifford and an extremist that is coincidentally scheduled to take place on the same day of a bombing that scares the piss out of the country. Maybe this extremist is one of Luke’s online friends.’

‘No,’ Henry said. ‘I saw the video. Luke wasn’t alone in the car. Someone else was in the passenger seat. Maybe Luke was forced to participate.’

Drummond shook his head. ‘Hardly an acceptable theory. A trap was set for Clifford. And your stepson was the getaway driver.’

Henry said, ‘Assume you’re right.’ He could feed Drummond a bit of a line, see what Drummond was willing to share. ‘What was Clifford going to do with this extremist once he had him? Just how wide do your responsibilities range? Who was he going to turn the extremist over to?’

Drummond made a clicking noise, frowned. Henry could see him deciding to give a bit of information in hope for Henry doing the same. ‘Clifford would have hauled his ass out to a cabin in east Texas, up near Braintree, questioned him. With force, if needed. See how much he’d spill.’

Henry blinked. The cabin. It had been originally intended for something other than Luke’s kidnapping. An interrogation by Clifford. And the kidnapper had known that with Clifford dead, the cabin would be free to use for holding Luke hostage.

‘Luke would not willingly participate in any crimes,’ Henry said in an even tone. ‘Clifford, on the other hand, was contemplating kidnapping of his source. You’re here because you were working with Clifford. You’re still nothing more than hired muscle.’

Drummond paused. ‘Your defense of Luke is not convincing.’ He shook his head. ‘His dad wouldn’t be very proud of how his boy’s turned out. You did a piss-poor job. I’m not surprised.’

‘Get out of my house, or I’m calling the police.’

‘No you’re not. How will you explain me?’

The silence stretched between them. Finally Henry said, ‘If you tell me what you know about this meeting, maybe I can figure out how Luke is connected. I might be able to find notes in his research to help you. I’ll give you any information I find. But you have to promise me. You do not hurt Luke. I take your word as a fellow member of the Book Club that you will not harm him.’

Drummond considered the offer for ten long seconds. ‘All right.’ The knife eased back.

‘Who was the extremist, what’s his name?’

‘Jimmy Bridger.’

Snow’s old boyfriend, the one who had taken off a few days ago, a racist nothing. Snow had talked, and Bridger had looked to sell the information. Henry kept his poker face in place. ‘He wanted to talk and then he wanted protection.’

‘Who are you and Clifford working for that you could offer protection to an informant?’

Drummond didn’t deny that he and Clifford shared an employer. ‘A private employer.’

‘A private employer that performs undercover operations that are clearly the purview of the FBI.’ Henry raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you telling me the Book Club is back in business?’

‘The Book Club died with Warren Dantry and the others on that plane, Henry. Now all that’s left of the Book Club is you’ – he tapped the end of the knife against Henry’s nose – ‘and me. Now that Clifford’s dead.’

‘Are you working for the State Department?’

‘I told you, the Book Club doesn’t exist any more.’

‘Okay.’ Henry thought, so Drummond’s working for someone who wants to flush out terrorists and for some reason is off the books. It could be the FBI, it could be CIA operating illicitly on American soil… what? He didn’t know. Drummond and Clifford had both been mercenaries at heart. ‘How did Clifford find this seller of information?’

‘We’d been following extremist movements over here. Trying to apply pressure to people who want to leave the dark side,’ Drummond said. ‘Bridger mentioned to Clifford that he knew details on an impending attack codenamed Hellfire.’

The years of planning and waiting demanded that Henry not blink, not swallow, not betray the jolt of heat that pounded through his body and brain. This was not trust, Drummond sharing information. It was a trial by fire. He could feel Drummond studying his face for the merest reaction. He blinked, once, and hoped he had not betrayed himself. ‘Hellfire. Sounds religious.’

‘I don’t think these are Baptist terrorists, Henry. If you know anything about this, whatever Luke’s gotten involved in, you and I can deal. But now’s the time.’

‘I don’t know anything.’

‘The day after Clifford gets killed, a bomb goes off in Ripley, Texas. I’m sure you saw that on the news.’

‘Ripley was Hellfire?’

‘Bridger made Hellfire sound much bigger than a single bomb. Much bigger. More than one city attacked.’

‘I can’t help you. I know nothing, except that Luke is not a terrorist.’

‘No, Luke has just consistently reached out to freaks and people who hate. But he’s not a terrorist, no.’ A smile flicked on Drummond’s face. ‘What did you make him into, Henry? Now, Warren, he knew how to be a father. I think you just know how to be a screw-up.’

‘You judging me. Where were you again when our friends died? Those rehab places all sound alike to me.’ Henry kept his gaze locked on Drummond’s eyes and to his satisfaction he saw he’d scored a hit.

Drummond lifted and inspected a photo of Luke, his mother and Henry from the desk. A happier time, the photo taken at a vacation in Hawaii a year before the car crash that killed Barbara. Their smiles glowed. He set the photo down. ‘If you’re hiding him, don’t. Give him to me. If he’s innocent or he’s been pulled into this against his will, we’ll help him and he’ll go home with a clean slate. If he’s guilty, then we find out what this Hellfire bullshit is and we stop it cold.’

Drummond’s tactic was nothing but playing nice cop before he played bad cop again. ‘I do not know where he is.’

‘The world you and your stepson are in is a little too small for my liking, Henry. You and Luke Dantry and Allen Clifford, all mixing it up years after we said our goodbyes. Sit there. Move and you get cut.’ Then Drummond proceeded to search the study with a professional’s keen efficiency. Henry sat, calmly, blanketing the rage inside him with a knowing half-smile. Nothing to link him to the Night Road, or to Hellfire, was here. Let Drummond look.

When he was done, Drummond stood. The frustration in his eyes was a knife that Henry could twist.

‘You’ve kept Clifford’s name out of the paper,’ Henry said.

‘Yes.’

‘So you are with the government.’

Drummond didn’t answer but he wanted to prove his power, Henry could see. Proving his power, his superiority, had always been Drummond’s weakness.

From his jacket, Drummond pulled out a photo and pushed it under Henry’s nose. The photo appeared to be from a video camera mounted in a police car, aimed out the front windshield. It was a single shot, an officer talking to two men sitting in a BMW, a traffic stop. The ticket Luke had gotten in Mirabeau, Henry realized. He recognized the grainy profile of a man in the passenger seat. Eric Lindoe.

If he finds Eric, Drummond could find his connection to me, Henry thought. Keep the lies simple. ‘That’s Luke at the wheel, I don’t know who the other man is. Why hasn’t this photo been released to the press?’

Drummond ignored the question and tapped the photo. ‘It’s not a good enough shot to ID his face, but we’ll find out who he is. I understand the last time you saw Luke was at the Austin airport. We’ll nab all the video feeds from there as well.’

He knew then that whoever employed Drummond and Clifford would identify and find Eric Lindoe; it might just be a matter of hours. Maybe a couple of days. His world was unraveling. ‘This proves Luke is innocent… he must have been forced…’

‘Proves nothing. Innocent of pulling a trigger, perhaps, but Luke drove the car. Someone destroyed the Book Club before. Someone seems to be trying again. You and I shouldn’t sleep too good. Maybe we’re next.’

‘The plane flight – they were collateral damage. Ace Beere’ – the private jet mechanic who had tampered with the plane’s flight system so everyone on the flight died from hypoxia -‘he was trying to get revenge on his employer. Not the Book Club. We weren’t the targets.’

‘Lucky, that you and Clifford and me couldn’t make the trip.’

‘I always thought so,’ Henry said.

Drummond crossed his arms. ‘I need to understand Luke. Then I can figure out what his next move might be.’

Henry saw that the questions Drummond asked might reveal more than he intended. He nodded. ‘What do you want to know? I’ll tell you just to help Luke. You promise you won’t hurt him.’

‘I promise. After his father’s death, Luke Dantry vanished for seven weeks.’

‘He ran away from home. He walked and hitchhiked south.’

‘His mother must have been frantic. Good thing you were there to comfort her.’ Drummond raised an eyebrow.

‘A dear friendship and a good marriage came out of Luke’s running,’ Henry said evenly. ‘Luke went to Cape Hatteras.’

‘It doesn’t take seven weeks to walk or hitchhike from Washington to Cape Hatteras. Where was he during those seven weeks?’

‘Mourning. Hiding from the world.’

‘He was living on the streets.’

‘He was only fourteen. But Warren had taught him to be rather independent. When the police found him he was sitting on the beach at the cape, staring out at sea where his father’s plane went down. He’d been sitting on the sand for two days, watching the sea. Someone noticed him and called the police.’

‘Pining for the dead at this level doesn’t sound quite normal.’

Henry loathed Drummond’s dismissive tone but he decided it might be a goad, a prod to make him talk more than he should. ‘Luke was extremely close to his – to Warren. You know how much everyone loved Warren.’

‘Didn’t we all.’ Drummond tilted his head. ‘Luke never called his mom to say he was safe?’

‘No. He should have. Luke had a tough time of it. He ran out of cash; he’d only taken a hundred dollars with him. His face was all over the Virginia papers then; people were looking for him. He figured out how to blend in, how to hide, how to survive on the run.’

‘I never thought of concealment as a genetic trait. His father was good at staying under the radar, too.’ Drummond rested the knife against his leg. ‘This kid spent seven weeks evading the police and the detectives that your wife hired to find him. All without money or resources. And now he’s hiding again.’

Henry’s mouth thinned. A twist of pride in Luke filled his chest. ‘If he doesn’t want to be found, you won’t find him.’ I will find him first, he thought. And then I’ll have Mouser kill you with your own knife, you insufferable bastard.

‘Are you using this kid to settle old scores? Let’s be honest. You hated me, you hated Warren, you hated everyone in the Book Club.’

‘That’s not true…’

‘Isn’t it? We all thought you hated us.’

‘Hardly. I made the Book Club happen.’

‘Maybe. But Warren Dantry made it succeed.’

Henry shook his head slowly. The words, and the truth, couldn’t hurt him any more. The Book Club was dead and he’d won. ‘Some success. A bunch of thinkers and thugs that no one paid much attention to in the first place.’

‘And now your stepson…’

‘He’s my son!’ Henry snapped. An awful silence descended between the two men.

Drummond’s lips curled in a sneer. ‘You really did step into Warren Dantry’s life. His career. His wife. His son. My God, I guess you got over your hatred for him. How do Warren’s shoes fit you, Henry?’

Henry breathed slowly, counted to ten, etched a half-smile on his face. He had never wanted to kill anyone as badly as he wanted to kill Drummond. He quelled the rage. ‘You know if I knew, I would tell you, because then I could help you find Luke. That’s all I want. Luke to be found and home safe.’

Drummond tented his fingers with the air of a man with a final card to play. ‘I’ll find him. Before the police do. He’s going to talk to me.’ Drummond stood. ‘It might be best, Henry, if you allowed yourself to be placed under my protection.’

If he was kept under watch, the first wave of attacks might fail and then Hellfire would not happen. And no way he could find Luke or Eric Lindoe or the fifty million. ‘Some protection, you with a knife at my throat.’

Drummond laughed. ‘Yes. But no one else would get a knife near you.’

Henry swallowed down the tickle of bile at the back of his throat. ‘I stay here. If he comes here – my son needs me.’ A wave of dizziness flushed through his brain.

‘Stay in touch, Henry. I will.’ Drummond handed Henry a plain white card, with a Manhattan address handwritten in black ink, with a phone number below. ‘Henry. I don’t want to see Warren’s kid hurt, if he’s innocent. But if he’s not, if he killed Clifford, nothing you do can protect him. We just want to know why.’

‘I want to know why, too.’ And it was true.

‘Henry, this has just been great. I love reunions.’ He fixed a steely glare on Henry. ‘If you decide there’s a greater truth you’re not telling me, call me. Because I’m going to find this kid, and I’m going to find out the truth of what he’s been working on. You don’t want me pissed at you.’

Henry said nothing.

Drummond left, this time out the front door. Henry slammed it behind him.

He stayed at the front window until Drummond had driven away. Drummond isn’t going to let this go, he thought. He wondered who Drummond’s employer was – a private concern, he’d said. What did that mean?

Henry dug out his cell phone and called the cabin rental number in Braintree, Texas that he’d gotten earlier from Snow and Mouser. The number was posted on the gate to the road that led to the cabin. If Clifford had rented that cabin – if it wasn’t coincidence, he had to find out who Clifford was freelancing for.

‘Good morning, Braintree Park Rentals.’ A bright cheery voice answered the phone.

‘Yes. Good morning. A coworker of mine said he was renting cabin number three, I believe, and he’s not been answering his cell phone, and I wanted to know if he had shown up there.’

‘Mr Clifford? I saw him at the beginning of the week.’

The very dead Allen Clifford had rented the cabin Luke had been taken to. ‘But not since?’

‘People come out here to escape the world,’ the clerk said. ‘Maybe he just turned his cell phone off.’

‘Did he charge the cabin to the corporate card?’

‘Yes, sir, but I can’t give out details, I’m not allowed.’

Henry didn’t give up. ‘Did he give a billing address?’

‘Yes. In New York. Who is this?’

‘Oh. Was it this address?’ He read off the address on the card Drummond had given him.

‘Yes, sir, that’s it.’ The clerk’s hesitancy vanished. Henry could almost imagine him smiling.

‘We have several firms under the umbrella, so to speak, which company did he charge it to?’

‘Quicksilver Risk.’

‘Thank you so much.’

‘Did you want to leave a message for Mr Clifford? I can go up to the cabin.’

‘No, that’s fine. He’s not supposed to be using a corporate card for his vacation but it’s not a problem, we know he’ll reimburse us. Thanks so much.’ Henry hung up.

Quicksilver Risk.

Henry glided back onto the web and found the company’s website. It was chrome-colored and discreet in the manner of the most expensive consultants. Only a mission statement and a trio of principals. Allen Clifford, hired muscle for the Book Club, was one. The other two were former professors, but with business backgrounds in risk assessment. They hadn’t been part of the Book Club. No listing of clients. No listing of fees. No mention of ties to the government. It said that they’d helped Fortune 500 companies assess the risk of providing relief after the Boxing Day tsunami, after Katrina, after the chaos in a few African countries that had contested elections.

He tried the phone number. He got the voicemail, left a message for Allen Clifford. ‘Hey, Allen,’ he said to the dead man’s machine, ‘it’s Henry Shawcross, haven’t talked to you in a while, I’d like to catch up. See what you’re up to. Give me a call.’ He left a number. Hopefully someone at the firm would start returning Clifford’s calls and he could ask more questions.

‘What dirty work were you up to?’ he said to Allen Clifford’s photo.

The doorbell rang.

At his feet lay an overnight package, flat, in a large thick plastic envelope. Luke’s condo was the return address.

He weighed the package in his hand, listened to every side of it. Light. No ticking sound, although that meant nothing with digital detonators. He carefully opened the box.

Inside was another package. It had been sent first to the American transport company for delivery in the United States, but had originated in France. Paris. An address he didn’t recognize.

Without opening the inner package, he Googled the Paris address. It was a postal shop in the Saint Germain district, the kind where you might rent a mailbox.

Inside was a cell phone. Plain, cheap, the prepaid kind. A card attached to it read FOR HENRY’S EAR ONLY.

He turned the phone on.

He very badly wanted a shot of whiskey. He was afraid what news the phone would bring. He was afraid of how the day could darken. But the phone had to be a positive, yes? It must be the kidnapper, reaching out to him. The phone was a blessing if Drummond was monitoring his calls. He had to assume they were. Drummond knew how to tap lines, bug rooms – he’d done it for years when Henry worked with him.

He put the phone into his pocket and went to get his whiskey, his mind blazing with confusion. Things that should not be intersecting were. The Book Club, Luke, Hellfire, the long and still hot hatred for Luke’s father. A hatred he had worked hard to mask, every day, when he was around Barbara and Luke. It had been hard, keeping his acid loathing bottled up. Warren Goddamned Dantry. Warren was a know-it-all and a know-nothing, all at once. Even now the thought of Warren Dantry made Henry quake with fury, with disgust.

Warren made the Book Club work, Drummond had said.

A lie. A complete lie. ‘I brought him in, I brought you all in,’ Henry said to the empty kitchen. His hand shook slightly as he poured, and the glass tinkled. He ran a finger along his neck, convincing himself that Drummond had left no mark. He would have to call Snow and Mouser, warn them that Hellfire – at the very least the code name – had been leaked, that if Bridger was found Snow was in danger of being exposed, and that Drummond was hunting Eric and Luke, just as they were. If they chose to withdraw, he could do nothing to compel them.

But then he would have to start the Night Road all over again. The Ripley operation’s advantage of distraction would be lost, rendered to nothing like the chlorine in the rain. Or else he’d have no choice but to run, from the prince’s throat-cutting wrath, since his fifty million was either locked in an inaccessible account, had been moved to Switzerland or had vanished into the ether.

Then he heard a quiet trill. He opened the phone.

‘Henry Shawcross.’ It was a British woman.

‘Yes?’

‘You may call me Jane, for the purposes of our discussion. I thought given time to miss your stepson, you might reconsider my offer.’

This woman was the mastermind. The boss. Relief flooded him; now he could strike a deal. ‘I want to know where Luke is.’

‘Shame on you, shoveling the blame on poor Luke. I suspected you were a truly despicable person and, my God, you didn’t disappoint.’ She laughed. Laughed at him, a teasing giggle.

‘You have made enemies with the wrong people, young woman.’

‘Have I? It’s more that you have made the wrong friends. That nasty billionaire who played dress-up in the London park and offered fifty million to you while the pigeons danced for the crumbs at his feet. I heard your every word.’ She laughed again, silvery, and a cold fist closed on Henry’s heart.

‘What do you want?’

‘Transfer the fifty million to a numbered account and you’ll get Luke back.’

She didn’t know that the passwords to the accounts had been changed and he couldn’t access the millions. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have bothered with the call.

‘I want to speak to Luke.’

‘I don’t give the goodies without the cash. You can let him yell at you after the funds are delivered.’

‘No, now.’ Jane might be desperately bluffing, to get him to release the money that he couldn’t touch. Nausea and rage swept through him. ‘Why did you have Eric kill Allen Clifford?’

‘Oh, so many questions, so little time,’ Jane said. ‘I don’t have to answer anything, love, that’s what power is. Never having to explain yourself. Now. The money for Luke. Do I need to spell it out with pictures?’

‘You’ll kill Luke anyway.’ An ache suffused his entire body.

‘Actually, we won’t. We’ll let him go. He’ll be your problem, won’t he?’ And Jane gave the cruelest laugh he’d ever heard. ‘How exactly will you explain your refusal to help him? What you are, what you’ve done? Should we tell him to ask about what happened to his sweet mother?’

The unexpected words, delivered with a twist of steel, froze him.

‘Barbara died in an accident. Anything else is a lie.’

‘She did, she did. A well-timed accident.’

‘It was an accident! It was!’

‘But now, he won’t believe you, Henry. You’re the nowhere man: always on the fringes, always laughing a bit late at every joke, who has to practice his smile. You finally get a family after years of being alone, one too good for you, and you toss it all away. I doubt Barbara Dantry and Luke ever quite recognized the stray dog they let in their house was a wolf.’

Every word was a pile-driving fist, through bone and brain. Henry sucked in a harsh breath. ‘I’ll give you the money. Please-’

‘I want you to understand that if you don’t transfer the money within thirty minutes, Luke is dead.’

Oh, God. God, no, he thought. ‘Eric has the code for the accounts. Not me,’ he said. ‘Please don’t hurt Luke, I’ll find the money…’

‘Eric doesn’t have the money.’

‘Jane, he does. He’s lied to you.’ And they would kill Luke now, he was useless to them. No, no, no. ‘That’s why I couldn’t give you the money before. Please. Believe me. Please…’

Jane hung up.

He fumbled on the phone. There was no call log; it had been disabled. No way to call back.

Henry drank the whiskey, very slowly. The shaking in his hands stopped. He drank another, neat. Then he poured the rest of the bottle down the sink.

She might be killing Luke right now. Right now, while you stand crying over a sink, whiskey on your breath, and you have caused the death of the one remaining person in the world that you care about, Henry thought.

The phone rang. The phone he used only with Mouser. Mouser’s voice sounded raspy, hard, tinged with fury. ‘Luke identified Eric Lindoe as his kidnapper.’

‘Is Luke okay? Tell me you have him.’

‘Oh, I’ll get him back for you. He stabbed me in the leg and he ran.’

‘Why did he stab you? I told you not to hurt him…’

‘He knows we came from you, Henry, and you’re on his shit list. Watch your back. Your boy is pissed and apparently able to fight.’

The warning coasted over Henry’s ears. Luke was alive. And out of Jane’s clutches. Or maybe she had recaptured him after he escaped Mouser? ‘You sure someone else didn’t grab him?’

‘Not sure, but he was free as a bird last time I saw him.’

Then Jane was bluffing. He had to fight back, he had to find this woman, find out who she was. And destroy her. ‘I don’t understand. Why would Eric Lindoe turn against us and target Luke?’

‘Luke says some Brit bitch named Jane used him as ransom for Eric’s woman. This Jane thought you could deliver the fifty million, but Eric must have already hidden it. If he hasn’t given it to her, then Eric has it. We have to find him.’

Henry wiped sweat from his jaw. ‘Eric lied to us all. Including this Jane. She made him kidnap Luke to force my hand, and he did it to cover up that he had taken the money. She must have asked him for it originally and he convinced her he didn’t have the access. That I did.’ Oh, Christ, Luke’s life destroyed by a single lie. ‘Eric hasn’t given Jane the money. She just called me, thinking I could get it for her.’ Henry sank to the couch. ‘I don’t understand. Luke stabbed you?’ Luke, fighting two nutcase extremists with experience in murder and combat? He could not picture the scene.

‘I wonder, Henry, how well you know Luke. He seems far more capable than you gave him credit for.’

‘I… I don’t understand.’

‘It’s simple. He’s loose. He is a danger to us.’

‘No. I can take care of him.’

Henry thought quickly. ‘I’m going to put tracers on every friend Luke has, anyone he might turn to for help… the police will do the same, but we must be smarter than the police. And faster. We have to find Eric. And we have to find Luke. I can make Luke understand.’

‘That I doubt.’

‘I can.’ Henry raised an eyebrow. ‘And if he’s been as smart as you say, he might be very useful to us. Listen, I’m sorry he stabbed you. Are you all right?’

‘Yes. But I’m not happy. Find where he’s at and I’ll bring him back to you. Maybe in one piece.’

Luke, running. With Mouser and Snow and now that bastard Drummond all after him. What would he do? Come here? No. Washington was too far. And he wouldn’t trust Henry now, and he might believe the police were watching Henry, waiting for Luke to show. How else would he try to clear his name?

Eric. Eric, if forced to confess, could clear Luke’s name of murder.

‘He’ll go after Eric.’ Just like he chased after his father’s ghost, all the way down to Cape Hatteras. ‘We find Eric, we find Luke.’

Henry felt charged with the fire of battle. He could win. He called a Night Road hacker, ordered him to find any records in the airlines or credit card databases that indicated where Eric Lindoe or Luke Dantry had gone. Over time, he had found hackers with backdoors into such valuable databases. If they were not motivated by Night Road-style ideology, they were motivated by money.

His hunters, either on the ground, or electronic, would find Luke, and faster than Drummond could. He did not need to worry about warrants and permission. He did not want to think about Luke not believing him, and what awful sacrifice he might have to suffer. All he had to worry about was telling, and selling, the greatest lie of his life.