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  “There’s been a sighting,” Del reported.

  Silence.

  “Over in the Seven Springs area,” Del said into the slight hiss of cellular vacuum between them. He thought he heard a message being paged in the background. Was the man in a hotel lobby, at a convention, maybe in an airport?

  “Well, then,” the voice rasped after a short pause, “You have your instructions.”

  ***

  Wind off Lake Michigan and across Lake Shore Drive blew light spray from Buckingham Fountain into their faces. No matter. Josef Van Klees and Peter Zwaan stood close together; the noise of the fountain’s splattering streams masked their conversation, and that was what truly mattered to both.

  Late spring had been terrible in Chicago, and this day was no exception. Hunched against the chill of the wind, Van Klees had his hands in the pockets of his coat. Because Van Klees had to look up to make eye contact during conversation – something with his tall, elegant height he was rarely forced to do – most of the Sears Tower filled his vision over Zwaan’s shoulders.

  Peter Zwaan, however was not attempting to make eye contact in return. He was, in fact, almost squirming with discomfort – something he was rarely forced to do.

  “Nothing,” Van Klees repeated, spitting low anger. “You found nothing.”

  It wasn’t Zwaan’s size that most menaced people or the hideous patch of wax-like skin that stretched tight from his lower-left jaw almost to his eye and the puckered baldness of his skull, the result of a boyhood prank when a gasoline bomb had ignited fractionally too soon. What most menaced people were Zwaan’s eyes. Flat yellow-gray as expressionless and dangerous as tiger eyes. When he spoke, some even backed away without realizing they were doing it. Breathing in fire adds scar tissue to vocal cords, and Zwaan’s voice in normal conversation was a strained raspiness that seemed to promise violence.

  Zwaan continued to squirm. “We even sonar-bounced the walls. Nothing. His office disks were filled with nothing but normal business garbage.”

  “This has not been a good week.”

  “Maybe Darby was bluffing. Maybe he had nothing.”

  “Nothings” Van Klees raised his voice slightly. “Then explain why his desk was stripped clean of his backup computer disks. Who did he leave them with, Zwaan? You find that out. Nothing could be more important right now. Especially with the situation in the mountains.”

  “I only suggested...”

  “You also suggested she might have overheard your call.”

  “He slammed the phone down,” Zwaan defended himself. “Yet I heard no dial tone for several seconds.”

  “So you will not take chances, then.” Van Klees waited. Zwaan said nothing. “I thought not.”

  “I have made arrangements,” Zwaan said. “She can be killed any time."

  “Not until I say: We’ve been through this. Too little time has passed since her husband died. I do not want any official attention in that area of our operation.”

  “Until then, her phones are tapped, her mail will be searched. She will be watched.” Zwaan stared at the ground. “If there is a package, it will not reach her.”

  Van Klees grunted. Despite his show of disapproval, he knew if Zwaan couldn’t do it, it couldn’t be done.

  “And our military shipments?” Van Klees asked.

  “It would be helpful to make another flight. Rwanda appears to be a promising area. If you could make arrangements...”

  Van Klees pondered, hut only briefly. “Friday,” he announced after flicking through his mental daytimer. “I should be able to get to D.C. by Friday. Prowse needs his liver soon, and the good general is in no position to refuse us. Is there a day next week that suits you more than any other?”

  Zwaan shrugged.

  Time to soften, Van Klees told himself. “You look tired, my friend. I speak of endless travel for you. Yet I know crisscrossing the continent takes its toll. I should show more appreciation for your efforts.”

  Zwaan did not, as Van Klees expected, lift his head.

  What does this mean? My servant is more troubled than he should be?

  “Yes?” Van Klees asked.

  Zwaan did not answer immediately. Even with wind blowing off the lake, the roar of traffic as it stopped and started at the lights of Congress Parkway penetrated the fountain’s background screen of noise.

  “Yes?” Van Klees repeated.

  “While I was in the airport – in Tampa – I received a call.”

  Van Klees stiffened. Zwaan had a pocket cellular phone with a D.C. number; calls were forwarded to wherever he traveled. No ringer, but a vibration buzzer to alert him, for there were occasions when a ringing phone would be inconvenient for Zwaan. Few people had that number, and of those few, only one might have reason to call this week.

  “New Mexico.” Van Klees said it as a statement.

  Zwaan nodded.

  “What is it?” No effort to hide his impatience.

  “Silverton said there’s been a sighting.”

  “Sighting. As in alive?”

  Zwaan nodded again.

  The expected anger arrived. “Impossible,” Van Klees exploded. “Not after a week.”

  “Worse,” Zwaan told him. “One has made it over the mountain.”

  Van Klees spun on his heel. Walked away. Returned.

  “Silverton knows what to do?” Van Klees demanded.

  “Silverton knows what to do.”

  “And the person who made the sighting?”

  “Silverton knows what to do.” Zwaan lost no patience. Not around Van Klees.

  “There can be no leaks.”

  “Silverton knows what to do.”

  Van Klees let out a deep breath. He reminded himself that if Zwaan couldn’t do it, it couldn’t be done.

  “Next time, don’t delay to tell me.”

  Zwaan finally looked Van Klees directly in the eye. “It was either call you or catch my flight. How many ears might hear if I called you during my flight?”

  “Of course, of course,” Van Klees said. “Next time.”

  Zwaan took the undeserved rebuke without protest.

  “Anything else?” he asked. “You did tell me to expect an overnight stay here in Chicago.”

  An old lady walking a poodle approached. Van Klees resisted the urge to kick the poodle into the waters of the fountain. Intellectual pride or not, he understood the value of venting emotion and had no trouble indulging himself, when convenient.

  “Only for the night,” Van Klees told him after allowing the lady and poodle to pass. “Tomorrow, New Mexico. I’d like you to meet with two of our scientists. Dr. Kurt needs a refresher course on motivation. Dr. Enrico, I’m afraid, didn’t learn his previous lesson and must be dealt with.”

  Zwaan, for the first time during the conversation, smiled. The prospect of inflicting pain did that for him. The smile was less than saintly, and it pulled the scarred skin on his face into an inhuman mask.

  “And it won’t hurt to have you nearby if Silverton is less than... perfect,” Van Klees continued. “As well, when everything is cleaned up, you may consider Silverton a possible leak.”

  Zwaan’s smile widened.

  Van Klees withdrew his right hand from his coat pocket. He shook his forefinger at Zwaan as if admonishing a naughty boy.

  “Zwaan,” he said, “you were sloppy. And that is the reason for your overnight stay here.”

  Zwaan’s smile disappeared.

  “Your little friend Simon Curzio. He was not a suitable recruit.”

  Van Klees smiled quickly to show he carried no real anger. “Not to worry Zwaan, sometimes the moral fiber cannot be detected until it is too late. I do not hold you to blame.”

  Van Klees stuffed his hand back into his pocket. The wind rushing up his sleeve was chilly, and he preferred to avoid any creature discomforts, no matter how slight.

  “Yet, blame or no blame, it was a mistake. So take care of it, Zwaan.”

  Van Klees knew he did
not have to warn Zwaan to make it look like an accident. All of them looked like accidents. Peter Zwaan had little imagination, except when it came to death.

  Chapter 3

  Thursday, May 16

  Caller: Hello. My name is Clive Stewart. I’d like to report something you might think is strange, but this is no crank call, I nearly ran over a boy last night. He did not appear to be wearing any clothing,

  Martinez: No clothing at, all. This boy was naked?

  Caller:I believe so. I don’t think I hit him. But, I’m worried for the kid because he kept running. And he might still be in the mountains.

  Martinez: Let me get this straight, mister. A naked boy? Running across the road? What, was your name again?

  Caller: The name’s Clive Stewart. Look, some poor kid is loot. In the canyons up near Fenton State Park. Cut north on 126 from Highway 4.

  Martinez: I know Fenton State Park,

  Caller: About two miles after the pavement ends is where I saw him.

  Martinez: And?

  Caller: And I’m reporting it. You’ve probably already heard from his parents, and I imagine they’re worried sick. I thought, this might help you in your search.

  Martinez: You’ll have to stop by the sheriff’s office here in Los Alamos. We need a full statement in person.

  Caller: I'm clear on the other side of the mountains. I drove as fast as I could to the first pay phone to call this in. But, I’m. heading north on 44 and in a hurry to get home. Family emergency. I don’t have the time it’ll take to get back to Los Alamos. Especially not back on that road. Last, time I try that shortcut.

  Martinez: Sir, we have a great deal of difficulty acting on just, a phone call. If...

  Caller: Nobody’s been reported missing?

  Martinez: If you would sign a statement, sir. We could begin a search.

  Caller: No statement. I’m just trying to help out with this call.

  Martinez: Certainly, sir. I appreciate that. Why don’t you give me as much information as you have. We’ll do our best from there.

  Del Silverton, seated and hunched forward over the transcript, rubbed his face without lifting his elbows from his desk. He ignored his 8:00 A.M. coffee.

  First of all, he should be calling Martinez in and reaming him for yesterday’s sloppy work. He wouldn’t, though. Not when it seemed Martinez had forgotten all about the call. Still, it was there in black type on white paper. A person didn’t even need to hear the voice inflections on the tape to see how sloppy Martinez had been. Calling him “mister,” then going to “sir.” Demanding a visit to the sheriff’s office, then making a 180 degree turn to be as obliging as possible. That’d be enough to get the warning bells at full clang if anybody had anything to hide.

  Which begged the question.

  Silverton stared at the transcript as if it could give him the answer.

  What did this Clive Stewart have to hide?

  Did the call come from someone in the spooksville organization? Del suspected – no, he knew with certainty that someone from the organization would have plenty to hide. These had to be some kind of deep-cover spooks, deeper, darker than a deep-cover arm of the CIA, and he’d even considered they might be foreign spooks. But if they were trying to cover something, any calls from that side would go directly to the top. Not to him.

  Someone outside of the organization then. But why not come in and report it if you didn’t have something to hide?

  Del read the transcript through again. The excuse not to come in sounded good, real good. If it weren’t for the automatic trace they now used on every incoming call, Del would have fully believed it was some tourist in too much of a hurry to return to Los Alamos. As it was now, the one obvious lie about the location of the phone booth threw the rest into doubt. The caller’s name probably wasn’t Clive Stewart. Maybe all that was true was the sighting. And, of course, the boy.

  So what would a concerned citizen have that was so important to hide he wouldn’t come in to the office from a phone booth not even a half mile away and report a naked boy in the canyon? Did private citizen Clive Stewart, or whatever his name was, have something interesting to hide from the law?

  Del straightened at a new thought.

  If Del had to pin it to something – this hunch that he knew was a direct hit – it would be the way Stewart had spoken. All you had to do was look at the transcript to know Stewart was white-collar, over thirty. No slang. Well-structured sentences. You’ve probably already heard from his parents, and I imagine they’re worried sick. Not they gotta be worried sick.

  Del knew the stats and hated the media liberals who thought cops were too quick to find blame anywhere but in the strata of the white and sleek. Sure he’d arrested his share of WASPs. Some of them were sicker and nastier than the worst scum he found away from suburban households. But going with the numbers, it was low odds that someone who spoke like this actually had anything to hide from the cops. Not only that, but even if Stewart had something to hide, he could be almost certain that showing up with a straight haircut and a clean shirt and ironed tie would be enough to not face any hassles anyway.

  Assume then Stewart didn’t have anything to hide from the law, That’s why Del had straightened at his sudden hunch. Maybe that brought all of this back full circle. Maybe Stewart was someone in the organization, trying to get this public, while hiding from spooksville – trying to have the cake and the icing. A good hunch, especially since the call’s origin was Los Alamos, the town where two out of every three jobs was government.

  Del grinned at his thoughts.

  Simple, Stewart wasn’t hiding from the cops. Stewart was hiding from the organization. And more specifically and understandably, Stewart was hiding from the freak who Del himself had found frightening during their quiet ten-minute discussion one evening the previous summer.

  The conversation had taken place at Del’s house, barely more than a cabin. It was perched at the edge of the Pajarito Plateau to give him a breathtaking view across the Rio Grande valley from his veranda. Around the sides and back, ponderosa pines, deep and thick, were broken only by the short gravel road that led in from the highway.

  His wife worked shifts at the hospital, and during her evening shifts, Del liked to sit on his front veranda, thinking as little as possible and tilting back longnecks that he kept chilled beside him in a galvanized steel bucket filled with as much ice as beer.

  At a certain time of the evening – the time he liked best because the sun’s light softened as the valley filled with shadow and the far side of the desert walls became a blend of rose hues – a car pulled into his driveway.

  Del watched without rising as the car stopped and the dust around it settled. When the car door opened, he raised his eye-brows in surprise at the bulk of the driver. Three-piece suit or not, this was no banker. Some kind of big, the way he unfolded from the car. The file folder he carried in his right hand seemed to be the size of a postage stamp in comparison to the rest of him.

  Still, Del made no move to stand. That might show interest, politeness, or weakness, none of them habits Del encouraged in himself.

  The driver approached.

  At first, Del figured it was tricks of the sun in high-altitude air – something that happened often enough here in the land of enchantment. But as the driver stepped onto the veranda, Del saw clearly he’d been wrong. The light bouncing off this monster’s face had truly been reflecting a hideous stretching of the skin across one side and the puckered skin of his bald scalp.

  By force of habit, Del didn’t blink or show any other surprise. Del didn’t offer the guy a beer either.

  The freak spoke first as he tossed the file folder onto Del’s lap.

  “Look through this.” A raspy, strained voice. Maybe whatever accident caused the massive scarring had also done something to the guy’s vocal cords.

  “Why?” Del didn’t glance down at the weight in his lap.

  “Because then you’ll understand why you’re abou
t to accept a hundred-thousand-a-year retainer fee.”

  “I’ve already got a job,” Del said. But he felt his first chill of fear. A small chill, but it was there, and he was man enough to admit it to himself. The chill didn’t feel good. Del hadn’t been afraid of anything since Nam. Not afraid of another man, armed or not. Not afraid of bankers. Not afraid of job security. Not afraid of his wife. But now something in this guy’s voice told him he should pay attention, real close attention.

  “Sheriff, Los Alamos County. That’s your job,” came the rasping reply. “And now you have another job. Consider it moonlighting. Except your hundred grand a year doesn’t involve any extra hours of work.”

  Del had a bad feeling about the file folder growing heavier in his lap.

  The scarred man reached into his vest pocket.

  Del fought the urge to bolt. Then he told himself if the guy was pulling a gun, there was nothing he could do anyway.

  What came out, though, was much more harmful. A stack of hundreds – neat, tidy, and compactly wrapped with rubber bands.

  “First six months up front,” the guy said in his eerie whisper. He tossed that on top of the file folder that Del had yet to open. “If you don’t hear from us by the end of that six months, don’t worry. The next payment will find you.”

  “Us?” Del asked.

  “No questions,” the guy said, managing to sound patient through the straining of his vocal cords. “That’s rule one of your job description. No questions, ever.”

  About then, Del realized he was gripping his longneck bottle so hard it hurt the bones of his hand.

  “There’s only one other part of the job description.” The guy didn’t even pause to savor his words. That made it scarier. No enjoyment of power, but instead a casual delivery, as if threatening a U.S. sheriff was hardly worth more attention than picking at his teeth. “Rule two is you do whatever we tell you.”

  The guy turned and left. Del didn’t even have a chance to argue. Not that he would have been inclined. The freak threw fear into him, even though Del guessed they were about the same size. To have him announce with certainty that Del would do whatever they told him, without bothering to say what that whatever was and without bothering to wait for an answer – that was more than bluff. That was power so big it was frightening.