Дэвид Балдаччи - King and Maxwell

“What if I said the jury is still out for us on whether we can trust you?” noted Sean.

“I guess I could understand that.”

“We saw you following the guy on the airport surveillance feed,” said Michelle. “Heron Air Service. Which led you to the Vista Trading Group?”

Sean glanced nervously around. “I’m feeling a little exposed here. Can we move to other surroundings, preferably with four walls and a door that locks?”

Michelle pulled out her keys and smiled at Wingo. “Hope you can keep up.”

They drove back to the motel where Sean and Michelle were staying and went inside Sean’s room. Sean sat in a chair, Michelle perched on the bed, and Wingo stood next to the door.

Sean said, “We’re listening.”

“You know a lot of it already.”

“But not the most interesting parts certainly,” replied Michelle.

“I saw the news. The Iran thing.”

“Did you know that was part of the mission?” asked Sean.

Wingo nodded.

“And how did you feel about that?” asked Michelle.

“It wasn’t my job to feel anything about it. I’m a solider. I volunteered for a mission. My only concern was to carry it out successfully.”

“Which you didn’t,” Sean pointed out.

“Trust me, that one I get,” snapped Wingo.

“Vista?” began Sean.

“Don’t know much about it. Tyler Googled it but there wasn’t anything there.”

“But some connection to Heron Air Service presumably,” said Michelle.

Wingo nodded. “Like you said, I followed a guy from Heron to Vista. That was the connection.”

“And the guy from Heron was of interest why?”

“He was with the people who jumped me in Afghanistan. I figured having a private air charter was a good way to move money around, particularly over two tons’ worth of it. I also had a tip from a friend overseas that Heron was involved. That’s what put me on to them in the first place.”

Sean said, “Alan Grant heads up Vista Trading Group. You know him?”

“No. What’s his interest in all this?”

Michelle answered, “It might be quite personal, actually, going back several decades.”

Wingo looked confused.

“Long story,” said Sean. “But Grant might have some personal vendetta, and he might be using the billion euros to carry it out.”

“Okay,” said Wingo slowly. “But do you have any proof?”

“Not a shred,” said Michelle.

“Do you know what his overall goal might be?” asked Wingo.

“Not a clue,” said Sean. “But if it required stealing a billion euros and publicly exposing the United States in a way that might lead to a war with Iran or fresh terror attacks that could kill a lot of people, then I don’t think it’s something to be taken too lightly.”

“So how do we stop it?” asked Wingo. “Whatever it is?”

“If Grant or a colleague of his was the source for the blogs about the missing money and the overthrow of the Iranian government, then that’s something we can take to the authorities. Then they can bring the hammer down on Grant.”

“How did he even know about the euros?”

“We just found out his father-in-law is Dan Marshall.”

“Assistant Secretary Marshall?” exclaimed Wingo.

“One and the same.”

“He was in the loop. That I know for a fact. You think he’s working with Grant?”

“I don’t know,” replied Sean.

Wingo said, “So what do we do in the meantime? Just sit around and wait for something to happen?”

Michelle answered. “Personally, I don’t like to wait.”

“She’s more of a kick-ass-and-take-responsibility-later sort of gal,” elaborated Sean, drawing a scathing look from his partner.

Wingo eyed Michelle with admiration. “I kind of like that in a person.”

She smiled. “And thanks for saving my butt back at our first meeting. Never saw the guy in the tree.”

“You had your hands full,” said Wingo. “And the way I see it you saved my ass too.”

“We can pat each other on the back later,” said Sean. “I’m thinking of a plan to flush Grant out and see if he’s up to what I think he is.”

Wingo’s phone buzzed.

“It’s from Tyler.”

He looked down at the message. “Oh, shit.”

“What is it?” asked Sean.

Wingo didn’t answer. He sent a text back and then punched in a number. “Come on, come on, answer the damn phone.”

It went to voice mail. Wingo said, “You stick tight and we’ll be on our way. Do not do anything or go anywhere, okay? Do you hear me? Do not go anywhere.”

He put his phone away and looked up.

“What is it?” asked Sean.

“Kathy Burnett called him. She said she needed to see him right away at Tysons mall.”

“Why?” asked Michelle.

“She said the CIA has been to see her. And they want me to come in and talk to them.”

“How did they key on Kathy?” asked Michelle.

“I don’t know.”

“And it’s probably not the CIA,” said Sean.

“No, it’s probably not.”

“But you said she called him and presumably talked to him. Did she sound coerced? Scared?”

“He didn’t say in the text.”

“You think he’s already headed out to meet her?” asked Sean.

Wingo calmed and stared over at Sean. “Yeah, I’m really afraid he has.” He looked down at the text. “Damn, it didn’t go through. It’s still sending. Useless piece of crap.”

Michelle said, “We’ve found the area around here bad for electronic signals too.”

“But you left a voice message,” said Sean.

“Tyler never turns his ringer on. He may not know I’ve even called.”

He slammed his fist against the wall. “Why the hell don’t kids call their parents anymore? Why don’t they answer their phones? Why all this crazy texting shit?”

“Did he say where at Tysons mall?” Michelle asked in a calming voice.

“Starbucks near the Barnes and Noble bookstore.”

“Let’s go.”

The three of them raced out of the room.

EARLIER THAT DAY KATHY BURNETT had stepped out of her house and headed down the street. She had a tennis racket under her arm and a can of balls in her hand. She was planning to hit the balls against the wall in the park three blocks down.

And she wanted to think about Tyler. He had not been at school, and she wondered why. She had gone by his house but there had been no one there, although the Wingos’ truck had been in the driveway.

All the Wingos, it seemed, had disappeared.

She turned the corner and reached a stretch of trees that carried over to the next block. She was so focused she never heard the van pull up next to her, and didn’t hear the door slide open.

The next instant she was off her feet, a hand holding a moistened cloth around her face. She took a deep breath and then fainted. The van door closed and the vehicle drove off. Kathy’s racket and can of balls were all that was left on the sidewalk.

The van drove for well over an hour, winding through back roads and keeping well away from populated areas. Its destination was the little cabin in the woods where nearby Jean Shepherd was buried. The cabin was dark, but there was a car parked outside it.

The van slowed to a stop and a man climbed out, opened the sliding door, lifted out the still-unconscious Kathy, and carried her into the cabin.

She was tied to a chair and blindfolded. Her mouth was not taped shut. They wanted her to talk. And there was no one nearby who would care about her screaming.

The van driver stepped back and put his shoulder against the door into the cabin. Alan Grant drew up a chair and placed it about a foot away from where Kathy sat slumped in her seat. He studied her features, prepared his line of questioning. He was not desperate in his search to find Sam Wingo, at least not yet. But he was running out of time and he hoped Kathy Burnett could provide him a shortcut.