Дэвид Балдаччи - The Sixth Man

“I wasn’t speaking of the rain.”

He settled back in his chair, stretched his long legs a bit. There wasn’t much room under the table for two tall people.

“Okay. Yeah, the weather sucks too.”

“How is Michelle?”

“Hanging tough, like always.”

“And Megan?”

“Frustrated. Can’t say I blame her.”

Paul glanced at her menu and said, “The scallops are very nice.”

Sean put down his menu. “Works for me.”

“Do you have a gun?”

He expressed surprise at the question. “No. I flew back into D.C. Didn’t want any problems at the airport.”

“You’ll have far worse problems if you need a weapon and don’t have one.” She patted her bag. “I have one here for you. Glock. I prefer the Twenty-One model.”

“The big bore .45? As American as apple pie or as close as an Austrian gun manufacturer can come to it.”

“I’ve always liked the thirteen-round mag. For me thirteen is a lucky number.”

“You needed thirteen shots?”

“Only if the other side had twelve. Do you want it?”

They exchanged a long stare.

“Yes.”

“After dinner, then.”

“BIC?”

She put down her menu. “Peter Bunting is an extremely well-respected player in the intelligence field. He started his own company at age twenty-six. He’s now forty-seven and has made a fortune selling to Uncle Sam. He owns homes here in New York and also in New Jersey. He’s married and has three children; the oldest is sixteen. His wife plays the social circuit well, has substantial charity involvement and part ownership in a trendy restaurant. The kids are by all accounts no more pampered and privileged than others of their ilk. From what I’ve heard they’re actually quite a nice family.”

“And he owns the E-Program platform you talked about?”

“It was his invention. Brilliant and ahead of its time.”

“Which means he owns your brother.”

“Peter Bunting also has a lot to lose. That makes him vulnerable.”

“Do you think he framed your brother?”

“No. His best asset is sitting in a cell. I understand that Bunting’s last briefing in D.C. was a disaster. He has every incentive to get his Analyst back as soon as possible. And there’s something else.”

“What?”

“There are some serious players who don’t like Bunting or the E-Program.”

“Who are these serious players?”

“You’ve probably heard of Ellen Foster.”

Sean blanched. “The secretary of Homeland Security? Why wouldn’t she like the E-Program? You said it was a brilliant idea.”

“Intelligence agencies don’t like to share. The E-Program forces them to. And Bunting runs the show. A show that used to be theirs. Feathers get ruffled. Word is Foster is leading the pack in bringing the hammer down on Bunting. She has the full backing of CIA, DIA, NSA, and so on.”

“And then do what?”

“Turn the clock back to where everybody did their own thing.”

“So you think they might have set up your brother? To discredit and knock out the E-Program? That’s highly unlikely, isn’t it? I mean they’re putting their country at risk every second your brother isn’t doing his job.”

“National security trumps a lot. It can trample civil rights. It can denude personal liberties. But it cannot and never will triumph over political gamesmanship.”

“Do you really believe that?”

She took a sip of wine. “I’ve actually lived it, Sean.”

He stared at her for a long time before speaking. “Okay, then tell me, are we a match for these guys?”

“David beat Goliath in the Valley of Elah.”

“But is our slingshot big enough?”

“I suppose we’ll find out.”

He sighed and tapped the table. “Comforting. So what about Bunting?”

“He’ll have figured out by now how you got on to him.”

“You think?”

“He’s a very smart man. Otherwise he would not have achieved what he has. However, he’s also a very nervous man right now. I’ve been following him around town. He’s met with several people, one of whom I find very intriguing.”

“Why?”

“When you see a rich spy king leave his usual haunts of upscale Manhattan to enter a ragged six-story walk-up with a pizza parlor in the lobby, you know something is off.”

“Who did he meet with there?”

“His name is James Harkes. A man that even I would find intimidating. And while I know you don’t really know me, that’s saying a lot.”

“You actually know this Harkes guy?”

“By reputation only. But it’s an impressive one.”

“Is he Bunting’s fail-safe?”

“More his guardian angel. For now. But he plays to more than one master. That’s the reason I gave you the gun. It must have occurred to you that because Bunting knows you’re on to him, Harkes may be unleashed against you and Michelle.”

Sean said, “I understand.”

“And that doesn’t take into account other assets that Foster and her allies could deploy.”

“Pretty overwhelming assets, I would imagine.”

Paul leaned forward and moved the olive oil bottle out of the way so she could hold Sean’s hand.

“What’s that for?” he said in a puzzled tone.

“I am not an overly affectionate person. I wanted to see if your skin was clammy and whether your hand was trembling.”

“And?”

“And I’m impressed because neither physiological reaction is occurring. I know you guarded the president, had an outstanding career until you made one mistake that destroyed it all for you. I know about Maxwell, too. She’s a bulldozer who can shoot the pants off most of the premier snipers in the military.”

“And I haven’t met the man she can’t put down.”

Paul let his hand go and sat back. “Well, that might change. Soon.”

“Are we on the same team now? Because everything you just said about us could just as well apply to you.”

“I don’t think they know I’m on to them yet, but I can’t guarantee that.”

“So, a team?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“We don’t have a lot of time.”

“I never said we did.”

“Why did you want me to come up to New York? All of this could be said over the phone.”

“This couldn’t.” She slid a package over to him. “The Glock, as promised.”

“Is that all?”

“No. One more thing. Would you like to see where Peter Bunting lives?”

Sean looked at her in surprise. “Why?”

“Why not?”

EDGAR ROY HAD KNOWN something was wrong because the routine at Cutter’s Rock had changed. Every morning since he’d been here Carla Dukes had made her rounds. Cutter’s Rock could hold two hundred and fourteen prisoners, but currently only fifty inmates were being held here. Roy knew this by observation and deduction. He knew it by listening to the sounds of meal trays being delivered to cells. He knew it by hearing and distinguishing between forty-nine voices emanating from those cells. He knew it by overhearing the bed check calls from the guards.

And Carla Dukes had made a point of walking past each of these cells at precisely four minutes past eight each morning and four minutes past four each afternoon. It was now six p.m. and Roy had not seen the woman at all today.

Yet he had heard a lot. Whispers among guards. Carla Dukes was dead. She’d been shot in her home. No one knew who had done it.

Roy was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling. Dukes’s murder had interrupted the chronology of each memory he’d ever had. He wished ill of no one, really, and at some level he was sorry she had been killed. She had been brought here to keep an eye on him. She didn’t want to be here. And thus she blamed him for her dilemma.