Дэвид Балдаччи - The Sixth Man

“And?”

“And she swears someone else was watching the place too, just like she was.”

Paul’s nostrils flared. She seemed to be searching the air for a scent to go after. “I think I’ll join you up in Maine. Just give me a few minutes to pack.”

Five minutes later she was ready to go.

They cabbed to a car-rental place, got a four-door Chevy, and headed north out of Manhattan. At this time of night the traffic was fairly light, even for the city that never sleeps. They reached Boston in the wee hours and checked into a motel on the outskirts of the city because neither one of them could keep their eyes open. They got up at eight the next morning after four hours of sleep. That afternoon, several cups of coffee and two fast-food meals later, they pulled into Machias.

They had phoned when they got close and Michelle met them outside of the inn.

When Sean saw the bandage around her arm he gaped. “Did you get shot too?”

“Not really.”

“How could you not really be shot?”

“It was the slug that killed Murdock. It’s a scratch.”

Sean hugged her and Michelle felt his arms trembling.

She said softly, “I’m okay, Sean, really.” But she squeezed him tightly back.

“We’re not splitting up again. Every time we do something bad happens.”

Michelle looked up at Kelly Paul. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“I didn’t expect to be here.”

They went inside where Mrs. Burke had clearly been fussing over Michelle. She checked her bandage and brought her another cup of coffee before leaving them alone. Megan was sitting in the front parlor, a cup of tea cradled in her lap.

“People keep dying,” Megan said in a faraway voice.

They all looked at her but said nothing.

Megan turned to Paul. “You’re not going to pull a knife on me again, are you?”

“Not unless you give me reason to, no.”

Megan shuddered and fell silent.

“Tell us everything you remember about last night, Michelle,” said Sean.

She did, interrupted only by questions posed by Sean or Paul.

“So Murdock knew or had discovered the existence of the E-Program?” said Sean.

“Well, he got cut off by the shot, but I think so. And he talked about certain people in D.C. who might have a reason to want to harm Edgar Roy.”

“By framing him?” asked Sean.

“Well, considering he could get the death penalty if convicted, yeah.”

Sean looked at Megan. “What’s the status on the case?”

“I’ve been drafting motions but I need you to look them over.”

“Okay. Have you heard anything from the prosecutor on the case? Any notice from the court?”

Megan shook her head. “There’s no one left at Mr. Bergin’s office. But I’ve been checking e-mail and voice messages. The case is technically in legal limbo because of Roy’s mental condition. But the court ordered periodic evaluations done on him to see if he’s mentally competent to stand trial. One of those is coming up soon.”

Sean glanced at Paul. “How would you like to see your brother?”

She turned to him. “When?” she said slowly.

“How about now?”

BECAUSE HE HAD ABSOLUTELY ZERO other options, Bunting made the trek once more, going from rich, busy Manhattan, to poor, just as busy Manhattan. He looked up and saw the sign: Pizza, $1 a Slice.

If only he were here for pepperoni and cheese. Right now he was so angry he could barely contain himself. He wanted to hit something. Or someone.

He walked up the six flights. He was in good shape, worked out regularly at his members-only club, but for some reason he felt winded and sweaty when he reached the top.

He knocked.

The door opened.

James Harkes stood there, dressed exactly as before. As Bunting was ushered in he wondered if the man’s entire wardrobe consisted of the same color suit, shirt, and tie, namely black, white, black.

The men sat at the same small table. A little fan buzzed and oscillated on a side table. It was the only airflow in the place, other than the men’s breathing. Bunting could feel the heat rising from the pizza ovens six floors below.

“Murdock!” began Bunting.

“What about him?”

“He’s dead, but I know you already knew that.”

Harkes said nothing. He just sat there, large hands resting on his flat stomach.

“He’s dead, Harkes,” Bunting said again.

“I heard you the first time, Mr. Bunting.”

“When we talked last night and you said you’d discovered that Murdock had stumbled onto the E-Program’s existence, I didn’t say to kill him.”

Harkes leaned forward just a bit. “You’re assuming certain actions on my part.”

“Did you kill him?”

“I’m here to protect you, Mr. Bunting.”

“But he’s a damned FBI agent. You had him murdered.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“Christ, are you really going to play semantics now?”

“I have a few other things to take care of. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yeah, you can stop killing people. You have just made a complicated situation nearly impossible.”

“I wouldn’t characterize it that way.”

“Well, I would .”

“Maxwell knows now. And King.”

“About Edgar Roy being the Analyst?”

“Yes,” said Harkes.

“How could they?”

“Outside source.”

“Who?”

“Kelly Paul.”

Bunting stared at him.

“Kelly Paul,” Harkes said again. “I know that you know her.”

“How is she involved?”

“She’s Edgar Roy’s half sister.” Harkes studied him. “But then you knew that.”

“Is that where King and Maxwell went when we lost track of them?”

“Possibly.”

Bunting pointed a finger at Harkes. “Listen very carefully. You are not to go near Kelly Paul. Or Sean King. Or Michelle Maxwell. Do you understand me?”

“I’m afraid you’re not grasping the seriousness of the situation.”

“So what the hell is the plan? Kill everybody?”

“Plans are ever evolving,” said Harkes with maddening calm.

“Why would Paul be working to harm her brother? That’s preposterous.”

“You’re assuming that Paul is still working for us. She’s been off the grid for a while. She could be freelancing for our enemies.”

“I don’t believe that. Kelly Paul is as patriotic as anyone I’ve ever met.”

“That is a dangerous perspective for someone in your position to have.”

“What perspective?” snapped Bunting.

“That someone can’t be corrupted.”

“ I can’t be. I would never do anything to harm my country.”

“That’s a nice speech. But if the right inducement came along even you could be turned.”

“Never.”

“You’re missing the point.”

“If anybody else ends up dead, it’s over for you, Harkes. You have my word.”

“You have a good day, Mr. Bunting.”

Harkes opened the door, and Bunting stormed through it.

TWO HOURS LATER Bunting was seated in a comfy leather chair on the company jet as it taxied toward takeoff. It was a Gulfstream G550. It could fly from London to Singapore on a single tank of gas. It had an office, a bed, TVs, Wi-Fi, state-of-the-art avionics, a full bar, seating for fourteen, two pilots, and two flight attendants. It could hit nearly 600 miles an hour and fly at a max ceiling of 51,000 feet. It had cost Bunting’s company, BIC, over $50 million new, and millions more per year in maintenance and operating costs.

The flight from New York to Dulles, Virginia, would take less than half an hour in the air. He sat back as the G550 executed its climb out over the friendly if crowded Manhattan skies, banked smoothly south, and headed to D.C. Before Bunting could even settle into work, the pilot announced their descent into Dulles. Twenty minutes later they were on the ground. They taxied to a private part of the airport, and the retractable steps housed on the G550 came down. He stepped off and into the waiting limo, which sped away as soon as his rear end hit the seat.