Дэвид Балдаччи - The Escape

“Well, maybe we’ll be more fortunate,” said Puller. He rose and extended his hand. “Thank you for your time.”

“No, thank you. And I hope the truth finally comes out,” said Landry. “And if your brother is innocent he shouldn’t have to spend one more minute in prison.”

They said their goodbyes as Knox looked worriedly at Puller.

A few minutes later they were walking back to the hotel.

Knox said, “Robinson dead. That’s a stunner.”

“Maybe not so much.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why would he go to the train station and be on a pay phone?”

Knox thought for a moment. “He was communicating with someone and they didn’t want to be seen together or have their cell phones tracked?”

“So who was he talking to when someone killed him?”

“Could be a lot of possibilities.”

“Maybe not as many as you think. He could communicate with the people who paid for his son’s treatment any number of ways. The pay phone, on the other hand, would be the perfect way for someone who couldn’t afford to be seen with Robinson to communicate with him without the risk that the conversation could be tracked.”

“Wait a minute, are you saying–”

“That it was my brother on the other end of that call.”

“But why would he talk to Robinson?”

“Robinson felt guilty about what he did. You heard Landry. I’m sure my brother noted that when Robinson testified. Maybe he thought that Robinson would be receptive to the truth finally coming out, if only to alleviate his guilt.”

“Do you think he might have figured out Robinson’s motive?”

“The sick child? Maybe. I saw the photo in Robinson’s office. My brother could have too, because I’m sure it would have been in Robinson’s office back in KC. You have to understand that my brother misses nothing. He sees it all. Never forgets anything. Now we need to find out everything about Robinson’s death.”

“So who killed him? Your brother? Maybe Robinson wouldn’t cooperate.”

“If that were my brother’s plan he wouldn’t have picked a place like Union Station. Too many people around. And he’s not a coldblooded killer. He could kill someone in self-defense, like at DB, but not over distance when he was in no personal danger. I think Robinson was followed, and when the follower saw what was going on he took the guy out.”

“And your brother?”

“I have no way of knowing what Robinson told him. If he did tell him something that might have led Bobby on to something else.”

“What about Susan Reynolds? You think he’s going to visit her?”

“Maybe, if he hasn’t already.”

“Don’t you think we would have heard if he had?”

“Not necessarily. If Reynolds is on someone else’s payroll then she might not want her official superiors to know because it would direct attention onto her. She might have only told her coconspirators. Or maybe she did tell people and no one bothered to tell us. Or she called Robinson and told him. I guess that’s all possible.”

As they were walking along, Puller’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and his demeanor changed.

“Bad news?” asked Knox, who was watching him closely.

“Doug Fletcher was as good as his word.”

“What?”

“He just sent me the copy of the letter my dad filed with the court during Bobby’s court-martial.”

Knox put a hand on Puller’s arm. “Look, you go up to your room, finish packing up, read your letter, take all the time you need. I’ll check out and be down in the lobby waiting.”

Puller looked across at her. “I appreciate that.” He hesitated. “And I’m sorry that I was shitty to you this morning.”

“Forget it. I’m not a morning person myself. And I can be an asshole too.”

“You said you weren’t close to your dad, but do you ever see him?”

“That would be kind of hard, because he’s dead.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“He drank too much, withered away, fell into depression, ended up all alone, and ate a round from a Glock without bothering to leave behind a note.”

“Damn, that must have been tough.”

“Not as much as you might think. We’d been estranged a long time by then.”

“Still, he was your father.”

“Actually, in my mind at least, he had lost that title. It’s not supposed to be simply granted, Puller, because a sperm happened to hit an egg. You have to earn it. He chose not to. And he suffered the consequences. It’s incredibly sad, but it wasn’t my choice, it was his.”

“I admire the fact you can be so… analytical about it.”

“That only happens after you spend about ten years of your life crying about it. Once the emotions are gone, analytics are all you have left.”

But as she said this Knox turned away from him and stared directly in front of her.

They had reached the hotel by now and she pushed him toward the entrance. “Go do what you have to do. I’m going to run next door to the pharmacy and pick up some things I need. Meet you in the lobby.”

Puller looked at her for a moment and then walked into the hotel.

Knox looked frantically around for a few moments and then spotted the narrow alleyway behind the hotel. She slid into it, turned away from the street, and began to cry.

ROBERT PULLER SAT in a seedy motel room next to a strip mall on Route 1 in south Alexandria staring at the beaten-down strip of carpet but not really seeing it.

Last night he had watched Niles Robinson’s brains being splattered on the wall at Union Station. He had worked with Robinson for several years at STRATCOM, first in Nebraska and then in Kansas. He had considered Robinson a friend. He had watched the man on the witness stand testifying against him. He had seen that his friend was mired in conflict over what he was doing.

While Puller had been sitting in the courtroom that day when Robinson was on the stand, his mind had visited Robinson’s office, going over everything in it. In the odd way his brain worked, once Puller saw something it always stayed with him, safely ensconced in a little corner of his gray matter.

In his mental meandering he had stopped at the photograph of Ian Robinson when he had been sick, head shaven and tubes running all over his frail body. Puller and Niles had talked often about the boy, his condition and dire prognosis. It had been heartbreaking, truly. And while he couldn’t agree with what Niles had done, he could understand why he had done it.

But now, while Ian would grow up, he would do so without his father.

And Puller was blaming himself for that. Robinson had been followed. Puller should have anticipated that possibility. Yet he had never envisioned that they would have killed the man in such a public place.

But he could do nothing for Robinson now. And what Robinson had told him was tantalizing. Some didn’t like the fact that Puller was being groomed for great things in the intelligence field. But could it be just that? Maybe Robinson didn’t know the whole story.

Ruining my career and putting me in prison just because you didn’t like me or were jealous? No, there had to be something else. And what did he mean by he “had tried to make it right”? How?

Puller lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling now instead of the threadbare carpet. He couldn’t make heads or tails of what Robinson had meant, so he moved on.

Puller had headed east because of a change in command at STRATCOM. Daughtrey was moved up and brought on. And then he was murdered. With the reassignment, other changes had taken place in the pecking order of command. Chiefly, Martin Able had gotten his fourth star and become head of the NSA. It was a plum assignment.