T. Bunn - The Great Divide

The door opened. A familiar voice said, “Yes?”

But the face did not fit the voice. “Ms. Stanstead?”

“That’s right.” A light flickered. “You’re Marcus Glenwood.”

“Yes.”

The door remained barely cracked open. “You’re late.”

It was not true, but he found no need to counter the attack. Or any desire. “Sorry.”

“I took part of the afternoon off, and was supposed to be back at work an hour ago.” Reluctantly she released the door and let it swing wide. Marcus stepped into a narrow foyer with mint green walls and pegged floors of broad planks, probably oak. The living room to his right sported what appeared to be an original fireplace of glazed brick. “Where have you been?”

“State Department, International Chamber of Commerce, Asia Rights Watch, Chinese embassy.” His gaze returned to the woman herself. She stood in bizarre contrast both to the house and his expectations. She wore combat boots, overblown khaki trousers, chain belt, a man’s T-shirt, and short blond hair gelled into a myriad of spikes. He realized he was staring and glanced down at his watch. “I thought we said four o’clock.”

“Then you thought wrong. I have a meeting downtown with our Brussels group in fifteen minutes.”

“You said you worked for a charity organization, is that right?”

Tension vibrated the air between them. “This meeting isn’t about me, Mr. Glenwood.”

He watched a hand reach for her head, touch the spikes, then drop to her side. He had the distinct impression she was not comfortable with herself. And everything she wore was brand-new. “Call me Marcus.”

“Are you going after New Horizons or not?”

“There’s not much of a case. All we could really do is blow smoke in their faces.”

“Maybe not.” She lifted a manila folder from a side table and handed it to him. “This is the information you wanted about the Richmond trial.”

“Great.” But his attention remained fastened upon the utterly unadorned face. Which was odd. Marcus had not paid attention to a woman in a very long time. Kirsten Stanstead had lips so pale they appeared delicate even when compressed into a hypertense line. Her nose was snubbed slightly upward, her eyebrows as pale as her hair. Her eyes were arresting. Turquoise and big, as though she had been shocked so hard the gaze had become frozen wide. Shocked and saddened both, for hers was a tragic gaze. Marcus had the fleeting impression of sapphires crushed in a blender. He searched for something more to say. “Did you happen to find an address for the plaintiff’s attorney?”

“First page.”

“I thought I might rent a car and drive down to Richmond and meet him.” Marcus flipped open the folder to have something to look at other than her. “Also I need the name of a good China attorney. Somebody who knows the ins and outs of their law.”

“I’ll see what I can do. But right now I really have to be going.” Words and attitude as pointy as her hair.

Marcus allowed himself to be led toward the front door. “You said something about more data?”

“It’s all in a jumble. I’m sorting it as fast as I can. I’ll send it to you when it’s ready.” She actually prodded him through the portal. “Now good-bye. And don’t call me again unless you take the case.” The door slammed in punctuation to the final word.

Marcus stood upon the top step. Silently he asked the sunlit afternoon why Kirsten Stanstead would go to so much trouble to make him detest her.

“Glenwood’s done just about what you’d expect.”

Randall Walker scowled at the view outside his car window. He hated the need for subterfuge and the special mobile phone used only for these calls. But loved it just the same. It was a paradox he did not need to question. He had long since grown used to the fact that many of the things in life that he adored the most were also things he was vaguely ashamed of. “And precisely what is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said. He’s made the rounds. Met all the right people. Asked all the wrong questions.”

“Now you look here.” Randall masked his nerves with an unaccustomed bark. He had heard too many tales about Hamper Caisse to feel comfortable dealing with the man, no matter what the cause. “I don’t pay you these ridiculous sums for you to feed me opinions. I want facts. Details. Times, dates, evidence you’ve actually done your job.”

“The entire exercise has been a no-brainer.” The voice on the other end sounded caught midway between a whisper and a moan. Which suited the man perfectly. Randall stared at the sunlit day and saw the man himself. Small and without a single sharp angle. Wispy mustache and round-rimmed glasses. Suit as gray as his hair and eyes. Utterly without defining characteristics. Anyone glancing his way would not bother with a second look, there was so little to notice. Which meant he was superb at his job.

“Glenwood visited the State Department, the International Chamber of Commerce, and the Asia Rights Watch. He stopped by the Chinese embassy, but didn’t have the nerve to step inside. Then he visited Hall’s roommate, that Stanstead woman. It looked like she handed him some file.”

“That’s bad. And the meeting at Asia Rights is even worse.” But Randall wasn’t sure this was the case. Part of him wanted to agree with Hamper Caisse and his nonchalant assessment. The man had an almost perfect record, both in gathering data and in situation analysis. Which was not what made Randall Walker nervous.

He had heard the tales. Stories were bandied about boardrooms of companies that used Hamper Caisse’s services. How he had gained his reputation in the CIA, how he was willing to do anything for a client. Anything at all.

Even from a distance of several hundred miles, Randall felt unnerved by the man’s grotesque mixture of docile ruthlessness. “This could mean serious trouble.”

“I think you’re wrong. Glenwood is strictly a two-bit operator, and he’s out of his league.” If he took any pleasure in correcting Randall, it did not show. “You come across a lot of these in Washington. They show up at the occasional low-level function, scrounge for whatever crumbs they can find. One hard knock and they fold up their tents and scurry back to whatever hole they crawled out of.”

“All right. Any idea what’s next?”

“He was booked on the six-fifteen United flight back to Raleigh. But when he left Stanstead’s place he rented a car. Right now I’m following him through rush-hour traffic on I-95. My guess is he’s headed down to see that Richmond lawyer who kicked up such a fuss in the pollution suit. What a pair they’ll make.”

“Stay on him,” Randall said. Then, almost to himself, “I wish I knew what was in that file.”

“What can the Hall girl have found out? You had me check her, what, three times? She’s just another scrounger. Pity Glenwood couldn’t meet her. They’d probably have fallen for each other, right off a cliff. Saved us all a lot of trouble.”

Randall wanted to believe him. Wanted to accept that his worry was for nothing, that the fire had been put out safely and everything was under control. But something left him uneasy. Something that could not be entirely ignored. “I want you to search the Stanstead place. Find out if there’s anything else lying around.”

“You’re kidding.”

“We can’t take any risks here.”

A pause, then, “It’s your money.”

“That’s right, it is.” Randall cut the connection, sat staring out the window of his Mercedes, wishing he knew what it was that had him so concerned.

When rush-hour traffic trapped him on I-95, Marcus used his cellular phone to call ahead. The lawyer in Richmond sounded hostile and half-drunk. Marcus bullied the man into granting him five minutes and his home address.