Chris Mooney - The Soul Collectors

Sergey nodded. 'It's on the plane. We processed it for prints before we let Jack look at it.'

'What's on it?'

'A video. That's all he'd tell me. He hasn't let anyone watch it yet.'

'We need to talk about Casey,' Darby said, 'his involvement.'

Sergey waved a hand, cutting her off. 'I know where you're going with this, and, yes, I agree. He's been emotionally compromised, and he can't be the one calling the shots. You won't get any grief from him. That being said, I want to — he wants to stick close to this. You can't blame him.'

'I want to see the video.'

'You will. Later. First, we need to get you two settled.'

Sergey pointed to a pair of agents hovering a few feet away. 'These men will take you to the hotel. Shower, get something to eat, take a few hours to unwind. Don't argue, you need some time away from this so you can look at it fresh, okay?' He glanced at his watch. 'Let's make it ten. No, eleven. Give you some time to unwind before the meeting. Go and grab some sleep, decompress.'

Sergey turned to leave.

'Hold up,' Darby said. 'I talked to Jack's wife.'

He spun around on his heels, nearly tripping. 'When?'

'After you left, one of them called my cell phone and put her on the line. She told me Jack has to hold a press conference. They want him to — '

'A press conference? For what reason.'

'Do you know who Budd Dwyer was?'

Sergey shook his head, showed her his empty hands.

'Budd Dwyer,' Darby said, 'was a politician from Pennsylvania accused of receiving bribes. Day before his sentencing, he calls a press conference. Has three of his staff members up there with him, and he hands each of them an envelope — letter to his wife, one for the governor and an organ donor card — and when he's done he places the barrel of a.357 Magnum in his mouth and blows his head off.'

'They want Casey to commit suicide on national TV?' Sergey said.

'First they want him to shoot Darren Waters.'

'And if he doesn't commit murder and suicide, then what?'

'His wife said these people were going to mail her and their daughter to us,' Darby said. 'In pieces.' The Secret Service agents led them to a different SUV, this one a Ford Expedition. Keats took the wheel and his partner had a cryptic conversation over a phone hooked into a big box mounted in the console.

'I need to pick up some clothes from my condo,' Darby said.

'I'll call and check,' Keats said.

His partner made the call, hanging up less than a minute later.

'You're cleared,' he said.

'Cleared?' Darby repeated. 'Cleared of what?'

'ERT found a cyanide gas canister mounted underneath your bed. Remote-controlled device.'

'When was it set to go off?'

'Didn't have a timer on it, just a cell phone. You call and it lets out the gas. Pretty sophisticated construction too, from what we were told.'

Darby sank back in her seat, her jaw snapping shut.

Cyanide gas. Also known as Zyklon B when it was used in Hitler's gas chambers and in the gas wagons that rounded up gypsies and homosexuals and killed them on the spot. And now these people that no one knew, these people who belonged to a group that didn't have a name — they had wanted to turn her bedroom into a gas chamber. If she had gone back home instead of calling Coop's friend for that room at the Custom House…

But you didn't.

No. No, she hadn't. But it got her thinking back to what Coop had said about her lucky streak having to end at some point because that's what lucky streaks did. They always did.

Coop was leaning forward in his seat and Keats was saying, 'No need to go to a store. We've already purchased some clothing for you.'

'I hope you didn't buy me tighty-whities,' Coop said. 'I'm a boxer man.'

'I didn't do the shopping. Someone from the office did. A woman.' Keats gave Coop a hard, stern look in the rear-view mirror and added, 'I don't shop for clothes for guys.'

Coop laughed. 'Where you taking us?'

'Four Seasons.'

'How romantic.'

'Hotel offers us several security advantages. They cater to visiting diplomats, our bozo politicians and other types.'

Coop eased back, turning to her with a grin on his face, trying to break the sombre mood.

'Four Seasons,' he whispered. 'Ooo-la-la.'

Keats went up with her to her condo. The FBI's Evidence Response Team was there, making a mess of her rooms — moving furniture, rugs and all of her bureau drawers. Black fingerprint powder covered every surface. All the lights had been turned on and when she stepped inside her bedroom she found her bed torn apart, the mattress propped up against a wall and a guy wearing a particle mask and an FBI windbreaker spraying a Super Glue mist against the metal bed frame. Two young guys stood on her porch dusting her sliding glass door and she caught flashlight beams crisscrossing through the darkness, searching the postage-stamp-sized backyard she shared with the ground-floor tenants.

She didn't ask what else they had found; she'd get the details later from Sergey. She opened the folding doors to Beacon Hill's version of a walk-in closet: a small space of carefully crafted shelves designed to maximize every last inch of space. She threw clothes into a suitcase, about to close the doors when she saw the bulky white shopping bag sitting on the top shelf. She hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the bag and stuffed it inside her suitcase.

A quick trip to the bathroom to grab her toiletries and then she was hauling her suitcase down the winding staircase. No sign of her neighbours. She wondered if the feds had evacuated the building as a precaution.

Back to the car and half an hour later it stopped.

When her door opened again, she saw a man dressed in what looked like a military uniform — a cream-coloured commander's hat, dark navy-blue trousers and a matching long overcoat with gold bars on the sleeves and above the breast pocket. He stood under a roof heater a few feet away from a pair of gold-plated doors, the entrance of the Four Seasons Hotel.

The doorman grinned and welcomed them to the Four Seasons. Either the man hadn't noticed the earpieces worn by the Secret Service agents or he was simply used to seeing such things, as the hotel, she knew, hosted a wide variety of foreign dignitaries and rich Middle Eastern types who often travelled with bodyguards.

Keats didn't bother with the check-in and escorted them through a regal lobby full of warm, earth-tone colours — the brown and cream rug, the blond wood panelling and chairs and sofas arranged around pillar-type stones holding pots bursting with freshly cut flowers. She could see why people held lavish weddings here, why businesses held conferences meant to impress their staff and clients. The area gave off a distinctly powerful but elegant vibe.

They took the elevator to the top floor. She followed Keats and the other agent, who'd been assigned to Coop, down a quiet, carpeted hall. A moment later Keats dropped her suitcase in front of a small alcove separate from the rest of the rooms. Darby saw the bronze-plated sign mounted on the wall next to the door: GARDEN SUITE.

'I'll be posted outside your room,' Keats said. 'For obvious reasons, we prefer that you dine in. We'll come for you at eleven, so take the time to unwind, sleep, whatever.'

Coop picked up her suitcase. Darby remained in the hallway for a moment.

She rubbed a hand across the back of her neck. 'If for some reason you need to come in and get us, could you do me a favour and, uh, you know…'

'Knock?'

'Yes. Knock.'

'Of course. A gentleman such as myself always knocks first, then waits.'

'I'd appreciate that, thanks.'

Keats cracked a thin smile. 'Enjoy your stay.'

Darby's first thought was that she had stepped through a time portal and into the top floor of one of those old historic mansions she'd once seen in Newport, Rhode Island. The space was immense, with Victorian-inspired sofas, chairs and heavy curtains; the only modern flourish was the soft lighting that glowed like candlelight across the cream and beige striped wallpaper. The warm air smelled of lavender — fresh lavender and not some sort of chemical scent, and it was coming from a huge bouquet of fresh-cut lavender sprinkled among white and red roses set up on the table.