Jeff Abbott - Collision

“Doubtful,” Pilgrim said.

“You’re getting rid of me because you don’t even know how to accept help that doesn’t involve killing people. And after I patched you together, you goddamned ingrate, I thought we were on the same side. You’re not brave enough to keep a deal you make.”

“I just… I don’t believe you have what it takes to do what we need done. So let me handle the dirty work.” Pilgrim stood. “Get a very good lawyer who will ask Homeland Security the hard questions about this Office of Strategic Whatever that Kidwell and Vochek work for. Good luck, man, and thanks.”

He turned and walked from the bathroom.

“Pilgrim!”

“It’s for the best, Ben, for the best.” As though assuring himself of the truth.

And the next sound Ben heard was the click of the hotel door closing.

Pilgrim was sure he’d done the right thing. The police would find Ben, and turn him over to Homeland. He’d tell them about Pilgrim and eventually he’d be believed; no one was going to think Ben Forsberg had escaped from the shoot-out in Austin on his own. Finally he would be shuttled to the CIA and the FBI for debriefing. Then released.

Unless… unless what was going on was a group inside the government declaring war on the Cellar, and they didn’t want Ben talking in public about Pilgrim or the Cellar. An unexpected cold prickle raced along his skin. But Ben had government connections; Ben would be fine. This Sam Hector guy could get him a squadron of lawyers.

I thought we were on the same side. A sentiment of sheer stupidity. Ben lived in a normal world where, yes, you could become acquainted and think a person was your ally. Even your friend. Pilgrim remembered that world; for a brief second, he wanted to pull out his sketchbook, sharpen a pencil, draw the girl as he remembered her, bearing daisies in her cupped hands, her laughter dancing with the sunlight.

Ben’s accusation rattled in his head. You’re not brave enough to keep a deal you make. No, maybe he wasn’t, but it didn’t matter. He worked alone. It was the only way to survive.

The address on Barker’s driver’s license was on a street in east Dallas, and two of the houses had “For Lease” signs in the front yard. The neighborhood was quiet, dominated by mature oaks and single-story ranch houses. Most people were at work, but he saw a pregnant young woman kneeling in the shade, weeding a flower bed. She glanced up and waved at Pilgrim as he drove past. He waved back.

Barker’s lawn needed a mow, and nuts from the pecan trees lay scattered and forgotten on the driveway. No police cars stood outside, which meant Barker’s body, presumably lying in the Austin morgue, had not been connected to this address. Taking his driver’s license had been a smart move.

Pilgrim drove past the house three times, saw no sign of life, no sign of surveillance. He parked his car two houses down, at one of the “For Lease” homes, and headed for Barker’s front door. He knocked, rang the doorbell, knocked again. He fixed a picklock, shaped like a small gun, against the lock, squeezed the trigger, and the mechanism eased the lock open. He was inside.

The chirp of an alarm began; this was, after all, a Cellar property, and he’d expected security. He pulled a PDA from his pocket, popped off the plastic cover on the alarm keypad, wired the PDA to the keypad, tapped a program. It scanned the alarm deactivation setting on the pad and fed the system the right combination eighteen seconds into its search. Pilgrim unclipped the PDA from the alarm, memorized the displayed combination, and replaced the keypad cover. Then he relocked the door and reactivated the alarm in the STAY setting, so he could move through the rooms. If anyone came inside, he wanted to create the illusion of an empty house.

The house was dark and still. It was furnished simply, with goods from IKEA, just enough to give the impression of a minimalist bachelor pad. Pilgrim moved through the rooms, not turning on any lights. He searched for the obvious places to hide a gun: the freezer, the narrow kitchen drawer closest to the back door, a spot inside the pantry. Nothing. The kitchen was nicely stocked, as though Barker expected to come home. Well, why wouldn’t he? Teach was supposed to be captured and Pilgrim to be dead. An unopened bottle of French champagne chilled on the refrigerator shelf, awaiting a celebration.

He searched the house. In the den were a portable TV, a scattering of travel magazines, pages turned down on articles about the Bahamas and Aruba, notes about availability the following week jotted in the margins. Barker was planning a vacation with his traitor’s coins. The built-in bookshelves were bare. It felt like home to Pilgrim; his own lodgings, usually changing every few months, were similarly plain.

At the back of the house, he found the master bedroom. Clothes, awaiting laundry, piled at the foot of the unmade bed. A worktable, wide and deep, occupied one corner. No computer, no papers. No trail. A cordless phone with an answering machine. He played the tape; it had been erased.

He began his search. In the back of a drawer he found three pairs of handcuffs, lengths of silk, sexual gels. A few magazines that showed couples lashed and bound to each other in more than love and mutual respect. Whatever, Pilgrim thought. Those in the Cellar led highly stressful lives.

Hidden at the back of the desk drawer he found two fake passports for Barker, under different names, which looked to be Cellar-issue. Teach used superb forgers. But Barker didn’t need to be going overseas with his work. Teach used domestic support in operations; she had Europeans to handle European ops, Americans to handle American ops. Barker and a couple of others were based near American airport hubs, to go quickly where they were needed.

So why had he been overseas?

He found one passport stamped for the United Kingdom, then Switzerland, all of two weeks ago. The other passport journeyed to Greece and then Lebanon.

The United Kingdom. Maybe to Belfast to hire the Lynch boys. Lebanon. Three weeks ago, for three days. Perhaps to hire the group who took Teach.

But then who’d hired Barker?

Pilgrim tucked Barker’s passports into his pocket.

He heard the front door open, the distinctive sound of the lock being eased, probably by the same kind of lockpick he had used. The alarm began its chime. He went to the corner of the room. He heard the door shut. Fingertips tapping in a code. Then silence.

Whoever was here knew the entry code. Pilgrim liked this visitor immediately. This visitor could tell him things.

The soft creepy-crawl of footsteps, two hushed voices, both male. The conversation-he couldn’t hear what they said-murmured on for thirty seconds.

Which meant they didn’t know he was here.

He waited. It didn’t take long. But only one came into the bedroom, and Pilgrim put the gun on the back of his head as soon as he stepped into the room. The man was wiry and compact, in his forties, head shaved bald, and he went still with professional surrender. Pilgrim moved back from him and around him, raised a finger to his lips and kept the gun firmly locked on the man’s head.

“Call your partner back here,” he whispered. “Politely and quietly.”

“I found something,” the bald guy said in a normal tone. Pilgrim pulled him back out of the line of sight of the hallway, put the bald guy between him and the door as a shield. He heard footsteps approaching, then another man, a young, heavy-built Latino, came into the room. He sported evidence of a rough day: two black eyes, a bruised mouth. He wore a suit slightly too small for him: black jacket and pants, a white dress shirt, its creases indicating that it had been recently removed from its store packaging, no tie. He stopped when he saw Pilgrim, tensed for his gun.