Russell Andrews - Midas

Preemptive action. That’s what the new world was about.

Even so. .

Doubts.

Son of a bitch.

There was one other thing Hubbell had never experienced. Both shrinks, when he’d been ordered to visit them, had noted this, too, and passed the information on to his superior: Schrader didn’t seem to have any fear.

He had to admit, that was pretty much true. He was not afraid of getting hurt or, for that matter, of dying. If either thing occurred, so be it. It was part of the job description. When you do what you have to do you also have to suffer the consequences.

Because Schrader had never specifically experienced fear, he wasn’t really familiar with its symptoms or its warning signals. That’s why he felt so uncomfortable now. The man whose office he was standing in made him feel strange in a way he’d never felt around anyone or anything else. The man made the hair on the back of Schrader’s neck stand on end, and he caused a slight shiver to creep its way down along Schrader’s spine.

Schrader wasn’t sure if this was fear-whether he was, in fact, afraid of this man.

But he thought it was a possibility.

And that in itself was quite something. More than enough for Schrader to pay very close attention to everything the man was saying.

“What about the woman in Rhode Island?”

“She’s being watched,” Schrader said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means we’re making sure she doesn’t do anything she shouldn’t be doing.”

“Phones tapped?”

“Yes.”

“Surveillance?”

“Yes,” Schrader said. He rolled his eyes just slightly.

“You like your job? Running the New York bureau?” the man across the desk asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s can the attitude. ’Cause you’re a phone call away from losing it. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Schrader said.

“How about our. .” The man waved his arms, searching for a description.

“Our guest from overseas?” Schrader made sure his facial expression didn’t change one bit.

“Yes.”

“He’s well taken care of.”

“What do people call you? Is Hubbell short to anything?” The man smiled now, doing his best to be warm and friendly. “Do people call you Hub?”

“My wife calls me Hubie. Like the basketball coach. Most people just call me by my name, sir.”

“Hubie. . I like that. It’s an uncommon name. It’s fitting. You’re an uncommon person.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Hubie. . I know that certain elements of this job are distasteful to you. As they are to me. But these are distasteful times. People don’t always know what’s best for them. In the long run. People don’t look at the big picture, they don’t always understand it.”

Schrader just nodded. Stone-faced.

“I realize it’s difficult for you. . keeping an eye on our guest, as you so accurately dubbed him. But he’s serving a valuable function. More valuable than even you can realize. In the long run. . in the big picture. . he may be saving this nation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when he stops serving his purpose. . and that will happen fairly soon, Hubie. . then we’ll be able to dispose of him the way we all would probably like to dispose of him.”

“I think I understand, sir.”

“You think?”

“Yes, sir. But to be perfectly honest, it doesn’t really matter whether I understand or not, does it? As long as I do my job.”

“So you’re fine with everything that’s going on?”

“I am, sir.”

“Good.” The man leaned back in his chair, gave a relaxed smile, as if everything was now okay, as if all the cares of the world had just been lifted. “Now, what about the cop?”

Hubbell Schrader took a long breath before answering.

“Justin Westwood, you mean?”

“Is that his name?”

“Yes, sir. The cop from Long Island.”

“So what about him?”

“He’s kind of a wild card, sir.”

“You care to explain that?”

“The Bureau has crossed paths with him before. He’s good at his job.”

“Meaning you’re not sure you can control him.”

“I can control him, sir.”

The man across the desk leaned forward now. The cares of the world seemed to have descended a bit.

“Agent Schrader,” he said. “I don’t give a damn if you can control him. I just want to know that he is controlled.”

“He is, sir.”

“You understand the resources that are at your disposal.”

“I do, sir.”

“Our people are in place?”

“They’re in place.”

“If there are any doubts, if we need to know anything from him, anything at all, you understand what’s available to you.”

“Yes, sir, I do. I’ve been in contact with the appropriate people. Just in case.”

“Good. And I want to make sure you understand one more thing. Because it’s very important, Hubie.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“We’re talking about the future of this country. The future of the United States of America, Hubie. Think about that for a moment. Are you thinking?”

“Yes, sir. The future.”

“Good. So if, even for a moment, one single solitary moment, you think you might be losing control? Or if our other alternative is not effective?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Then you’re to take more extreme measures. The most extreme measure.”

The man leaned back again, and the smile returned to his face.

“Is there anything else we need to discuss, Hubie?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.”

Hubbell Schrader understood that the conversation was over, so he nodded, left the office, and went back to do whatever it was going to take to keep things under control.

Justin was a big fan of lists.

Police work was about details and thoroughness and all sorts of other things. But mostly, he thought, it was about lists. Things to do. Things already done. Things that couldn’t get done. Things to tell other people to do. Things to follow up on. Things to learn. Things to forget.

He had spent four years at Princeton studying business and almost two years in Harvard Medical School. If things had turned out differently-if he’d become a banker or a doctor as he’d originally planned, as had been expected of him his entire life-he wondered if he’d be doing the same things he was doing now. Entering columns of numbers or potential stock buys into his computer. Or putting together strings of ailments and symptoms. He thought that would probably have been the case. No matter how complicated or high-powered the job, it was all about information, knowledge; it was all about who made the right connections between otherwise unconnected things. Which meant it all came down to lists. So by the early afternoon he was sitting in what had recently been Jimmy Leggett’s office-so much for sentiment; space requirements took precedence-working away.

There were five people who might have a connection to each other, each of whom was now dead. Justin made one column of names. One of dates. And one of facts: anything he could think of that might be relevant to the investigation. The fourth column was for questions, for things he didn’t know but needed to find out.

The names in the left-hand column were Bradford Collins, Hutchinson Cooke, Chuck Billings, Martin Heffernan, and Ray Lockhardt. He began-because it was the only way to begin-with the premise that each of the men had been specifically and personally targeted. Lockhardt and Cooke had definitely been murdered; Justin was satisfied with the evidence he had in hand. Was it possible that Collins was an accidental death-just another innocent person caught in the Harper’s bombing? Yes. Absolutely. The same with Heffernan; it could be coincidence that he was eating at La Cucina when that bomb went off. Even Billings. There was no concrete proof that he’d been murdered. It was conceivable that the bomb squad cop had changed his mind about flying with Justin, that he had, as the official report declared, driven home and fallen asleep at the wheel. But Justin hadn’t become a banker or a doctor, he was a cop. A dogged and oddly fanatical cop. So he didn’t much believe in accidents or coincidences. He didn’t have that luxury. He had to go with the premise that they were all murder victims. And if there was a link between them, between any or all of them, he was sure as hell going to find it. By learning whatever he could and seeing where all that information led to and where the different elements crisscrossed. It would all be done logically and dispassionately.