Lee Vance - The Garden of Betrayal

“Did Susan tell you who he saw?”

“She doesn’t know. He made all his own arrangements, which is unusual. She only found out he went because his driver complained to her about having to wait around at Teterboro late last night to pick him up.”

I racked my brain, trying to think of anyone else who might be able to shed light on Walter’s movements. There was a chance he’d tapped some of his senior NASCAR associates for government contacts, but I strongly doubted any of them would tell me if he had. And I hated to ask Amy to snoop for me-I knew how uncomfortable I’d made her already.

“Okay. What about the service for Rashid?”

“I spoke to his assistant in Vienna. Everything’s up in the air because the Saudi embassy can’t find out when the city plans to release his body.”

“Why not?”

“She wasn’t sure. Some kind of problem.”

The medical examiner’s office had a big backlog. I knew, because Reggie had had to bribe someone to get Kyle’s remains released to us in time for a Monday funeral. Five hundred bucks and a case of Jack Daniel’s. It was a nasty little transaction that I hadn’t shared with Claire or Kate, and that I was grateful to Reggie for handling. But Rashid’s murder had to be a top priority for the city. I couldn’t believe the medical examiner or anyone else involved would deliberately drag their feet. I’d have to see what Reggie could learn.

“Is that everything?”

“Yes. I’ll be home if you need me.”

“I appreciate it, Amy. Thanks.”

I hung up and checked my watch, debating whether to return Narimanov’s call. I didn’t want to get sidetracked, but I had to give some thought to the future. I knew how curious he must be about Rashid, and how keen he was to get his hands on the Saudi information. It was just before seven. If I tried him back, I’d likely get his voice mail, which would let me be responsive without getting tied up in a long conversation. I glanced over at Claire and Kate, who were sorting through a stack of take-out menus that had been in a basket by the coffee machine.

“I have to make one more quick call,” I said.

“What do you feel like for dinner?” Kate asked. “Japanese, Chinese, or Indian?”

“In Queens? Indian. And don’t forget to order for the guys downstairs.”

It turned out that Joe’s nephew was a cop also, and was more than willing to earn a little extra cash as a bodyguard. He and his partner had driven us from the hotel to the funeral and back, and were currently stationed just inside the warehouse door. I wasn’t taking any chances with security. Kate extracted three menus and held them up.

“Punjabi, Bengali, or Tamil?”

“Whoever makes chicken saag and peshwari naan.”

She opened one of the menus and began studying it. I turned away and dialed my phone.

“Narimanov,” he said, picking up on the first ring.

“Mark Wallace,” I replied, disappointed that he’d answered. He probably had his office number forwarded to his cell.

“Mark. Hold a moment.” The phone went silent for a few seconds. “Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“I was very sorry to hear the news about your son, and to learn you’d been injured in the bomb blast at the Four Seasons last week. Is there anything I can do?”

“It’s kind of you to ask, but no, nothing, thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. But I’m going to be out of pocket for a couple of weeks. I have some family matters to attend to.”

“Of course. Take whatever time you need.”

I hesitated, feeling guilty because of his graciousness. In his place, I wouldn’t have been able to resist interrogating me. Despite my desire to get off the phone, I decided to volunteer an update.

“Thanks. Just FYI, I’ve become less happy about the provenance of the Saudi data, but I found a couple of hours yesterday to spot-check it against some of the information you gave me, and the technical details are bang on.”

“Which leads you to conclude what?”

“Hard to know.”

“I see. And who else have you discussed this with?”

“No one,” I said, a little put off by his question. “Why?”

“Back-end oil futures are up almost five dollars today. I’m hearing that the hedge-fund community is buying heavily.”

“Shit.”

Narimanov’s silence felt like an accusation.

“I gave Walter a preview of what the Saudi data implied a couple of days ago,” I admitted, “when I was trying to enlist his help to check the information through his political contacts. I didn’t tell him anything very specific-just that it looked like we might be headed toward shortages. I warned him not to rely on my analysis and made clear that the information hadn’t been vetted.”

“Perhaps he found someone to confirm your analysis.”

I wished again that I knew what the hell Walter had been up to in Washington.

“Perhaps.”

“I’ll see what I can find out. Get back to me when you can.”

The line went dead. I dropped my phone back into my pocket uneasily. Five bucks was a big move to miss, and my relationship with Narimanov was too recent for him to have complete confidence in my integrity. Claire and Kate were still absorbed in ordering food, so I sidled over to the Bloomberg machine and punched up a market summary. Longer-term oil futures had been up on heavy volume, just as Narimanov had told me, but I noticed that the equity markets had finished roughly unchanged. It didn’t make sense. If the hedge-fund guys were expecting an oil spike, they should have been hammering the stock market.

“Food will be here in twenty minutes,” Claire announced. “Shall we get back to Kutigi?”

I opened the folder I was carrying and did my best to put Walter out of my mind.

“One-thirty,” Claire read. “Mac Bunce.”

It was past midnight. We’d worked our way through two and a half months of entirely routine calls, meetings, and meals, not finding anything particularly promising to follow up on. We were up to late November, only three weeks before Kyle had been kidnapped. We were all feeling tired and down, but none of us wanted to stop.

“Mac,” I said. “Nice guy. Good old boy. Was head of E and P at Chevron forever.” I pulled his file and checked the date, seeing a three-line summary of our chat. “We talked about the sale of some offshore leases in the Gulf of Mexico by Pemex to a company named Petronuevo. I made a note to myself to follow up with Petronuevo and filed details of the conversation under both Petronuevo and Pemex.”

The table with the B files was directly behind where Claire and Kate were working. I tossed Mac’s file on the table between them and put my hands on Claire’s shoulders. She leaned forward, resting her head on her arms, as I began kneading her muscles.

“Petronuevo.” Kate snorted. “Oil people have no imagination. Every other company I’ve looked up is named Petro-something.”

“Lot of foreign oil companies started off as government monopolies. Governments tend to call things what they are. U.S. Postal Service. British Airways. Deutsche Telekom. Pemex, by the way, stands for Petroleos Mexicanos.”

“Boring,” she muttered. “If I had an oil company I’d call it Fred. Visit Fred’s to get rid of that empty feeling. Fred will keep you warm at night. Let Fred lubricate you.”

“Enough,” Claire protested, sounding half asleep. “You’re going to make your father blush.”

“Fred’s slick,” I offered, sensing her need to blow off steam. “Fred’s rich. Fred can be hot.”

“Exactly.” Kate laughed. “Who wouldn’t want Fred?” She clicked a key on her keyboard and her expression changed. “This is weird.”