Jeff Abbott - Panic

‘I know his son,’ Evan said. ‘Hadley. He’s a freelance journalist.’

Pettigrew shrugged; he didn’t care. His phone rang in his pocket; he excused himself with a quick wave of his hand, shutting the door behind him.

Evan made a quick survey of the files. No hint that Bast was also Mr. Edward Simms. Bedford had dug last night into incorporation databases and found that the Hope Home in Goinsville had been bought by a company called Simms Charities. The company had incorporated two weeks before it bought Hope Home, sold all its assets after the fire. If the CIA had put Bast up to buying orphanages, though, no sign remained in his official file.

Evan went back to the sheet on Thomas Khan. ‘Rare books, and among his specialties are Russian editions. Bast did Russian translations. So they both had contacts back into the Soviet Union. And both were involved in rebellion movements – one supporting dissident writers, the other supporting the mujahideen in Afghanistan.’

‘So they both hated the Soviets. It doesn’t prove anything,’ Carrie said.

‘No. It doesn’t.’ But Evan sensed a thread here; he just didn’t know how yet to grab it, follow it. He opened the file on Hadley. It was not a formal CIA file, unlike the one on Thomas Khan, who had had a London station file opened on him when he’d assisted the police in Bast’s murder investigation, or on Alexander Bast, who had been a paid operative. It was the little Pettigrew’s people had gleaned after Bedford’s hurried request: Hadley’s birth date, schooling, travel in and out of Britain, financial records. The school records were not impressive; the success and brilliance of the parents eluded the son. Hadley had spent two months in an Edinburgh detox center; he had lost two good magazine jobs and had not been published in the past six months. But the inquiry had produced new information: according to his latest girlfriend, who had been fooled by a London station assistant who’d called her this morning pretending to be a colleague of Hadley’s, Hadley Khan was recently estranged from his father. The girlfriend had not heard from or seen Hadley since last Thursday, but she did not sound concerned; he was a loose-footed guy who often went to the Continent for a couple of weeks at a time. Especially after a falling-out with dear old Dad.

The photos of Hadley in the file were culled from his British driver’s license; Evan remembered him from the cocktail party a lifetime ago at the Film School, his grin a shade too eager, his eyes holding a secret.

‘So Hadley Khan anonymously urges me to do a film on the murder of Alexander Bast, a friend of his father, and never responds to my e-mail asking why,’ Evan said. ‘And then he takes off the day before my mother dies. Hadley never mentioned any connection between Bast and his dad in the material he gave me.’

‘That’s very odd. It would have simplified your research.’ Carrie tapped Hadley’s file. ‘We know there’s a connection between our parents and Bast. And a connection between Bast and Khan. That doesn’t mean a direct connection between Thomas Khan and our parents.’

A chill prickled Evan’s skin. ‘It’s no coincidence that Hadley pitched the Bast story. He must have known of my parents’ connection to Bast.’

‘He approached you, but he didn’t tell you everything. So he either copped out or he was stopped from getting in touch with you again.’

‘I think he got scared. It’s why he went anonymous. Hadley had his own agenda. The girlfriend says he and Thomas don’t get along. I wonder… if this was revenge against his father.’

‘It’s only revenge if his father’s done wrong.’ Carrie massaged her injured shoulder.

‘Like involvement with Bast’s murder?’

Carrie shrugged.

‘The British authorities would have an interest, but why would Jargo care?’

They fell silent as Pettigrew returned. He assembled a sandwich from the cold meats and cheese. ‘My source at New Scotland Yard called. There’s been no report filed that Hadley Khan is missing. No indication that he traveled out of Britain, or into any European country in the past two weeks.’ He took a jaw-breaking bite of sandwich. ‘We’ve called Hadley’s cell phone three times this morning, and he’s not answering.’

‘We’ll pay his dad, Thomas, a visit,’ Evan said.

‘No time like now,’ Pettigrew said around a still-full mouth.

‘We don’t alert Thomas Khan by barreling in full force,’ Pettigrew said as he parked a block away from Khan Books and displayed a Borough resident’s parking permit – Evan guessed it had been provided to the CIA by the Brits out of professional courtesy. ‘I suggest Evan go in alone.’

‘What do you think?’ Evan asked Carrie.

‘Khan may run,’ Carrie said. ‘I think I should be ready to follow him.’ She pointed at an opposite street corner. ‘I can stand there. You can tail him if he comes this way, Pettigrew.’

Pettigrew frowned. ‘We should have a team set up for surveillance. Bricklayer said nothing about this turning into an active field operation. I would have to alert the Cousins’ – using the term British and American intelligence services had for each other – ‘we can’t start tailing a guy on British soil without approval.’

‘Calm down,’ Carrie said. ‘I just want to be prepared.’

‘I’m not entirely comfortable,’ Pettigrew said.

‘If there’s a problem, Bricklayer will deal with it. No heat on you,’ Carrie said.

Pettigrew nodded. ‘All right then. If Khan bolts, you follow on foot, I’ll follow in the car.’

‘Watch yourself.’ Carrie got out of the car, put on sunglasses, walked down to the corner opposite the bookstore, held a cell phone to her ear as though she were chatting with a friend.

‘Be careful,’ Pettigrew said to Evan.

‘I will.’ Evan got out of the car, strolled past a mix of antiques shops, high-end eateries, and boutiques. The bell on the door of Khan Books jingled as he went inside. Late afternoon on a weekday, Khan Books’ only customers were a French couple exploring a display of Patricia Highsmith and Eric Ambler first editions in an assortment of languages. Evan found himself noting the exit doors, the surveillance cameras posted in the corners of the rooms.

I’ve changed. I feel like I have to be ready for anything at any time.

A small, wiry man, dapper in a tailored suit, with a shock of gray-chalk hair, came forward. His shoes were polished black ice; an impeccable triangle of blue silk handkerchief peeked from one pocket. ‘Good afternoon. May I assist you today?’ His voice was quiet but strong.

‘Are you Mr. Thomas Khan?’

‘Yes, I am.’

Evan smiled. He didn’t want to be subtle. ‘I’m in the market for first editions published by Criterius. I’m particularly interested in the translation of Anna Karenina and any dissident literature published in the 1970s.’

‘I’ll be happy to check.’

‘I understand the owner of Criterius – Alexander Bast – was a good friend of yours.’

Thomas Khan’s smile stayed bright. ‘Only an acquaintance.’

‘I’m a friend of a friend of Mr. Bast.’

‘Mr. Bast died a long time ago, and I barely knew him.’ Thomas Khan smiled in good-natured confusion.

Evan decided to gamble, toss another name into the weird ring that joined all these lives together. ‘My friend who recommended your store is Mr. Jargo.’

Thomas Khan shrugged. Quickly. ‘One meets so many people. The name does not signify. One moment, please, and I’ll consult my files. I believe I have multiple copies of the Karenina edition.’ He vanished into the back.

This man may have kept a secret for decades; you coming in here and tossing around names won’t scare him. But then, if you’re the first to toss it at him in many years… maybe you will rattle him. Evan stayed in place, watching the French couple loiter, the woman leaning slightly on the man as they hunted the shelves.