Jeff Abbott - Panic

‘I suspect we don’t have long,’ Khan said. ‘The home belongs to my sister-in-law. She is in a hospice. Dying of brain cancer. But soon the authorities will be looking to anyone who knows me for information.’

‘Like your friend who owns the coffeehouse. He can tell them you’re alive.’

‘He won’t,’ Khan said. ‘I smuggled him and his family out of Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation. I asked for silence, he will be silent. Hurry inside. Our only advantage may be that Jargo will believe us both dead.’

They entered through a back door. It opened into a kitchen. A mineral smell of disinfectant hung in the air. In the den, antique furnishings blended with an eclectic and colorful mix of abstract art. Bookshelves commanded one wall. The house had a comfortable air, but already wore a heavy sense of abandonment.

Khan collapsed on the couch. Clicked on the TV with the remote, found a channel airing live footage of the bombing site. The reporter indicated the destroyed business was owned by an Anglo-Afghani, Thomas Khan. The reporters tossed out theories and speculations as to a reason for the bombing.

‘They got it wrong. You’re from Pakistan,’ Evan said.

Khan shrugged. ‘I have bigger worries.’

Evan went to the kitchen. Hanging along a magneticstrip were a wicked assortment of knives. He picked the largest one and returned to the den. Khan looked up at him.

‘Is that for me?’ Khan did not act afraid.

‘Only if I have to.’

‘You won’t. Stabbing is intensely close-range and personal. Nasty. Messy. You feel the person die. A sheltered boy doesn’t have enough steel in his spine.’

‘I’m just learning what I’m capable of. You’re going to help me bring Jargo down.’

‘I said no such thing,’ Khan said. ‘I said we had a mutual enemy. I can hide for the rest of my life. I don’t need to fight Jargo. He thinks I’m dead.’

‘If he’s your enemy now, surely you’d rather see him taken down than worrying about him ever finding you.’

Khan shrugged. ‘The young worry about victory. I prefer survival.’ He tilted his head at Evan. ‘I thought you would be far more interested in hearing about your parents than planning an impossible revenge on Jargo.’

Evan took a step forward with the knife. ‘You know my mother worked for the Deeps.’

‘I only knew her by her code name. But I read the American news on the Web, I saw her face on a report after her murder and I knew who she was.’

‘You saw her when she was in England a few weeks ago.’

‘Yes.’ His voice was barely a whisper.

‘Why was she here?’

‘It’s oddly liberating to tell you what I always kept secret. I feel like I’m shedding an old coat.’ Khan offered a gentle smile. ‘She stole data from a senior-level British researcher involved in developing a new Stealth-style fighter. He had classified information on his laptop; you know the sort of man, technically brilliant but chafes at rules. Lax about security. He meets his mistress for getaways from the lab at a small hotel in Dover. Your mother took photos of him and the mistress, although probably he’d let his affair be exposed rather than cooperate, but more importantly, she obtained copies of the fighter data during their stay. That’s the real leverage. Unless you’re copulating with animals or small children, sex isn’t the great lever it used to be.’ Khan almost sounded disappointed; a man wistful for the good old days.

‘So she steals the data and you sell it.’

‘No. I provide the logistics to support her, I arrange for the money to go into her account. Jargo handles the sell.’

Logistics for support. Money. He would have to know where the money came from. The client list, Evan thought. This man had it. He kept his face neutral. ‘And who would Jargo sell this data to?’

Khan shrugged. ‘Who doesn’t need information like that these days? The Russians, who are still afraid of NATO. The Chinese, who still fear the West. India, who wants to take a bigger role on the world stage. Iran. North Korea. But also corporations, here and in America, who want the plans. Because they want to get contracts or out-maneuver the avionics firm who designed the plane.’ He offered Evan a neat, practiced smile. ‘Your mother was very good. You should be proud. She followed me to where I kept the files, accessed my laptop, stole the data, and I never knew until last week.’

‘I can’t find pride in her accomplishments right now,’ Evan said.

‘Now, if we’d wanted the man dead… well, your father would have been sent. He’s quite the able killer.’ Khan studied his fingernails. ‘Garrote, gun, knife. He even killed a man in Johannesburg once with nothing but his thumbs. Or perhaps that was simply a rumor he started. So much depends on reputation.’

The knife seemed suddenly lighter in Evan’s hands.

Khan made a murmur of sympathy in his throat. ‘I know them better than you do yet I never knew their real names. Rather sad, really.’

You’re just trying to goad me. Play me into making a mistake. ‘Since we’re helping each other, tell me what my mother stole from you.’

Khan’s tongue touched his lower lip. ‘Account numbers in a Caymans bank. She copied a file that had names linked to accounts. I didn’t realize she had stolen the files, copied them, until I ran a test on my system last Thursday.’

Thursday. The day before his mother died. The day, perhaps, she decided to run. She must have known Jargo and Dezz were after her. Or Khan was lying – a distinct possibility. ‘And she got a list of all the Deeps’ clients.’

Khan frowned. ‘Yes. She got that as well.’

‘And you warned Jargo?’

‘Naturally. He didn’t know about the client list. That was my own insurance in case things ever got ugly between him and me. But I convinced him that your mother had pieced together the list from other information Jargo knew I already had.’

The other information. Khan must have it all – the name of every Deep, every financial account they used, every detail of their operations. No wonder Jargo wanted him dead. ‘I want a copy of every file.’

‘Destroyed in the bomb blast, I’m afraid.’

‘Don’t bullshit me. You have a backup.’

‘I must decline.’

Evan stepped forward. ‘I’m not giving you an option.’ He moved the knife toward Khan’s chest.

‘It’s shaking,’ Khan said. ‘I don’t think you truly have the stomach for-’

Evan jerked forward and brought the point of his knife to Khan’s throat. Khan’s eyes widened. A globe of blood welled where blade met skin.

‘I’m my father’s son. The knife’s not shaking now, is it?’

Khan raised an eyebrow. ‘No, it’s not.’

‘I will kill you if you don’t help me. If you help me, there’s a man at the CIA who can protect you from Jargo. Help you and your son hide. Give you both a new life. Do you understand?’

Khan gave the slightest of nods. ‘Tell me who this man is at the CIA. I hardly plan to turn myself over to one of Jargo’s clients.’

‘You don’t need to worry about that. Talk straight. Tell me where Hadley is.’

Khan clenched his eyes shut. ‘Hiding. I don’t know.’

‘He’s hiding because he pitched me the Alexander Bast film project. Hadley set all this mess in motion.’

‘“How sharper than a serpent’s tooth.”’ Khan pressed his fingertips into his temples. ‘It is cruel to know a child could hate you so. Did you love your parents, Evan?’

No one had asked him this, ever, not even Detective Durless in Austin, which seemed like a thousand years ago but had been only a few days. ‘I do. No past tense about it. Very much.’

‘Do you still love them, knowing what they were?’