Jeff Abbott - Panic

‘Yes. Love isn’t love unless it’s unconditional.’

‘So when you look at your father, you won’t see a killer. A cold and capable killer. You’ll just see your dad.’

Evan tightened his grip on the knife.

Khan said, ‘Ah. The poison of doubt. You don’t know what you’ll see. How you’ll feel. I was clumsy a few months ago. I recruited Hadley to work for me. To assist me. I trusted him, I thought he simply needed meaningful work to bring order to his life, and I was wrong. He was given a basic assignment and he barely escaped being caught by French intelligence. He promised me he would do better, but he decided that he wanted out.’

‘You didn’t accept his resignation.’

‘He didn’t tell me he wanted to quit. It’s not a job you leave. In learning how to do my work, he found files on the Deeps – all of them, and their children. If he went to MI5 or the CIA, he knew he would be put under protective custody and my assets would be immediately frozen. He wanted the money. So he wanted Jargo and myself exposed, but not until he could make arrangements to vanish. So he could access my accounts and rob me first.’ He sounded more tired than angry.

‘You sound as though you’ve talked with him.’

‘I have. Hadley confessed all to me before he left.’ Khan gave a thin smile. ‘I forgave him. In a way I was almost proud of him. Finally he had shown daring and intelligence. You were the only child of a Deep involved in the media. He thought he could befriend you and subtly draw you out to expose the network. Tease you with the murder of Bast. Egg you on to investigate. Make you do the dirty work without him putting his own neck in Jargo’s noose.’

He’s opening up too easily, Evan thought. Like a documentary subject who won’t shut up, because the only way to convince is with a torrent of words. Or they need to hear themselves talk, maybe to persuade themselves as much as convincing you and the audience. How far is he playing me? Evan wondered. ‘But he didn’t respond to my e-mail about the Bast package.’

‘A fool puts great events in motion and then grows frightened.’ Khan raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m talking freely now, is the knife necessary?’

‘Yes. The orphanage in Ohio. Bast was there, Jargo was there, my parents were there. Why?’

‘Bast had a charitable soul.’

‘I don’t think that was it. Those kids, at least three of them, became the Deeps. Did Bast recruit them for the CIA?’

‘I suppose he did.’

‘Why orphans?’

‘Children without families are so much more pliable,’ Khan said. ‘They’re like wet clay; you can mold them as you see fit.’

‘Why did the CIA need them instead of using regular agents?’

‘I don’t know.’ Khan almost smiled, then closed his eyes. He gave a hard sigh, as though confession had lifted a burden from his shoulders.

‘Tell me why they needed fresh starts, fresh names, years later. Did they leave the CIA?’

‘Bast died. Jargo took command of the network.’

‘Jargo killed him.’

‘Probably. I never asked.’

‘Were Jargo and my folks, and the other kids from that orphanage, were they hiding from the CIA?’

‘Before my time. I don’t know. When Jargo took over, he gave me a job. He brought me in to run logistics for him.’

‘Were you CIA?’

‘No. But I’d helped support British intelligence ops in Afghanistan, during the rebellion against the Soviets. I knew the basics. I retired. I wanted just a quiet life with my books. No more field work. Jargo gave me a job.’

‘Well, Jargo just fired you, Mr. Khan. You work for me now.’

Khan shook his head. ‘I admire your nerve, young man. I wish Hadley had become your friend. You might’ve been a good influence.’

The phone rang. Both men froze. It rang twice and then stopped.

‘No answering machine,’ Evan said.

‘My sister-in-law hated them.’

The ringing phone bothered Evan. Maybe a wrong call, maybe someone calling for the dying sister-in-law, maybe someone looking here for Khan. ‘I want my father back. You want Jargo to stop trying to kill you. Do our interests coincide or not?’

‘It would be better if we could both just vanish.’ Khan swallowed. Sweat beaded along his face and he coughed for breath.

‘Give me what I need. We can lean on the clients to break Jargo. Trace their dealings back to him. He’s finished, he can’t hurt you or Hadley.’

‘It’s too dangerous. Better to just vanish.’

‘Forget that.’

‘I can’t think with a knife at my throat. I would like a cigarette.’

Evan saw fear and resignation in the man’s face, smelled the sour tang of sweat on Khan’s skin. He’d overstepped. He eased up off Khan, dropped the knife from his throat. Khan put his fingertips up to the slight welling of blood, dabbed into the blotches. ‘Shallow wounds. Thank you. I appreciate the kindness. May I reach in my pocket for my Gitanes?’

Evan put the knife back at Khan’s throat, opened his jacket. Fished out a pack of Gitanes cigarettes. Stepped back and dropped them on Khan’s lap.

‘My lighter’s in my pocket, may I get it?’ Thomas Khan’s voice was calm.

‘Yes.’

Khan dug out a small, Zippo-style lighter, lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke with a weary blow.

‘I gave you your goddamned cigarette,’ Evan said. ‘Now I want this client list.’

Khan blew out a feather of smoke. ‘Ask your mother.’

‘Don’t be a dick.’

‘You appear to be a bright boy. Do you really think that if your mother stole the files that could identify the clients, we would leave those accounts open?’ His voice was gentle, almost chiding, as though talking to a slightly dense but adored child.

Evan said, ‘I’m not falling into the trap. You have the accounts that the operatives – like my parents – used. That’s all I need. I can break Jargo either way.’

Khan laughed. ‘Do you think our operatives will keep working under those names, given the danger we’re facing?’

‘If they have families and kids like my folks or you, your suburban camouflage, they can’t change.’

‘Sure they can. Your mother’s account isn’t under Donna Casher, you stupid, stupid boy.’ Khan shook his head. ‘It’s under another name she used. You won’t catch anything in that net. We’re far too careful. We’ve got escape routes built in if our covers are ever blown. We’ve all been doing this a very long time, before you were off your mother’s teat.’ He stubbed out the cigarette. ‘I suggest you leave now. I will give you half the money in your mother’s account, and I will keep the rest for my silence. It is two million U.S. dollars, Evan. You can vanish into the world instead of a grave. You will not be able to get your father back. Your dying won’t bring back your mother.’ Khan pulled a fresh cigarette out with delicacy. ‘Two million. Don’t be a fool, take the money. Get a new life.’

‘But…’ And then Evan saw the hole in Khan’s offer. Accounts with false names. The explosion. Escape routes. The phone ringing only twice. A new life. This was a trap, but not the kind he’d expected.

Khan had all the time in the world sitting here in this house. Smiling at him. No dying sister-in-law. No Khan name attached to this house. Escape route.

‘You shit,’ Evan said.

Khan flicked the lighter again, holding it sideways, a blast of mist jetting from the lighter’s end. Evan threw up his jacketed arm across his face. Pepper spray seared his eyes, his throat. He staggered and fell across the Persian rug. Pain gouged up through his eyeballs, his nose.

Khan dashed across the room, knocking a thick tome from the shelf, reaching in, drawing a Beretta free, spinning to fire at Evan. The bullet barked into the coffee table by Evan’s head. He blindly seized the table, brought it up as a shield, charged at Khan, his eyes burning as if he’d had matches poked into them. Two more silenced shots and wood splintered into Evan’s stomach and chest, but he rammed the table into Khan, forced the gun downward, drove him back into the oak shelves.