Jeffery Deaver - Edge

I stepped outside, letting the door swing shut behind me.

“WAIT!” THE PRISONER cried.

His face had gone ruddy. “Please, you must be patient! Have a little patience! This is all very disorienting to me. One moment I’m driving along and the next, bang, here I am, my life threatened. You can understand that. Surely you can understand!”

I turned just before the door closed. I slipped my foot into the jamb, stopping it. I looked back. Zagaev stared at the red box.

Bert regarded me, her face completely impassive.

“You’re stalling,” I said to Zagaev.

“No, no! I will not waste your time.” His face collapsed. “Please…”

I stepped back into the room, left the camera beside the door and leaned across the table. “If you help us out, I’m in a position to make sure that no one troubles your family, other than to interview them, provided none of them has committed any crimes.”

“No, no, my family is innocent.”

“You won’t have to worry about reprisals against them. I can arrange for them to be relocated. I’ll protect you too through trial and, if you fully cooperate, I’ll recommend to the FBI and the prosecutor that they take that into account in charging and sentencing.”

“Can you protect my family,” he whispered, “from Henry Loving?”

“Yes,” I said firmly. “I’ll protect you from him too.”

A long moment of debate. I looked at Zagaev’s amulet, Alexander II with his impressive mustache. Though arguably the most liberal of the tsars, the emancipator of the serfs, he was assassinated by revolutionaries.

“All right, yes. All right.” He slumped.

I sat in my original chair and Bert returned to hers.

Our organization didn’t torture to get information. Not even water boarding. We made this decision for two reasons. First, it was illegal-this is a country of laws, after all. Second, we’d studied the subject and found it largely inefficient, since processing all the information you got from a tortured prisoner and reassembling it into the truth generally took much longer than using softer methods of interrogation. Even then torture tends to work with only a small number of subjects.

Nor was Bert Santoro our resident grand inquisitor. She was the office manager of our headquarters in Old Town, the woman who reviewed expense accounts and budgets and ordered furniture and computers. She had nothing to do with operations. With four wonderful kids and a great husband, Bert was like any one of thousands of government workers in the D.C. area. But she had a cold beauty that made her perfect to play the steely operative role, someone who enjoyed pulling out fingernails or using electrodes to extract information from my interogatees.

Zagaev whispered to me, “Who is she?” He turned to her. “Why don’t you say anything?”

Bert, probably thinking about something like my overdue expense account, silenced him with a look.

I said, “Aslan?”

With a last glance at the red vinyl case, which I knew happened to contain only makeup, he sighed and I heard chain tinkle as he lowered his shoulders and hands. “Naturally you thought I was part of some plot, some terrible plan to bring down the infidels. What nonsense! No, no, my plan was about business. You see how much of an American I have become? That’s what I care about. The all-powerful dollar.”

He seemed concerned that my notebook was closed. “Please, this is my story. Please, you can write it down.”

Every syllable was, of course, being recorded by a hidden video and audio system-the Sony video by the door was more of a dramatic prop. Still, I thought it best not to remind him he was being taped surreptitiously and so I opened my notebook.

“Years ago, yes, I knew the couple who worked in the deli, the couple murdered… the couple who died. I did not respect them. I had no interest in their cause. But I did have an interest in the money they paid me. Which was not inconsiderable. You have seen the record, yes? You know. After they died, I grieved-but only for the loss of the income.

“I led a more or less successful life here. Ah, but isn’t success a moving target? I have been having some problems, financial in nature. The economy? Who needs rugs when you can’t afford your mortgage payments? Who goes to eat at my wonderful restaurant when you must buy bulk frozen dinners at Sam’s Club to feed your children? How could I make more money? Did I have any service I could perform? Did I have anything valuable that I could sell? Then it occurred to me. What if I could learn more about the operation behind the deaths of the Pakistanis in the deli six years ago? How valuable would that be? I remembered the woman who was the point control officer behind the operation to kill them: Joanne Kessler. Even if she had retired she would surely have valuable information or lead me to people who did.

“I made some phone calls, discreet phone calls, to a connection of mine in Damascus. I learned there was indeed an interest in information of this sort. A multimillion-dollar interest. A man there gave me Henry Loving’s name.”

So that was the answer. I’d anticipated part of it-targeting Joanne because of information she’d have about secret government organizations. I had posited a terrorist motive and sleeper cell; in fact, it was just business. Given Zagaev’s entrepreneurial life, I should have guessed.

“What’re you paying Loving?”

“One million dollars, half up front. Half when we got good information from Joanne.”

“If you cancel the job?”

“I still must pay everything.”

I asked, “Where is Loving now?”

“I don’t know, I swear to God, praise be to Him. I’ve met Loving once-last week in West Virginia.”

“Why there?”

Zagaev shrugged. “Out of the way. He was afraid he’d be recognized if he flew into Dulles.”

“Go on.”

“I gave him a deposit. He doesn’t like wire transfers.” A mirthless laugh. “Much less a personal check.”

“And you haven’t seen him since then?”

“No. We leave text messages or speak on the phone. He gave me a code to use when we talk. About construction jobs and the like.”

“What number do you call?”

Zagaev gave it to me and I recognized immediately that it was a rerouting service. It would be impossible to trace. The area code was in the Caribbean.

“The helicopter? Is it yours?”

“One of my partners in the restaurant. It’s his.”

“What were you doing with the guns?”

“He gave them to me for my protection. But, when he called, he gave the code that I should dispose of them. He was probably concerned that the people guarding Joanne might find them.” Zagaev chewed on his lip, staring at the red makeup case. “I swear I didn’t know how dangerous this Loving was. If I could have gotten the information from that woman, the point control woman, any other way, I would have. I swear to God, praise be to Him, that I didn’t know he would use the daughter as leverage.”

I remembered he’d said something of the sort, according to the tap Freddy’d put on the phone.

I asked, “Who else is working with him? Partners?”

“He’s working with one man, former military. I’ve seen him once. Tall, dark blond hair. Wears a green jacket. I don’t know his name.”

“Anyone else?”

“Not that I know of.”

I said, “I’ll be right back.” I stepped outside, leaving Zagaev to stare uneasily at Bert.

I found Freddy, who said, “He’s singing like Britney.”

“It’s good. He’s working solo and the idea originated with him. The Syrians might buy the finished product but he approached them, not the other way around. They probably don’t even know Joanne’s identity.”