R. Ellory - A Quiet Vendetta

Perez looked back at Schaeffer implacably. He raised his right hand slowly, then his left; he too looked at Hartmann, in his eyes a sense of resigned disbelief that such behavior was necessary.

‘Down!’ Schaeffer commanded once more, and then there were three or four of them, guns drawn and leveled, and Perez went slowly to his knees.

‘Hands behind your head! Get your hands behind your fucking head!’

Hartmann took a step backwards and looked down at the floor. For some reason he felt awkward, almost embarrassed, and when he looked up he saw Perez was staring right back at him.

Hartmann tried to look away but he could not. He felt transfixed, pinned to the spot, and when Ross went forward and handcuffed Perez it seemed that the whole world slowed down to ensure that this moment lasted forever. Hartmann sensed the breathless tension in those present, and he was aware of the tremendous pressure such a confrontation would create. He closed his eyes for a second; he prayed with everything he possessed that a sudden movement wouldn’t prompt a reaction, an unsteady hand, a moment’s nervousness, a dead kidnapper…

After a moment everything went quiet.

Perez, his upturned face visible to all, smiled at Stanley Schaeffer.

‘I have come of my own accord, Agent Schaeffer,’ he said quietly.

The two agents to Schaeffer’s right were visibly shaken and on-edge. Hartmann prayed that one of them wouldn’t pull the trigger in a moment of agitation and uncertainty.

‘I don’t believe that this is altogether necessary,’ Perez went on. His voice was steady, as were his hands, his eyes, everything about him. Kneeling there on the floor of the foyer he appeared just as calm as when Hartmann had first seen him.

‘This is a good suit,’ Perez said, and he smiled with his eyes. ‘A very good suit, and it is such a shame to dirty it by kneeling here on the floor.’

Schaeffer turned and looked at Hartmann.

Hartmann didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. He thought of John Verlaine, reminded that he had left him in the back office. He wondered where Verlaine was, if he had somehow managed to leave the building amidst the confusion generated by Perez’s arrival.

Perez shook his head. ‘It seems that we have reached an impasse. I remain here on the floor and we accomplish nothing at all. I stand up, you release these quite unnecessary handcuffs, and I shall tell you what it is you have been waiting for.’

Again Schaeffer turned and looked at Hartmann. Hartmann did not know what was expected of him; here he possessed no authority at all. Schaeffer was in charge of the investigation and was the one who’d believed it necessary to put Perez on his knees and handcuff him.

‘You stand slowly,’ Schaeffer said. His voice broke mid-sentence and he repeated himself. There was the slightest waver in his tone, as if he was unsettled by this man even though he was now cuffed and almost prostrate.

Perez nodded but did not speak. He rose slowly to his feet, and even as he did so the men behind him, the men who had been so quick to draw and aim their guns, stepped back and looked awkward. One of them lowered his gun and the others quickly followed suit.

Hartmann watched, slightly amazed at how Perez seemed to have effortlessly taken control of the situation with barely a word.

Perez stood facing Schaeffer with his hands behind his head. He merely nodded and Schaeffer motioned for Ross to unlock the cuffs. Perez lowered his hands and massaged each wrist in turn. He nodded at Schaeffer and smiled courteously.

Schaeffer turned and nodded at Hartmann.

Hartmann paused for a second, and then he came forward with his heart thundering in his chest and his throat tight like a tourniquet.

Later, because thoughts that came after the fact always seemed more incisive and relevant than those born in the moment, Ray Hartmann would recall the tension of that moment, the way everything had unfolded, the way the old man had come forward to greet him, how the collective body of agents had withdrawn, and how – when he opened his mouth and spoke – it seemed that everything that had gone before, everything that had brought them to that point, seemed so insignificant. This man, calling himself Ernesto Perez, had appeared without fanfare, without armed escorts, without blaring sirens and flashing cherry-bars; had appeared in the foyer of the Bureau’s office in New Orleans, perhaps the FBI’s most wanted man, coming of his own accord, coming without demand or warrant. He had appeared quietly and politely, and yet somehow commanded the attention of all who were there with his unmistakable charisma and presence.

Ernesto Perez, whoever he might have been, had arrived before them, and for the moments it took for everyone to register what he was saying, it seemed the world had stopped.

Hartmann spoke first; opened his mouth and said, ‘Mr Perez… thank you for coming.’

Perez smiled. He stepped back and gave a courteous bow of his head. He slowly removed his overcoat, his scarf also, and then – without seeming in the least presumptuous – handed them to Sheldon Ross. Ross turned and glanced at Hartmann, Hartmann nodded, and Ross took the scarf and gloves.

Perez took another step forward.

Schaeffer raised his hand. ‘Stop right there,’ he said.

Perez looked at Hartmann, his expression one of slight bemusement.

‘It’s okay,’ Hartmann said. He stepped ahead of Schaeffer, crossed the room to where Perez stood, and reached out his hand.

Perez took it, and for a moment the two of them stood there immobile.

‘Seems we have a great deal to discuss, Mr Perez,’ Hartmann said.

Perez smiled. ‘It seems we do, Mr Hartmann.’

There was a moment’s silence, and as Hartmann looked at the old man he saw nothing more than the reason he might once again lose his family. Had it not been for this man he would still be in New York, nothing to concern him but making it to Tompkins Square Park on time…

‘I have a proposition,’ Ernesto Perez stated matter-of-factly.

Hartmann’s train of thought was derailed.

Perez smiled. He seemed almost effortlessly in command of the situation. ‘But perhaps it is not so much a proposition as a presentation of incontrovertible fact. I have the girl. I have her somewhere safe. I can guarantee that no matter how many federal agents you bring down here you will never find her.’

From the inside pocket of his jacket he withdrew a single color photograph. Catherine Ducane – strained, exhausted-looking, standing against a blank and featureless wall, in her hands a copy of the New Orleans Herald from the previous day. The Herald meant nothing; the paper could be bought all across Louisiana and in some of the adjoining states as well.

Hartmann stood silent, watching every move the man made, his body language, the way his turn of phrase emphasized certain points. Hartmann knew two things from watching him: that there was indeed no possibility of finding Catherine Ducane without this man’s direction, and secondly, perhaps more importantly, that he was in no way afraid. He had either done this before, or was free of any concern regarding his own welfare.

Hartmann sensed Schaeffer beside him. He sensed his thoughts, his feelings, the kaleidoscope of emotions that would be running through him, the anxiety he would be feeling about how to explain this situation to his superiors in Washington. All these things, and underlying them the conviction that a man such as Schaeffer would feel: that Ernesto Perez was beneath him, that Ernesto Perez was the sort who was always better dead.

Hartmann willed Schaeffer to stay silent, to say and do nothing. Perez was used to being in control, and he would merely rise to any provocation by making their predicament all the more dangerous.