R. Ellory - A Quiet Vendetta

Hartmann was shaking his head. He could not stretch his mind wide enough to encompass what Perez was saying. Truth be known he was horrified by the man, and there was nothing he wished for more than to leave the room and never return.

He looked up, half-expecting Perez to continue, but Perez had finished talking. Hartmann was aware of the fact that every word the man had spoken was being recorded behind closed doors. Lester Kubis would be there, headphones clamped to his head, and over his shoulder would be Stanley Schaeffer and Bill Woodroffe, their brows sweating, listening to every word Perez uttered in the vain hope that it would give them some indication of where they might find Catherine Ducane.

But Perez had given them nothing but himself, and all of himself. Hartmann did not doubt that what Perez was telling him was the truth, and already he believed there was no easy way to understand the man’s motivation for his actions. How this man was connected to Charles Ducane Hartmann could only guess, but the corridors of power were lined with victims of men such as Ernesto Perez. Time would tell, of course it would, but Hartmann was aware that he had little time at all. A week from then, midday of Saturday 6 September, he was supposed to meet his wife and daughter. This event would be swept aside as irrelevant compared to what he was dealing with now. His own personal affairs were of no concern to either Schaeffer or Woodroffe or, least of all, to Attorney General Richard Seidler, FBI Director Bob Dohring and Governor Charles Ducane. Their sole concern, understandably, was the whereabouts and welfare of Catherine Ducane.

Later, lying on his bed at the Marriott Hotel, Hartmann would close his eyes and recall the man he had faced for the better part of two hours. Ernesto Perez, an old man, a man who had begun his life confronting the destructive nature of his own father and the violence he had wreaked through every aspect of his childhood. Perez was now sequestered on the top floor of the Royal Sonesta Hotel, the remainder of the lower four floors having been cleared of guests by the FBI. The Sonesta now housed in excess of fifty Bureau operatives, security could not have been tighter for the president himself, and in the penthouse suite Perez himself was guarded by twelve armed men. He had asked for a music system, CDs of Schubert, Shostakovich, Ravel, Louis Prima and Frank Sinatra, also for clean shirts and nightwear; and for his supper he’d requested fresh marlin, Viennese potatoes, a green salad and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. These things had been arranged, because for the brief while that he was the guest of the FBI as opposed to the Federal Penitentiary system, Ernesto Cabrera Perez would be given every accommodation and granted every wish. And then the girl would be found – dead or alive – and the party would be over. Hartmann felt certain Perez was aware of this fact, and thus he was sure he would take every advantage he could. The man, whoever he was, was evidently wise in the ways of the world, and that included the FBI and what they could provide.

Schaeffer and Woodroffe met with Hartmann after Perez had been escorted away.

‘What d’you think?’ Schaeffer asked him.

‘About what?’

Schaeffer rolled his eyes and looked discouragingly at Woodroffe.

‘About the New York Knicks’ chances this fucking season, Hartmann… what the fuck do you think I’m talking about?’

‘Perez or the girl?’

‘Okay, Perez,’ he said. ‘First Perez.’

Hartmann said nothing for a time. ‘I think he knows exactly what he’s doing. I think he’s planned this down to the last detail. I think day by day he will tell us only so much as he wants us to know, that he will give us little bits and pieces of this and make us work very hard to see the whole picture. His motives? I have no idea. Perhaps that won’t come until the very last piece falls into place. Right now he has the upper hand. He has something we very much want, and he knows we will cater to him in every way we can in order to find that out.’

Woodroffe was nodding in the affirmative. ‘That’s my take on it,’ he said. ‘I’ve got people working on him already. We have his prints. We know what he looks like. They will trawl through every file and document we’ve got. They’ll go through CODIS, to VICAP Criminal Profiling at Quantico. Transcripts of what he tells us will be passed to the best people we have and if there’s anything to discover they’ll find it.’

Hartmann was not so sure there would be anything to find. He believed that Perez knew exactly what he was saying and how he was going to keep them running until the very last moment. For a second he even considered the possibility that the girl was already dead.

‘So motivation we don’t know, and are not likely to know until he tells us,’ Schaeffer said. ‘Until we have some kind of a handle on that there is nothing we can do but follow exact protocol. We have sufficient resources to follow any lead we might find, realistic or otherwise. If anything comes up from other areas we’ll go with it, but right now our main task is to keep this man talking, keep him on the subject as best we can-’

Hartmann smiled drily. ‘I believe he intends to tell us his entire life story. This is his unwritten autobiography, the opportunity of a lifetime to tell us everything that he’s done, everywhere he’s been, and everything he knows about everyone else. It would not surprise me if we didn’t encounter Governor Charles Ducane at some point along the line.’

There was silence for a moment from both Woodroffe and Schaeffer, and then Woodroffe leaned forward, rested his hands on the table and assumed a very serious expression.

‘I do not need to tell you that everything you hear both inside and outside this office is governed by the jurisdiction of the FBI. Not a word, not a single word will go out of here, you understand?’

Hartmann raised his hand. ‘I’m not in kindergarten, Agent Woodroffe-’

Woodroffe smiled. ‘I am well aware of that fact, Mr Hartmann, but I am also aware that you have had your own troubles in the past, a small area of difficulty regarding the way you have handled your own personal affairs, and it is not unknown to us that you have been registered with Alcoholics Anonymous, and have run into some significant difficulty with your wife and daughter as a result.’

Hartmann was incensed. He opened his mouth to speak but Woodroffe raised his hand.

‘It is of no matter to us,’ he said. ‘We understand that you have performed in an exemplary fashion for a considerable time in your job, and we also understand that you are here at the specific request of Perez and there is nothing we can do about that. All we are saying is that this is a matter of the highest national priority right now, and we need everyone on the same side and running after the same ball.’

Hartmann sighed inside. He did not wish to be there. He did not want to be having this conversation with these people. His native human instinct cared about Catherine Ducane as a human being and he did feel a certain sense of responsibility and duty to see this through. He would do what he had been asked to do, he would get it done as quickly as was possible, for every day that elapsed brought him a day closer to the possible resolution of the difficulty with his wife and daughter that Woodroffe had alluded to.

This was not a game, this was real life – rough edges, sharp corners and all. Hartmann had no mind to run up against these people, or to have them dictate his life and time any more than they absolutely had to.

‘You won’t have any difficulty with me,’ Hartmann said, willing himself not to lunge across the table and beat Woodroffe to a bloody pulp. ‘I am here to do this, and when it’s done I will disappear and you will never hear from me again. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m tired and I would like to go back to my hotel, because I imagine that we will all be gathered here once again tomorrow morning for the second chapter in this most fascinating story.’