R. Ellory - A Quiet Vendetta

‘You have created a fortress for him,’ Hartmann said.

‘Well, he sure as hell ain’t gonna get out… and no-one is gonna come in to get him.’

Hartmann frowned. ‘And who might want to come in?’

Woodroffe glanced at Schaeffer. Schaeffer shook his head. ‘I have no idea, Mr Hartmann, but this guy has been full of enough surprises so far that we just ain’t taking any risks.’

‘So it’s up the stairs we go,’ Hartmann said, and made his way across the foyer to the base of the well.

‘Mr Hartmann?’ Schaeffer called after him.

Hartmann slowed and turned.

‘I understand your reservations about this, and I can’t say that I believe this will accomplish anything, but we got a girl out there, a teenage girl who could be still alive, and until we know for sure what the hell happened to her we still have to do everything we can.’

Hartmann nodded. ‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘I know that as well as anyone here, and I will do everything I can. The truth is that I feel this won’t accomplish anything for us… won’t accomplish anything for her.’

‘Just do your best, eh?’ Schaeffer said.

‘Sure,’ Hartmann said, and with that he turned and started up the stairs, two of the Feds from the foyer with him, and it wasn’t until he reached the fifth floor, wasn’t until he stood three feet from Perez’s door, that he understood the significance of what he was about to do. What he said now could serve to turn Perez against them, to make him unwilling to speak, and if he did not speak he would never finish telling them of his life, and Hartmann believed that that had been the entire purpose of kidnapping the girl in the first place.

From wanting to be somebody to believing he was somebody to a sense of loss that he was nobody once again .

Was this now nothing more than the last-ditch attempt of an old man, albeit crazy, to make something of himself before the lights went down for the last time?

Hartmann glanced at the expressionless agent beside him. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said quietly, and the agent leaned forward and knocked on the door.

From the bedroom came the lilting sound of a piano.

Hartmann frowned.

Inside the first room were three more of Schaeffer’s crew, all of them seasoned veterans by the look of them. The one nearest the door greeted Hartmann, shook his hand, introduced himself as Jack Dauncey. Dauncey seemed genuinely pleased to see someone from the outside world, perhaps someone who was not part of the FBI.

‘He’s inside,’ Dauncey said. ‘We told him you were coming over… you know what he asked us?’

Hartmann shook his head.

‘If you’d be staying for supper.’

Hartmann smiled. ‘A character, huh?’

‘A character? He’s one in a million, Mr Hartmann.’ Dauncey smiled and crossed the room. He knocked on the door and within a moment the music was lowered in volume.

‘Come!’ Perez commanded, and Dauncey opened the door.

The room had been assembled as both a sitting area and bedroom. The bed was pushed against the left-hand wall, and over on the right was a table, two chairs, a sofa and a music center. It was from this that the lilting piano was coming.

‘Shostakovich,’ Perez said as he rose from his chair and walked towards Hartmann. ‘You know Shostakovich?’

Hartmann shook his head. ‘Not personally, no.’

Perez smiled. ‘You people defend ignorance with humor. Shostakovich was a Russian composer. He died a long time ago. This piece is entitled “Assault On Beautiful Gorky”, and it was written in commemoration of the storming of the Winter Palace. It is beautiful, no? Beautiful, and altogether very sad.’

Hartmann nodded. He walked across to the table and sat down at one of the chairs.

Perez followed him, sat facing him, and but for the music they could have been seated once more in the FBI Field Office.

‘Perhaps we should conduct our interviews here from now on,’ Perez said. ‘It would save all the trouble of ferrying me back and forth surrounded by all these federal people, none of whom, I can assure you, have the slightest shred of humor, and it would be so much more comfortable, no?’

Hartmann nodded. ‘It would. I’ll suggest it to Schaeffer and Woodroffe.’

Perez smiled and reached for his cigarettes. He offered one to Hartmann. Hartmann took it, retrieved his lighter from his jacket pocket and lit them both.

‘How are they bearing up?’ Perez asked.

‘Who?’

‘Mr Schaeffer and Mr Woodroffe.’

Hartmann frowned. ‘Bearing up?’

‘Sure. They must be feeling the stress of the situation, yes? They have found themselves in perhaps the most uncomfortable set of circumstances of their collective careers. They must be feeling a tremendous amount of pressure, with the girl gone and all manner of high and mighty people breathing down their necks demanding results, results, results. I can only begin to imagine how they must feel.’

‘Stressed,’ Hartmann said, ‘like the Brooklyn Bridge.’

Perez laughed. ‘You are good, Mr Hartmann. I knew very little of you before we met, very little indeed, but since we have been spending this time together I have grown to like you.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘And so you should be… there are very few people I can say that I honestly like in this world. I have seen too many crazy things in my time, things people have done for no apparent reason at all, to make me believe that human beings are all as equally lost as one another.’

‘Why me?’ Hartmann asked.

Perez leaned back and looked at Hartmann. ‘This question intrigues you. I have seen it playing amongst your thoughts from the first day. You want to know why it was that I asked you to come down here and listen to me when I could have asked any number of people and any one of them would have come?’

Hartmann nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Why did you choose me?’

‘Three reasons,’ Perez stated matter-of-factly. ‘First and foremost, because you are from New Orleans. You are a Louisianan, just like me. I am of Cuban descent, granted, but irrespective of that I was born here in New Orleans. New Orleans, like it or not, has always been my original home, my place of origin. And there is something about this place that only those who were born here, only those who have spent their formative years here, can truly understand. It has a voice and a color and an atmosphere all its own. It is like no other place on earth. There is such a blend of people here, faiths and beliefs, languages and ethnic strains, that makes it truly unique. In a way it possesses no singular identifying characteristic, and thus it cannot be easily identified. It is a paradox, a puzzle, and people who visit can never really grasp what makes it so different. It is a place you either love or hate, and once you have decided your feelings for it there is nothing that can change them.’

‘And you?’ Hartmann asked. ‘Do you love it or hate it?’

Perez laughed. ‘I am an anomaly and an anachronism. I am the exception that proves the rule. I have no feeling for it at all. I cannot love it and I cannot hate it. Now, having seen all I have seen, there is almost nothing to love or to hate in this world.’

‘And the second reason?’

‘Family,’ Perez said, and he spoke quietly, but there was such intention and emphasis behind this single word that it hit Hartmann forcibly.

‘Family?’ he asked.

Perez nodded. He reached forward and flicked his cigarette ash in the tray.

Hartmann shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You do,’ Perez said, ‘perhaps better than anyone who’s involved in this. You understand the strength and power of family.’

‘How so?’