Chris Mooney - World Without End

"Don't say it." Conway could feel his anger reaching the boiling level. He was tired and didn't feel like pulling it back.

"Why are you being so stubborn, Stephen?"

"Because you're standing there and telling me with a straight face that our boss sold us out. This is Raymond Bouchard we're talking about, Pasha. He took a bullet for you once, remember? We were setting up the command post and you were inside the truck, about to hand him a box when he heard gunfire and shoved you back inside the truck. Took one right in the arm."

"I'm familiar with the incident."

Familiar with the incident. Jesus Christ. Conway said, "The problem is that we have a leak. Someone who had access to classified information on us and our team and sold us out. That much I do know."

Pasha crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the floor.

"Have you read the front page of the New York Times'?" Conway asked.

"You're referring to John McFadden," she said.

"Raymond said he talked with you about this on the morning of the operation. My guess is that you both decided not to tell me. Didn't want to fuel my paranoia."

"Correct."

"So in the week you decided not to call me, did you spend any time investigating McFadden?"

"I did."

"And?"

"And he had the security clearances. Or so the computer says."

"So now you think the computer's lying to you."

"You of all people know how easy it is to doctor those things."

"You search the computer systems here?"

"Our communications system that tracks and records all the IWAC conversations was destroyed. The backup tapes were also removed, so I don't know where Raymond was when he called you." Her voice was so calm, so level when she spoke, it was as if her words contained an inoperable truth.

"And before you ask, the answer is yes, someone raided the databases for information on Angel Eyes."

"What about the tape backups and blueprints on the suit?" They were stored at a private company called Wentz Enterprises.

"They're missing," Pasha said.

"Sounds like Angel Eyes to me."

"Stephen, you cannot ignore the possibility that Raymond " "I deal with facts. Fact: We know that John McFadden has sold out us and some of our top agents to the Russians. We also know that Misha, a member of the Russian Mafyia, is involved in this case. Fact: Delburn Systems was raided for information on Angel Eyes."

"It could have very well been staged."

"And how do you explain the pictures left for me inside the hospital room? Why would Bouchard go to all that trouble?"

"I'm looking into it."

"And why would he be connected to Misha?"

"Again, I'm looking into it."

"Come to me with hard facts and then we'll talk," Conway said.

"I think the larger issue is that you're afraid I may be right."

"I think the explosion seriously fucked up your head."

Pasha turned and limped her way to the window. She stared outside, her face as remote and cold as a storm soldier overlooking a field of graves.

Nice job, ace. Why don't you just go over there and kick her in the head to drive your point home.

The wall clock read ten minutes before four. He didn't want to think anymore. All he wanted was to go home with Pasha and get some serious sleep, talk about it in the morning when he was rested. He rubbed his eyes to get some wetness in them, then stood up and joined Pasha at the window.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Pasha leaned against the wall, quiet. He stared at her, this intelligent and resourceful woman who possessed such unnatural strength and character, her body haggard and bruised and mending. Her eyes remained still and did not move when she spoke.

"I realize what I am suggesting. I know who Raymond is. What he means to you." Pasha turned her broken face to him.

"I was the one who rushed into that basement and saved you from Armand.

You were on the floor, your heart had stopped beating. I kept you alive until the paramedics arrived."

"I know."

"And when you left without me for Colorado and wanted to be alone, I watched you, made sure you were safe, had people in place when Armand's team made another rush at you. You've trusted me all this time. I've never lied to you. Why won't you trust me now?"

Conway didn't have an answer for her. She was right, of course. She had never lied to him. She had been his protector, his teacher and mentor and lover, and with the exception of his two friends back east, Pasha Romanov was the one person in this life he knew he could trust.

"All I'm asking is for some time to look into things," Pasha said.

"If I'm wrong about Raymond, then I'm wrong, but the only way I can do my job is to make sure he doesn't know I'm alive. I think I'm being fair. In fact, I know I am."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to meet with Raymond tomorrow. He's coming to Austin."

"How do you know that?"

"After you left the condo, an encrypted e-mail was sent to our home computer. I already read it. He wants to meet you at Mount Bonnell tomorrow evening. Tell him about Rombardo but don't tell him about me.

This meeting never took place."

Pasha reached inside her suit-jacket pocket and came back with a Palm Pilot wrapped with an elastic band. She handed it to him. Conway flipped the Palm Pilot over and saw a credit card and the torn piece of a matchbook that had a phone number written on it.

"I have a phone listed under Sally Johnson," Pasha said.

"That's the number on the matchbook. Call me only in an emergency.

You're probably being watched and traced."

"What's the credit card for?"

"It contains a transmitter. Carry it with you at all times. That way I can track you."

"To do it, you'll have to stay close. This doesn't have a great range."

"I have the equipment."

Conway looked into her eyes and in that moment felt some deep part of himself become whole.

Pasha leaned forward, carefully, kissed him on the mouth, and then slid her cheek against his. He could feel her breath whispering against his ear.

"I'll find out who did this to us," Pasha said.

"We both will. If you find out anything, drop it in my locker at the gym. You know the combination."

Gently, Pasha moved away from him. He was about to walk out the conference room door when she called out for him.

"Stephen?"

Conway turned back to her.

"You can trust me, Stephen. Always. I'll never lie to you."

"I know."

Satisfied, Conway turned and left her alone in the darkness.

Raymond Bouchard, an only child, was sixteen years old when his father had the bright idea of committing suicide at home. His father sat in his favorite leather chair, the one by the bedroom window where he would read his history books and smoke his cigars, and wrapped his lips around the double barrels of a shotgun. Using his bare toe (suicide rule number one: always use the bare toe because with socks you might slip and fuck up the job), he blew his problems out onto the back wall of family portraits. The maid was off that day, and his mother was, of course, at the club.

Raymond discovered his father's body. For a reason to this day he couldn't explain, he went outside and waited on the porch for his mother to return, and when she did, around five, sunbaked and shit-faced as always, he told her that Dad was upstairs and had something important to show her.

The child psychologist, a chubby man with a beard and glasses who fancied himself an intellectual, had wanted to know why Raymond didn't call the police or cry. The shrink was especially fascinated by the manner in which Raymond chose to tell his mother. The reason Raymond gave was that he didn't know the man. His father, a businessman who owned and operated several shoe stores, was an invisible presence in the family's life. Raymond knew the man only as The Provider, the one who had provided the lavish mansion in Dover, Massachusetts; the country club memberships; the twice-yearly flights to Paris so his mother could go shopping. What was the point of grieving for someone you didn't know or love? Then the shrink started in with questions about Raymond's mother, Fiona.