Chris Mooney - World Without End

"I'm going to retire soon. I want to be left alone. Name your terms."

"I want the military suit."

Cole would never get it, of course. Raymond pretended to think about it. Then he said, "You get the Russians out of my life, you can have it."

Cole smiled.

"Then we have ourselves a deal."

"You need to find the Kaufman woman. She might have recorded evidence of what happened inside the condo."

"She'll pop up at the funeral."

"Or she won't. She could go to the police or worse, the feds."

"Did Owen post people?"

"We've got the Boston PD and the federal building at Government Center covered. If she goes in, we'll catch her. We know what she looks like."

"I'll be in Boston tonight. Send Conway to me." Cole stood up and walked over to the door. His hand on the knob, he looked down at the naked Raymond Bouchard.

"I heard you injected this man Riley with cocaine and rat poison." Cole grinned.

"I never thought you were capable of such things."

"I'll contact you after I talk to Conway."

"Just one last item. If you try to fuck me, Raymond, I'll eat you alive, piece by piece."

Reaching the top of Mount Bonnell required a steep climb of one hundred-plus stone steps that left even the athletic winded. Those willing to undertake it were rewarded with sweeping, panoramic views of Austin and Hill counties.

It was a quarter to six, and Conway stood in a round clearing that held a circular stone table with benches. The sun was setting, and right now the place was dead. But that would change later tonight, when teenagers and UT college kids looking for privacy or a romantic place to drink or talk or to get high or get laid would sneak inside sometime after 10:00 P.M." the time the park closed. Such an undertaking was dangerous. With only the light from the stars and moon as your guide, and with steep cliffs surrounding you, a slip or a false move could result in death. Not long ago, three pledges plummeted to their deaths when a UT fraternity had the bright idea of staging a hazing ritual here.

"Stephen."

Conway turned around. Framed against the darkening sky was Raymond Bouchard, dressed in a commanding black suit and jacket, his tie blowing in the breeze. A thin film of dust covered his black shoes. A pair of blue mirrored Revo sunglasses hid his eyes.

"Let's take a walk," Bouchard said and without waiting, turned and started down a path. Conway jogged over to catch up.

Bouchard did not appear to be in a rush; he ambled his way through the bumpy, winding path with his hands deep in his pockets his head bowed forward as he watched his feet moving across the dirt. Conway didn't talk, just followed. He looked into the infinite expanse of stars and wondered if a satellite were locked on them right now, watching, ready to record his voice and analyze it later. Computers now had the ability to tell whether or not someone was lying.

Pasha's words from just last night: You can trust me, Stephen. Always, I'll never lie to you.

All day Conway had thought of this moment, rehearsing what he would say, how he would answer Bouchard's questions. Lying to the man would jeopardize the one thing he cared for besides Pasha: his career. But Pasha… Conway's need to protect her was so intense he was willing to take on any risk, including lying to his boss. She had saved his life twice now and he loved her, so naturally, he felt protective and loyal.

But even if those two conditions weren't involved, he still would have granted Pasha's request for secrecy. His time served in foster homes and the orphanage had taught him how to ferret out liars and people's hidden agendas. Conway was sure of one thing on this earth: Pasha Romanov was not a liar. Private, maybe even secretive, but trustworthy.

A few minutes later, Bouchard stopped walking. They stood near the edge of a cliff that overlooked the sweeping flat earth of Austin, the bridge, and below it, the river littered with powerboats and sailboats whose canvas sails swelled in the wind.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get back to you," Bouchard said, his voice scratchy. He coughed to clear his throat.

"My hands have been full. I take it you've seen the news about Angel Eyes."

"And McFadden."

Bouchard gritted his teeth, the muscles along his jawline flexing.

"His treason is taking on epidemic proportions. It's a goddamn mess," he said. Over his shoulder, the sky had grown darker. He took off his sunglasses and tucked them inside his jacket pocket. Even in the twilight his eyes looked worn.

"I'm sorry about Pasha, Stephen. I know how important she was to you."

Conway played the role of the grieving lover.

"Her body," he started, and cleared his throat.

"We haven't ID'd any of the bodies yet. It's…" Bouchard started to say and then his voice trailed off. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shook his head, and sighed, and as he looked out at the water below, he jiggled his change and keys.

"It's going to be a long and painful process. What happened here…

I've never lost men like that. I'm still having a hard time accepting what happened."

Conway studied the man for a moment. His grief seemed genuine. Conway removed the 8-by-10-inch envelope wedged in his back waistband and handed it to Bouchard.

"Angel Eyes left these for me in my hospital room," Conway said.

"While I was sleeping."

As Bouchard went through the pictures, studying each with great care, Conway watched his boss's face, checking for surprise, shock something that would validate Pasha's theory. The man's face was as readable as stone. If anything, he looked shell-shocked.

"Why would Angel Eyes leave those pictures?" Conway asked.

"To keep you on the edge. To let you know he was coming."

"Dixon's alive."

Bouchard looked up from the pictures, the meaning in his eyes veiled.

From his back pocket Conway removed the jewel case that contained a burned copy of Dixon's torture session and held it up in the air. He kept the original for himself.

"Last night someone left this compact disc inside the condo. I was afraid the CD might be infected with a virus, and since my home PC doesn't have the latest virus updates, I drove over to Del-burn and used one of our secured computers."

"How did you get in?" Bouchard asked. Conway didn't work there and didn't have a key. But Pasha did.

"Pasha's keys. She left a spare set at the condo," Conway lied.

"Nobody's answering the phone. Where's the rest of the team?"

"They're all dead."

"Including your Hazard Team?"

Bouchard nodded. Conway watched him carefully now.

"Steve, when you called Delburn, the switchboard patched your call to my car. I was on my way to the safe house I keep here in Austin. The DO of Operations called and wanted to talk to me about McFadden the shit had hit the fan big time back at headquarters. I had classified files on a compromised operation that McFadden worked on. We had hours to go before the exchange at the airport, so I decided to drive out. I was about twenty minutes away from Delburn when you called. When we got off the phone, I turned around and headed back to Delburn."

Bouchard looked disgusted.

"They were all dead."

"What happened to all the bodies?"

"A special team came in and removed them."

Right. Can't have the local police investigating the matter, Conway thought.

"Same with the Hazard Team and surveillance team that was supposed to be guarding you. They were killed with nerve gas. Someone rigged the vans," Bouchard said.

"Someone sold us out."

"McFadden?"

"Yes. It was John."

"You know him?"

"John used to work for me. We used to be good friends." Bouchard's tone was flat, almost detached.

"He and I were at the funeral for one of my men. We were both pallbearers. I found out this week that McFadden sold him out for five grand, and there was the son of a bitch on the opposite side of me that day, choking back tears." Bouchard slid the pictures back into the envelope, rolled it up and tapped it against his leg.