Chris Mooney - World Without End

When he opened the door and saw you, he didn't have a chance, did he?"

Conway turned around and faced Bouchard.

"The extensive plastic surgery never removed all the scars," Bouchard continued.

"Every time he looked in the mirror, all he would see would be that day you kept smashing his face against the bathroom mirror, kept kicking him while he was on the ground, the way he curled up on the bathroom floor, crying and shaking, begging for you to stop. That earned you a one-year stint in a juvenile correction center. The parents would have pressed for a stiffer sentence if they hadn't just discovered that their son was busted at school for being a dealer. It's not the sort of thing one likes to advertise. Not in Newton, anyway."

"That was a long time ago," Conway said, his voice steady.

"I'm not proud of that moment."

"But you don't regret doing it, do you?"

"I'm not sure what you're asking me."

"If you can package your grief and rage on John Riley's death, if you can keep your head clear and focused, then I can use you in Boston."

"Boston?"

"Two days ago Echelon picked up a transmission from a cell phone. The message said, "The suit is useless to us without the decryption code.

Dixon doesn't know it. Pick Conway up." He believes you know the decryption code."

"But why would Angel Eyes want Riley " Conway's throat seized up at the thought of the word dead.

"His men were inside the lab, at Delburn they know Riley doesn't know the decryption code."

"It's payback for what happened inside the lab. More importantly, your friend's death keeps you out in the open, keeps you visible."

"What you need is for me to act as a lightning rod," Conway said.

"The bait to bring Angel Eyes in."

"He knows you'll be coming home for the funeral."

"And then he'll try to pick me up."

"If you don't want in, I understand. I can hide you so Angel Eyes will never be able to find you. But that won't stop him from striking again at what's closest to your heart."

"Book," Conway said. Jackson Booker, or Book, was now the only remaining member of Conway's self-labeled family. Booker and Pasha, the only two people left. If they were taken from him Don't think about it.

"I've got to call and warn Book," Conway said.

"This operation is classified, Stephen."

"I'm not going to leave him hanging in the wind."

"I've already put people on Booker and his family. They're being watched around the clock."

"So was Dixon."

"Stephen, I'm personally overseeing this operation. There will be no mistakes." The world had turned dark. The full moon's silver light sparkled on the slick black waters below like slivers of mirrored glass.

"You're the best shot to draw Angel Eyes out and to save Dixon. He's alive. They'll keep him alive until the suit is operational."

Bouchard reached inside his suit-jacket pocket and handed Con-way a small cell phone and a bulky white envelope bound with elastic. Conway opened the envelope and in the moonlight saw the cash, all one-hundred-dollar bills, and a plane ticket for Boston. The flight left early tomorrow morning.

"I can use your help, Stephen, but the decision is yours. You've already put your life on the line. God knows I'll understand if you say no."

Cowardice ranked right up there with stealing and lying. Conway had never run away or turned his back on anything in his life. He wasn't about to start now.

"I'm in."

"Jonathan Cole will be your handler," Bouchard said.

"He's already in Boston heading up the operation. His number is written on the back of your plane ticket. After the funeral is over, and once you feel settled, call him. You are to report to no one but him or me, understand?"

Conway nodded.

"On your belt, is that your Palm Pilot?"

"The detective, Rombardo, gave it back to me," Conway lied.

"Let me have it. Mr. Cole will provide you with a new one that's retrofitted with new transmitters and new features. He'll also provide you with new gear when you meet up with him in Boston."

Conway handed the Palm Pilot to Bouchard, who took it and then turned it over with both hands, staring at it like it was some weird, foreign contraption.

"I'm sorry about what happened to your friend," Bouchard said.

"I'm sure he meant the world to you."

Conway felt a heavy hand wrap around his neck, squeeze it in a fatherly fashion, and then drop away. He stood motionless, listening to the sound of Bouchard's shoes crunching across the gravel grow distant. A moment later there was only the wind. Confident he was alone, Conway surrendered himself to the cold truth, grateful for the darkness that hid him.

An hour until the flight back to Virginia, Raymond Bouchard parked the rental, a roomy Ford Explorer, in the most remote location at the airport, backing the SUV up against the wall so he could look out the front window and see anyone who might approach him. What he wanted was privacy. He removed the laptop from his briefcase and got to work.

Raymond had watched the video all the way through and had just started going through the pictures when his satellite phone rang. He placed the pictures on the passenger's seat, on top of his laptop and Stephen's Palm Pilot, and then picked up the phone and dialed the number. Next came the familiar deep, dry wheeze of Misha's voice.

"Brighten up my day," Misha said.

"Go secure," Bouchard said. Beep, and the encryption technology engaged.

"Give me the code, Ray."

On the drive to the airport, Raymond had felt it, the opportunity to trap Misha and his boss, Alexi, and take them out of the way. What Raymond needed now was some time to think over the possibilities and flesh them out with Cole. He would have to stall Misha.

"The decryption code is Lucky Charms," Bouchard said.

"Lucky Charms? What the fuck is that?"

"The name of a breakfast cereal."

"Hold on," Misha said.

Over the phone came the sound of footsteps clicking across a hard floor, and Misha talking in Russian, his voice audible but far away.

Raymond looked through the front windshield and watched the sprinkling of people wander through the parking lot and thought about the woman, Renee Kaufmann, who had so far proved to be elusive. How long would she stay hidden? John Riley's wake was tomorrow. Would she dare show up? Grief could be overpowering. Make it easy for me.

Misha was back on the line: "The code don't work."

"Try Count Chocula."

"Count what?"

"Count Chocula. C-H-O-C-U-L-A. Apparently Randy Scott was a big fan of breakfast cereals," Raymond said, his smile widening.

Another pause, and then Misha's voice burst back on the line, agitated as he said, "The suit's still locked up."

"My suggestion is to go through all the breakfast cereals."

"Alexi wants the code. Tonight."

"I gave you what Conway told me."

"Conway saw the video?"

"He saw it all," Bouchard said, his eyes cutting sideways to the surveillance pictures that had been left next to Conway's bed.

"It rattled him, and he gave me the decryption code."

Misha's throat clicked when he swallowed.

"This is starting to feel like a bad hand job," he said.

"I can't conjure Randy Scott up from the dead. You killed him, remember?"

"Let me tell you a story, Big Ray. Last night I'm at Alexi's place, he's entertaining some very important people, he's got these fucking high-class broads all over the place, they're dressed to the nines and got their tits hanging out, they're taking guys upstairs two at a time, doing girl-on-girl, two-on-two, tag teams, orgies. They're on their knees and blowing these guys under the table while we're eating, it's like something out of that flick Caligula."

"Misha " "Now Alexi, he wants to know the status on the suit, so I tell him. You know what this guy does? He gets up and overturns the fucking table, I'm talking one of these solid oak jobs that seats like twenty-four people. Food's going everywhere, Alexi's screaming at me, he's picking up this rare china off the floor, this stuff that costs half a grand for a single plate, and this crazy son of a bitch starts throwing it against the wall. Broads are fleeing the place in terror.