Chris Mooney - World Without End

Conway didn't recognize the bright, confident voice.

"Who we got in pursuit?" the same voice asked.

"Surveillance says we're in the clear," another voice responded, this one behind Conway, in the back of the van.

"And the Aquarium tapes?"

"In our possession and on their way to the rendezvous point. The Aquarium's a hot zone. Boston cops are on the scene. We're going to have to do some major spin control to keep the focus away "Stephen, looks like you're going to make it out of this nice and clean. But to be safe, I suggest you cut your hair, grow a beard or a goatee. Go with the goatee. It will give you an edge."

Conway pushed himself up so he was sitting down. Breathing was painful, and he still felt dazed, unable to hold onto one particular thought. He ran the towel over his damp head and face, still coughing, then slung it around his shoulders. He pressed his back against the van's side wall.

The middle-aged man sitting on a cooler near the van's sliding door looked like a construction worker for the Big Dig. He wore mud-streaked jeans and Timberland work boots and a burnt orange Dickeys winter coat draped over a gray sweatshirt. His baby-fine blond hair was parted to the side, his skin tanned.

Two other people were in here besides the blond man: the driver, dressed in the blue uniform of a Boston patrolman, and in the back, sitting against the opposite wall, his elbows propped up on his knees and tapping a cell phone against his calf, a tall man who was also dressed like a Boston cop. Conway didn't recognize any of them.

The blond-haired man picked up a tightly wrapped white towel from the floor and pressed it against the back of his head. He saw the question in Conway's eyes and answered it for him.

"Happened in my hotel room, can you believe it? Here I am, getting out the shower, I only got a towel wrapped around me, and when I stepped into the bedroom someone smacked the back of my head. There I am, lying on the floor buck naked and unconscious while some dude goes through my things." The guy shook his head with a wry grin, like he couldn't believe he stepped right into it.

"Then the surveillance van, all the gear we had inside, it suddenly craps out, just went up in smoke, everything fried. Lucky we had alternate equipment to track you. That transmitter in your phone has a two-mile radius. We locked onto the frequency just before you decided to go for a swim." The man smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Looks like Angel Eyes tried to take a run at you."

Conway took in a deep breath, winced. He closed his eyes and saw the mess of events playing inside his head. What he wanted was some time alone to sift through all of this shit.

"The guy I had follow you to the funeral, Tony, the Lynn police just found his body sitting inside his car. Someone used his brains to redecorate the upholstery and back window. Look, I underestimated the guy's potential, and we got caught with our pants down. It won't happen again. We haven't been formally introduced. Ray told me to leave you alone until after the funeral. I'm Jonathan Cole."

Conway opened his eyes. He wasn't in the van. Right now, he was back inside the still-fresh memory from this morning, back in the cold air smelling of dead leaves and packed with the foreboding chill of a long winter, approaching the middle-aged man who stood with his eyes closed and his bare hand pressed against the glass. He introduced himself as Jonathan Cole, knew all the specifics about the Austin fiasco.

But if this blond guy was really Cole, then who the fuck was the guy from this morning?

I think you know the answer to that question.

He thought back to the man he had met this morning. The man seemed so polished, so sure of himself. Then came the words from the funeral home card: You live in a wilderness of mirrors, Stephen. Be careful.

Jackals surround you. A warning? Then Conway thought back to the pictures left for him in the hospital room. You're next.

Had Angel Eyes been trying to warn him about Bouchard?

Angel Eyes had the opportunity to take you at the Holocaust Memorial.

You thought he was your handler. So the big question is, if Angel Eyes has the suit and needs the decryption code, then why didn't he take you in?

Conway felt himself turn away from the answer.

You can't ignore the possibility anymore.

"You okay, Steve?" Cole asked.

"Kaufmann," Conway wheezed, his voice barely audible.

"What about her?"

"You got her?"

"Got her? What are you talking about?"

"They took her away. Outside," Conway said.

"Didn't you intercept her?"

"I had no idea she was there."

It was a setup.

Renee Kaufmann was gone.

Next came the voice from just moments ago, the young bald guy from the Aquarium: Bouchard's dirty. He's setting you up. Stay away from him and his partner, Cole. You can't trust them.

Another person telling Conway not to trust Bouchard.

Why would Bouchard sell us out?

The answer's waiting for you on a CD at the bank in Lynn.

Was the bald muscle-head connected to Pasha? What the fuck was going on?

If what the dude from the Aquarium said is true, then it confirms Pasha's theory, so tread carefully.

But first, he had to figure a way out of this mess.

"What went down in there?" Cole asked.

"Who blew you out of the tank?"

Conway kept his eyes veiled. He had to protect Pasha, the only person he could trust. He ran the towel over the back of his neck and said,

"It wasn't one of your guys?"

"If it was, I wouldn't be asking the question." Cole was grinning, his tone polite.

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"I was underwater, everything was blurry, happening fast. I had no idea who it was. Next thing I know, I'm being spit out of the tank and tossed onto the floor."

"And the guy you were talking to?"

"He shot two cops," Conway said.

"Misha's men."

"Who?"

"Misha Ronkil, one of the Russian mob's top hit men. He came with two of his crew dressed as Boston cops."

"This bald guy, you know him?"

"Never saw him before. You?"

Cole shook his head.

"He say anything?"

"He said to come out with him. That he was there to help me."

Cole let his gaze linger. Conway held it for a moment and then casually looked away and out the front window at the highway. The van was heading north on Route 95. It moved into the right lane and took an exit for Somerville.

The two men stared at Conway, waiting. It was possible, very possible, that these men were hiding Dixon. Conway felt confined.

An idea came to him. He reached inside his back pocket and removed his wallet. He opened it up and saw the note from the funeral home wedged in the slot right in front of the credit card Pasha had given him, the one with the transmitter. Was she tailing him right now? Conway hoped so.

The card was wet, but the writing was in ballpoint, so it hadn't been blurred by the water. He carefully removed the card and handed it to Cole.

"What do you think it means?"

Cole read it and then said, "Who knows? He's probably trying to get inside your head."

The van stopped. Conway craned his head and saw that they had pulled into a Mobil gas station. The man in the back, the one dressed as a cop, opened the back doors, got out and jogged over to the mini-mart.

The driver remained behind the wheel, the engine running.

"Take a ride with me," Cole said. He opened the van's sliding door and stepped out into the cold November day.

"Where are we going?"

"For a ride. Come on, I promise I won't bite."

With his thumb, Conway slid Pasha's credit card out of his wallet. He wedged it into the space under the driver's seat, got out and slid the door shut.

It was a gamble, sure, but maybe this van was going back to wherever Dixon was being kept. Conway hoped that Pasha was nearby, that she would follow this van, thinking he was inside. He had memorized the number she had given him back in Austin. He would call her later tonight. Hopefully, she would have answers. Or better yet, she would have Dix and Renee Kaufmann.