Frederick Forsyth: The Negotiator

“No problem,” said Moss, still reading. “It’s not going to change anything, either way.”

Quinn started with a small and unimportant question. “How did McCrea get picked for the job in London?”

“That was a lucky break,” said Moss. “Just a fluke. I never thought I’d have my boy in there to help me. A bonus, courtesy of the goddam Company.”

“How did you two get together?”

Moss looked up.

“Central America,” he said simply. “I spent years down there. Duncan was raised in those parts. Met him when he was just a kid. Realized we shared the same tastes. Dammit, I recruited him into the Company.”

“Same tastes?” queried Quinn. He knew what Moss’s tastes were. He wanted to keep them talking. Psychopaths love to talk about themselves when they feel they are safe.

“Well, almost,” said Moss. “Except Duncan here prefers the ladies and I don’t. Of course, he likes to mess ’em around a bit first-don’t you, boy?”

He resumed reading. McCrea flashed a happy grin.

“Sure do, Mr. Moss. You know, these two were balling during those days in London? Thought I hadn’t heard. Guess I’ve got some catching up to do.”

“Whatever you say, boy,” said Moss. “But Quinn is mine. You’re going to go slow, Quinn. I’m going to have me some fun.”

He went on reading. Sam suddenly leaned her head forward and retched. Nothing came up. Quinn had seen recruits in ’Nam do that. The fear generated a flood of acid in the stomach which irritated the sensitive membranes and produced dry retching.

“How did you stay in touch in London?” he asked.

“No problem,” said Moss. “Duncan used to go out to buy things, food and so forth. Remember? We used to meet in the food stores. If you’d been smarter, Quinn, you’d have noticed he always went food-shopping at the same hour.”

“And Simon’s clothing, the booby-trapped belt?”

“Took it all to the house in Sussex while you were with the other three at the warehouse. Gave it to Orsini, by appointment. Good man, Orsini. I used him a couple of times in Europe, when I was with the Company. And afterwards.”

Moss put the manuscript down; his tongue loosened.

“You spooked me, running out of the apartment like that. I’d have had you wasted then, but I couldn’t get Orsini to do it. Said the other three would have stopped him. So I let it go, figured when the boy died you’d come under suspicion anyway. But I was really surprised those yo-yos in the Bureau let you go afterwards. Thought they’d put you in the pen, just on suspicion alone.”

“That was when you needed to bug Sam’s handbag?”

“Sure. Duncan told me about it. I bought a duplicate, fixed it up. Gave it to Duncan the morning you left Kensington for the last time. Remember he went out for breakfast eggs? Brought it back with him, did the switch while you were eating in the kitchen.”

“Why not just waste the four mercenaries at a prearranged rendezvous?” asked Quinn. “Save you the trouble of trailing us all over.”

“Because three of them panicked,” said Moss with disgust. “They were supposed to show up in Europe for their bonuses. Orsini was going to take care of them, all three. I’d have silenced Orsini. But when they heard the boy was dead they split and disappeared. Happily, you were around to find them for me.”

“You couldn’t have handled it alone,” said Quinn. “McCrea had to be helping you.”

“Right. I was up ahead. Duncan was close to you all the time, even slept in the car. Didn’t like that, did you, Duncan? When he heard you pin down Marchais and Pretorius he called me on the car phone, gave me a few hours’ start.”

Quinn still had a couple more questions. Moss had resumed reading, his face becoming angrier and angrier.

“The kid, Simon Cormack. Who blew him away? It was you, McCrea, wasn’t it?”

“Sure. Carried the transmitter in my jacket pocket for two days.”

Quinn recalled the scene by the Buckinghamshire roadside-the Scotland Yard men, the FBI group, Brown, Collins, Seymour near the car, Sam with her face pressed to his back after the explosion; recalled McCrea, on his knees over a ditch, pretending to gag, in actuality pushing the transmitter ten inches deep into the mud beneath the water.

“Okay,” he said. “So you had Orsini keeping you abreast of what was going on inside the hideaway, baby Duncan here telling you about the Kensington end. What about the man in Washington?”

Sam looked up and stared at him in disbelief. Even McCrea looked startled. Moss glanced over and surveyed Quinn with curiosity.

On the drive up to the cabin Quinn had realized that Moss had taken a tremendous risk in approaching Sam and pretending to be David Weintraub. Or had he? There was only one way Moss could have known Sam had never actually seen the DDO.

Moss lifted the manuscript and dropped it in rage all over the floor.

“You’re a bastard, Quinn,” he said with quiet venom. “There’s nothing new in here. The word in Washington is, this whole thing was a Communist operation mounted by the KGB. Despite what that shit Zack said. You were supposed to have something new , something to disprove that. Names, dates, places… proof , goddammit. And you know what you’ve got here? Nothing. Orsini never said a word, did he?”

He rose in his anger and paced up and down the cabin. He had wasted a lot of time and effort, a lot of worry. All for nothing.

“That Corsican should have wasted you, the way I asked him to. Even alive, you had nothing. That letter you sent the bitch here, it was a lie. Who put you up to this?”

“Petrosian,” said Quinn.

“Who?”

“Tigran Petrosian. An Armenian. He’s dead now.”

“Good. And that’s where you’re going, Quinn.”

“Another stage-managed scenario?”

“Yep. Seeing as it’ll do you no good, I’ll enjoy telling you. Sweat a little. That Dodge Ram we drove up in-it was rented by your lady friend here. The car-rental agent never saw Duncan at all. The police will find the cabin, after it’s been burned down, and her inside it. The Ram will give them a name; dental records will prove who the corpse was. Your Renegade will be driven back and dumped at the airport. Within a week there’ll be a murder rap on you, and the last ends will be tied up.

“Only the police will never find you. This terrain is great. There must be crevasses in these mountains where a man could disappear forever. Come the spring you’ll be a skeleton; by summer, covered over and lost forever. Not that the police will be looking around here-they’ll be checking for a man who flew out of Montpelier airport.”

He picked up his rifle, jerked the barrel toward Quinn.

“Come on, asshole, walk. Duncan, have fun, I’ll be back in an hour, maybe less. You have till then.”

The bitter cold outside hit like a slap in the face. His hands cuffed behind him, Quinn was prodded through the snow behind the cabin, farther and farther up Bear Mountain. He could hear the wheezing of Moss, knew the man was out of shape. But with manacled hands there was no way he could outrun a rifle. And Moss was smart enough not to get too close, run the risk of taking a disabling kick from the former Green Beret.

It was only ten minutes until Moss found what he sought. At the edge of a clearing in the mountain’s cloak of spruce and fir, the ground dropped away into a precipitous crevasse, barely ten feet across at the rim, vanishing to a narrow crack fifty feet down.

The depths were choked with soft snow into which a body would sink another three or four feet. Fresh snow through the last two weeks of December, plus January, February, March, and April, would fill the gully. In the spring thaw, all would melt, the crevasse become a freezing brook. The freshwater shrimp and crayfish would do the rest. When the crevasse choked up with summer growth, any remains far below would be covered for another season, and another and another.