Дэвид Балдаччи - The Collectors

There were many energetic and skilled counterintelligence agents out in the field trying to ferret out how the secrets were being stolen and then communicated to the enemy. In his official capacity Trent had been privy to some of these investigative efforts. The agents talking to him had no reason to suspect that a mere staffer with a bad hairdo who drove an eight-year-old Honda and lived in a crummy house and labored under the same bills and limited income every other civil servant had was part of a sophisticated espionage crew that was decimating American intelligence efforts.

The authorities had to know by now that the source was deeply buried inside, but with fifteen major intelligence agencies eating up 50 billion in budget dollars a year spread over 120,000 employees, the haystacks were enormous and the needles beyond microscopic. And Roger Seagraves, Trent had found, was chillingly efficient and never missed any of the details, however small and seemingly trivial.

Trent had tried to find out some background on him when they first started talking, yet could discover exactly zero on the man. To an experienced intelligence staffer like Trent, he knew this meant Seagraves had had an entirely covert past professional life. That made him a man you would never want to cross. And Trent never intended to. He would much rather die old and rich far away from this place.

As he puttered along in his dented Honda, he imagined how that new life would look. It would be very different, that was for certain. However, he never dwelled on how many lives had been lost because of his greed. Traitors seldom had such pangs of conscience.

Stone had just returned from his visit with Marilyn Behan when someone knocked on his cottage door.

“Hello, Oliver,” Annabelle said as he peered out.

He exhibited no surprise at her reappearance, but simply motioned her inside. They sat in front of the fireplace in two rickety chairs.

“How was your trip?” he asked pleasantly.

“Come off it, I didn’t go.”

“Really?”

“Have you told the others I left?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I knew you’d be back.”

She said angrily, “Okay, that really pisses me off. You don’t know me.”

“Obviously, I do, because here you are.”

She stared at him, shaking her head. “You have got to be the most unusual cemetery worker I’ve ever met.”

“You’ve met many, have you?”

“I heard what happened to Reuben.”

“The police are wrong, of course, but they just don’t know it yet.”

“We have to get him out of jail.”

“We’re working on that and Reuben’s doing fine. I don’t think many people will give him trouble in there. I’ve seen him take out five men in a bar fight. In addition to his great physical strength, he is one of the most ruthless and dirtiest fighters I’ve ever seen. I greatly admire that in a person.”

“But somebody got the drop on him at Jonathan’s?”

“Yes, someone did.”

“Why do it? Why kill Behan?”

“Because he found out how Jonathan died. That was enough reason.” Stone explained his conversation with Marilyn Behan.

“So they take out Behan and blame it on Reuben because he was ever so conveniently there?”

“They probably saw him coming and going from the house, figured the attic would be a good shot line, and they executed upon that plan. They may have ascertained that Behan brought women by and that they always spent time in that room.”

“Pretty tough competition we’re up against. So what do we do now?”

“For starters we need to see the tapes of the reading room vault.”

“On the way back I actually thought of how to do that.”

“I had no doubt you would.” He paused. “I don’t think we could have finished this without you. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

“Don’t flatter me too much. We’re still not there yet.”

The pair sat in silence for a few moments.

Annabelle gazed out the window. “You know it is peaceful here.”

“With dead people? I’m starting to find it very depressing.”

She smiled and rose. “I’ll call Caleb about my idea.”

Stone stood too, stretching out his lean, six-foot-two frame. “I’m afraid I’ve reached the age where simply cutting the grass does awful things to my joints.”

“Take some Advil. I’ll give you a call later, once I’m settled back in.”

As she passed Stone on the way out, he said quietly, “I’m glad you’re back.”

If she heard him, Annabelle didn’t react. He watched the lady climb into her car and drive off.

After his revelation Jerry Bagger had summoned the manager of the hotel across the street to his office and demanded details of every guest who’d taken a room on the twenty-third floor on the side facing his building on a certain day. And in Atlantic City, when Jerry Bagger said to come, you went. As usual, some of Bagger’s men hovered in the background.

The hotel manager, a young, good-looking man who was obviously ambitious and intent on performing his duties to the best of his abilities, was not inclined to let the casino chief see anything.

“Just so you understand the situation, if you don’t give me what I want, you will die,” Bagger said.

The manager had flinched. “Are you threatening me?”

“No. A threat is when there’s a chance it won’t happen. This is what in the trade we call a sure thing.”

The manager paled but bravely said, “The information you’re requesting is confidential. I can’t possibly hand it over to you. Our guests expect their affairs to be kept private, and we have the highest standards at the—”

Bagger cut him off. “Yeah, yeah. Look, I’ll go the easy route first. How much you want for it?”

“You’re trying to bribe me?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“You can’t possibly be serious—”

“Hundred thou.”

“A hundred thousand dollars!”

Bagger looked at his men. “Boy, this guy’s quick, ain’t he? Maybe I should hire him to run my place. Yeah, a hundred thousand dollars slipped right into your personal account if you let me look at the records.” The man seemed to be considering the offer, but Bagger was quickly growing impatient. “And if you don’t, I tell you what, I’m not gonna kill you. Instead, I’ll break every bone in your body, mess with your brain so you can’t tell anybody what happened to you, and you can spend the rest of your life in a nursing home pissing all over yourself while some freak-offs drill you every night. Now to me there’s no real choice there, but I’m a reasonable man, so I’ll let you make the decision. You got five seconds.”

An hour later Bagger had all the information he’d requested and quickly culled down his list of potential suspects. Next he questioned hotel personnel about some of the guests in question. It didn’t take him long to hit the jackpot because of some extra services one of the guests had taken advantage of during his stay.

“Yeah, I gave him a massage,” the young woman named Cindy said. She was petite and dark-haired with a cute face, alluring curves and a streetwise manner. She popped gum and played with her hair while talking to Bagger in a private room in the hotel’s sumptuous spa area.

He eyed her closely. “You know who I am?”

Cindy nodded. “You’re Jerry Bagger. My mom, Dolores, works a craps table for you at the Pompeii.”

“Right, good old Dolores. You like this spa shit?”

“Pay sucks, but tips are great. The old guys like to feel a young lady’s hands on ’em. A few get a hard-on while I’m doing it. Pretty disgusting on an eighty-year-old, but like I said, they tip good.”