Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

Metzger said, “He—” Wizard emphasis again. “—knows about the investigation but he didn’t say a word about any leaks. I don’t think he knows. We have to find the traitor before word trickles down to the Beltway.”

Sipping the pale tea, Boston squinted more furrows into his face. Damn, the man could give Donald Sutherland a run for his money in the distinguished older power-broker role. Metzger, though considerably younger, had a much more sparse scalp than Boston and was bony and gaunt. He felt he looked weaselly.

“What do you think, Spencer? How could an STO have gotten leaked?”

A look out the window. Boston had no view of the Hudson from his chair, just more late-morning reflected light. “My gut is it was somebody in Florida. The next choice would be Washington.”

“Texas and California?”

Boston said, “I doubt it. They get copies of the STO but unless one of their specialists is activated, they don’t even open them…And, as much as I hate to say it, we can’t dismiss the office here completely.” The twist of his impressive head indicated NIOS headquarters.

Granted. A co-worker in this office might have sold them out, as painful as it was to think about.

Boston continued, “I’ll check with IT security about the servers, copiers and scanners. Polygraph the senior people with download permissions. I’d do a major Facebook autobot search. Well, not just Facebook but blogs and as many other social media sites as I can think of. See if anybody with access to the STO’s been posting anything critical of the government and our mission here.”

Mission. Killing bad guys.

This made sense. Metzger was impressed. “Good. A lot of work.” His eyes strayed to the vista. He saw a window washer on a scaffolding three or four hundred feet up. He thought, as he often did, of the jumpers on 9/11.

The Smoke expanded in his lungs.

Breathe…

Send the Smoke away. But he couldn’t. Because they , the jumpers on that terrible day, hadn’t been able to breathe. Their lungs had been filled with oily smoke rising from the crest of the flames that were going to consume them in seconds, flames roiling into their twelve-by-twelve-foot offices, leaving only one place to go, through windows to the eternal concrete.

His hands began to shake again.

Metzger noted that Boston was regarding him with a close gaze. The NIOS head casually adjusted the photograph of him, Seth and Katie and a snorting horse, taken through a fine set of optics that happened, in that instance, to record a dear memory, but wasn’t dissimilar to a scope that could very efficiently direct a bullet through a man’s heart.

“They have proof of completion, the police?”

“No, I don’t think so. Status is closed, that’s all.”

Kill orders were just that—instructions to eliminate a task. There was never any documentation that an assassination was actually completed. The standard procedure when asked was to deny, deny, deny.

Boston began to ask, “Are we doing anything…?”

“I’ve made calls. Don Bruns knows about the case, of course. A few others. We’re…handling things.”

An ambiguous verb and object. Worthy of the Wizard.

Handling things…

Spencer Boston, of the impressive white mane and more impressive track record as a spy, sipped more tea. The straw eased farther through the plastic lid and gave a faint vibration like a bow on a viola string. “Don’t worry, Shreve. I’ll find him. Or her.”

“Thanks, Spencer. Anytime. Day or night. Call me, what you find out.”

The man rose, buttoned his ill-tailored suit.

When he was gone Metzger heard his magic red phone trill with a text from his surveillance and datamining crowd in the basement.

Identified Nance Laurel as lead prosecutor. IDs of the NYPD investigators to follow soon.

The Smoke diminished considerably at reading this.

At last. A place to start.

CHAPTER 12

JACOB SWANN APPROACHED HIS CAR in the lot of the Marine Air Terminal at LaGuardia airport.

He set his suitcase into the trunk of his Nissan sedan carefully—his knives were inside. No carry-on with them, of course. He dropped heavily into the front seat and stretched, breathing deeply.

Swann was tired. He had left his Brooklyn apartment for the Bahamas nearly twenty-four hours ago and had had only three or so hours’ sleep in that time—most while in transit.

His session with Annette had gone more quickly than he’d expected. But, after he’d disposed of the body, finding an abandoned trash fire to burn the evidence of his visit last week had taken some time. Then he’d had to take care of some other housekeeping, including a visit to Annette’s apartment and a risky but ultimately successful trip back to the site of Moreno’s shooting itself: the South Cove Inn.

He’d then had to get off the island the same way he had last week: from a dock near Millars Sound, where he knew some of the men who clustered daily to work the ships or smoke Camels or ganja and drink Sands, Kalik or, more likely, Triple B malt. They would also handle various odd jobs. Efficiently and discreetly. They’d hurried him via small boat to one of the innumerable islands near Freeport, then there’d been the helicopter ride to a field south of Miami.

That was the thing about the Caribbean. There was Customs and there was custom. And the lower-case version allowed for people like Jacob Swann, with a bankroll of money—his employer had plenty, of course—to get where he needed to be, unnoticed.

After the scoring with the blade, after the blood, he was convinced that Annette had not told anyone about him, about the questions he’d casually asked her a week ago regarding the South Cove Inn, suite 1200, Moreno’s bodyguard and Moreno himself. All those facts could be bundled together, resulting in some very compromising conclusions.

He’d only used the Kai Shun a few times, slice, slice…It probably hadn’t been necessary, she was so frightened. But Jacob Swann was a very meticulous man. You could ruin a delicate sauce simply by too quickly adding hot liquid to the sizzling flour-and-butter roux. And once you’d done that there was no correction. A matter of a few degrees and few seconds. Besides, you should never miss an opportunity to hone your skills. So to speak.

He now pulled to the airport parking lot’s exit kiosk, paid cash then drove a mile on the Grand Central before pulling over and swapping license plates. He then continued on to his house in Brooklyn.

Annette…

Bad luck for the poor prostitute that they’d run into each other when he’d been planning the job at the South Cove. He’d been conducting surveillance when he’d spotted Moreno’s guard, Simon Flores, talking and flirting with the woman. Clearly they’d just come out of a room together and he understood from their body language and banter what they’d been doing.

Ah, a working girl. Perfect.

He waited an hour or two and then circled the grounds casually until he found her in the bar, where she was buying herself watered-down drinks and dangling like bait on a hook for another customer.

Swann, armed with a thousand dollars in untraceable cash, had been happy to swim toward her.

After the good sex and over the better stew he’d learned a great deal of solid information for the assignment. But he’d never anticipated that there’d be an investigation, so he hadn’t cleaned up as completely as he probably should have. Hence, his trip back to the island.

Successful. And satisfying.

He now returned to his town house in the Heights, off Henry Street, and parked in the garage in the alley. He dropped his bag in the front hall, then shed his clothes and took a shower.

The living room and two bedrooms were modestly furnished, inexpensive antiques mostly, a few Ikea pieces. It looked like the digs of any bachelor in New York City, except for two aspects: the massive green gun safe, in a closet, which held his rifles and pistols, and the kitchen. Which a professional chef might have envied.