John Sandford - Silken Prey

“What’d he say to you?” Dannon asked.

Taryn rolled toward him, one of her breasts pressing against his biceps; she wetted a finger and circled one of his nipples in a distracted way, and said, “This afternoon, before we went over to that school, he said that he hadn’t signed up for all this. That’s what he said, ‘signed up.’ I asked what that meant, and he said that he hoped I’d be more grateful than I had been so far. I said that I would be, that if he’d hold on until I was in the Senate, I could take care of him in a lot of ways: money, another army job, get his record wiped out, whatever he needed. He said, ‘Money’s good,’ and said we could talk about the other stuff, then he asked when he’d get a down payment.”

“What’d you say to that?”

“I said too much stuff was coming down right now: that I assumed he’d want a big brick of cash that he wouldn’t have to pay taxes on, but even for me, it takes a while to get cash together. Almost nobody uses it anymore, except dope dealers, I guess.”

Dannon said, “Got that right. I can’t remember the last time I saw somebody buying groceries for cash, except me.”

“He said, ‘Well, better get on that. I’m gonna need a big chunk pretty soon. I got a feeling that when everything settles down . . . my services might not be needed.’ I said, ‘You’ve got a job as long as you want it, and you’ll get paid as much as you need.’ He laughed and said, ‘I kinda don’t think you know how much I need.’”

Dannon said, “That’s the problem with Ron. He’s hungry all the time—more pussy, more dope, more money. There won’t be an end to it.”

“I know, but I don’t know what to do about it.”

Dannon said, “Ron and I . . . he was enlisted, I was an officer. We’re not natural friends. I’m not being arrogant here, lots of the enlisted guys are sharp as razors: but that’s the way it is. He doesn’t think, except tactically. How exactly to do one thing or another. He thinks three days down the road, but not three months or three years. He’ll get us in trouble, sooner or later.”

Taryn said nothing, waiting, watching Dannon think.

He said, finally, “There’s something else.”

“What?”

“I’m kinda worried that from Ron’s perspective, I’m the problem,” Dannon said. “He’ll figure he can handle you. But you and me together . . .”

“You actually think . . . he might come after you?”

“I think it’s inevitable,” Dannon said. “It’ll occur to him pretty soon. After it does, he won’t wait. That’s the three-days-thinking problem again. He’ll think about it, then he’ll move.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I think he has to go away,” Dannon said.

“You mean . . . someday?”

“No. I mean right away. I know it’ll be a political problem, but . . . I know this guy down in Houston. For ten thousand dollars, he’ll fly Carver’s passport to Kuwait. He’s got a deal with one of the border people there.”

“I don’t understand,” Taryn said, though she had an idea about it.

“Simple enough. Ron goes away. I FedEx his passport and ten grand—I’ve actually got the cash in my safe-deposit box—”

“I’ll pay you back.”

“I got this. My guy in Houston flies the passport to Kuwait and walks it across the border into Iraq. We call up this Davenport guy, say that we’re worried because Ron didn’t show up for work on Wednesday and he doesn’t answer his phone. We don’t know where he’s gone.”

“And Davenport thinks it’s possible that he’s run for it.”

“Yeah, because they send out a stop order on him, and because of his background, and what they think—that he killed Tubbs and Roman—they include the border people and the airport security, and they report back that his passport left the country, and then crossed the border into Kuwait and then out of Kuwait and into Iraq.”

“Don’t they take pictures, you know, video cameras of everybody going through the airport?”

“Sure. But IDs aren’t synced with pictures. They ask for your passport when you check in, but going through security, they only ask for a government ID. This Houston guy shows Ron’s passport to the airlines and the security people, who check him through. The cops look at the security video, and they never see Ron, so they figure he ran some kind of dodge, and got through behind security. It’s easy enough to do. Listen, all kinds of people from this country are carrying all kinds of stuff into Kuwait and then across the border into Iraq. This is a very established deal. . . . This Houston guy, it’s his thing. It can be done.”

“If you’re sure . . .”

“It’ll hurt, politically, but once it’s done, we’re really secure,” Dannon said. “We’ll be the only two who know the story. You’re already a senator before the shit hits the fan, another guy goes missing . . . but, if Ron’s passport goes into Iraq, what’s Davenport going to do?”

“How soon?”

“Tomorrow,” Dannon said. “We can’t afford to wait. I can’t give Ron a chance to move on me.” He was on his back and Taryn snuggled her head down onto his chest and he stroked her hair. Without Ron, he thought, the future had no horizon. . . .

• • •

TARYN WAS PRETTY TIRED of the sex by the time Dannon went to sleep. She listened to him breathe, then slipped out of bed, pulled on a robe, and padded through to the living room, closing the bedroom door behind her, poured some vodka over a couple of ice cubes, sat on the couch, and thought about it.

Dannon, once he’d gotten rid of Carver, was going to be a problem. She could see it already: he was looking at a permanent relationship. He was looking at love. When she got to Washington, an heiress and businesswoman already worth a billion dollars or so, a U.S. senator . . . any permanent relationship wouldn’t be with an ex–army captain who carried a switchblade in his pocket.

That their relationship wasn’t going to be permanent would quickly become obvious. Then what? What do jilted lovers do, when they’re men? What do jilted alcoholics with switchblades do?

Something to think about. Dannon, like Carver, would have to go away. But how? She sat on the couch for another hour, and another two vodkas, thinking about it: and what she thought was, Best to wait until we get to Washington .

• • •

THE NEIGHBORHOOD AROUND TARYN’S was quiet and dark and gently rolling. The highest nearby spot was between two pillared faux-plantation manors on five-acre lots, screened from the street by elaborate hedges. From the top of that low hill, any approaching cars could be seen three blocks away.

Lauren was behind the wheel of Kidd’s Mercedes GL550, a large luxury vehicle and one that fit well in rich neighborhoods. Kidd sat in the passenger seat, looking at a hooded laptop that was plugged into an antenna and amplifier focused on one of the manors. Kidd was riding on the manor’s Wi-Fi; and Lauren, looking over his shoulder, said, “We’re not Peeping Toms.”

“I’m not peeping, I’m trying to figure out who in the hell that is,” he said, watching the scene in Taryn Grant’s bedroom. “I think it’s her security guy. The only security guy, if we counted right. I can’t find anyone else.”

“It’s perfect,” Lauren said. “They’re both fully occupied.”

“You’re scaring the shit out of me,” Kidd said.

“I’m so excited I’m gonna have an orgasm myself in the next two minutes,” Lauren said. “Trade places. I’m going.”

Kidd didn’t bother to argue. He got out of the car—no interior lights, they had custom switches, and the switches were off—and walked around to the driver’s side, as Lauren clambered into the passenger seat.