David Baldacci - The Sixth Man

“If you have any other concerns just let me know.” Harkes clicked off.

Bunting slowly put the phone down, rose and went to the window, and stared down at the street. His mind was literally catapulting forward to one devastating scenario after another.

Why would anyone have wanted Dukes dead? She was the director of Cutter’s, but it wasn’t like she had any real power. If Harkes had killed her, why?

He sat down and called Avery, who had just flown in to the D.C. office. Bunting knew he had met with Dukes last night. It had been a last-minute thing, prompted by a frantic text to Avery, who had gone back up to Maine only the day before. Dukes had wanted to meet with Bunting, but since Avery was already on the ground in Maine and Dukes had wanted to meet immediately, Avery had gone instead.

“Avery, Carla Dukes is dead, murdered, not too long after she met with you.”

Avery said, “I know, I just heard it on the news.” His voice was shaky.

“What did she want to meet about? When she texted me that she wanted to meet, she didn’t say why. That’s when I texted her back to contact you directly.”

“Sean King had approached her at her home.”

“King? About what?”

“He said he knew she was working with someone other than the FBI. That the Bureau wouldn’t be happy when they found that out. He really shook her up.”

“How the hell did he know about that?”

“No clue.”

Bunting thought quickly. “It must’ve been guesswork on his part.”

“But she was frightened. He gave her an ultimatum of sorts.”

“What did he want?”

“Us, I guess.”

“How good is our wall?”

“No one at Cutter’s Rock will talk to him.”

“But they suspect someone else is involved.” Bunting had a sudden, terrible thought. “Did King meet with her right before she came to see you?”

“Yes. She was upset. Sent me a coded message and in it she said King had told her the FBI had tapped her phones and e-mails.”

“And you met with her where?”

“The rendezvous point we had designated previously. It’s a little picnic area really off the beaten path, even for Maine.”

“So King put the fear of God into Carla with the result that she got spooked and went running to you. Was Michelle Maxwell with King when he met with Carla?”

“She said he was alone.”

“Shit!”

“What is it?”

“They played us.”

“What? How?”

“While King was busy scaring the crap out of Carla, Maxwell was doing something else, maybe placing a tracking device on Carla’s car. Then King bullshitted her about the FBI tapping her phone and e-mails. The result was that the only way to safely communicate with us was face-to-face.”

“They followed Dukes to the meeting?”

“Of course they did. And then they saw you there.” Bunting felt a dull ache in his head. “And then they followed you . They’re probably standing outside your office as we speak.”

“Oh shit.”

Bunting rubbed his temples. “Did you notice anyone that looked like Sean King on your flights?”

“No, but I really wasn’t paying attention.”

Bunting nervously tapped the top of his desk. “Did you cab it from the airport?”

“No, I had a driver meet me at the airport.”

Bunting ground his teeth together. “So they have your name now, too. Okay, they followed you to the office and have no doubt discovered that you work for BIC. From BIC it’s only a Google search to Peter Bunting.”

“But, sir—”

Bunting hung up on him and paced his large office, nervous energy feeding his system like liquefied rocks of crack.

He calmed himself, sat back down. He had to think. Even if King had connected the dots to BIC, he had no proof of any wrongdoing because there was none. But that wasn’t the point. Revealing to the public what Edgar Roy really was could be catastrophic.

And now Bunting had no one he could really trust.

Except myself, apparently.

Right now that was small comfort.

CHAPTER

42

KELLY PAUL SAT at her desk in her hotel room in New York and looked around the small, comfortable space. How many such rooms had she inhabited over the last twenty years? She wouldn’t sound clichéd and say too many . Actually, the number had been just about right.

She didn’t doodle with the hotel-supplied pen and paper because she might inadvertently leave behind some clue that might one day lead back to her. Her bag was packed, her traveling documents in order. She carried no weapon with her but had ready access to any she might need only five minutes from here.

She had learned of Carla Dukes’s death at six thirty a.m. She didn’t spend much time wondering who had killed the woman. The answer to that question was important. But not as important as the matters she was focusing on presently.

By now Peter Bunting had to know about the woman’s death, too. His inside source at Cutter’s Rock had allowed him to take certain liberties in seeing her brother. Well, Paul had her own sources, and they had told her that the prisoner’s condition had not changed.

Keep it that way, Eddie, keep it that way. For now. Don’t let them get to you.

She glanced down at her cell phone, hesitated, and then picked it up. She punched in the number. It rang twice.

“Hello?”

“Mr. King, it’s Kelly Paul.”

“I was hoping to hear from you. Do you know about Carla Dukes?”

“I heard.”

“Theories?”

“Several. That’s beside the point right now. Where are you?”

“Where are you ?”

“East Coast.”

“Me too. I’ve had an interesting search on the Web this afternoon.”

“About what subject?” she asked.

“BIC, stands for Bunting International Corporation. Peter Bunting is the president of it. Heard of him?”

“Should I?”

“That’s why I’m asking you.”

“What did you find?” Paul wanted to know.

“BIC is based in New York, but it has facilities in the D.C. area because it’s a government contractor. Sells intelligence services. Talked to some of my buddies on the inside. They say the BIC government contract is worth a gazillion dollars but they don’t know exactly what the company does for it. Apparently no one who will talk to me does. Highly classified.”

“Some do know what he does. Otherwise Uncle Sam wouldn’t cut that check.”

“So you do know about him?”

“I’d say it’s time we met.”

“Where?”

“I’m in New York.”

“I can come up there.”

Paul said, “Up? So you’re in D.C.?”

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Do you have anything to tell me?” Sean asked.

“I wouldn’t waste your time otherwise. How did you get onto BIC?”

He said, “Just good old-fashioned detective work.”

“I think you rolled Dukes, somehow she got scared, and she led you to them. And the price she paid for being weak and stupid was her life.”

“Do you really think that’s why she was killed?” he asked.

“Not really, no. But I don’t want to speculate right now. Can you be in New York by this evening?”

“I can catch the next Acela. Be there by six.”

“There’s a little French restaurant on Eighty-Fifth.” She gave him the address. “Say seven o’clock?”

“See you then.”

She clicked off and set the phone back down on the desk. She rose and went to the window, pulled back the heavy drapes, and eyed Central Park across the street. The leaves were turning, the crowds were thinning, and the overcoats were getting heavier. The rain had started, just a drizzle, but the darkening skies promised more foul weather later. It was in this sort of weather that the city was at its most grimy. The black and dirt and filth were revealed in all their abundance.