Beloved Enemy (17 page)

Now, as she prepared the document on Connaston for Deckard, she scoured her system for any signs that she had been caught out while hacking into a server that belonged jointly to Connaston and the Syrian. To her relief, she found nothing, but as she was e-mailing the file, she heard the telltale
ding
of her alarm.

Someone was trying to gain entrance to her encrypted network.

*   *   *

Jack’s head was clearing faster now. “Make for the front of the building,” he said.

“Of course,” Jaidee cried. “The bamboo scaffolding!”

They hurried across the roof, over the parapet, and onto the scaffolding just as a police vehicle pulled up below, disgorging a pair of uniformed men. But as they were heading for the front door, another car—this one unmarked—arrived from the opposite direction. Four suits got out, one of whom went up to the uniforms and showed them his ID. A short discourse from him sent them back to their cruiser, which backed up to a cross street and vanished.

“Special Branch?” Jaidee whispered in Jack’s ear.

He nodded. They had remained motionless, hanging high above the street, their presence hidden by the webwork of bamboo poles. The moment the suits went into the building, Jack and Jaidee descended to one of several platforms. Though narrow, it was long enough to accommodate half a dozen workers. At one end, Jack saw, neatly folded and stacked, a pile of canvas jumpsuits the workers had left overnight.

Moments later, he and Jaidee had climbed into a pair of them. Hers was comically overlarge for her petite frame until she turned up the cuffs on legs and sleeves, and, in the end, the two of them could pass a cursory inspection as maintenance workers.

Invisible beneath their camouflage, they made their way down to the street as quickly as was practical.

“No sign of the gunman,” Jack said after a quick but thorough scan. “He must have fled the moment he heard the sirens.”

“They’re coming!” Jaidee said, listening at the front door.

She and Jack strolled across the street, joining the crowd that was shouldering one another to check out the unusual activity. At Jack’s urging, Jaidee asked several bystanders what was going on. Drug bust, prostitution ring, terrorist hideout were some of the guesses. No one, however, was in a position to know the facts.

Taking her hand, he wormed them back toward the fringes of the crowd, and by the time the officers of Special Branch’s Naresuan 261 had emerged from the building at a run, sprinting into the alley where the cyclist had landed, Jack and Jaidee had melted away into the greater chaos of the city.

*   *   *

Dr. Karalian stayed late at the Assumption of Mary Clinic, as he often did, to play a game of chess against himself. Over the years, he had discovered that he needed several hours to decompress from his long, psychically stressful day, before he ventured home to deal with his ongoing family issues. Nothing relaxed him the way chess did. He became instantly absorbed in the board warfare, in the complex strategy that would lead to victory or the death of your king. This was one of the reasons he treasured his friendship with Dyadya Gourdjiev. Karalian was a chess master. In fact, such was his skill that he might have become a grand master, had he not chosen to pursue medicine. In all his playing time, he had not encountered anyone who could match his skill at long-range strategy, save for Gourdjiev.

Even as he worked on strategy, Karalian mourned the passing of his friend. He was thinking of the envelope Gourdjiev had left with him, which had “To Be Opened in the Event of My Death” scrawled across it in Gourdjiev’s cramped hand. Inside were just a few lines, along with another, smaller envelope sealed with a blob of red wax. He had memorized the lines before burning the letter, as Gourdjiev had instructed him. The ritual, though brief, had only exacerbated his sorrow. Hearing his friend’s voice again, from beyond the grave, had reminded him with great poignancy of how much they had meant to each other. His sadness was mitigated somewhat by the knowledge of how completely the old man trusted him. The moment he had read the letter, he was determined to justify Gourdjiev’s faith in him.

He was mulling these thoughts as he took one of black’s bishops with his white knight, an unorthodox move whose virtue and influence he and Gourdjiev had spent hours debating. He smiled to himself, the echoes of their friendly arguments resounding in his ears. Their last titanic struggle would forever remain an unfinished match.

It was at just this moment that a shadow fell across the lamp-illuminated chessboard. He looked up to see a familiar figure standing over him.

“How on earth did you get in here, Mr. Cardozian?”

The Syrian smiled, not unkindly. “There are ways into every place, even fortresses,” he said. “And this is hardly a fortress.”

Karalian sat back and sighed. Then he gestured to the chair opposite him, where Dyadya Gourdjiev used to sit during their matches. “Now that you’re here, what can I do for you?”

The Syrian pointedly remained standing. “I came for the truth, Dr. Karalian.”

Karalian’s brows knitted together. “The truth about what?”

“About why Annika was really here.”

“You told me that you were her protector.”

“Among other things.”

“It’s been my impression that Ms. Dementieva is someone least likely to need a protector.”

“You’re wrong in your assessment.”

“I am not,” Dr. Karalian said. “I know her better than you think.” He rose now, standing face to face with his visitor. “And as for truth telling, I doubt very much your real name is Cardozian.”

“My name is irrelevant,” the Syrian said.

“I doubt Ms. Dementieva would think so.” Karalian looked around. “Is she here?”

The Syrian’s arm moved in a blurred arc, sweeping all the chess men onto the floor.

“That was rather childish,” Karalian said, “don’t you think?”

“How about this?” the Syrian said, drawing a 9mm Glock from its shoulder holster and aiming at Karalian. “Is this childish?”

Karalian’s gaze held steady on his visitor. “According to whom? Freud says it certainly is.”

“Freud is dead, doctor. And so will you be unless you answer my question.”

For a long, drawn-out moment, Karalian was silent. Then he licked his lips and said, “I didn’t lie. Ms. Dementieva came to tell me about her grandfather’s death.”

“But that’s not all she came for, is it?”

Again the hesitation, shorter this time. “No,” Karalian said. “It isn’t.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

Karalian glanced away for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Ms. Dementieva came to see someone here.”

“An inmate.”

Dr. Karalian winced. “They are patients, Mr.—Whateveryournameis—they aren’t inmates.”

“Are they free to leave whenever they wish?”

“For the vast majority of our patients, a premature release would not be advisable.”

“In other words, they are inmates.” The Syrian sneered. “So who did Annika come to see?”

“Her husband, Rolan.”

“You’re lying.” The Syrian took a threatening step toward Karalian; nevertheless, all the color had drained from his face. “Rolan is dead.”

“Well, it’s true that he was on the point of death when he was brought here,” Karalian said. “But he survived his terrible ordeal.” His bright eyes surveyed the Syrian’s face. “I was never told precisely what happened to him, but I’m willing to bet you know.”

The Syrian waved his Glock. “Take me to him.”

Karalian appeared alarmed. “Now? I don’t advise it.”

“I don’t give a shit. I want to look him in the face.”

Karalian acquiesced. “Very well.”

*   *   *

Annika awoke in the Usta Park hotel suite she shared with Iraj Namazi to find him gone. She had jerked herself awake from a dream where she had been systematically slaughtering a lamb, whose bleats of terror and agony had followed her into her waking life.

The open door to the bathroom revealed only darkness. All at once, she was gripped by a sense of foreboding. Ripping aside the bedclothes, she dressed, then went down the silent, deserted hallway, stopping in front of the door to another room. She pounded on the door, called Fareed’s name, but there was no answer. By this time, she didn’t expect any.

Taking the elevator to the lobby, she inquired of the night clerk, who told her that both Iraj and Fareed had left the hotel over an hour ago. She cursed under her breath. She had a pretty good idea of where they had gone.

“I need a car,” Annika said to the night clerk.

“I’m terribly sorry, madam, but—”

He stopped in his tracks as she put down three hundred-dollar bills. Instantly, they were swept off the countertop. In their place, the clerk plunked down a set of keys. “Dark-blue Fiat. Fourth car from the front in the employees’ car park. It’s my car so be careful—” But Annika was already past the sliding glass doors.

The hotel was twenty miles from Altindere National Park and the Assumption of Mary Clinic. For a terrorist, Iraj liked his creature comforts; not for him the fetid Damadola caves of Afghanistan. But then Iraj was nothing if not a knot of contradictions. It seemed to her that only her grandfather fully understood him.

The night wind brought with it the mineral smells of the Black Sea, as well as the ephemeral scents of areca palms and sand, which carpeted much of the red topsoil. The Fiat started up without difficulty. Grateful for the full tank of gas, she let out the clutch, geared up, and got herself out of the parking lot.

The moment she was outside the hotel grounds, she floored the accelerator, going flat-out down the two-lane highway toward the Altindere valley. A drive that would normally take forty minutes was accomplished in twenty-five.

She arrived at the clinic only to see Iraj emerging with another man. At first, she assumed it was Fareed, but then, as her headlights flooded them, she saw that the man with Iraj was Rolan, stumbling along beside him, blinking like an owl in sunlight. Behind them was Dr. Karalian, his head lowered in defeat.

Heart in her mouth, Annika stamped on the brake, threw the Fiat into neutral, and flung herself out of the car.

“Iraj, what do you think you’re doing?” She rushed toward them. They looked like figures out of a nightmare, and she saw again her bloody hands wrist deep in the lamb’s impossibly soft, bloody coat. She felt her world tilting away from her, sliding out of her control. “Iraj, are you insane?”

“On the contrary,” the Syrian said, “I’m liberating an inmate who was being held against his will. Someone who is as sane as you or I.”

“No, Iraj.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Karalian trying to signal her, but her concentration was fixed on the Syrian. “You can’t.”

“But I have. It’s done, Annika.”

Tears stung her eyes. She could not imagine Rolan being able to control himself in the outside world. She had seen the havoc his rages had wreaked. There was no telling how he would react or interact with others once the knowledge of where he was began to seep in. Rolan was extremely dangerous, not only to others, but also to himself.

She recalled Dr. Karalian saying to her,
“Your husband’s brain has been physically damaged. There is quite literally no available method to understand which path his mind might take.”

“What are you implying, doctor?”
she had replied in dread.
“Is Rolan insane?”

“Not yet,”
Dr. Karalian had said.
“And, one hopes, never. But I’m afraid one must be prepared for this eventuality, Ms. Dementieva. I understand your desire to bring him home, but in my opinion it would be a grave mistake. Rolan must stay here until we can assess the new pathways his mind is forging.”

Now Iraj had taken Rolan out, without any understanding of the implications or possible consequences. But her grandfather would have known, her grandfather would have known she could not sneak off here on her own without Iraj getting suspicious. Perhaps it would be Rolan who would kill Iraj; perhaps this was her grandfather’s wish. Because she could not take over the Syrian’s position if she herself killed him. His lieutenants would turn on her and kill her.

Was this the path to rid herself of Iraj and take over? If so, it was both ingenious and elegant.

All her life, she had been manipulated by men—for both good and evil. Not one of them had ever asked what it was she wanted, what it was that would make her happy. Consequently, she realized, she had never been happy—until she had met Jack McClure.

E
LEVEN

T
HE
BTS Skytrain was hurtling past Benjasiri Park when Jack’s mobile downloaded from Nona the packet on Leroy Connaston that Ripley had pieced together. Jack, and Jaidee as well, felt safer staying on the move. They had boarded the Sukhumvit Line at Thong Lor station and were now traveling east toward Siam station. It was just after 7:00 a.m., and already the Skytrain was jam-packed, taking commuters to work in the central districts. The sky was slate gray and formless. There was almost no wind.

Before he opened the packet, though, he took out the pad that had been secreted in the bedclothes Legere had been sleeping in at Connaston’s apartment. It was a small oblong of thick cream-colored sheets backed by a slab of cardboard. Leafing through the sheets, he found them all blank, but when he ran his thumb over the top sheet he felt indentations. The paper was so thick Legere must have been pressing down hard to make such an imprint.

Reaching down, Jack swiped up a fingertip of soot from the floor and gently smeared it across the face of the top sheet. What appeared in reverse relief was a line of eight numbers: 24026188. There were no spaces or any punctuation to give a clue as to what the number referred to.

“A bank account?” Jaidee said, peering around his shoulder.

“Possibly.”

The BTS pulled into the Asoke station, surrounded by ultramodern monolithic high-rises. Jack studied each person who entered. When the doors closed and the Skytrain sped on, he closed his eyes and said to Jaidee, “Read off the numbers to me.”

She did as he asked without question.