Deadly Seduction (14 page)

Jakarta, Indonesia
September 22

“One last thing.” As was his custom after pocketing his payoff, this snitch—who freaking believed in value-added service—offered a free tidbit. “People are asking about Harry Gambrel again. Lots of cash, U.S., being flashed.”

The man seated across from the snitch was careful not to react. Was this a trap?

It didn’t feel like one.

First and foremost the snitch was a mercenary. If he had any inkling that he was in the presence of the man formerly known as Harry Gambrel, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. The snitch would be off someplace, happily counting
lots of cash, U.S.

Harry shrugged. “Seeing as we’ve both heard that name tossed around before, I’m curious who they’re really looking for.”
Wait for it.

Squinting, the snitch scratched his forehead. “An associate of Gambrel’s perhaps?” His eyes widened. “Yeah, the old bait and switch. Like the time they claimed to be looking for Dax Harlton. His ex–old lady popped her nose out of a hole, hoping to make some fast cash, and whammo! They nailed her. You know the real kicker? Dax was dead.”

Stupid fuck.
Harry stood and prepared to leave. “You might be on to something.”

Both men reached for the tab simultaneously. Another custom: the snitch liked to act as if he intended to pick it up. Harry watched the snitch’s gaze drift from his own bare wrist to Harry’s gold Rolex Submariner.

“I’ve got it covered,” Harry sneered. “No worries.”

After taking more extreme measures than usual to assure he wasn’t being followed, Harry grabbed a cab and headed downtown, confident that his disguise remained effective. Multiple plastic surgeries, new dental veneers, hair dye, and colored contacts assured he looked nothing like the two-year-old photographs the CIA was likely circulating. Hell, he looked damn good now.

The news that the Agency had again ramped up their search for him was old. Ever since Dante Johnson had
miraculously
escaped Viktor Zadovsky’s custody, the interest in Johnson’s fellow missing operatives had heated up. Max Duncan’s reemergence, however, had sent it off the charts.

Jesus, if Zadovsky was still alive, Harry would rip him to shreds with his bare hands. Granted, the fact the two men had been partners in crime—partners in ripping off
others
—should have been a clue that Zadovsky might not be trustworthy. Unfortunately, Zadovsky had played to Harry’s one weakness: He’d thrown money in the air and Harry had chased the whirling bills like a cheap whore.

As Harry had recently discovered, the lying, cheating bastard had been screwing him from the get-go. Zadovsky had diverted virtually all of their joint funds while showing Harry falsified bank records.

“You can’t take it with you” didn’t apply to other people’s money.

And if being personally swindled wasn’t bad enough, Zadovsky’s suicide had left Harry holding the bag on several other deals.

Luckily, most of the clients who’d made advance payments for one of Zadovsky’s nasty biohazard recipes quickly wrote off the loss at word of his death to avoid guilt by association.

The one huge exception was Minh Tran, who had fronted Harry a large deposit and expected another shipment of SugarCane, a potent opium byproduct that had taken the recreational drug world by storm. Produced in small quantities, demand far exceeded supply. ’Cane was known for its trademark superior high that lasted for hours. No crash and burn. Its utopian, performance-enhancing qualities made it a pleasant-seeming addiction.

Then there had been the promise of JumpJuice, a new chemically altered amphetamine that Zadovsky touted as the next perfect drug. A single drop under the tongue lasted for hours.

Minh Tran had already paid handsomely for the exclusive right to distribute SugarCane and was drooling over similar rights for JumpJuice. The ’Cane had proved wildly profitable for all of them these last two years.

Then Zadovsky committed suicide.
Bastard.

In the flash of a coward’s bullet, Harry was bankrupt. Adding insult to injury, it had taken nearly two weeks for word of Zadovsky’s death to reach Harry, who’d been in hiding at Abe Caldwell’s insistence after Dante Johnson resurfaced.

By the time Harry got back to Indonesia, Zadovsky’s lab and personal residence in Jakarta had been wiped clean. He suspected the Indonesian government had most of the lab records even though publicly the government repudiated Zadovsky, claimed he was in the country on a forged passport.
Plausible deniability.
The Indonesians didn’t want anyone to know about their secret deals with Zadovsky either.

“Pull over. You can let me out here.”

The cab stopped near a busy open-air market and Harry climbed out. He pretended to wander, then took a convoluted route back to his hotel.

Alone in his room, he ordered a meal from room service while his laptop powered up. The RAM-hungry security programs that ghosted his cybertrail seemed to take forever to settle in.

Among other things, he was expecting an update from Abe Caldwell on the status of Max Duncan and the mystery man extracted with him.

Talk about another stunning betrayal by Zadovsky!

It was now painfully apparent that Zadovsky had been conducting dual experiments—one set in Jakarta for Abe Caldwell’s benefit and another set in the secret Thai laboratory run by Dr. Rufin.

It didn’t take a nuclear physicist to figure out where the real research was being conducted. Did the CIA have any idea what had been lost when they blew up Rufin’s lab?

As it was, the research data the CIA supposedly had—if indeed they’d gotten Rufin’s laptop—was the equivalent of a gold mine. A gold mine Harry should have inherited as Zadovsky’s silent partner.

Damn it! That was twice in one year he’d been cheated out of an inheritance. Harry’s old man was probably sitting in hell, laughing his ass off.

Ephraim Gambrel had never forgiven his only son for leaving the family farm after high school. Harry hated farming and predicted his old man would go belly up along with all the other Midwest farmers. But the stubborn old coot had held on, and just before succumbing to cancer last year, Ephraim sold the farm for millions when a rare mineral deposit was discovered.

The real salt in the wound, however, was learning that Ephraim had left his entire estate to Harry’s ex-wife, Gena. Of course, Ephraim probably would have done that even if he’d known Harry was alive.

It was one more score to even with the cheating bitch. Provided he lived that long. If Minh Tran caught up with him, Harry would die before ever getting a shot at settling with Gena.

Room service arrived just as his laptop beeped, signaling an all clear. His appetite now diminished, Harry opened the soda he’d ordered and moved to his computer.

Methodically checking e-mail accounts, he read and deleted threat after threat. Everyone wanted a piece of his alter ego, Mr. Peabody, the name he’d used to conduct business on Zadovsky’s behalf. That Harry had a new persona,
Doug Harold
, didn’t stop him from monitoring the old Peabody accounts.

Switching browsers, he logged on to a different e-mail account. Abe Caldwell had sent another e-mail that didn’t amount to much more than a rant about how important it was that they locate Dr. Rufin before
the competition
did. Like Harry wasn’t exhausting every means already.

Since only a select few even knew about Rufin’s liaison with Zadovsky, the only competition Harry considered real was the CIA. They had the most at stake and were better equipped than anyone else. Or at least they used to be.

A major disadvantage of faking his own death was that he no longer had direct access within the Agency. Abe Caldwell had some inside connections of his own, but it wasn’t the same. And it made Harry nervous.

The longer a mole remained inside, the greater the risk of discovery. The Agency’s best protection against leaks was the fact they expected them. A constant undercurrent of paranoia kept everyone on their toes. The Agency also played a pretty mean shell game. More than once their disinformation techniques had fooled their own operatives.

As far as Harry was concerned, everything the CIA said was questionable. They might have Rufin in custody…or they might not. Same with seized hard drives and missing
John Does
.

Frustrated, Harry started to log off his laptop. Then he recalled one little-used account. He hadn’t heard from Bohdana, Zadovsky’s former secretary, in a while. She always went radio silent after a fight and she’d been royally pissed the last time they’d talked.

Harry had smuggled her out of Jakarta, where she’d been in hiding following Zadovsky’s death. Not quite ready to be rid of her, Harry had set her up in a Bangkok slum. Her loyalty came cheap enough: the promise of marriage. He trusted her as much as he could trust anyone, which meant he was always cautious.

As Zadovsky’s secretary, Bohdana had played the dumb bimbo perfectly. If Zadovsky had been seducible, she would have slept with him had Harry told her to.

He found one e-mail from her, dated a few hours ago. Clicking the
IN
box, he read the subject line:
FROM YOUR LOVING NIECE
.

Suddenly alert, he leaned forward. That Bohdana had written meant all was forgiven. Like he cared.
That she’d written in code meant something else.

He copied her e-mail to a separate program so the original appeared unread. Then he opened the copy.

He deciphered the code he’d taught her, then reread the message. Dr. Rufin had sent her an e-mail asking for her help in getting out of Thailand!

Harry stood and paced to the window. Tempering his excitement was the perpetual question: Was this legit or was it a trap?

Who the hell knew anymore?

One thing was certain: He was long overdue for a bit of a break. And while he never relied on luck, he did acknowledge its existence. The old adage that even a blind squirrel occasionally found a nut manifested more often than blind squirrels believed.

Tugging out his cell phone, he punched in a number, and hit
SEND
.

Southern California
September 22

Max drove due east, his thoughts changing like the landscape outside the car’s windows. They’d gone from the shore near the Pacific Ocean, through the desert, and were now headed into the mesas and mountains of southwest Arizona. Mesas and mountains that were familiar. Had he lived here?

The magic eight ball that seemed to be his mind turned up the following reply:
No answer. Ask again later.

Damn it! It was bad enough that the last two years had been stolen from him, but not to know where he’d lived before that? There was no tug of home and hearth. No sense that he had left a heritage or that he belonged any one place. Maybe he’d been a rolling stone. Maybe that’s where this pull he felt to
keep going
came from.

While his ultimate destination continued to evade him, the direction felt right. Heading east also got them farther from San Diego.

Erin had remained quiet since learning about Winchette’s death. They had obviously been close. Or had they? He remembered she said her father worked with Winchette, that they’d been friends.
Once.
As if maybe they hadn’t been later on.

Max didn’t share her grief or whatever she felt, but he allowed her space.

He used the driving time to think—or not think—which became an experiment of sorts.

Trying to recall virtually anything from his past gave him a headache. And rather than risk the pain escalating to the point of blinding him, he would purposely switch his thoughts to something different—the billboards, other cars, numbers, Erin—until the pain receded.

Interestingly, after dropping the effort to remember details, he was frequently rewarded with a clue about the same matter.
Boom!
A bit of data would surface in his mind.

Unfortunately, the phenomenon wasn’t consistent. When he tried to do it more intentionally, he failed.

That same lack of consistency applied to other areas, like trying to read Erin’s mind. One moment her thoughts were transparent, easy to slip between. She’d been thinking about her father and Dr. Winchette working together. The moment after that, he’d hit a brick wall.

The same brick wall he kept hitting every time he attempted to reach Taz. Was Taz having this problem, too? Or did the problem lie within Max? Had this head injury/amnesia bullshit that was disrupting his memory also screwed up the link to Taz?

Or was something wrong on Taz’s end? Was Taz injured? Unconscious? Dead?

A memory of Rufin warning against interrupting Taz’s procedure came to mind. What had Rufin meant by that? Jesus, had Max inadvertently short-circuited his friend’s brain?

Max’s headache spiraled. Immediately, he shifted his attention back to the road.

They were traveling a dusty two-lane highway. Avoiding the more heavily patrolled interstate meant slowing down as they passed through tiny towns. Which gave Max a chance to watch for another vehicle.

Assuming the worst case meant he had to presume the CIA had already discovered where he’d left Erin’s rental car. A quick rewind on the security tapes from the remote parking lot meant they’d also know exactly what Max had driven off in. The camper-pickup was now a liability. And they’d likely be watching other airport parking lots, too.

Good thing there were plenty of other choices.

He circled the block and pulled around behind an old filling station. The
CLOSED
sign in the front window wasn’t what caught his eye. The portable sign near the road had.
CONSTRUCTION AUCTION SAT
.
NIGHT
, it read. Arrows pointed to the adjacent fenced-in lot filled with dump trucks, backhoes, cement mixers, and an assortment of passenger vehicles that looked destined for a junkyard.

Erin sat up. “Why are we stopping here? Did you remember where you’re supposed to meet Taz?”

“No. We need a different vehicle.”

“So you’re just going to steal another one?” The contempt in her voice was undeniable. She probably thought he was a weasel.

“Yes. I’m stealing another car.” At least he was an honest weasel.

He attempted to reach for her thoughts, but it backfired with a spike of pain. He winced.

She unbuckled her seat belt and scooted close. “Max, we need to get you to a hospital.”

“That’s not going to happen. Voluntarily at least. Look, you asked to come along. If you’d like to part ways now, you can stay here.” He didn’t want her to leave, not until they’d found Taz. Maybe not even then.

“I do want to help you.” She sounded sincere. “I just don’t want to cause anyone else harm or end up in jail.”

“You won’t. Gather our things. I’ll be right back.” Climbing out of the truck, he grabbed a few tools from the back of the camper.

The building didn’t have an alarm, and in less than a minute, Max jimmied the lock and slipped inside. Greasy gears and spare parts were scattered all over the floor. The desk was covered with tools and oil cans, but beside it was a small file cabinet marked
KEYS
/
TITLE
.

Max pried the handle lock off and tugged the drawer open. Several sets of keys were tagged
TAURUS
. He grabbed all of them, then lifted a pair of bolt cutters from the desk.

Erin sat on the truck’s bumper, their bags at her feet.

“Hang tight,” he said.

The bolt cutters worked magic on the locked fence chain. He pulled the truck inside the lot and closed the gate. The first two cars he tried had dead batteries. The third fired right up.

They didn’t speak again until Max was headed back to the interstate driving a dusty blue Taurus.

“Is that what they teach on The Farm?” she asked.

She was, of course, referring to the CIA’s covert training facility, nicknamed The Farm.

“Do you mean breaking and entering, or how to use bolt cutters?”

“Either.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Amnesia or selective memory?”

“A little of both.”

“So what next?” she asked.

“When we were being held, Taz and I agreed that if we escaped and were separated, we’d go to a special meeting place.”

“You remembered!” Her voice was animated as if she was pleased he was opening up to her. “That’s great. Where?”

“I don’t know. I’m getting everything in half measure. That’s one of the halves still missing.” Max glanced at the rearview to assure no one followed. “You mentioned hypnosis earlier. Could it help me retrieve the missing parts of my memory?”

“Possibly. Have you ever been hypnotized before?”

“No. What do you need to do it?”

She sat up straight. “Mainly, we need a quiet place. Somewhere you feel comfortable enough to relax. The process itself is fairly simple. I’ll guide you, verbally, through a series of mind and body relaxation techniques with the intent of getting you into a trancelike state. Then I’ll make suggestions that you recall previous exchanges with Taz.”

“And what if I’m not gullible enough to hypnotize?”

She gave him a look. “You need to be open to the idea, or it won’t work. It’s also not unusual for it to take more than one session. Ideally, it should be done in a clinical setting and—”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Nonetheless, as a doctor, I’m obligated to point that out.”

“I’d say our situation is beyond the scope of legal disclaimers, but you bring up a good point.” He glanced sideways at her. “You may be a doctor, but I’m not your patient, Erin. I never hired you. And if anyone assigned you by proxy, I hereby revoke it. Now here’s what I suggest: Let’s get a few more miles down the road, and then we’ll find a motel. It’s the middle of the afternoon, so most places off the interstate ought to be quiet. Worst case, we can clean up and grab a little sleep. We only got about four hours last night.”

“Is there any way I can call and get more news about Dr. Winchette? Maybe at a pay phone?”

He detected the slight catch in her voice. “We’ll come up with something. Tell me more about Dr. Winchette. You said he was an associate of your late father’s. Did you lose your father recently?”

She nodded, but didn’t elaborate. He caught a fleeting image of hostility. Had Erin and her father not gotten along well?

Max suddenly had a spontaneous memory of his own parents. “My father was an alcoholic. He died when I was twelve.”

“And your mother?”

He tried to recall her. “She…left when I was born and died a short time afterward. I’ve only seen photographs of her.”

“What about siblings? Extended family?”

A memory glimmered close, then disappeared, leaving him frustrated. “No brothers or sisters. My uncle, Stony, raised me. Stony was…a good man.” Max slowed, changing lanes. His head had started to ache again. Big surprise. “It’s strange, feeling like I have to dig for my own past.”

“Don’t push it,” Erin said. “Just let it come naturally.”

“That’s part of the problem. Nothing feels natural. Right now I feel like I have to weigh each memory to be sure it’s legit.”

“Do you feel some memories are not legitimate?”

He recalled the dream he’s woken to that morning. The dead man lying at his feet. The image returned now, but instead of a broken neck, it seemed that the man’s throat was slit.

“I’m not certain.” What he was certain of was that his headache had suddenly flared dramatically.
Don’t think and it goes away.

He directed his focus to the passing scenery. “How does that one sound?” He pointed out the window to a faded billboard. “Sunset Inn. Clean, quiet rooms. Next exit.”

“Sounds great.”

Max stopped and filled the car’s fuel tank first. Erin wasn’t hungry, but he picked up snacks and bottled water before heading for the motel.

There were two cars at the Sunset Inn. Max paid cash for the room and filled in the registration card as Mr. and Mrs. John Smith. The older gentleman behind the counter didn’t bat an eye.

They were assigned a corner room on the far end. Max brought their bags inside the musty-smelling room before fiddling with the ancient air conditioner.

“Will that be too noisy?” he asked after Erin came out of the bathroom.

“You tell me. Actually, it might help filter out road noise. White sound.”

“So how are we doing this?” He sat on the bed and watched as she pulled the heavy drapes shut. Since she’d left the bathroom light on, the room wasn’t completely dark.

She had dragged the straight-back chair in the corner closer to the bed.

“Basically, you close your eyes and follow my voice. I’ll begin with some relaxation exercises, getting you to tense then release certain muscles. Don’t try to anticipate what I’m going to say next. Just relax into the moment. It usually helps if I utilize imagery that’s relaxing and secure to you. Most people use something like floating on a cloud, or swinging in a hammock.”

“A cloud couldn’t support my weight.”

That made her smile, which in turn made him feel good. “Okay, scratch clouds,” she said. “Give me a tangible description of tranquility.”

“The ocean. A quiet beach. Not an island, though. Lots of sun.”

“Waves? Seagulls?”

“Yes on the waves. But ditch the gulls.” Max tugged off his shoes. “Can you do this without a swinging pocket watch?”

“That only happens in old movies.”

“You promise I’m not going to start barking like a dog when someone says the number three?”

“That only happens in Vegas.” She tilted her head to one side as if sensing his misgivings. “Worried?”

“Nah. Do I need to take off my clothes?”

“Max!”

“Kidding. Yeah, I am a little apprehensive.”
Little? “
Just take it easy with me, okay? This being my first time and all.”

“You’ll do fine.”

“Let me use the bathroom then.” When he came out, he noticed that Erin had grabbed the small note pad from beside the phone.

“For notes,” she said.

Max stretched out diagonally on the bed. “What kind of questions are you going to ask?”

“You want to know where you and Taz agreed to meet, right? I’ll focus on that, ask you to remember talking with him and what you discussed. I suggest we keep it simple this first time. We can do another session later.”

Max nodded. The throbbing pain was centered behind his eyes now, but he wasn’t about to mention it, for fear Erin would refuse to go further. And now that he’d made up his mind, he wanted to get on with it.

“Let’s do it.”

Pushing aside her misgivings was easier than Erin would have believed. Max agreeing to try hypnosis was major. If she stuck to her guns, insisting that it only be done in a conventional clinical setting, Max would refuse.

She hoped that if they had even a partially successful session, Max would agree to return to San Diego. She briefly considered formulating a mild suggestion that they surrender, but ultimately rejected the idea as too manipulative.

One of the basic tenets of hypnosis was transparency, honesty. They were after the truth—Max’s unadulterated memories. Neutrality on her part was crucial; that he trust her was equally crucial.

She had few expectations about the outcome, but she hid her pessimism from Max to avoid influencing his own attitude toward the process. His belief that he could go under and magically retrieve his lost memories would hopefully make it easier for him to relax.

Like a lot of people, Max misunderstood and re-sisted the notion of hypnosis. To some it smacked of silly stage acts; to others it flirted with mind control.

And if anyone had the right to fear mind control, he did.

Once he settled down, she took her time guiding him through a series of rote relaxation exercises. She was careful to keep the guided imagery of the ocean and beach quiet but not isolated.

It took almost twenty minutes before she noticed his facial muscles relaxing. The line of apprehension that had marred his brow seemed to ease right before her eyes.

“You’re safe and in full control, Max,” she repeated, before beginning another relaxation sequence to take him deeper.

When she’d finished that, his breathing was shallow and his mouth gaped open slightly.