Downfall (40 page)

I
T DIDN’T WORK.”
A man, tall, muscled, with darkish blond hair and eyeglasses, stood at a window and watched the surf slide in over the flat of an empty beach.

“As hostile takeovers go,” said the woman standing next to him, “I suppose we could have been more hostile. Gone in with guns blazing. I’m not sure that would have worked.”

“Encouraging Glenn Marchbanks to take over didn’t work, either,” the man in glasses said. “But that network would have been a nice acquisition for us.”

“Very hard to maintain without its creator. Successful people are so much more demanding than those that are hungry. I still don’t think this Belias would have ever worked for us. We gave him that CIA file and he didn’t know what to do with it.”

“Belias was at heart a hacker, not a leader. He kept that network together through fear and guilt, not inspiration. And they were showing their hand to anyone who looked. I don’t think we were the only group aware of Belias’s little collection of modern-day Fausts. I think there was another interested party sniffing around them.”

“We could try to duplicate Belias’s approach.”

“We could.” The man in glasses sighed. “But it’s an investment of many years to own so many successful people.”

“And to own Sam Capra.”

The man in glasses watched the sea.

“Because you didn’t want him dead. You wanted to own him.”

The man in glasses watched the sky.

“If you’ll excuse me, you seem slightly obsessed with him, and I’m afraid his charms are lost on me. A CIA agent who was only there for three years and let go. They only toss out the bad apples, you know that. And perhaps if you’d just ordered him killed straightaway, he wouldn’t have ruined our takeover attempt.” The woman didn’t bother to hide the disappointment in her voice. “We’d own the vice president now if it wasn’t for your sentimentality. And, darling, you are not normally sentimental.”

The man in glasses watched the beach.

“What makes Sam Capra so special?” the woman finally said.

“Someday I’ll tell you,” the man in glasses said, and he turned to look out at the surf.

The woman leaned against him and rubbed his arm in the cool of the night breeze. Every few seconds her moving hand covered the small tattoo below his elbow, a nine with a sunburst in its center.

T
HE KIDS FINALLY ANSWERED
to their new names. They liked Goa; it was full of Europeans and a few Americans—hippies, students, people wanting a break from the incessant rat race of the West. There were more children than you would think and the beaches were beautiful, and for the first time in a long while, Holly felt like she wasn’t trapped, chirping in a golden cage. She read good books from the library (there were plenty in English), she went for long walks along the ocean as the surf called its gentle song, she listened to the polite gossip of her landlady who enjoyed practicing her English and was trying to minimize her accent.

Her name was Rosie now, Peter was Paul, Emma was Ellie. Their last name was Grayson. She had managed to get out a lot of her money, transferring it to a Caymans bank, then on to a Swiss numbered account that steadily fed a small, discreet account in Goa. Enough to stay for a while. And then, in six months, they would go to Thailand, with new Canadian passports she would arrange, and then maybe New Zealand once they had a history established. She might get a job as a teacher. Something where she could do good.

She walked back into the cottage from the beach, the sky blue as an eye, the wind a kiss off the sea, and when she came into her dining room, Sam Capra sat at the table.

He held a gun in his hand.

She froze. She knew her new life might collapse but she thought it would be the police. She had seen that weeks ago Marjorie
Henderson
had resigned the vice presidency, and there had been news in the English-language papers about a spate of top business leaders resigning under sudden and surprising clouds.

“Hello, Holly,” he said. “This house is much smaller than the one in Tiburon.”

“Yet I like it much better.” She wet her lips. “Come uninvited into my house twice and it’s a habit.”

“You have this habit of being a liar.”

She set her bags down on the small tile counter.

“You shot Mila. Not Felix.”

“Yes.”

Sam raised the gun toward her.

“Are you going to kill me in front of my kids?”

“Your kids aren’t here.”

“They’ll be home in a few minutes. The school lets them come home for lunch.”

Sam looked at her like he was trying to decide whether or not to leave her body for the kids to find. She braced herself against the counter.

“I was surprised there are no weapons in the house, Holly. I checked.”

“No. I’m done with that.”

“If I let you go, I let a murderer go.”

Her voice was calm. “I didn’t mean to kill Diana. It was an accident. And Janice was self-defense.”

“But I’m not here for Diana or Janice.”

Holly nodded. “I panicked. You’d lied to us that Mila was dead. You’d gone to the trouble to fake it. I was sure she was springing a trap.” Holly hesitated. “Did she die?”

“No. I don’t think I’ll ever get to see her again. All the time Belias asked me what I wanted…” Sam steadied his voice. “And it turns out you took from me the one thing I wanted, other than my son.”

“Do what you must.” She held his gaze steady.

Sam Capra’s expression didn’t change. Slowly he lowered the gun. “Your kids are innocent, the way Diana was. I’m not going to make things harder for your children. But if you ever breathe a word about me to anyone, if you ever come near me or Mila again, I’ll kill you.”

“I won’t.”

“I won’t come looking for you again, in that case.”

Sam Capra was giving her life. She tried not to tremble. “I won’t. I promise.”

“I can’t make that promise for Mila’s…family. They will not be so forgiving. They won’t hurt your kids. But they might kill you.”

Holly paled.

“You’ll spend your life looking over your shoulder, Holly. But maybe that is the price you’re supposed to pay. That’s your downfall.” Sam Capra got up and walked out into the bright sunshine on the beach, the sky blue above him.

And Holly thought,
I’m still in a cage
.

I walked away, the ocean a blue shimmer, a group of European women and small children playing in the white-capped surf. Peter and Emma Marchbanks ran past me toward home. They didn’t glance at me and I didn’t glance at them. Holly had done all she had because she wanted something better for her children. The problem had been her road to heaven was paved with bad intentions. Now their perfect lives were gone, but at least they might have a life full of honesty.

My road wasn’t any easier. I still had the bars but Jimmy might take those away from me at any moment. I could fight him if I knew who else in the Round Table I could turn to with my accusations. I had no evidence, only conjecture.

Or, like Holly, I could try and run. Vanish. Walk away forever. Make a new life for Daniel. Leonie might run with us. Or she might resent any such attempt on my part to vanish. She wanted normalcy with Daniel as her surrogate son. If I took that away from her, what would she do?

Mila was married to a man who was capable of nearly anything. His calculations had nearly gotten us both killed. But would she even believe me if I told her? If I ever had the chance to tell her?

I was afraid of Jimmy. He was afraid of me. For now, a détente. Until I could decide what to do.

I returned to the airport in Dabolim and called home. Leonie was fine, her voice bright. Daniel cooed and gurgled and made spit noises and laughed. I cooed and made daddy noises, telling him I’d be home soon, very soon.

I hung up. Why couldn’t I have both? A safe home to return to and the world to roam. This was a world where the bad guys still lurked in shadow but held more power, more wealth, than ever before. Where they wore a kind of mask of respectability to the world.

I still wanted to be the man who tore those masks free from the shadows. For Daniel, for all the kids. Holly and Glenn and Janice had made the mistake of thinking only of a better house, a better school, a better career.

I wanted, for Daniel, a better world.

I studied the arrivals and departures screen and decided.

I bought my ticket; but not to New Orleans. I owned a bar in Mumbai. I hadn’t been there yet. And I thought I could use a drink.

Many thanks to Mitch Hoffman, Jade Chandler, Daniel Mallory, Peter Ginsberg, Shirley Stewart, Jamie Raab, David Shelley, Ursula Mackenzie, Deb Futter, Lindsey Rose, Beth deGuzman, Siobhan Padgett, Sonya Cheuse, Thalia Proctor, Brad Parsons, Anthony Goff, Michele McGonigle, Christine M. Farrell, Dave Barbor, Holly Frederick, Sarah LaPolla, and the terrific teams at Grand Central Publishing and Little, Brown UK.

Also thanks to those who kindly helped me with my questions: Laura Lippman, Sherrie Saint (Director of Investigations, Alabama Dept. of Forensic Sciences), Commander Lea Militello (San Francisco Police Department), Bevan Dufty, JT Ellison, Tom Perrault, Karl Scholz, Marcia Gagliardi, and Ashley Schumann. Errors or bendings of truth for dramatic purposes are my fault, not theirs. Very special thanks to Leslie, Charles, and William, as always.

Jeff Abbott is the
New York Times
bestselling, award-winning author of thirteen novels. His books include the Sam Capra thrillers
Adrenaline
and
The Last Minute
, as well as the stand-alone novels
Panic
,
Fear
, and
Collision
.
The Last Minute
won an International Thriller Writers award, and Jeff is also a three-time nominee for the Edgar award. He lives in Austin with his family. You can visit his website at www.jeffabbott.com.

Sam Capra series

Adrenaline

The Last Minute

Whit Mosley series

A Kiss Gone Bad

Black Jack Point

Cut and Run

Other fiction

Panic

Fear

Collision

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Welcome
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One: Wednesday, November 3
1
2
3
Part Two: Thursday, November 4
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
Part Three: Friday, November 5
12
13
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21
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25
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Part Four: Saturday, November 6
38
39
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Part Five: Sunday, November 7
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70
71
72
73
Part Six: Monday, November 8
74
75
76
77
Part Seven: Last Days
78
79
80
81
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Jeff Abbott
Newsletters
Copyright