In the end, though, Sam suspected that it was really the killing of people that Gaudet intended. The computers would be a means to that end.
He took a minute to call Jill's boy, Chet, to talk about fishing, the girl next door, the next big asteroid to pass Earth, the latest German gun, and what they might do next summer on the camping trip. It was good to think about everybody being around next summer.
A maiden brings more dreams than a night in the sweat lodge.
—Tilok proverb
"I like to work alone," Gaudet said.
"We just burned down Northern Lights," Trotsky said in a rare display of impertinence. "These people aren't dummies. Stealth and brains won't be enough."
"I don't disagree. We will need more bodies. We need Raval almost as much as we need Bowden and the journals. And I'd really like to get Sam out of the game, for once and for all. If I find Bowden, I may find Sam and end that part of the matter. Raval, who knows? The aunt's gotten us nowhere. I suppose the journals are priority one. I watched Bowden's face when I had the girl. He'd trade that journal for the girl. And I'd bet the stuff about the sponge is true. But where are the journals? Cornell University? Maybe. That's the question."
Trotsky nodded and sat back.
They were in the Waldorf-Astoria. Gaudet liked traditional places such as this. All the furnishings were quality, even if older, and in the restaurants downstairs the service was ridiculously attentive. It seemed there were as many waiters as patrons. He and Trotsky dressed as a couple of ugly old women when they went to the restaurants. Normally, they used room service and only Trotsky had to play the part.
"If we are correct and Bowden will come to New York, how many associates could we use here?"
"We can't use the men involved in Cordyceps. Can we?"
"No. We can't compromise that."
"I'll make the calls."
"You have almost no accent. I need for you to do something else as well."
Although Gaudet had spent almost all his life as a contract killer, he had taken care to acquire or steal legitimate business interests and now had a small empire. Trotsky and a man who worked for Trotsky did all the day-to-day management.
Gaudet had been listening in when Trotsky, claiming to be a journalist, phoned the assistant to Bowden's editor at his publishing house. Before the call Gaudet had done his homework and had found out that a writer—usually—would know his editor better than anyone else at the publishing company. If it was a senior editor, such as Rebecca Toussant, then she would have an assistant. These helpers often knew more than they were supposed to tell. In this case the young woman, Sherry Montgomery, had stuck to the script but sounded nervous at the name Michael Bowden. The denial that she knew anything of Michael Bowden's whereabouts was casual and studied, so there was no way to be certain that they were expecting a visit from Bowden. But in Gaudet's mind it was a reasonable bet. He had heard something in that young woman's voice, and when he played the tapes, he heard it again.
Gaudet then contacted a literary agent and explained that he was a French journalist researching the American publishing scene. After a half hour or so of interviewing the agent, Gaudet learned that if a big author like Bowden came to New York, there might be a book signing at the downtown Barnes & Noble. Such arrangements were normally made months in advance but could be made on much shorter notice if the number of books that could be sold were significant.
Trotsky called the community events person at the mid-town Manhattan Barnes & Noble and advised them that he had it on good authority that Michael Bowden was coming to New York and might do a signing. The lady reported that she knew nothing of any such signing but would check with the publisher. Trotsky explained that he would call back if they would be so kind as to check out the rumored signing. Next Gaudet had Trotsky make a similar call to a
New York Times
reporter at the arts desk, who also promised to check out the story.
The next day Trotsky called Rebecca Toussant's assistant.
"We understand that Bowden's signing is on the twenty-second."
"I don't know anything about a signing. People keep talking about it... but I don't know... but he won't be here until... Well, if he were to come... Actually, I really don't know anything about Mr. Bowden's schedule. We haven't heard from him in weeks."
"Well, I appreciate that. He
is
from the Amazon."
"He certainly is."
"Well, thanks anyway and good day."
Trotsky had done well. Clearly, Bowden was due in New York and the girl even knew when. That meant Sam would be around. And Gaudet would be waiting.
Sam walked through La Guardia International Airport on his way to the taxi, having flown in from LA. Using his cell phone he called Jill.
"We have a new problem," she started right out. "The CIA wants, and I quote, 'to know why the hell you sent the SDECE to investigate a report of a plot on the U.S.' "
"What are you talking about?"
"Apparently, the Turks have a guy who thought he had seen Gaudet. According to the CIA, the reports from Turkey indicated that the informant really didn't know much. Also they suspected he had been severely tortured and under those circumstances they were just as happy to have us do the initial interview. If it turned out there was something there, they could come along after the guy was cleaned up. I guess the Turks plugged his testicles into a wall socket, among other tricks. Figuring that since we were working Gaudet, and with the low priority and the torture and whatnot, it would be fine if we went. Only we didn't go and somehow the French did. There were pissed-off phone calls between the Turks and the CIA and Figgy Meeks right in the middle of it. The Feds are a little reluctant to criticize Figgy, since he was one of their own and they sent him to us. So they've decided they're pissed at us."
"Get me Figgy," Sam said, doing a slow burn.
"I thought of that. He's waiting for our call. He's at the French place in the UN."
After a few rings Figgy picked up. "Figgy, this is Sam," Jill said.
"Figgy, what are you doing to me?"
"Well, I made a tactical error. The French were right near Turkey and, well, I figured—"
"I don't believe this. You took a call at my office from the CIA?"
"Well, yeah. I was in the office and Jill was taking a snooze, and, hell, I was one of them."
"That's the last call you're taking. You called your French buddies and sent them and then you gave them the imprimatur of the CIA. I can't believe this. I'm speechless."
"I won't make that mistake again. It just seemed efficient. They said he knew very little. It isn't like it was a big-deal interview. And if it was, Alfawd is dead."
"Figgy, you haven't behaved like a friend."
"What's that mean?"
"It means I can't trust you." Sam hung up, fuming, wondering if he could kick the French out of the group; then he realized he couldn't. Figgy would eventually sell his "tactical error" line to the CIA, and the Feds still had some irrational favor they felt they owed the French, or they were trying to buy something, or... damn... what a mess. Climbing into the taxi, he got Jill back on the line.
"Don't let my great friend and mentor, Figgy Meeks, back in without an escort. He does no work in our office. Take him off anything to do with the journals and make sure Professor Lyman knows that Figgy has nothing to do with Bowden's journals. Let him stay at the French digs. And get a report of what the French found. It'll be a false piece of crap. Arrange for one of our people, Jim maybe, to try to see the guy, Alfawd, assuming the Turks will talk to us. Figgy claims he's dead but let's make sure."
"Right
Sam sighed.
"Sam, I'm sorry. I mean about your friendship with
Figgy"
"I know."
He hung up and mentally worked his way through his schedule. The plan was that he and Anna would meet Grady and Michael and then take Anna's charter jet directly from Republic Airport on Long Island to her ranch. He was having misgivings about leaving headstrong Michael and Grady in New York.
Sam first saw Anna standing on the tarmac with a strand of her hair blowing gently in the breeze. But for the errant strands her hair was pulled back tight into a ponytail, her face bright with excitement. The radiance was natural to her, nothing she consciously arranged, and it was the spontaneity of it that made her so attractive. He loved it when she dressed plainly, without baubles and makeup and all the trappings, and it was this way that she too preferred to dress. But he didn't enjoy her for long, his gaze wandering over the landscape looking for killers even as they made lovers small talk. If it wasn't killers, it was paparazzi. And if it wasn't them, he had to worry about the pilots and about Michael and what they might suspect or observe regarding his relationship with Anna. If the press learned about him and Anna, life as he knew it was over. Everything about Sam depended on anonymity.
For some reason private jets made him feel uncomfortable of late. Especially when Anna brought them. Since he wasn't going anywhere, there was no sense thinking about it, so he shook it off.
"God, am I looking forward to kicking back with you," Anna said. Sam hadn't yet told Anna that he had decided minutes before that he didn't dare leave New York even for a weekend. He noticed Anna's pilots watching and the arrival of curious bystanders. Something about Anna's face or her body language was begging to be touched, maybe to have him put his arm around her or hold her hand, maybe a quick kiss.
"I think we should go riding tomorrow," she said. He knew she would love getting on Toby, her big chestnut gelding, and that made it all the harder to tell her that he couldn't leave.
"That would be so good," he said.
"I have some surprises for you when we get to the ranch."
"Well, I have some surprises for you. But before we discuss surprises, I was wondering if maybe we could spend the weekend in Manhattan and see each other in the evening."
"Manhattan? But we talked about the ranch... the horses ... sitting by the fire...."
"I know. And I really wanted to."
He let her work her way through the disappointment.
"I bought a book to read to you, it is a book of Native American lore on the subject of love, and if that fails us, due to cultural disconnect, I have some selected Shakespeare's sonnets, and a bottle of Turley zinfandel. I'm going to give you a back rub to your favorite music." Sam offered this in a low voice, which was nearly a whisper, because other travelers stood about twenty feet behind them. He knew he sounded uncomfortable about the Shakespeare.
Despite the audience he took her hand and gave her his best look.
"You are a thoughtful man and so prepared... bringing things to read.... The forethought... it's so charmingly old-fashioned. Manhattan will be great. And since when did you start reading Shakespeare?" He knew she was forcing herself not to complain that he would be working.
"I didn't. I thought I would try. You keep saying he's good with words. We can always switch to Nelson DeMille."
Anna laughed now and then looked at him. He couldn't quite read her feelings, but he knew they were good.
"You know that I would like to hold you."
"I know," she said, but there was the slightest hint of disappointment. No doubt she would trade one good public hug and kiss, a sort of public proclamation, for all of the poetry.
"You know reading poetry is not an Indian thing for a man to do to impress a woman."
"Let's pull your pants down and check to see if they're shrinking," she joked, then patted him on the back. "I'm sure your status as a strong and brave man is intact. A little poetry won't shrivel them. Since you Indians don't bring ponies anymore, I suppose the manly thing would be to take me for a ride in Blue Hades and show me sliding turns. I think I'll go for the poetry. So where in Manhattan do you have in mind? My place?"
"You know I like your place."
He began to walk toward a Lincoln model Town Car cab and nodded at the pilots, who already had the idea. They began unloading her luggage. As they walked, she said: "So who are you today? Maybe you could be Kalok Wintripp? Personally, I like that name. We could have a sort of coming out of the closet party for you and unveil your real name."
It was a mild rebuke.
"How about if I leak to
People
magazine that you're pregnant with frozen semen from the chairman of the Republican National Committee," Sam bantered.
"Now that we're on the subject, it's probably a good time to bring it up."
"What?"
"I'm pregnant by you, Sam."
Sam stopped and whirled her around, looking in her eyes, and what he saw sent him tumbling into a whole new world.