102

WHEN A COMPANY EXEC DIES in a baseball stadium parking lot, right after an elected leader is assassinated, the case gets taken from the NYPD and the Company takes over the investigation. The Company was most interested in the nano bullets and the gun, and the shipment manifest tied to a container of cigarettes.

The fifty people I’d seen on Zaid’s computer were indeed the kids and spouses of America’s governors. No one is targeting them now, and they sleep safe in their college dorms, their beds at home, their cradles. Including Bryant Hapscomb, shielded by his father’s body; the bullet couldn’t change course fast enough. Thousands attended the governor’s funeral. He died for his child, although the world believed him to have been the target. It did not occur to anyone that a thirteen-year-old boy was the real target, and that the governor simply threw himself on his child, covering him in the same millisecond that Edward pulled the trigger.

A few days after the shootings at the stadium, I sat in the Round Table’s New York bar, an elegant space called Bluecut, drinking a Boylan Bottleworks Ginger Ale, my favorite soda, waiting for Mila to show up. The bar sat on the edge of Bryant Park, not far from the hubbub of Times Square, and it was a beauty. Perfect Connemara marble curve, fine chairs, the right tools with which to lift cocktail creation to an art. A glance, even in the early afternoon, told me that it was a Destination. Every person at the bar, every person at a table had their own story. Soft jazz—but not light jazz—filled the air, played on a grand piano by an African-American woman with a shock of blond hair and fingers delicate enough to impress Monk or Mozart. I liked this Bluecut bar a lot, but I felt itchy waiting here. I had things to do.

I ordered a Glenfiddich for Mila and had it waiting for her. She had been kept in a rental office near a port; she’d been found by a member of a Salvadoran cleaning crew. Howell had been questioning her. The burn marks on the soles of her feet were taking a long while to heal.

August slid onto the stool. He pointed at Mila’s drink. “Can I just down that?”

“It’s for my friend Mila, but go ahead.”

“If she drinks that, she’s my friend, too.”

I thought it best not to mention that Mila was the one who’d grazed him with a bullet in Amsterdam. “Go ahead, but it’s eleven in the morning,” I said. “Try the ginger ale, it’s perfectly cold and good.”

“But whisky means good tidings,” he said.

“I thought whisky was for wakes.”

“One man’s wake is another man’s good tidings,” August said. He cupped his hands around the glass. “The police identified you, you know. Lucy getting shot got captured on a security camera. They know you didn’t do it.”

“I know. They haven’t bothered me.”

“The Company sat on it. It took a lot of grease and muscle and loss of face. NYPD is quite particular about its officers being bested in terms of control of their firearms.”

I sipped my ginger ale. “So now the Company is shielding me?”

“They—we—oh hell,” August said. “None of us are fools. While I was being suffocated under the weight of New York’s finest, you were killing Howell.”

“If I did, they’re ignoring it. He’s the biggest embarrassment to the Company since—”

“Since Lucy. You can say it.”

“Officially, there are no prints.”

“Then it didn’t happen. Like Howell always said.” August cleared his throat, studied his drink, took a nice healthy sip. “The Company has deputized me to offer you your job back.”

“Why you?”

“They think you’ll only listen to a drinking buddy.”

“I would only listen to you, August. You were a real friend to me.” I clinked my green bottle against his whisky. “But I have to find my kid. And the Company, except for you, was quick to think me a traitor. Not a nice vote of confidence.”

“Sam, you must understand—”

“I do. I don’t want them. They had no faith in me.”

August savored his drink over several small sips. “This is why I needed the drink. You’re a bad influence. I can only hope you are going to find gainful employment.”

“I don’t care about a job. I have to find my kid.”

“How? Edward is dead, Howell is dead, Lucy may never wake up.”

Lucy was lost in a limbo between life and death, and I couldn’t decide how I felt about that. Edward’s final bullet had left her in a coma. The doctors in the CIA hospital could give me no real hope that she would wake up; but the powers that be wanted her kept alive. She was a potential source about the mystery of Novem Soles. So she lay beribboned with wires and tubes, broken. Maybe she dreamed endlessly of her precious money. Maybe she dreamed of me and our child. “I lean on the right people back in Europe, I’ll find him.”

“The Company isn’t going to let you go quietly into that good night.” August lowered his voice. “They’re going to keep a watch on your passport. They’re going to be shadowing you when you might not expect it. This whole ‘Howell working for a secret group’ has them shaken. They’d like to pretend it isn’t as frightening as it actually is. They want to know what you’re doing. Who you’re going after.”

“They can try and find out, as long as they don’t get in my way. Are you sticking with them?”

“Yes, I must get my semisuspect hands on my retirement benefits.” August shot me a sidelong look. “I’m sure, though, we’ll see each other again.”

“I’m sure, too.”

He got up and fished in his wallet.

“I got it,” I said. “Least I could do.”

“Yes, but I have a job,” he said.

“No, really, I got it. Thank you, August.”

“You will find your son, Sam. I know you will.”

“I know I will.” I watched August leave and wondered if anyone was shadowing him. I could smell the whisky left in August’s glass and I ordered one for myself.

I was just starting on its replacement when Mila slid onto the stool.