A Knife Edge (37 page)

“The case isn't closed. So … did you?”

“No. I didn't.”

“And Wright's ex-girlfriend never mentioned it?”

“Not that I recall. Did
she
know he had MS?”

I ignored Butler's question. “So, Ruben Wright never seemed off-color at all? Not even a little?”

“I guess the reason you're asking me these questions is because you don't think he committed suicide. You think I had something to do with his death.”

I didn't answer. All I knew for sure was that I hadn't given Butler a good shake, and so I didn't know what might or might not fall out. Like most people, Butler wasn't comfortable in the silence, so he filled it. “Wright and I didn't get on—that's no secret. You could even go as far as to say we were barely civil to each other. But that doesn't mean I killed him.” He picked up an M4 from the table, removed the bolt, and gave it an inspection.

His denial meant dick. Murderers don't usually admit to killing their victims. I'd even known killers who'd sworn they didn't do it even after being found with their bloody hands still holding the weapon. “Did you know your girlfriend was his heir?”

“Girlfriend?” said Butler.

I let out a sigh. “I visited McDonough in the hospital. She'd had an abortion, which I'm sure you knew about. Lying about your relationship with her makes me wonder what else you're lying about.”

Butler licked his bottom lip and scratched his head, weighing the odds. He said, “OK, I lied about Amy and me.”

“Why didn't you tell me the truth the first time?”

Butler shrugged. “Broken ribs, smashed flashlight, shagging the dead bloke's bird… wouldn't have looked good for me, would it?”

“And still doesn't,” I reminded him.

“I didn't kill your buddy,” Butler insisted again.

“Did you know Ruben Wright had taken a number of intimate videos of you and McDonough?”

“Dirty bugger,” said Butler, almost proudly.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Yes; I mean, no—I didn't know.”

“I suppose you also didn't know Amy McDonough was first in line to collect?”

“Collect what?” he asked.

“Framed butterflies. Money. What do you think?”

“How much, then?”

“Plenty.”

He shook his head. “No, I had no idea.” He leaned against the bench, folding his arms.

Just like McDonough, it seemed to me Butler didn't know, or didn't
admit
to knowing, much of anything. Did I believe him? The SAS were the cream of the cream of the British Army. These guys were handpicked for their intelligence and resourcefulness. They were committed and self-reliant. The way Butler talked, I had trouble believing he was capable of remembering how to tie his own shoelaces. “Have you been in contact with Ms. McDonough since Wright's death?” I asked.

“Yes, I saw her once. To call it quits.”

“Was that at a place at Laguna Beach called Miss Palm's?”

Butler fixed me with a look that could break rocks. “You been following me?”

“Just happened to be out for a drive,” I said. “It's a small world. Did you break up because Ruben's death spooked you? Or was it after McDonough told you she was having your kid?”

Butler's ears went purple. Full of indignant anger, like I'd suggested something that had breached his code of honor, he said, “Amy told me she was on the pill. I was surprised to hear she was up the duff.”

“So she tricked you into getting her pregnant? Or did you make her promises you had no intention of keeping?”

Butler pushed out his chin. “Get off your fucking white horse for fuck's sake, Special Agent. Men have been tricking women into licking their dicks since we all climbed down out of the trees. Don't tell me you've never lied to a bird?”

Okay, he had me there. I kept the acknowledgment out of my face. “Maybe that meeting down at Laguna Beach went the way it did for different reasons.”

“Like?”

“Like maybe you misjudged Amy? You were both after Ruben's money, and it was all going along nicely until Amy got pregnant and she told you she wanted to keep the child.”

“Is that what that slut told you?” Butler's voice dropped to a whisper. He took a step into my personal space so that we were toe-to-toe. “Cooper, in less than twenty-four hours, we're jumping into a hostile country. I'm done with your questions. If I were you, I'd forget about Ruben Wright for a few days. I'd concentrate instead on how to avoid joining him. I'd also be checking my kit, especially the condition of your MC-5.” Butler pushed past, bumping my shoulder. The MC-5—the ram-air foil chute. It was sitting on the floor, propped against the wall. I'm not great with hints, but I did have the vague feeling that I might have just been threatened.

*   *   *

I packed and repacked the MC-5 twice, paying particular attention to the harness and suspension lines. I also thoroughly examined the oxygen system and mask. I then stripped the M9 and M4 several times each, and replaced the manufacturer's gun oil in both with a silicon-based type. I checked the M4's magazines, all eight, removing all two hundred and forty rounds and then replacing them, shifting the tracer to the fifth-last shot in each.

At some stage in the evening, Butler and his men returned to go through their gear again. There wasn't a lot of small talk between them. I wondered whether that had anything to do with my presence, because there was absolutely zero small talk between us.
Wignall, especially, went out of his way to have no contact with me—eyeball or otherwise. I wondered if Butler could sense that Wignall was the Judas in his ranks.

I tested the batteries of the GPS I'd been issued, as well as the spare set, and did likewise with all other electrical gear I'd be taking in, from the Iridium satellite phone to the SpecterIR thermal sight. Everything appeared to be in order. Despite Butler's parting comment, I didn't expect to find anything amiss. Maybe he was right—I needed to stop being a cop for a while and start thinking like Special Forces. He was also right in saying that my survival would depend on all my gear being present, accounted for, and in good working order.

Aside from ammunition, weaponry, electrical equipment, and the usual survival gear like a hook knife for cutting tangled suspension lines, I made sure I had enough water-purifying tablets to last an extra four days in the field, as well as MREs—meals ready to eat—to last an extra day. I also threw in a dozen chemical hand-warming packs, half a dozen nylon cuff locks, and, finally, my lucky Smith & Wesson stainless-steel, double-locking handcuffs. I held the reassuring weight of them in my hand and couldn't decide who'd I'd rather slap them on—Boyle, Butler, or maybe even Clare Selwyn. I dispelled the happy thought. The sack called and I slept like a cadaver till after sunrise. When I woke, I was relieved to find Chalmers's bunk un-slept in.

*   *   *

After breakfast, I again checked and repacked all my gear, except for the MC-5, which I didn't want to disturb, having taken extra special care with it twice already. I then spent three hours in the briefing room with Butler and his men, running through the op with the latest intel from CIA and NSA, as well as getting the latest atmospheric conditions from CWT—Air Force Combat Weather. I keep hoping these people from CWT will look like network weathergirls, but they never do. Today's report was delivered by a couple of dumpy guys with dandruff. They promised
nil wind, but low visibility with heavy snowfalls and cloud at 22,000 feet down to 7000 feet, the altitude of Phunal. Temps, of course, would be subzero. Ordinarily, conditions such as these would have guaranteed an abort. But, as it was only a matter of time before Pakistan killed a few million people on the subcontinent, I had the feeling we'd be going in anyway.

The briefing progressed and I was again told I'd be having very little to do on the ground in the assault phase, though Butler had decided to bring me in closer. My role would be limited to keeping the Ski-Doo's motor running and maintaining overwatch on the snatch through the SpecterIR, looking for Hajis who might want to get trigger-happy in behind the SAS unit. From what I could see, Chalmers had even less to do—except perhaps to pick his nose a couple of times.

The assault itself still looked pretty much like Butler's presentation to General Howerton back at the Pentagon. After the color and movement provided by the blowing up of the facility's propane tanks, and while the Pakistanis were racing around yelling “The sky is falling,” Butler and his men intended to just stroll into Boyle's billet and grab him. We'd all then simply drive across the Afghan border into the arms of a waiting company of U.S. Army Rangers, who'd then escort us to the U.S. Embassy in Kabul. Plans were best kept simple, but this one seemed a dime or two short of a quarter. For example, there were no backup escape routes if things fell to pieces. Weather would prohibit emergency extraction by a chopper. Our safety was up to us. There was, however, one interesting modification. SOCOM informed us by sat link that we didn't necessarily have to bring the professor back alive. If things went into the crapper, we just had to bring him back. Or return with evidence that he'd never be coming back. I had the feeling SOCOM would have been happy with Boyle's head on a stake.

A
little after 1500 hours, a group of parachute riggers from U.S. Army Special Forces arrived and readied the Ski-Doos for the drop. They rigged them onto aluminum platforms with a sandwich of paper honeycomb to absorb the landing shock. Dortmund supervised the loading. I heard one of the Army guys say, “We've hooked ‘em up to G-12D cargo chutes. These babies have sixty-four-foot canopies, so your toys will fall like snowflakes.”

I went back inside and repacked my gear yet again—anything to keep the flight and the night drop out of my head. I had something to eat, and tried to get some sleep. I woke several hours later with an ominous feeling in my gut, my watch alarm beeping, and Chalmers standing over me on his crutches.

“Yeah? Can I help you with something?” I said, sitting up, wiping the crud from my eyes.

“NSA passed this to me. Some OSI lieutenant colonel back at Andrews seems to think it's relevant to the mission. I want to know why.”

Chalmers passed me a couple of sheets of printout on OSI letterhead. I glanced at the familiar signature at the bottom of the page. The lieutenant colonel Chalmers referred to was Arlen Wayne. I gave the contents a quick scan and said, “You mean, how.”

“How, what?”

“How
it's relevant, not why.”

“You ever stop being an asshole, Cooper?”

“Most important organ in the body, Chalmers. Don't believe me, have yours sewn shut and see what happens.”

Chalmers looked confused. “Hurry, ass—dipshit. The train leaves the station in twenty minutes. Maybe I'll see you in Kabul. Or better still, maybe not.” Chalmers hopped away on his sticks, the look of victory on his face, leaving me with the printout. I lay back for a moment until all my gears meshed, wondering what the hell Chalmers was doing here anyway. What use to anyone was he on crutches, unless it was to keep an eye on things, or maybe just to supervise me? He'd said as much. I'd thought he was just indulging in a little unfriendly banter; perhaps I should be taking him at his word. Whatever. Chalmers was in the wrong job. He was even too much of a shit-head for CIA. I could see him working out just fine with Wu and De Silver over in the GAO, which gave me an idea. Maybe the three of them should meet up. If I did make it back in one piece, I decided I'd do a little matchmaking.

I read Arlen's note and a choir of internal alarms went into meltdown. Clare Selwyn had come through. She'd filled in some of the holes I'd left behind in the Ruben Wright investigation. Phone company records revealed Amy McDonough and Ruben's lawyer, Juan Demelian, had been calling each other regularly before Ruben died. Why would they be doing that? Demelian wasn't her lawyer and they weren't friends. All they had in common was Ruben. Moreover, both insisted to me that only one call had been made to the other, and that was
after
Ruben had died. The reason for these calls, according to what Demelian had told Clare after she leaned on him, was that he had been trolling for business. He'd simply forgotten that he'd made the calls. Yeah, right.

I pieced the case together with this new information and the
how
went something like this: Ruben found out about McDonough and Butler, and called Demelian telling him he
intended to change his will. Demelian stalled him and immediately informed McDonough of Ruben's intentions. Demelian told her he couldn't put Ruben off indefinitely. I wondered who had the idea first to kill Ruben. It didn't matter. Demelian's payment for betraying his client was for Amy to agree to cut him in on Ruben's estate. Her side of the deal was to come up with a method of doing the deed that wouldn't incriminate anyone. Enter Staff Sergeant Chris Butler. All three obviously knew about Ruben's MS, and also knew how important it was for him to keep it a secret.

Butler stuck his head in the door. I flinched like I'd been caught in the act of something distasteful. He said, “Let's go, then, guv.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “One minute.”

“Hurry,” said Butler, disappearing.

I reread the last page. Clare had also obtained a search warrant for Amy McDonough's home, including the sewerage pipes. She'd had the lines at Ruben Wright's accommodation checked out, too. While Ruben's came up clean, old tree roots clogging McDonough's pipes had snagged a range of medicines used to control the symptoms of multiple sclerosis. Clare had cross-checked the list of meds with Dr. Mooney and was of the opinion Ruben kept only a small portion of his pharmacopeia at McDonough's—a backup emergency supply, perhaps. In a statement to police, Amy said she'd tried to get rid of the drugs after he died—in fact, right after she'd returned home from identifying him at the morgue. She said that when she discovered them she was worried no one would believe her story about her not knowing a thing about Ruben's condition, and that this might somehow connect her with his murder. Damn right. There was no way to check she wasn't lying about the timing, but she'd lied about practically everything else, so why not this? I was convinced that McDonough had simply flushed the drugs down the head on the day Ruben died.