Atropos (30 page)

Trotter’s gaze passed from Babington to Senator Van Horn. The Senator vas beaming, too, but he was doing something else, something rare for any politician and unheard of for a Van Horn. He was effacing himself, almost
willing
himself not to be noticed. Doing a good job of it, too. He posed for pictures, hugging the Governor, shaking hands with the Governor, thumbs-up with the Governor, and then he just sort of backed away from he attention. Trotter might well have been the only person watching him is he slipped through the curtain and off the stage.

If Trotter expected to catch up to him, he had to get moving. There was no chance of duplicating the Senator’s route, not unless he wanted to risk being detained, roughed up—or worse—by the Secret Service. Trotter left he same way he’d come in, moving just shy of a speed that would have attracted attention.

As soon as he hit the corner of the corridor, he burst into a sprint. And pulled up to a walk again when he saw the guard at the stage door.

Trotter didn’t want to take the time to find another way to get backstage; he would have to take this guy out. The question was, how hard? The kind of measures he’d have to use against a Secret Service man might kill a hapless rent-a-cop. The only thing worse than that would be getting killed himself by someone he failed to take seriously enough.

This guy didn’t look Secret Service. Too fidgety, too openly bored. To play safe, Trotter decided to assume the guy was a highly trained state or city-level cop.

Trotter put on an innocent face and approached the man. “Ah ... I wonder if you can help me?” Trotter scratched his head.

“What’s the problem?” Now Trotter knew he wasn’t Secret Service. A Secret Service man would simply have told him to keep moving.

Trotter brought the scratching hand down from his head in a hard chop to the man’s neck. He poked stiff fingers of the other hand into his solar plexus. As the guard sank, Trotter grabbed him, reached for his neck, and winched the carotid until the man’s eyes rolled up.

Trotter dragged him through the door and propped him up gently on the other side. He waited a second (he could spare one second) to make sure the man was breathing normally before moving on.

Trotter was standing at the mouth of the short hall that held the dressing rooms when he heard the coughing noise. He knew instantly what it was.

Most Americans, as opposed to, say, most Lebanese, are not familiar with he sound of real gunfire. Compared to the apocalyptic explosions furnished by TV and movie sound-effects men, the sharp pop of a real firearm sounds almost harmless. Even fewer Americans are familiar with the sound of a real-life silenced handgun, but Trotter was one of them.

Damn it!
Trotter thought. Damn it to hell. Too late. Silenced gunshot, body falls, mumbles, footsteps, silenced gunshot. That last one had to be the finisher.

Not that Senator Henry Van Horn was any great loss. It might have been fun hauling him in and debriefing him, finding out just what little favors he’d been doing for the Russians through the years, but it wasn’t essential. What really bothered Trotter was that he had set out to stop Mark before things got nasty tonight, and he had failed by seconds.

What he did know was that Mark Van Horn was in one of these rooms with a gun, and he’d be coming out any second. Trotter considered waiting for him out of sight just this side of the entrance of the hallway. He thought about it for maybe three seconds before rejecting it. From the layout of the building, there had to be a fire exit at the other end of the corridor.

There was no choice. He had to be right outside the door of the right room (Trotter could see the light under the door) when Mark Van Horn made his exit. The only thing Trotter had going for him was surprise, and that wouldn’t last long. The closer Mark got to where he could expect to see people, the warier he’d become.

Trotter tiptoed down the hallway, walking as close to the wall as possible to reduce the chances of his being given away by a creaking floorboard. This would be the worst five seconds—if Mark poked his nose out now, there was nothing Trotter would be able to do but take a bullet.

He made it to the side of the door. He wanted to let go a deep sigh of relief but didn’t dare.

Just as well. At that moment, Mark Van Horn came sauntering through the door. Trotter put the energy of his pent-up breath behind a left hook to Mark’s face.

Mark staggered backward. He tripped over his father’s body and went down. While the Senator’s son was still wondering what had hit him, Trotter bent over and picked up the gun. He pointed it a little above Mark’s navel.

“Just lie there,” he said. “I know how dangerous you are. Daddy makes an even baker’s dozen, right? The audio men and the Senator.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. You must be crazy.”

“Somebody must,” Trotter admitted. “You have
no
idea what I’m talking about? This isn’t the dead body of Senator Henry Van Horn behind me on the floor? Isn’t he your father? You must understand that much of what I’m telling you.”

Mark took a breath as if to speak, then subsided.

Trotter smiled. “That’s right, remember the gun. The trouble with screwing a silencer onto an automatic is that you can only get off one shot at a time. You had to reset the gun to shoot the Senator again, didn’t you?”

“You need help, Trotter.”

“And I plan to get it. I give you credit for guts, Mark. And luck. You could use better brains. If I need help to find out what I need to find out from you, I’m going to get it. Right now, I don’t know whether to shoot you or pin a medal on you.”

That brought a reaction. “A medal?”

“That’s right. By killing your father here and now, you ruined a plan that Borzov—I guess you know him as Dudakov—has been nursing along since your father killed that girl.”

“Ruined
it? What the hell are you talking about? Does Regina know you’re here?”

Trotter chuckled. “She knows a good journalist is wherever he’s supposed to be.”

Mark was almost petulant. “You’re no journalist.”

“I’ve got a press card.”

Mark licked his lips. A good sign. Nerves were starting to tighten. “What did I ruin?” he demanded.

“The plan to take the White House. Or at least to fuck up the election so bad the country would be hopelessly weakened.”

“You’re sick, Trotter. You’re in a lot of trouble once I get out of here.”

“I’ll worry about that after you get out of here. Bet you I won’t need more than one shot. But you still don’t get it, do you?
Abweg
is the deep-cover man.
Abweg
is the one they want in the White House. They made your father endorse Babington tonight; in a day or so, the tape leaks, the one that has the sounds of your father killing a young girl all those years ago. It’s the only way it makes sense—Borzov isn’t the type to leave a potentially dangerous tool around after he’s used it. This way, your father is destroyed, and so is Babington. Abweg promises to appoint a special prosecutor as soon as he’s in office, and similar baloney.” Trotter looked at him. “What do you think?”

Trotter knew what
he
thought. He thought Borzov was a genius. He set U.S. Intelligence up to be looking for a Russian agent seeking the White House, then planned to give them the innocent Babington on a platter. If Mark hadn’t started killing audio men the Agency probably wouldn’t even have come in on this case until now.

Mark Van Horn dropped the pose of anger and bewilderment. He raised himself up on his elbows, brought his feet up flat to the floor and spread his knees. “How did you know about the tape?” he asked.

This was, of course, the first confirmation Trotter had that there actually was a tape. “Don’t worry about that,” Trotter said. “The only thing you have to worry about is telling me where Joe Albright is, and how to get him out of there.”

“You’re a friend of this Albright character? He’s the black guy, isn’t he?”

“Don’t try to stall me, Mark.”

“You want him?”

“Badly.”

“What do I get out of this?”

Without a word, Trotter kicked him in the groin. Hard. Mark wanted to scream, but he choked on it, producing something between a cough and a gurgle. His face turned red and he rolled on the floor.

“Go ahead and scream,” Trotter told him. “Don’t hold down the noise on my account. The guard is unconscious, and Babington has undoubtedly already left the ballroom by now. Where he goes, the Secret Service goes. It’s just us, my friend.”

Mark whined. Trotter leaned over him, grabbed his shirt and pulled him face-up again. He leaned his face close against Mark’s. The Senator’s son cowered.

“Listen, you stupid little jerk. This isn’t a
game.
You don’t get to fuck around with the fate of the world because your name is Van Horn. You are in deep shit, and I hold the flush handle. You want to know what you get out of this? You get to keep your balls. If you make me happy.”

Trotter threw him back to the floor. “Now. I’m going to ask you again. Where is Joe Albright, and how do I get him out of there?”

There were a few rasping sobs as Mark tried to get his breath back.

“Just one thing before you answer. You are coming with me, every step of the way, and the first time we find something that doesn’t match with what you told me, you’re going to get something that will make the kick I just gave you seem like a pleasant memory.”

Mark told him. He gagged on the words, but he told him. Trotter was surprised that Mark hadn’t had to throw up yet—he must not have kicked him as hard as he thought he did.

“SkyGrain, Inc. Out on Highway 41. In one of the silos. Number 16. It’s just been emptied.”

So far, so good, Trotter thought. “How many guards?”

“Just—just two.”

“Names?”

“Jeff and Ed. Jeff’s in charge.”

“How do we get in?”

“Flash headlights three times at the gate. Then drive to the sign that says 16, leave the car and walk.”

“Wonderful. Can you?”

“Can I what?”

“Walk?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, let’s find out.” Trotter grabbed Mark by the shirt again, began dragging him to his feet.

Behind him, the door shot open.

Trotter spun to see who it was. That was a mistake; he should have hit the floor. The figure in the doorway had a gun, and used it. A small-caliber bullet took Trotter in the right arm, stinging him like a hot needle. The silenced automatic fell from Trotter’s hand. The man in the door—Ainley Masters, Trotter thought, Jesus, how humiliating—fired twice more. One bullet took Trotter below the ribcage, the other in the chest.

Trotter sank to his knees.

Masters fired again. The gun made a sharp little pop, undramatic and unremarkable. This time, the bullet missed. Either that, or Trotter was past feeling it.

No,
Trotter thought.
This is wrong. I’m not supposed to die now. I want to live.
He wished he could figure out how he was going to manage it.

Trotter sprawled out on the floor across the body of Senator Henry Van Horn.

A
INLEY MASTERS STOOD THERE
, experiencing a new sensation. He had never been shocked before, least of all by himself. If you’d asked him, he would have said he’d seen too much, been a part of too much, to be able to feel the emotion.

He was shocked now. True, he had bought the gun, and had practiced with it. But that was mental, that was precaution. To think that he had actually had to
use
the gun, that he had used it
successfully,
that he had succeeded in
killing
a man, boggled the mind.

A boggled mind, Ainley was learning, had trouble taking in details. Now an appreciation of just what he had walked into was seeping into his brain. The Senator dead. Mark threatened with death.

“Ainley,” Mark said. His voice sounded strange. “You’re a hero!”

“This is terrible. Are you all right?”

Mark burst out laughing. “Not a game,” he said, and laughed harder. Hysterical, of course. Ainley thought of slapping Mark’s face, but Mark brought himself under control.

“I’m sorry, Ainley,” he said. “Shock, I guess.” Ainley understood perfectly. “Dad’s dead,” Mark went on.

“Who—who did I ... ?”

“Who did you kill? Trotter. Regina Hudson’s fiancé. He was after me—Dad stepped in front of the bullet.”

Ainley thought, at least Hank
died
like a Van Horn. He said, “But why would this Trotter want to—”

“Who knows? Maybe he couldn’t stand it that I had been with his girlfriend before. I just hope he hasn’t done anything to her.” Mark’s face showed sober concern, but his eyes were very bright.

“Listen, Ainley,” Mark went on. “I’ve got to go get the police. You stay here and watch things.”

“I should handle that,” Ainley said. “It’s my job.”

“You’ve handled this part fine, so far.” Mark bent over and picked up a gun larger than Ainley’s. He held it gingerly, by the trigger guard. “I want to get this safely in the hands of the police—it’s the gun that killed my father. It’s evidence. You just stay here and make sure nothing gets disturbed.”

It made perfect sense, but Ainley wasn’t sure he liked it. “What if—what if he’s not really dead?”

“Who, Trotter?”

“Yes.”

“You got him twice in the chest, Ainley. He’s dead. If you’re nervous about it, put another bullet or two into him.”

Ainley shuddered.

“You’d be perfectly justified.” Ainley closed his eyes. “Are you going to be all right?” Mark asked.

Ainley ran his hand over his chin. “Yes. Yes, Mark, I’ll be fine. I saw the Senator leave the ballroom, go through the curtain, you know, and I wondered what he was up to, especially since it was obvious he didn’t
want
to be noticed. I went around to the stage door, and found the guard unconscious. So I took out my gun and came in. I heard some strange sounds, and I found that room and you—”

“All right, Ainley. Save it for the police. I’ll be right back.”

Mark clapped him on the shoulder, then left. Ainley still worried about him, though. As soon as he was out of sight, Mark had made a sound that was quite like laughter.