Deception (28 page)

Authors: John Altman

BOOK: Deception

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When she had finished reading, she folded the paper, returned it to the envelope, and returned the envelope to the purse.

She looked out the window again, thinking. They wouldn't reach Chicago for another eleven hours. So she had some time in which to decide her future.

Not much time, all things considered; but some.

“Frank,” she called.

He turned, saw her, and blinked.

He looked the same as everâdressed in a seersucker suit with his hair heavily gelled, holding a leather briefcase in one hand. He blinked again, and then took a step toward her. Around them, the building's lobby swirled with a lunch-hour rush.

“Hannah,” he said.

He moved to hug her; she pulled back.

“Let's talk,” she said.

They sat in the same old TGIF, salads untouched before them.

When Frank finished speaking, a few moments passed in silence. He avoided looking Hannah in the eye. For that, she couldn't blame him. He had just told her, after all, that he had indeed turned on herâthat a warrant was out for her arrest, and that Frank himself had been let off with a slap on the wrist. Had their positions been reversed, she wouldn't have been able to look him in the eye, either.

Finally, he stirred. “Listen,” he said. “I feel horrible about this.”

Hannah nodded remotely.

“I don't know if you â¦ What I mean is, if you think you're not going to turn yourself in â¦ if you need a little money â¦”

For an instant, she was surprised by the offer. Frank Anderson, in her experience, was not a generous man. In the next instant, her surprise passed. Of course he didn't want her to turn herself in. If she did, she would tell the truth; the case might be reopened; the blame might be more evenly parceled between them.

She thought about it. “How much?”

“How much would you need? I could get â¦ five hundred?”

She smiled.

“A thousand?” he said hopefully.

Hannah let a few moments pass.

“Ten thousand,” she said then, “is the most you can take from a bank without their notifying anyone. Count yourself lucky. You're getting off easy.”

He blanched.

“Pooh Bear â¦”

“Don't call me that.”

“Hannah â¦ I can't do ten.”

She reached out, and put a hand on his.

“You'll find a way,” she said sweetly.

She stood beside him as he accepted the money from the teller. They moved outside, to the sidewalk, and he handed her the brown envelope.

“Hannah,” he started. “I feel just â¦”

“Shh,” she said.

She touched an index finger to his lips, then turned on her heel and walked away.

Halfway down the block, she caught sight of a cab. She hailed it, and gave the address of her old building.

The doorman seemed surprised to see her. “Ms. Gray,” he said, coming quickly to his feet behind his desk. The gold buttons on his coat glimmered; a pile of untouched books was stacked on the counter.

“Craig. How're things?”

“Can't complain. Can't complain. I didn't expect to see you again. After â¦”

His words trailed off. After the government agents had come to search her apartment, he had been about to say. After they had no doubt told the managing company that she wouldn't be returning, and that if she did show her face, she was to be reported to the police.

Instead, he fumbled, and finished lamely: “â¦ after so long.”

“I'm just passing through,” she said vaguely. “I was wondering if you got the gift I sent you.”

He brightened. “The book!” he said. “I've got it right here. Thank you, Ms. Gray. That was awfully thoughtful of you. Usually I don't get gifts from the tenants except during the holiday season. It's sure nice to be remembered â¦”

“May I see it?”

He leaned over the intercom buttons at his station, and examined the spines of the books stacked on the desk. He found the paperback she had mailedâ
The Chronicles of the Crusades
âand handed it to her.

“It's a nice one,” he said gravely. “Thanks again. I'm really looking forward to reading it.”

Hannah smiled, and flipped to the last page. The doorman hadn't opened the book, and wouldn't for months. She had gambled on that. During her entire tenure in the building, she had never once seen him reading any of the books he kept stacked on his desk; they were only for show.

“I just want to copy something down,” she said, and reached into her purse for the pad and ballpoint pen.

The formula was a few short paragraphs of equations and text. She copied it down and then carefully drew lines through the writing in the book. After drawing careful lines, she went back and drew second careful lines, until the writing was lost.

Then she flipped to the midpoint of the book, to the bookmark she had inserted at page one hundred, took it out, then handed the book back. The doorman took it, looking curious.

“Thanks, Craig,” she said, and turned again on her heel. She left the lobby without looking back.

What was it?

She didn't know. But whatever it was, she had the only copy. The book she had handed in at the embassy,
Paula
, by Isabel Allende, had been scavenged from a bookshelf in the house in Provence. The formula she had written in the back was inaccurate. She had omitted one line completely, and in another she had changed
x
to
c
, 1.4 to .14, a square to a cube.

What should she do with it?

That was the question now.

She rode another Greyhound. Outside was night. She looked at her reflection in the window, instead of through it, as she turned the question over in her mind.

Several answers occurred to her. Yet most of them, she dismissed immediately. She would not try to profit from possession of the book. She would not squander this second chance, as soon as she'd received it. Nor would she destroy the formula, not when she didn't know what it truly was. What if she carried the cure for cancer, in this paperback book?

But she wouldn't return it to Ford, either. Ford had shown that he was playing games. And she was through with games.

She looked at her fellow passengers. They were drowsing, paying no attention to her.

One thing she knew for certain. She could not trust anyone else for help. Frank, Dietz, Ford, her father; they had all taken advantage of her, in one way or another. From now on, she would depend only on herself. Hannah Gray.

No. Not Hannah Gray.

She reached into her bag and removed the bookmark she'd taken from the copy of
Chronicles.
She opened it and then considered it, in the dim light.

The passport was in the name of Maya Willis. She didn't know who the woman in the photograph wasâperhaps a decade older than Hannah, with similar bone structure and dirty-blond hair. But she guessed that the woman, whoever she was, was called something else. Dietz had carried many forged passports in his bag, half of them featuring his face, half featuring this one, all of them with different names.

But Maya Willis would do just fine.

Life threw one curveballs, she thought. A year ago, she never could have imagined herself here. And yet here she was. It was as her grandmother had always said:
We live life on life's terms.

Yet she didn't need to accept those terms blindly. There was some small room for negotiation.

It sounded all right, she thought, looking out the window at the sun beginning to rise.

It sounded just a little better than all right.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once again, thanks are owed to my agent, Richard Curtis, for his insight and guidance, and to my editor, Neil Nyren, whose contributions to this book are too many to count, and too valuable for words.

I went to Jonathon Poritz with some simple questions about physics. By the time he'd finished answering them, I had a whole new round of questions. He shared with me not only his knowledge and his time, but also his ideas, his ideals, and his language. I am deeply indebted.

The following people also contributed: David Maddux, Ian Sowers, Joellyn Weingourt, Alison Brower, and Chris Robertson.

Thanks to Sarah Silbert; Robert, Jane, and Jennifer Altman; and Rachel and Benjamin Edelson.

About the Author

John Altman is the author of thrillers including
A Gathering of Spies
,
A Game of Spies
,
Deception
,
The Watchmen
,
The Art of the Devil
, and
Disposable Asset
, forthcoming in 2015. A graduate of Harvard University, Altman has traveled to every continent, including Antarctica, and has worked as a teacher, musician, and freelance writer. Born in White Plains, New York, he now lives in Princeton, New Jersey, with his family.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Morgan Alan

ISBN: 978-1-4976-7923-8

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com