Whirlwind (26 page)

“Precisely. Whatever I say.”

Schmidt left his words hanging in the air. Sam shuddered.

“I have a piece of good news, Johan.”

“I would welcome that.”

“Claude called while you were down there with your people. He has a lead on McKenzie’s data vault.”

“A credible one?”

“Sounds that way. Ever since the World Trade Center attack, we’ve been watching airport Internet links like a hawk. While Charlie was … uh … while he and I were in Albuquerque, somebody used the airport’s wireless system, used it in a big way.” Did the user send enough data for a half hour’s worth of video? Sam had asked. Why, yes, replied the director of Central Intelligence, how did you know? Whereupon Sam had cursed and hurled a borrowed cell phone into the darkness. “They traced the transmission to a fly-by-night Internet operator the kind Charlie would use.”

“Were they able to read his message?”

“Of course not. Charlie’s using encryption techniques the NSA has never seen before.”

“But they do know the ISP, the Internet company? They do know where it’s physically housed?”

“Northern California. It’s run by a bunch of hackers most of whom are on the watch list. They call it ‘the Underground Empire, dot. com

“Single site all the servers and disk drives in one place?” Schmidt’s voice was, as ever, flat and neutral. With eyes masked by tinted glasses and a voice that was almost a monotone, he was impenetrable. In anyone else Sam would have found such icy remoteness infuriating. But with Schmidt… well, maybe he was better off not knowing what was on the man’s mind.

“Can’t say. I don’t know much about computers.”

“Nor do I. However, I do know Charles. There are but a few people who can compromise the kind of computer security he’d use.”

“Who? Give me a for instance.”

“That’s of no interest to you, Samuel. All that need interest you is whether or not I have access to any of them.”

“Which you do?”

“Of course.”

Sam thought back to his earlier conversations with Schmidt one over the telephone the night before, the other only hours ago at the Albuquerque airport. “Put him on the payroll.”

“There will be an additional fee.”

“Add it to Max Henkes’s bill.”

“And am I to presume that if we do eliminate Charles’s data vault, I have your authorization to “

“Add that to the bill, too.”

Ijhe should have been so famished that she’d eat even this sad salad of wilted lettuce, three alleged cherry tomatoes as juicy as Ping-Pong balls, spit-ball-soggy croutons, an ancient anchovy deceased across the top.

Caesar salad? No, Brutus was the chef.

For the main course: a steak of her childhood, Soviet gristle served with corn too yellow to be natural the hue of a hazardous waste warning, and as appetizing.

Not that it mattered. Though famished, she could not bring herself to eat, although she knew she must.

Hunger, they’d taught her, blunts the senses, and slows the reflexes. If your enemy has you on the run, his first objective is not to capture you, but rather is to exhaust you. Who said that? One of her instructors. Captain Petryshyn, a rare teacher who cared for his students. The thirsty are found near water; the starving are taken near food; the agent who stumbles with weariness stumbles into the arms of his pursuers. Stamina is survival. Eat well and live!

A different voice, prideful and domineering: Eat well! At home and at sea, that is my law. My crew honors me less for my rank than because aboard my ship they do not dine, they feast! The loyalty of inferiors is bought with red beef, fresh greens, fat cakes full of rum and brown sugar. If you would lead men, forget their minds, for they have none. Forget their hearts. Those belong to street sluts. Remember only their stomachs! Feed them, and they are yours forever! But never cook, girl, never! That is woman’s work…. “Hi. Mind if I join you?”

It was Charlie. Of course it was Charlie. Who else could it be? Too exhausted to look up, she merely shrugged.

He sat down. “Happy to see me?”

A weary nod.

“Surprised I’m here?”

A resigned shake.

“What’s good on this menu?”

A blank look of hopelessness.

He studied the menu disapprovingly. “The farther you get from the oceans, the worse the food is. Right now, we’re just about on the Continental Divide, so … Oh, excuse me, miss, could I have a BLT, coleslaw on the side. No, I don’t think I’ll try one of those salads, and a real Coke, you know, Classic Coke with sugar and caffeine and all that politically incorrect stuff. Bring the same for my friend, only put extra mayonnaise on her sandwich,

and give her a chocolate milkshake instead of Coke. We’d like some corn bread and butter, if you have it. Yes, please take away her … uh … steak, I suppose. Thank you. Irina, you just look like hell.”

After checking into the motel garishly decorated with a potpourri of Navajo, Zuni, and Hopi motifs Irina had caught an unwanted glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes were bruised, her skin sallow, her lips raw and chapped. It pained her that Charlie was seeing her in this condition; it pained her more that she was embarrassed in front of an enemy.

He spoke again, genuine concern in his voice, “I’d say you’ve had a rough day.” Pity kindled in his eyes. “Very damned rough.”

“You could say that.” Less spoken than croaked, Tell me.

“Then I would have to think about it.” She felt like crying. No, that is not possible. I will never cry again.

Charlie nodded knowingly. “You’re all right now, aren’t you?”

The truth was necessary because Charlie, inexplicably, had become a man to whom one could only tell the truth: “No, Charlie, I am not. I am not so sure I will ever be again.”

“How many did you kill?”

He understood. She should hate him for that. “Enough. Too many.”

“Give me a number.”

What right had he to ask that? “Seven, I suppose. It is a matter of how you look at it.”

“It’s a matter of what your conscience tells you.” He gently took her hand. She didn’t pull away, although she could not say why. “Irina, thirty-some years ago, I had to deal with it for the first time. It sucked, but I got over it. So will you. Give it time, and you’ll get over it.”

Bitter, she was so bitter. “Is that supposed to console me?”

“Nope.”

“Will I be a better person once the memory fades?”

“Doubtful. But you won’t be a worse one either. We live our lives, and if we do our best, we’ve got nothing to feel guilty about.”

“Seven people are dead. The guilt is mine.” I am questioning my suitability for this life I, who never question myself

“My presumption is that if they weren’t dead, you would be. In my book that means the guilt is theirs.”

“They were seven. I am one.”

“Tell me true, Irina, were any of them in the right?”

“No. Yes. One. A policeman.” His legs had drummed a tattoo on the asphalt. He was so young.

Charlie’s eyes glinted diamond bright. “You killed a cop?”

“No, they did, those men from the hotel. But they did it because of me. It is my fault.”

He threw up his hands. The gesture was blatantly theatrical. He was such an actor. “Baloney! That’s like telling the money it’s responsible for the bank robbers!”

He was right. The knowledge was no solace. Beyond any doubt her superiors would applaud victories she found more wounding than defeat. What should have left her triumphant, disgusted her. If… when… I return to Moscow, give me no medals, pay me no praise. And if you promote me, promote me to a desk job.

“Tell me about it,” he murmured. “Everything. Minute by minute. Get it out of your system.”

She answered, flatly recounting the terrors of her day. All the while, he stroked her hand, although only softly. Then, story told, she fell silent, studying him. Nothing could disguise the decency in his eyes. She opened her mouth, ready to say who knows what in response to the kindness of his touch. A plate clattered in front of her. She jumped.

“Two BLTs, one slaw, one Coke, one shake, basket of corn bread.” The waitress truculently ticked each item off. “Anything else?”

“Butter,” said Charlie.

“In the bread basket.” Disdainful, she walked away, a woman who earned few tips, and was not disposed to make the effort necessary to do so.

“Eat,” Charlie ordered.

“I am not hungry.” A small anger pricked her. Who was he to tell her what to do?

“Eat anyway.” He took two healthy bites from his own sandwich, washing them down with a swallow of Coke.

She bridled at his command, thought to make a sharp retort, but could not find the spirit. Instead, she sampled her food. It was tasteless, difficult to swallow, and sat heavily on her stomach. “Charlie?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me one thing.”

“Whatever you want.”

“How did you find me?” Curiosity is the only emotion I can feel. Will I ever feel another?

The corner of his mouth drifted up half a smile. “You won’t like the answer.”

“All the more reason to hear it. Maybe I will learn how to escape you next time.”

He laughed a deep, rolling belly laugh. She liked its sound but could not bring herself to smile in response.

“Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He took another sip of Coke. “It was a con job. A flimflam. A cheap trick, same as you played on me by switching disks “

“You noticed?” She was chagrined. That was wrong. She’d outmaneuvered her opponent. She had nothing to be ashamed of.

“Not when you did it. I found out later. At considerable expense, I might add. Anyway, let me explain the scam I ran on you. Same as a card shark suckers his mark into drawing the card he wants, I suckered you into driving toward northern Arizona. Last night and this morning, I dropped all sorts of little hints that I expected you to take the southern route toward Tucson and Phoenix. Oh, I didn’t say anything overt; it was all subtle subliminal message stuff to plant an idea in your head. I wanted you thinking: wicked old Charlie is certain I’m going to go south, therefore I must go north. Which you did, just like I wanted. Another thing: I figured you’d stick to the back roads. There are only three you could have taken, and all of them are pretty slow. Nine or ten hours of driving time would wear you out. You’d only get so far. About this far.”

He wasn’t telling her everything. It could not have been that easy. Her voice rose. “You are lying. You walk into my motel, into this restaurant at eight thirty and “

“Cool down. My son’s with the Indian Health Service. He’s stationed at the Three Turkeys clinic, about two hours from here. My wife and I used to visit him every summer. I’ve driven every mile of paved road and dirt track in northern Arizona. I know this part of the country like the back of my hand. Which means I know where the very few motels hereabouts are located. All I had to do was phone. “Has Ms. Caroline Sonderstrom checked in yet?” that being the name on the clean credit cards I gave you. I would have checked every damned flea pit between here and Las Vegas if I had to. However, because I am a good and God-fearing man beloved of the angels, I struck paydirt on the third call.” He pitched his voice higher, “”Sorry, sir, there’s no answer from that room. Would you like me to take a message?”

Irina almost laughed. Charlie made it sound so simple that any fool could do it.

However (of this she was certain) not every fool could. The shrewdness with which he’d nudged her north, his almost supernatural certainty that she’d stop when she did, his confidence that she’d use a credit card rather than cash how had he known those things? She herself had not known until she’d made the decisions. She could have just as easily continued north, turned east or west, or… “Of course, finding you wasn’t the hard part.” Charlie beamed. “Swiping Whirlwind from that ridiculous new sportsute parked outside your motel room wasn’t hard either. The tough part the part I really was not looking forward to was coming into this restaurant, sitting down with someone I genuinely respect, and having to tell her that as of this moment, she’s busted. Irina Kolodenkova, I’m placing you under arrest. Stay put for a minute… now where did I put my Miranda card? .. . oh, here it is. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right “

She lashed out a slap. Charlie snapped a handcuff on her wrist.

Who are you to say you will save me!?!”

Charlie had handcuffed her to a motel bedframe something she’d angrily denounced as demeaning until he’d reminded her that cuffing him to a bathroom sink might, in theory that is, be considered even more mortifying.

That shut her up. Although not for long. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself!” This in the tones that Charlie found reminiscent of a cat being shampooed. “I am trained and I am competent!”

Yup, good analogy she definitely was as mad as a wet cat. Prettier though. Pretty as a picture all flushed and furious. Of course he’d never tell her that. “Irina, you haven’t got a prayer of getting away from Schmidt and his goons on your own.”

A fine feline hiss: “What gives you the right to force your unwanted help on me?”

He didn’t even stop to think about his answer. “Like I said last night, maybe I’m your guardian angel sent down from on high.”

“Pah!” she positively spat. “I do not believe in God.”

It had been a long time since Charlie had a good rip snorting argument with a woman. He’d forgotten how much fun it was. “If you did, maybe he would have assigned you a higher class guardian. Me, I’m just a beat-up, worn-out old avenging angel recycled and re purposed to custodial duties.”

Damn, but she could arch her eyebrows. He’d never seen it done better. Always excepting Mary, that is. “Saint Charlie?” she sneered.

“Yeah, sure.” He laughed, and the laughter felt fine, “They even named cities after me. Seven of’em in the U. S. of A. Five “Saint Charles,” and two “San Carlos.”“

Tight-lipped, still frowning. “You told me that last night.”

“Did I?” Hmm, he thought, so I did. Why the blazes did I do that?

“You said you want to retire there.”

“That’s the plan. Want to join me?” And, for that matter, why did I just say that?