Father Night (37 page)

“Not the intelligence service’s finest hour,” Alli said acidly.

“There were a number of questionable decisions made at that time,” Paull said. “Security was the overriding issue for the people at the top of OSS.”

“I’m sorry.” Alli shook her head. “I don’t buy it. No Nazi should have been given a free pass.”

“In a perfect world, I’d agree with you,” Paull said. “Caro, what else did Leopard discover?”

“First, that this Werner Ax guy is somehow involved with Three-thirteen. Second, Leopard was in the process of accessing a particular file when he was stricken.”

“What’s in it?”

“I’ll have to get back in through the DoD firewalls.”

“This is scaring the hell out me,” Paull admitted. “We need better security than this.”

“Whatever you come up with, believe me, I’ll be able to get through it.” Caro’s fingers danced over the keyboard again. “Okay, here we go. Bingo! Here we have the rest of Acacia’s itinerary. Baghdad wasn’t their destination. Another plane—also nonmilitary—flew them out of Iraq to a small airfield outside of Yerevan.”

“Where the hell is Yerevan?” Alli said.

“Armenia,” Jack said immediately. “Surely that wasn’t Acacia’s final destination?”

“No,” Caro said. “So far as I can make out, it was Lankaran.”

“In Azerbaijan.”

“That’s awfully close to Iran.” Paull rubbed the stubble on his cheek. “From there it’s only, what, a couple of hundred miles to Tehran.”

“Three-hundred-eighty-five-point-one-four, to be exact,” Caro said. “Assuming their route would keep them over the Caspian Sea for as long as possible.”

Paull nodded. “Excellent assumption.”

“Was Acacia’s mission to assassinate Iran’s supreme leader?” Alli asked.

“If it was,” Caro said, “they failed.”

“Still, even the hint that Three-thirteen would sanction such a dangerous and reckless mission is cause for alarm.”

“Why?” Alli shrugged. “This all took place in 2002.”

“But Three-thirteen is still active.” Now Caro did look up. “There’s a notation here that Acacia has just been redeployed.”

“Where?”

“It doesn’t say.”

“See if you can find out.” Jack turned to Paull. “It looks like we’re on someone else’s timetable. We’ve got to find out where Acacia is headed.” He gestured to Caro. “Do you think Acacia’s legends were dreamed up by the Norns?”

“In 2002 and now?” Alli said. “How?”

“What if some—or all—of these master forgers had offspring?” Jack said. “That would account for the Norn’s continuation without, strictly speaking, ever having to go outside the group.”

“But how could these people guarantee that their children would have their talents, let alone follow in their footsteps?” Alli said. “Nowadays, kids almost never do.”

“That’s true.” Paull nodded. “It seems implausible that these people could control the future to that extent.”

“And yet,” Caro said, “judging by the work done on Stirwith’s legend, I can’t think of another explanation.”

Alli twisted her torso to get a better look at the laptop screen. “But it’s impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible.” Jack shook his head. “Caro, is there anything else in this file?”

“Yes, but I can’t read it—hang on a sec, there’s something. There’s an appended file, it’s small and, curiously, also encrypted.”

“A double layer of protection.”

She nodded. “I have the first line, but it still doesn’t make sense. “K-W-I-F-A,” she spelled out the word. “Anyone have a clue?”

A shiver of recognition ran down Jack’s spine.

“Those same letters were appended to an eyes-only file on General Gerard Tarasov.”

Caro pursed her lips. “A Russian military officer?”

“No. Tarasov is American.”

“So both Ax and Tarasov are connected to Three-thirteen,” Alli said.

“Nona Heroe observed a clandestine meeting between the General and Bishop,” Paull said. “It was clear by the nature of their conversation that Bishop was taking orders from Tarasov. Caro, see if the name Moses Malliot appears anywhere in those files.”

She nodded, then after several tense moments she nodded again. “He’s a member of Acacia.”

“Alan Fraine was running him down for information on Bishop’s mentor.”

“I think it was General Tarasov,” Jack said.

Paull nodded. “And now we have Tarasov directly linked to a Three-thirteen file. He may very well be running the group.”

“Without any oversight whatsoever,” Alli added.

“But where does the mysterious Werner Ax fit into the picture?” Jack said.

Paull stirred uneasily. “Unless or until we unearth his real name, that’s a question without an answer.”

*   *   *

C
HRIS
F
RAINE
had just finished booking his flights when he heard someone outside the safe house door. He pulled out his Beretta and stood stock-still, listening. Then a rhythmic knock on the door: a staccato three-one-two.

Gun pointed down at his side, he crossed to the door, unlocked it, and stepped back. Reggie Herr pushed the door open and strode inside. Outside, the blue winter twilight was sweeping the foreshortened afternoon into the gutters.

“Thought you might be hungry, holed up here,” Reggie said, setting down a white paper bag on a scarred wooden table.

Fraine peered in, shuddering at what he found. “A Big Mac? Really?”

“And double fries.” Reggie shrugged. “If you don’t eat ’em, I will.”

Fraine’s arm swept out. “Be my guest.”

Reggie unbuttoned his thick coat and handed over a slim packet.

It was all Fraine could do not to recoil. “God, you stink.”

Reggie shrugged, sat down heavily on the frayed flower-patterned sofa, and, pulling the bag toward him, lifted out the Big Mac and fries as Fraine opened the packet and examined the legend documents. “Looks good,” he said.

“Damn good.” Folding back the foil, Reggie attacked the Big Mac with his large, sharp teeth. “Nothing better,” he said around the food.

Fraine didn’t know whether he was talking about the documents or the Big Mac. Maybe he meant both. Checking his watch, he said, “My flight’s at seven-fifteen. I’d better get going.”

“You’ve got time. Sit.” Reggie pushed over the greasy packet of fries. “Have a couple. Relax. I’ll get you there in plenty of time.”

“I’m not hungry,” Fraine said, looking at Reggie’s ketchup-stained lips with distaste. “Come on. I want to get to the airport.”

“Wanna stretch out in the first-class lounge, eh?” Reggie shrugged. “Okay. No problem. Just let me wipe my hands.” He reached into the bag, drew out a .45 HK MK 23, and shot Fraine three times in the chest. Fraine’s body slammed backward against a chair, then crumpled, his legs folding under him like a dropped marionette.

Reggie set the .45 down, picked up his Big Mac, and resumed eating while contemplating Fraine’s astonished expression. “Kinda weird you and me being here like this, huh, Chris? But, you know, in a way it makes perfect sense. I never did like you, you arrogant sonuvabitch.” He finished the burger, stuffed his mouth with a handful of fries, chewed and swallowed convulsively. “Now you’ve got what you deserved, it’s time for me to saddle up.” He stuffed the HK into his waistband and rose, sucking morsels of food from between his teeth. “Be seeing you. Or maybe not.”

His laugh seemed to echo in the safe house even after he had slipped, unnoticed, out the back door.

*   *   *

“I
DON’T
renegotiate deals,” Annika said.

Radomil shrugged. “Then I’ll speak to your grandfather.”

“You won’t,” she said with such finality that he rose and went to the hotel window.

At length, he turned around to face her again. “You’ll renegotiate this one, Sister.” He came toward her at a slow and deliberate pace. “Grigori wasn’t the one trying to stop you and your
dyadya
from leaving Russia.”

“It wasn’t you, either.”

“No.” He smiled. “It wasn’t.”

“Cut the crap,” she said abruptly. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Then get in the mood, Annika, because I know who’s behind all of this, who your enemy really is.”

“How could you know this?”

A slow smile spread across his face. “What d’you imagine I’ve been doing all these years since I fled the program? I’ve been keeping track of its creator. I hate him as I hate no other human being.”

“Wait a minute, you told me that Grigori was responsible.”

“I wasn’t lying,” Radomil said. “But Grigori is the beginning, not the end.”

She watched him, silent, brooding darkly.

“If I tell you what I know, will you renegotiate my deal?”

“Impress me.”

He grabbed a chair and sat astride it, opposite her. “Grigori is a front man, a foil, a—what’s the American slang?—flunky.”

“He would be very unhappy to hear that.”

“Yes, he would. But my brother has an uncanny facility for self-deception, not to mention delusions of grandeur, so he wouldn’t believe you. He thinks of himself as a playboy of the world, a man of mystery, in the most old-fashioned sense of the word.”

“So.” Annika crossed her arms over her breasts. “Who’s pulling the strings?”

“I want the renegotiation.”

“I’m listening.”

“That’s not enough of a commitment.”

She shrugged. The ensuing silence became a test of wills between the half-siblings.

At length, Radomil nodded. “I’m continuing as an act of faith. Faith in you, Annika. The man who created the twin program is Werner Ax. Inside the program, however, we called him something else: Father Night.”

*   *   *

“I
SUPPOSE
you’ve used face recognition programs,” Caro said.

Paull nodded. “We have. Trouble is, we’re going off a drawing of Ax. Without a photo, the programs are notoriously unreliable, so basically we haven’t been able to get off square one in identifying him.”

Jack moved closer to Caro. “Caro, I’m going to recite a children’s rhyme to you. ‘Ashur has a little horse, / Her mane as bright as gold. / And everywhere that Ashur went / The horse was sure to go.’ Does that sound familiar?”

“In what way? I’ve never heard it before.”

“If the Syrian is Ashur, then I think you’re the horse with the mane as bright as gold.”

Caro shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Werner Ax was so desperate to decipher the meaning to the rhyme that he devised a plan to capture me. He knew quite a bit about me, especially my ability to solve seemingly unsolvable puzzles. I want to know why he was so desperate.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know how can I help you.”

“I think you know something—something you came across when you were working for the Syrian.”

“But I don’t—”

“You said you were in charge of laundering the Syrian’s money through a maze of international banks.”

“That’s right.”

“How much would you estimate the Syrian is worth?”

“I don’t have to estimate, I know,” Caro said. “It’s over fifteen billion dollars.”

Alli gasped.

Jack nodded. “I think Werner Ax is after the Syrian’s money.”

“That’s crazy. How could he—?”

“You tell me. You’re the horse with the mane of gold. I’m betting you know how to access the account.”

“But that’s just it,” Caro said. “I don’t.”

“You set the mechanisms in place. You must know—”

“‘And everywhere that Ashur went / The horse was sure to go,’” Caro sang to herself to the tune of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” She snapped her fingers. “That’s it! The electronic key to withdrawing the money is always with Ashur, but in case he was killed or incapacitated I created a backup.”

“What is it?”

“A medallion. I had it made with a secret compartment, and then gave it to Taroq as a present. He’s the Syrian’s chief bodyguard. He wears it night and day on a chain around his neck. He never takes it off, but he has no idea what’s inside it.”

“If you created the electronic key, you must know it yourself,” Alli said.

Caro smiled. “If only. The electronic key is a tiny instrument with a readout. Every three minutes the array of fifteen numbers changes randomly.”

The door opened and Nona came in, one hand on Vera Bard’s shoulder. Alli rose and ran to Vera, the two young women embracing, murmuring to each other. Then they both came across the room.

“We’re all happy to see you,” Jack said. He gave a quick glance in Nona’s direction. Her face was drawn and pinched. He could see that she had been crying.

“Vera has something important to tell you.” Nona’s voice was all business.

Vera looked from Jack to Dennis Paull and back again. “After Chris Fraine shot his brother, he went over to him and knelt down. It seemed to me that he wanted, or maybe needed, to talk to Alan before he died.”

“Could you hear the conversation?” Jack asked.

Vera nodded. “It wasn’t much of one. Alan couldn’t really talk. But Chris said, ‘You can’t say I didn’t warn you. I wanted you with me, to carry out what Vater Nacht planned for us. I went against the program and he never forgave me. Bad genes reversed by whatever inferned methods he used. I’d kill him if I could, but I can’t. His training is at least that strong inside me. I killed you. I don’t know why. I saw you and felt a compulsion. I couldn’t help myself.’”

Apart from the soft hum of the computers, the room was enveloped in complete silence.

At last, Jack turned to Vera. “Chris said ‘Vater Nacht’? You’re sure?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“‘Father Night.’ Could he have been referring to Ax?” Paull said. “If he is German it would be odd to choose Waxman as his legend’s name.”

“Depends on his ego,” Alli said.

Jack nodded. “She’s right. Even the cleverest of criminals often can’t give up every single part of them.” He gestured to Caro. “Let’s start with the sketch, then add Werner, and the notion that he might be a German national.”

“It’ll take a moment to access all the relevant databases and cross-reference them.”

As her fingers danced over the keys, they all waited breathlessly. Alli, noticing that Vera and Caro were avoiding each other, turned to her friend and roommate. “What’s going on between you two?”

“Nothing.” But a flicker of fear crossed Vera’s face before winking out.