Hard Road (17 page)

“No one. It's just me, now.”

Reznick frog marched her downstairs to the main lounge with bay front views. He saw a large black and white framed photograph of two late-middle aged men shaking hands. “Who are those guys in the picture?”

“Mr Merceron is on the right,” she said.

Reznick studied the picture. He noticed the dark, cold eyes. “Who's the other guy?”

“That's the Haitian Consulate General.”

“So, what is Merceron?”

“Sir, he is a diplomat within the Consulate in downtown Miami.”

“Is this a recent picture?”

“Yes, quite recent.”

“Where was it taken?”

“I don't know.”

Reznick stared at the photo, the chubby face with the black eyes imprinted on his brain. “I think you know more than you're letting on. Where is my daughter?”

The woman averted her gaze. “I told you I don't know.”

“You're lying!” Reznick pressed the gun to her head. “Where is my daughter?”

“Please, I have two young children. I'm on my own. They need me.”

“So does my daughter. Tell me where the fuck she is or your children won't have a mom to look after them.”

“Please…”

Reznick pressed the gun tight to her head.

The woman wept. “I'm telling the truth. I haven't seen your daughter. But I do know something was happening here the night before last. I was told to keep to my room. I came down to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich and fetch a glass of milk. And Bertrand was angry to see me. So was Mr Merceron.”

“Why?”

“I think they'd been down in the basement.”

“OK, now we're getting somewhere. Tell me about this basement.”

“I never go down there. Only Bertrand and Mr Merceron.”

“You never went down there at all?”

“Never.”

“Show me this basement.”

The woman led Reznick through to a huge modern kitchen and pointed to a pine dresser in the corner adorned with cookbooks and small china ornaments. “Underneath there,” she said.

Reznick pushed the dresser aside and a few ornaments smashed to the ground. A sealed iron hatch like a manhole was revealed. There were two rectangular holes either side, which would open the cover. “Where the fuck are the keys?”

“Bertrand has them. I swear I don't know where they are.”

Reznick pressed a gun to her head. “Tell me.”

She pointed to the huge freezer.

Reznick rummaged inside and found two large keys in the third compartment down beside packets of frozen fish and frozen fries. “You weren't being entirely truthful were you?”

The woman bowed her head and began to say a prayer, tears rolling down her face. She made a sign of the cross. “I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

He crouched down beside the hatch and carefully placed both keys into the small rectangular slots. Then he turned them both anti-clockwise.

Reznick lifted the hatch with the keys still inside the slots, revealing ladders leading to a hidden basement. He pulled out a penlight and the narrow beam of light strafed the darkness. A cavernous concrete space. He ordered the maid down first. She protested, but he pushed her down the ladders. He followed her and directed the beam of light around the empty space. He saw a light switch and flicked it on.

The basement was bathed in a cold, silver light and supported by four large concrete pillars. Reznick looked around and his gaze was drawn to an open hatch just behind one of the huge pillars. He shone the penlight down into a sub-basement.

Reznick forced the maid to lead the way into the darkness as she mumbled a prayer under her breath. He placed the penlight between his teeth and climbed down and found himself in a dank and dimly lit dungeon that had to be below sea level. A sickly smell pervaded the air. A rat was gnawing something in the corner. The damned thing didn't move when he shone his penlight directly on it. He saw the rat was tearing at a bone.

Reznick shone the light around. Attached to the ceiling were dead chickens hanging from meat hooks and voodoo dolls. He turned and shone the light towards the far end of the room. He saw what looked like a small shrine. A voodoo shrine. Unlit candles, wooden carvings of men and the blood and bones of dead animals scattered around the cellar floor. At least he thought it was animal bones.

Beside the shrine was a heavy wooden chair bolted to the floor with iron wrist and ankle cuffs attached.

Reznick felt sick. He checked the rest of the cellar, but it was completely enclosed. He headed back up the stairs with the maid and then up the next flight through the hatch into the ground floor kitchen. He shut the hatch and breathed the fresh air.

Inside he felt a mixture of anger and emptiness threaten to engulf him. He thought of Lauren in such a sickening place and wanted to scream. Had she been kept here? Was that it?

“What the fuck is all that about?”

The woman shook her head. “That's not me. I believe in Christ. I am a Roman Catholic. I follow God.”

“What about Bertrand and Claude Merceron, what about them?”

The woman closed her eyes. “Their beliefs come from rural Haiti. Spirits. Supernatural.”

Reznick stared out of the kitchen window towards a sleek sixty-foot-plus sports yacht tied up on the jetty at the bottom of the garden. The stainless steel rims glistened in the sun. “Tell me about visitors to this house. Have you had any visitors? White people in the past week?”

The woman nodded.

“Tell me what you know.”

“There was one white man. I don't know his name. He came here to speak to Mr Merceron. I made them dinner and that was that.”

Reznick pressed the gun to her head. “What did he look like?”

“Grey hair. Dark suit. Very expensive. He wore shades and didn't take them off, which I thought was unusual. I didn't really see much of his face. Very thin.”

“What about a young woman? Was there a young white woman in here in the last week?”

The woman made a sign of the cross and mumbled a prayer. “I don't know about any girl.”

Reznick stared at the woman not knowing whether to believe her or not. “Why haven't you a cross if you're so religious?”

“Mr Merceron wouldn't allow it. He thought everyone was subordinate to Bondye, the voodoo God. He wouldn't hear of anything else.”

“Where is Merceron? Is this where he lives?”

“Two or maybe three times a week.”

“Has he got another place in Miami?”

“I know he used to stay in the Setai.”

“I want to know where he is now!”

“I don't know. He doesn't use this place as often as he did. Maybe to chat things over with Bertrand.”

Reznick pointed to the cruiser tied up outside. “Is that his boat?”

“Yes.”

He grabbed the woman by the arm and frog marched her out of the huge glass French doors and down the wooden jetty. He stepped onto the teak deck with the maid, holding her arm, and went down into the galley.

Reznick looked around. A walnut-paneled stateroom with cream sofas, mahogany furniture, African art on the walls and a huge TV. A wraparound mini-bar at the far end, bottles of Chivas Regal, Johnnie Walker and Cristal Champagne on show. It had every mod con. He checked the guestrooms. But it was empty, no sign of Lauren.

Reznick and the maid got off the boat and headed back to the house. As they approached the kitchen door, the cab driver's cellphone burst into life, blasting out an R&B ringtone.

“Hello, Jon. You've been busy, haven't you?”

Reznick's blood ran cold. It was the guy who had Lauren. “Cut the bullshit, I want Lauren. I want to meet up.”

“Just want to say how cute that cab driver was who dropped you off. She was a real honey. You wanna know what happened to her, Jon?”

Reznick's heart sank. He stared out over the dark blue waters of Biscayne Bay, the towering skyline of downtown Miami in the distance and wondered where the hell they had Lauren.

“Let's put it like this, the same thing will happen to your daughter if you don't bring us this scientist tonight.”

He closed his eyes. “Where and when?”

The man sighed. “I really don't know if I can trust you any more.”

“I said where and when?”

“I will call you an hour before the exchange with the place and a time.”

“I want to speak to my daughter. How do I even know she's alive?”

The man began to laugh. “You don't, that's the thing.”

Then the line went dead

SIXTEEN

The interstate traffic heading into Washington DC was down to a crawl, as Thomas Wesley thought of the lunch date he was about to crash. He felt nervous and wondered how his old friend, Congressman Lance Drake, would receive him.

Hadn't Lance made it clear during the phone conversation in the middle of the night what he thought of them meeting up? And perhaps more importantly, why would Lance want to be seen with a disgraced loser who had been sacked from his high ranking job at the NSA? Lance was on the up, after all. He was a ‘star of the future' in Republican circles.

Wesley's mind flashed back to their college years together. He knew Lance then as a wild college boy who knocked back Tequila shots, washed down with bottles of cold beer. But now, when he turned on Fox, Congressman Drake was riffing on guns, God and “old-fashioned values”. It was strange. Whilst at Georgetown, Lance had never expressed right wing or even liberal sympathies. He was apolitical. He was more interested in getting loaded on booze and fooling around with “hot chicks”.

Wesley on the other hand was known as the college nerd. He reveled in all things technology, wrote software code through the night and never skipped class. Occasionally he would be dragged along to an on-campus party with Lance and his drunken friends. But more often than not it was to The Tombs - a
Ratskeller
at the main gates of the university - for pitchers of beer and buffalo wings to watch Hoya basketball games. He didn't mind, as Lance and his friends were in general pretty hilarious and fun to be around. But smoking weed and hanging out with crazy girls seven days a week didn't hold as much appeal for Wesley as it did for Lance. For Wesley, the only girl who interested him was the one who became his wife. Lance thought that was weird. But despite their differences, they rubbed along well together and became good friends.

He looked at the photo of his wife, which hung from the rearview mirror. Her black hair cut in a soft bob; her head back laughing at a friend's wedding in DC. She was truly beautiful when she smiled. She didn't want kids and wasn't in the least bit maternal. She wanted her career as a management consultant. He accepted that. But over the years, as he saw his friends change and start families, he realised he desperately
did
want to start a family. Children to hold and love and cherish. To bring into the world and show them all the great things.

His hands-free car phone rang and he snapped out of his reverie. The caller display showed it was his wife calling from work.

“Hey, honey,” he said, “I was just thinking about you.”

“Hope they were good thoughts.”

“Gimme a break, will you?” he smiled.

“Sorry I missed you this morning, but I had to get out the door before six.”

“Don't worry. I managed to pour the milk into my cheerios without spilling anything on that beloved hardwood kitchen floor.”

She laughed. He loved her laugh. “Are you driving?” she asked.

“Yeah, I'm heading to Washington.”

“I thought you were working a dayshift today.”

“I'm taking a day off from the delights of Walmart. I need to speak to Lance in person.”

A long silence opened up. His wife spoke first. “I thought he wasn't interested.”

The tone of her voice told Wesley she was annoyed. “I'm just going to turn up and speak to him. Hopefully change his mind.”

“Thomas, what has got into you? You can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Because he's a powerful Congressman now and not a buddy from the old days. Thomas, you're not in his world anymore.”

“Honey, he needs to know exactly what I know. I don't know what else to do. I–”

“Why can't you just let it go?”

Then she hung up, leaving Wesley to wonder if this was really such a good plan after all.

The Beaux-Arts façade of the Old Ebbitt Grill – opposite the White House – let Thomas Wesley know that he had found the right place. A cherished memory flooded back. He had visited the bar once when he attended Georgetown University. It had been his first drink with the girl who would become his wife, and he had deliberately picked the place to impress her. They drank champagne and ate grilled filet mignon with mashed potatoes, sautéed spinach and red wine sauce. They sat and drank and laughed and talked about nothing in particular for hours all through the afternoon.

He walked through the revolving doors clutching his briefcase and looked around. It was all dark mahogany and velvet booths, brass and beveled glass, just as he remembered it.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the maître d' asked. “Are you joining us for lunch?”

“I'm joining Congressman Lance Drake for lunch in the main dining room,” Wesley lied. “Has he arrived?”

“Absolutely,” he said, picking up a menu. “Follow me, sir.”

Wesley followed the maître d' to the main dining room. It was all wooden cross beams, starched white tablecloths, antique gas lamps and an air of refined decadence. At the far end of the restaurant, Lance was sitting alone at a table, wearing a dark blue single-breasted suit, maroon silk tie, hair slicked back and talking too loudly into his cell. A half empty glass of white wine was on the table, a chilled bottle of Chablis in a silver ice bucket by the booth.