The Lazarus Trap (20 page)

“Plaza. Dining in my suite, watching the bomb go off.”

“Bomb is right. Any word on our guy?”

“He's left the country.”

“You're sure?”

“Fairly. Wally says we can handle it.”

“If Wally tells you that, you can take it to the bank.”

“That's my impression also.”

“What's next at your end?”

“I've got the plane on standby. Soon as he's found, we move.”

“You want to be there for the kill, is that it?”

“We have to be sure this time, Don.”

“Yeah, I guess we do.”

“I'll go by the Jersey bank afterwards, make an appearance, ask for our money back. Hire a lawyer, that sort of thing.”

A burst of noise poured through Terrance's cell phone from Don's end, loud as static. Don's voice turned edgier still. “Got to go. Stay in touch.”

Terrance disconnected, rose from the table, and headed for the bedroom. He doubted he could sleep. The internal circuits were jammed on high. But he needed to stretch out, try and get his taut muscles to unlock. He pulled off the covers and sprawled on the bed. His joints felt connected to a power source, jerking in tight spasms. He shut his eyes.

The next thing he knew, his cell phone was ringing. Terrance lay as he had fallen, his legs dangling over the edge of the bed. He fumbled in his pocket. “What time is it?”

“Late. You awake?”

“Barely.” Terrance rolled over. “Where are you?”

“Idlewild. Planeside. Waiting for you.” Wally's voice carried the taut eagerness of a pack leader on the scent of prey. “I just heard from England.”

Another day began with an adrenaline jolt. “And?”

“Your man has been spotted.”

“I'M VERY SORRY, MR. ADAMS. BUT THERE'S NO WAY WE CAN FLY you to Jersey until late tomorrow.” The Gatwick check-in attendant tapped on her keyboard. “No, I lie. All those flights are fully booked. You'll have to wait until the day after.”

Val's hearing was impaired by jet lag and the disorientation of arriving in a new country with nothing to claim, not even an identity. “Why so long?”

“This fog is not expected to lift until tomorrow midday, if then. Flights to Jersey do not have the instrumentation required to land in such conditions.” The British lilt added a courteous smile to her voice that was not reflected in her features. “The first flights out are already fully booked.”

“I've just come in from America. I really need to get over there.”

“You could take a ferry. There's a new high-speed service.” She pointed him to the concourse's other side. “Take the escalator down to the railway terminal. Trains for Portsmouth depart from track four.”

The one known as Matt made the call. “I've got the mark.”

“You sure it's this bloke Haines?”

Matt caught sight of his reflection in the vending machine and stopped to preen. Black lace-up boots met skin-tight black jeans that joined to a black silk T-shirt. Matt liked to think of himself as a human stiletto. The other blokes who worked for Boss Loupe, the ones who fitted into their Cerutti suits like muscular sausages, called him a weasel. But not loudly. Matt was too good at his work.

“You there?”

“The face fits the photo you gave me. I've tracked him out of customs. Bang on time from the New York flight.”

“Where's your mate?”

“Jocko's tailing the guy.”

“So what is Haines up to now?”

“Made a beeline for the Jersey flights. Isn't having no luck there, though.”

“Why's that?”

“Weather. It's a right mess.”

“So what's his option, then?”

“Wait the night or take the boat, far as I can see. Can't drive to Jersey, that's for certain.”

Matt's wit was lost on the other end. No surprise there. “Stay close. Find out where he's headed.”

“And then?”

“Do him like I told you. Nice and clean.”

“No worries.”

“The boss is watching this one.”

“Yeah?” Matt tried to keep his voice light. “That translate into a little extra dosh for us?”

“Just do your job. Keep it simple. The boss wants this one put away where nobody will ever find him. Clear?”

Val used a pay phone by the checkout counter and called Audrey's number. This time a man answered. Val held the phone an inch or so from his ear, caught utterly off guard. The man had a gentle sounding tone, even when speaking to dead air. Val hung up.

Val replaced the receiver, hefted his nylon duffel, started for the escalator, then was snagged by the smell of fresh coffee. He stopped so abruptly the man behind stumbled into him. “Sorry, mate.”

“No problem.” Val would not have noticed the contact except that the guy was so solid. It had felt like backing into a brick wall. Val stepped into the newsstand and bought an
International Herald
Tribune,
then joined the coffee line. He shoved his satchel forward with his foot, idly scanning headlines.

Then he froze.

“Sir? Did you want to place your order?”

Val looked up at the cashier. Neither the place nor the words registered.

“Can I get you something?”

Wordlessly, Val hefted his case and stepped away from the counter.

In the terminal Val returned to the paper, futilely hoping the words would have rearranged themselves on the page.

Insignia, his former company, was front-page news.

Val turned to where the report continued on the first business page, then returned to the front page and started over. The words did not sink in until the third read.

He refolded the paper and scanned the terminal. No one appeared to be paying him any great attention. But there was no way he could be certain. There were too many faces. Too many strangers. The threat could be anywhere.

Val hefted his satchel and ran.

THE TWO-HOUR TRAIN JOURNEY TO PORTSMOUTH COMPACTED VAL'S thoughts into lines of determined panic. Everything had finally come together with lethal force. The ease with which he and Marjorie had extracted what they claimed as their due, the bank explosion back in New York, Audrey's warning, his returning memories— everything meshed together now.

Portsmouth station was the next stop, and the train's remaining passengers were already collecting their belongings. Val glanced out the window. A dreary grey landscape came and went as the fog drifted and condensed. Val spotted a few buildings, cars racing by on a neighboring highway, a world washed of all color. He returned his attention to a newspaper article he knew now by heart.

He had been set up from the beginning.

Knowing Terrance, the man had probably left clues in clear enough fashion for Marjorie to have realized the pension fund was being stripped to the bone. Terrance had used Marjorie as he had used everyone else. People were nothing to Terrance unless he wanted them for some purpose. Then they became fodder for his plans. Nothing more.

Unless they got in his way.

The train pulled into the station and halted. Val rose and joined the other passengers flowing through the doors. He stepped onto the concrete and tasted air far too metallic for late April. He spotted the ferry-port sign and joined the throng. Val stumbled over the curb as he tried to read and walk at the same time. The newspaper article feasted upon the lurid details of the corporate thieves being killed in a bomb blast. Syntec Bank U.S. was also under investigation for its hand in draining Insignia's pension funds.

A theft of $422 million.

Val stuffed the paper into the satchel's side pocket and hurried. The walkway was crowded with other passengers whose flights had been cancelled. By the time Val arrived at the ferry terminal, the grayness had condensed into something too thick to be called fog and too fine to be rain. It felt like he was breathing cold diesel tea. The waiting room was a linoleum-lined warehouse with industrial lighting, filled with echoes. Val headed for the bank of phones lining one wall. He dialed Audrey's number. The same man answered. Val hung up and stood with his hand poised on the receiver. Had she found someone else since he had sent her away? If so, why had she written as she had, then urged him to come? Val turned away. His next step remained perfectly clear. Go to Jersey and grab the money. He would call her again from the bank. If the man answered again, Val would forge ahead regardless.

Val purchased his ticket, tried to make himself comfortable in a molded plastic chair, and hid behind his paper. He reread the story and added what the paper could not supply. Terrance had let him get away with the theft because Terrance had always been in control. Terrance had needed a fall guy. In order to make a clean sweep of the larger theft, Terrance had let Val and Marjorie and their tame Syntec banker get away with pocket change. Two million dollars had seemed like the world to Val. But to a guy planning the theft of four hundred million, it was nothing. Val started to wonder who else at Insignia had been in with Terrance on the grand scheme. Don Winslow, for starters. He was the man who had cast the deciding vote against Val and for Terrance in their latest bout. Val wondered if Jack Budrow, the spineless son of a great and good man, could have stooped so low. Then he decided it didn't really matter. Whoever thought they were controlling this particular dance, Val knew Terrance d'Arcy was the one really calling the tune.