the Second Horseman (2006) (30 page)

"Brindoon!" the man said again, pushing past Catherine and their pilot to grab Brandon by the shoulders and kiss him firmly on both cheeks.

"Cash! Yes! Of course! California!"

Brandon smiled uneasily, looking into the man's glistening eyes and not liking what h
e s
aw there. This guy wasn't a little nutty, he was the-voices-told-me-to-do-it crazy.

"Cash," Brandon said. "Yes, we have cash."

"I must apologize for my brother. His English is quite poor, even when he's not overexcited."

Brandon looked past the man still holding him by the shoulders and spotted a taller, thinner man in a carefully preserved military uniform.

"He's been an admirer of yours for quite some time," he continued. "It seems that you stole from a brokerage company in Ohio some years ago. Pyotr heard about it and used your idea on a bank in Moscow. It worked very well and he made a great sum of money."

"Uh, yeah," Brandon mumbled. "That was a good job. I came out of that all right, too."

"Good job! Yes! California!"

"Huh?"

"He means San Francisco. The American news programs have been very much telling the story of the Federal Reserve."

"Really? That story broke? Are they mentioning me by name?"

"Oh, yes. Very much so. The details of the theft haven't been made public, though, an
d m
y brother is most anxious to hear them."

With that, Pyotr slung an arm around Brandon's shoulders and led him into the darkness.

Chapter
THIRTY-SIX

After two drinks with Edwin Hamdi and three more since he arrived home, it was time to admit that they weren't helping. Or maybe it was the television that was the problem.

Richard Scanlon muted the volume and watched the correspondent speak silently from Damascus. It had been inevitable, of course. After the Mall of America explosion, and the recent incident at that New York synagogue, someone was going to get bombed. And Syria was an easy target. Next time he saw Hamdi, he'd have to ask if they'd had any hard intelligence or if they'd just attacked whatever was at hand. No, on second thought, he didn't want to know.

Scanlon turned off the television and wandered into the kitchen of the modest suburban home he'd never gotten around to moving out of. A quick search of the refrigerator netted a bowl of leftover pasta, some pie, and a salad that had wilted almost to the point of no return. He got as far as setting it all out on the counter before he realized he wasn't hungry.

By now Catherine and Brandon had landed in Ukraine and, as expected, were completely incommunicado. He wished he'd been able to send them off with someone he knew, but none of his men were qualified to fly a cargo plane, particularly under the difficult nighttime conditions the mission demanded. The pilot was Hamdi's contribution, and he'd given his word that the man was top-notch. For some reason, though, that didn't make Scanlon feel any better.

It was still hard to make himself believe that any of this was going to work. Through all the planning, the problems, and the desperate solutions, the idea of success had never seemed like much more than a well
-
formed dream. But now it was almost within reach.

At first, Scanlon thought the knocking was his imagination, but when the doorbell rang, he gave his watch a curious glance and started down the hallway. The sad truth was that no one really ever came to his door -- particularly after ten o'clock.

He pulled open the door without lookin
g o
ut first, preoccupation overpowering caution, and found Steve Ahrens smiling uncomfortably on the porch.

"I thought the FBI was a strictly nine-to
-
five outfit these days," Scanlon said.

"You know what they say: Neither rain nor sleet nor dark of night."

"That's the post office."

"The truth is that I was in the neighborhood and I saw your light."

An obvious lie. Scanlon knew he should tell the man to come by the office in the morning when he was fully sober and better prepared, but the idea of some company -- even dangerous company -- was fairly attractive at this point. Anything to take his mind off not knowing whether Brandon and Catherine had made it to the meeting, whether they had the warheads, whether they were dead . . .

"Well, in that case, I guess you should come in. Can I get you a drink?"

"No, thanks, I'm driving."

"I've been watching it all play out on TV."

"The heist? It was bound to leak. Too big and too many people involved."

"The press seems to have already pinned it on Brandon Vale."

"Yeah, that didn't come from us, though. Some reporter who used to be a Vegas co
p b
roke that and everybody jumped on it like a pack of wild dogs."

"What they aren't saying is how he did it." Scanlon motioned toward the sofa and took a slightly elevated position in a chair.

"No, we've managed to at least keep that part quiet. It looks like he hijacked the truck, the chase cars, and the helicopter when they were refueling and brought in a duplicate truck."

"But the GPSes . . ."

"You're going to love this," Ahrens said with a hint of admiration audible in his voice. "He had all four vehicles drive really close together and then used guys on ropes to put Budweiser stickers on the truck with the money. Then he parked that truck right next to the Fed while the fake one went in and dropped off a trailer full of basically nothing. Then, when everyone called in a safe delivery and turned off the tracking equipment, he just drove away."

Scanlon remained silent for a few seconds, acting as though he was working through the scenario. "I told them to upgrade their GPSes to read out on a map. To give them more precise locations. They didn't think it was worth the expense."

"Honestly, it probably wouldn't have mattered. With the Fed, the chase cars and th
e c
opter all calling in delivery, a little deviation in the reading probably would have been written off as an electronic glitch."

"Sure you don't want a drink?" Scanlon asked.

He shook his head. "The whole thing is kind of fascinating, don't you think? Vale escapes -- with help -- and disappears. Then this."

"Well, if you're asking if I think the press is right and there's a connection, I'd have to say yes," Scanlon said.

"Yeah, I don't think there's any question at this point. It's amazing that he was able to pull it off with you and the security company changing so many of the procedures after he went to prison."

He was clearly leading to something, but was mindful of Scanlon's political position and the fact that he regularly played golf with the head of the Vegas FBI office.

"Oh," Ahrens continued, a little too casually. "I almost forgot. Bill Crane says hello. He says he bumped into you a few months back and that you guys kind of rekindled your relationship."

There had been no way to get the information Brandon needed other than to "bump into" the guy in charge of securing the shipment. Scanlon had been as subtle as h
e c
ould, but it had still left him hopelessly exposed.

The bottom line was that if this operation went south and he didn't get the nukes, he was going to take a fall. And while he wasn't happy about that, what choice had there been? To turn his back on his country?

"He mentioned that you and he had talked about the transfer recently. It's a shame that when you were going over the details you didn't restructure it again. Then maybe Vale couldn't have pulled it off."

Ahrens ended with a polite smile, but the accusation was clear in his eyes.

"So you think I did it?" Scanlon said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms in front of him. "That I fed Brandon the information he needed?"

The expression of horror that spread across the young agent's face was clearl
y i
ntended to look affected. "Hey, I never said
--

"I'm not sure you've fully thought this through, Steve. I'm already rich, and all I do is work." He motioned around the threadbare house. "What would I do with the money? New curtains?"

"You know, it's interesting. The timing of those friendships you rekindled kind of coincided with the government walking away from a two hundred million dollar contract with your company Funny how that's about how much got stolen."

Scanlon didn't bother to hide his surprise. "I'm impressed. The funding of companies like mine isn't exactly in the public record."

Ahrens shrugged. "I hear things."

"Well, I'm not sure how much you know about my company, but if you dig deep enough, you'll see that we're in a fairly strong position financially and that the government is happy with the job we're doing. The funding snag hit everyone after the Mall of America explosion. It isn't going to last. And even if it does and my company goes belly up, I've got enough personal wealth that . . . Well, let's just say I wouldn't starve."

Ahrens chewed his lower lip for a moment. "Yeah, I've looked into all that, and what can I say? You're right. You aren't on the hook for any of the company's debt and you have a personal net worth in the ten
-
million-dollar range."

"So what's my motive, Steve? Boredom?"

Another noncommittal shrug. "Your old coworkers at the casino say that when Brandon Vale worked for you, you two were pretty close."

"Have you ever met Brandon?"

"No."

"As much as I hate to admit it, he's a pretty likable guy. Smart, too. If he wasn't so set on being a crook, he probably would have ended up being my boss."

"I'll tell you, Richard, everywhere I look on this thing, I find something that fascinates me more than the last thing. I did some reading on that diamond heist you helped send Vale away for. Sloppy. Nothing like the precision operations he'd been suspected of pulling before. Not so much his MO."

"No?"

"You've never been married, have you, Richard?"

A smile spread slowly across Scanlon's face. "So I'm gay now? Brandon and I had a lover's quarrel, and I framed him for the diamond heist? Then, just recently, I realize that I can't live without him and I break him out of prison. And to make amends, I help him steal two hundred million dollars."

"Sounds pretty stupid when you say it out loud, but it feels like the right general direction. On a long, twisting road, though."

"Well, I admire outside-the-box thinking, Steve. I really do. But you may be a little far outside the box with that one. Keep after it
,
though. See where it takes you."

"Oh, I imagine I won't have a chance."

"Why not?"

"I'm guessing you'll be onto my boss by the time my feet hit your lawn. And by mid
-
morning tomorrow I'll be sitting in a basement somewhere working on car theft statistics."

The funny thing was that this kid and Brandon had a lot in common. Ahrens had come here essentially to stare him down in his own house -- to say, "I may not be able to do anything about it right now, but don't think you're smarter than me." That took balls.

"Do you like being an FBI agent, Steve?"

"Sure. Sometimes it's a little boring and bureaucratic, but then something like this pops up."

Scanlon stood and offered his hand, indicating that the interrogation was over. "Well, if you ever get too bored, come and talk to me."

"Are you offering me a job, Richard?"

Scanlon laughed. "It's not a bribe -- the job wouldn't be all that good. It's just damn near impossible to find talented people these days. You can't imagine the lengths I have to go to."

Ahrens gripped his hand firmly, holding i
t a
little longer than he had to. "Oh, you'd be surprised at what I can imagine."

Chapter
THIRTY-SEVEN

Brandon had his arm linked through Pyotr's and, surprisingly, was having to fight the urge to tighten his grip. Normally, it wasn't his policy to cling so energetically to murderous sociopaths, but this cave was slowly sucking the life out of him. The longer he stayed in it, the smaller, deeper, and colder it seemed to get. One false step and he was sure he'd find himself hopelessly lost, with nothing to do but stare into the darkness while the walls closed in and hunger slowly killed him.

He shook his head violently and tried to refocus on the here and now -- the unintelligible babble flowing from his guide, the not-all-that-comforting ring of light emanating from his flashlight.

"Catherine?" Brandon said. "Are we going to see Catherine?"

"Yes, of course." Pyotr's tone was less than authoritative.

"Did you fly here on a polka-dot spaceship?"

"Yes, yes."

Brandon fell silent again, stooping to get through a low passage running with water.

He'd been too preoccupied with the constricting passageways to even notice when he and Catherine were separated and for some reason he felt deeply guilty about that. One moment they'd all been together -- Pyotr, him, Catherine, their pilot, Grigori -- and the next, he'd glanced back and seen only darkness.