Part 42 (1/2)

”That was cool,” he said. ”You beat him.”

”No, he beat himself,” I said.

There were noisy seagulls in the air. They were fighting the wind, circling a spot in the ocean maybe forty yards away. They were dipping down and pecking at the crests of the waves. They were eating floating fragments of Paulie. Richard was watching them with blank eyes.

”Talk to your mother,” I said to him. ”You need to convince her to get away.”

”I'm not leaving,” Elizabeth said again.

”Me either,” Richard said. ”This is where we live. We're a family.”

They were in some kind of shock. I couldn't argue with them. So I tried to put them to work instead. We walked up the driveway, slow and quiet. The wind tore at our clothes. I was limping, because of my shoe. I stopped where the bloodstains started and retrieved the e-mail device. It was broken. The plastic screen was cracked and it wouldn't turn on.

I dropped it in my pocket. Then I found the heel rubber and sat cross-legged on the ground and put it back in place. Walking was easier after that. We reached the gate and unchained it and opened it and I got my jacket and my coat back and put them on. I b.u.t.toned the coat and turned the collar up. Then I drove the Cadillac in through the gate and parked it near the gatehouse door. Richard chained the gate again. I went inside and opened the big Russian machine gun's breech and freed the ammunition belt. Then I lifted the gun off its chain. Carried it outside into the wind and put it sideways across the Cadillac's rear seat. I went back in and rolled the belt back into its box and took the chain off its ceiling hook and unscrewed the hook from the joist. Carried the box and the chain and the hook outside and put them in the Cadillac's trunk.

”Can I help with anything?” Elizabeth asked.

”There are twenty more ammunition boxes,” I said. ”I want them all.”

”I'm not going in there,” she said. ”Never again.”

”Then I guess you can't help with anything.”

I carried two boxes at a time, so it took me ten trips. I was still cold and I was aching all over. I could still taste blood in my mouth. I stacked the boxes in the trunk and all over the floor in back and in the front pa.s.senger footwell. Then I slid into the driver's seat and tilted the mirror. My lips were split and my gums were rimed with blood. My front teeth at the top were loose. I was upset about that. They had always been misaligned and they had been a little chipped for years, but I got them when I was eight and I was used to them and they were the only ones I had.

”Are you OK?” Elizabeth asked.

I felt the back of my head. There was a tender spot where I had hit the driveway. There was a serious bruise on the side of my left shoulder. My chest hurt and breathing wasn't entirely painless. But overall I was OK. I was in better shape than Paulie, which was all that mattered. I thumbed my teeth up into my gums and held them there.

”Never felt better,” I said.

”Your lip is all swollen.”

”I'll live.”

”We should celebrate.”

I slid out of the car.

”We should talk about getting you out of here,” I said.

She said nothing to that. The phone inside the gatehouse started ringing. It had an oldfas.h.i.+oned bell in it, low and slow and relaxing. It sounded faint and far away, m.u.f.fled by the noise of the wind and the sea. It rang once, then twice. I walked around the Cadillac's hood and went inside and picked it up. Said Paulie's name and waited a beat and heard a voice I hadn't heard in ten years.

”Did he show up yet?” it said.

I paused.

”Ten minutes ago,” I said. I kept my hand halfway over the mouthpiece and made my voice high and light.

”Is he dead yet?”

”Five minutes ago,” I said.

”OK, stay ready. This is going to be a long day.”

You got that right, I thought. Then the phone clicked off and I put it down and stepped back outside.

”Who was it?” Elizabeth asked.

”Quinn,” I said.

The first time I heard Quinn's voice was ten years previously on a ca.s.sette tape. Kohl had a telephone tap going. It was unauthorized, but back then military law was a lot more generous than civilian procedure. The ca.s.sette was a clear plastic thing that showed the little spools of tape inside. Kohl had a player the size of a shoe box with her and she clicked the ca.s.sette into it and pressed a b.u.t.ton. My office filled with Quinn's voice. He was talking to an offsh.o.r.e bank, making financial arrangements. He sounded relaxed. He spoke clearly and slowly with the neutral h.o.m.ogenized accent you get from a lifetime in the army. He read out account numbers and gave pa.s.swords and issued instructions concerning a total of half a million dollars. He wanted most of it moved to the Bahamas.

”He mails the cash,” Kohl said. ”To Grand Cayman, first.”

”Is that safe?” I said.

She nodded. ”Safe enough. The only risk would be postal workers stealing it. But the destination address is a PO box and he sends it book rate, and n.o.body steals books out of the mail. So he gets away with it.”

”Half a million dollars is a lot of money.”

”It's a valuable weapon.”

”Is it? That valuable?”

”Don't you think so?”

I shrugged. ”Seems like a lot to me. For a lawn dart?”

She pointed at the tape player. Pointed at Quinn's voice filling the air. ”Well, that's what they're paying, obviously. I mean, how else did he get half a million dollars? He didn't save it out of his salary, that's for sure.”

”When will you make your move?”

”Tomorrow,” she said. ”We'll have to. He's got the final blueprint. Gorowski says it's the key to the whole thing.”

”How will it go down?”

”Frasconi is dealing with the Syrian. He's going to mark the cash, with a judge advocate watching. Then we'll all observe the exchange. We'll open the briefcase that Quinn gives to the Syrian, immediately, in front of the same judge. We'll doc.u.ment the contents, which will be the key blueprint. Then we'll go pick Quinn up. We'll arrest him and impound the briefcase that the Syrian gave to him. The judge can watch us open it later.

We'll find the marked cash inside, and therefore we'll have a witnessed and doc.u.mented transaction, and therefore Quinn will go down, and he'll stay down.”

”Watertight,” I said. ”Good work.”

”Thank you,” she said.

”Will Frasconi be OK?”

”He'll have to be. I can't deal with the Syrian myself. Those guys are weird with women.

They can't touch us, can't look at us, sometimes they can't even talk to us. So Frasconi will have to do it.”