Edge of Dawn (33 page)

“We have begun to suspect the latter,” S
ö
zer said grimly.

“Democracy advocates in the EU and editorial writers present this as a positive. They have no understanding of what is actually at stake,” Marangoz said.

“I sincerely hope that you and Mr. Kenntnis are not going to be some kind of precipitating event,”
Ç
elik concluded.

The old man's eyes were hooded and cold, and with his wrinkled neck and wattles, he reminded Richard of an ancient turtle. “And I sincerely hope that you aren't thinking about using us as a bargaining chip in your struggle with the government,” Richard said softly. They held the stare for a long moment, black eyes locked on blue. The dark eyes dropped first. Richard stepped back from the table. “If that's all, I'd like to make some calls. And if Mr. Weber, Mr. Cross, or I can be of any service to you, please feel free to call upon us.”

“We saw from the Lumina Web site that you specialize in closing tears,” S
ö
zer said.

“Yes. Yes, we do,” Richard said with a level of certainty and bravado that he hoped they couldn't see through.

“That is good to know.”

Cross spoke up suddenly. “Good, confab done?
Now
can we get some chow?” Richard shot him a quick and grateful glance. The homeless god quirked an eyebrow and gave him a small nod.

The meeting broke up. Marangoz sidled up to Richard. “Please believe that we are very pleased to have you here,” the youngest of the generals said with a sharp glance at
Ç
elik.

Weber fell into step with Richard and said in an undertone, “Goddamn. That took some brass balls. Remind me not to play poker with you.”

“Let's just hope to hell there's no reason for them to cash in on the offer until…”

“Yeah.”

“I better get on this. I need to talk to Joseph and Jeannette—”

“No, you're going to eat something and sleep for a bit.”

“Damon—”

“Look, you don't want to call them at the office. Wait until they're home. Use the nine-hour time difference to give yourself a break.”

“And what if there are taps on their home phones too?” Richard asked with sudden anxiety.

“There might be, but you can't become so paranoid that you end up freezing, and at some point us having intel is worth the risk.”

“You're very wise.”

“No, just older and a bit more experienced than you,” he said, and gave the nape of Richard's neck a brief rub.

*   *   *

It had been a whirlwind of activity since George Gold's tragic coronary. Grenier had called Kenzo immediately after the EMTs had departed with the body to give the CFO the sad news. Kenzo was momentarily shocked, said he would inform the family, and then moved to end the conversation, saying he had to find a replacement.

Grenier had cleared his throat, “Might I suggest—”

“No,” Kenzo had snapped, “you may not.” And hung up.

Grenier had stared at the receiver for a long moment, choking on rage, feeling blood pound in his ears.
You're next
was the vicious thought, and he hoped that however Kenzo died, it would be painful.

Late that night he had reported to Titchen. The man had listened without comment and then said, “Well done, Mark. And did you enjoy your first taste of hands-on murder? When you have permission, it's usually mighty exhilarating.”

“I'm not a killer.” It was an instinctive response, uttered automatically, and the moment the words were spoken Grenier realized he had forever made himself subordinate to Alexander.

Titchen's laughter was a wild howl. “That's adorable.”

“So how soon until I have—”

“There's just
one
last little task.”

“That wasn't our agree—”

“Uh-uh, don't argue now. You need leverage to negotiate, and you don't have any.” The amusement in Titchen's voice was palpable.

Grenier's gut roiled with acid. “What do you want me to do?”

“Lead the team that will be going to Turkey to recover the child and Kenntnis. You know Oort very well. Your insights will be useful.”

“The child and Kenntnis? What about Richard?”

“I expect he'll have to be killed.”

“What if I can capture him?”

“Little ambivalence there? And where Oort is concerned, your track record isn't great. First he tricked you, and then he made you his bitch. A lot of people view you as a traitor, and they're nowhere near as forgiving as I am. But not to worry, I'll keep you safe, Mark. Just remember your place.”

“As
your
bitch?” Grenier said coldly.

“Why … yes. Best make your travel plans. We'll have a team assembled. They'll meet you in London.”

The next morning, Grenier broke the news of Gold's death to Jeannette, who was unfazed. “There was a message waiting from Mr. Fujasaki when I got in, and also a message from Rachel, George's wife. She and the three girls will be arriving at one twenty. I've already talked with the hospital about releasing the body to French's Mortuary and arranging for transport back to New York.”

“Ah … well … very good.” The display of competence and composure had Grenier off balance. He'd hoped for a reaction and a chance to play the comforter. It aggravated him that she hadn't given him that opportunity. “And I need to get to London. When will the plane be returned?”

“The Turkish authorities have been difficult to deal with, and we don't have pilots right now. In order to fly the plane back, once it's released, we need a crew of two.”

“I need to go now.”

“Then might I suggest booking a commercial flight,” she said in that same flat, cold tone she always used with him.

“Fine,” Grenier snapped. “First class.”

A few hours later, she had him booked on a flight that afternoon out of Albuquerque to Dallas, and from Dallas to London Heathrow.

The timing actually worked for him to have the limo deliver him to the airport at the time Rachel Gold and the daughters were arriving. It made him seem incredibly thoughtful, and he was at last able to apply his pastoral skills as he comforted the grieving widow. Patting Rachel Gold's hand, he told her that it had been quick and that he didn't think George had suffered. He just wished he had been able to do more. Rachel gratefully pressed his hand as he eased her into the limo and thanked him breathlessly for his kindness at this difficult time.

As the car pulled away, Grenier stood awash in conflicting emotions. He had a warm sense of satisfaction from Rachel's gratitude, but there was the dissonance of knowing that gratitude was due only to her grief. Grief caused by him.
You murdered her husband.
What kind of man could do that and then face his wife? A desperate one, Grenier concluded.

*   *   *

The repeater on his Breguet wristwatch went off at three
A.M.
He had taken Weber's advice to reach his people at home, hence the ungodly hour. Richard had tucked the watch under his pillow so as not to disturb the rest of his crew, but over the snores of seven sleeping human males, the gentle bell was hardly noticeable. Richard could see the sag in the mattress over his head where Weber slept in the top bunk. Richard slipped out of the bottom bunk, pulled on trousers and a shirt, picked up his shoes and socks, and moved quietly to the door. Kenntnis's eyes were a silver glow in the darkness as he watched Richard tiptoe past his bunk. The creature didn't seem to sleep in any way that was understandable to humans. Richard noticed as he passed Cross's bunk that it was empty. He wondered what the homeless god was up to.

Stepping into the main rooms of the I
şı
k headquarters, he was met by a young lieutenant, who handed over a satellite phone. It was far bulkier than the razor-thin cell phones that were the mark of a sophisticated and absolutely insecure future.

“We'll drop the scrambler once you're in position,” the young man said, while Richard put on his socks and shoes. Then the soldier led Richard out of the bunker and through the portrait room toward the stairs. On every side, Atat
ü
rk frowned down at Richard. The piercing blue eyes reminded Richard rather forcibly of his father's eyes, and they seemed equally as disapproving.

“I know. I know. You don't have to tell me,” Richard muttered to one of the portraits. “I fucked up.”

Though he longed to go outside, Richard knew it would be foolish so he made the call from the gift shop while the soldier kept watch. Fortunately, he had the kind of mind that retained phone numbers. He dialed Jeannette. She answered on the third ring and he could hear a television in the background.

“Hello?”

“Jeannette, it's Richard—”

“Oh, thank heavens.”

“What's wrong? What's happened?” He knew her voice too well not to be aware of the agitation clipping each word.

“So much and none of it good. Mr. Fujasaki put Grenier in charge of the office here—”

“Well, I expected that—”

“And George Gold is dead.”

“What? How?”

“He had a heart attack.”

Richard's first thought was for the family. Gold's wife was a vivacious five-foot-nothing woman with a great and exuberant laugh. Gold, while not as short as Richard, was not a particularly tall man, but in a mysterious twist of genetic fate, all three daughters towered over their parents. “How are Rachel and the girls?”

“They arrived this afternoon.”

“Wait. He died in New Mexico?”

“Yes, he was meeting with Grenier.”

“We have an EMT on staff,” Richard said.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “It was after hours,” Jeannette said slowly. “Everyone but security had gone home for the day.”

Richard groped for support. His hand found the edge of a counter, and he leaned against it. “Where's the body?”

“At French's Mortuary. The hospital released it late this afternoon.”

“We need to get Jeff from the coroner's officer over there right away to examine the body,” Richard ordered. “Can you get me his number?”

“Just a minute. I'll see if he's listed.” Richard waited as the television sound receded. He heard the click of the keys on a keyboard. “Here it is.”

Richard committed it to memory. “Thanks,” he said.

“You'll tell me what he finds?” Jeannette asked.

“Of course.”

Richard didn't know Jeff well. The man had taken over as coroner after Angela was murdered, and Richard had always felt the doctor blamed him for her death. It was irrational, just Richard projecting because of course Jeff didn't know the events that had led up to Angela's death, but it put an edge on all their dealings.

A child answered the phone. “Walker residence.”

“Is your daddy home?”

“Daddy!”

A few moments and Jeff's voice came over the line. “Hello?”

“Jeff, this is Richard Oort. I need a favor. A big one.”

“It's eight thirty—”

“I know, and I apologize, but I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.”

“Is this police business?”

“Potentially.” Richard outlined the situation.

“Okay, I know the staff at most of the mortuaries. Are you at APD headquarters?”

“No, I'll call you back in … well, how long do you think it will take?”

“Few hours.”

“Shall we say three?”

“Sounds good, but call my cell.” He provided that number.

Richard handed the phone back to the young soldier, who murmured in Turkish into his radio. They returned to the bunker, and Richard went at once to the bunk bed, climbed up, and shook Weber gently awake.

For a brief instant he enjoyed the feel of the man's warm skin against his palm. Weber blinked and rubbed a hand across his face. “What? What time is it?”

“Ugh o'clock,” Richard whispered. “Damon, something's happened.”

Weber slid down from his bunk. He was wearing only his boxers, and shadows played across the arch of his rib cage and his pectoral muscles. Richard stole looks while Weber threw on clothes and followed Richard out of the sleeping quarters. Once the door closed, Richard outlined the situation.

“So you think it's more than just a simple heart attack?”

“I think I want to be sure.” Richard looked around. “I wonder if we can get coffee or tea.”

“This is a military operation,” Weber said. “There's going to be food and caffeine available day and night.”

He was right. There were cold cuts, cheese, bread, tomatoes, and cucumbers available. Richard asked for coffee. It arrived in a tiny cup with a thick foam on top. He carefully sipped the hot, sweet brew, feeling the texture of fine grounds, gritty and rich, against his teeth. Weber made them each a sandwich.

“How you doing?” the older man asked.

“Honestly … I don't know. If I stop and actually think about … well … everything, then I just want to curl up and suck my thumb. As long as I can keep doing something, I can hold it at bay.”

“Hold what at bay?”

“The knowledge of how badly I messed up.”

Reaching out, Weber gripped his hand and gave it a hard squeeze. “Richard, I know you don't believe this, but you're a hell of a leader. Shit, we followed you into that compound in Virginia and faced fucking monsters—”

“We were only there because I'd lost my temper with Angela and sent her away, and got her kidnapped…” He stared down into the dregs of his coffee. “And I couldn't even save her. I got her killed.”

“No, a psychopath killed her. You don't get to take the blame for every shitty thing that happens. That's arrogance to think you have that much control and power. And bluntly, you've got to put what happened to Angela aside. It's past. You've got to take care of the living, and right now you're doing fine. Those scientists are here because they trust and believe in you. You had a plan ready for when things went south … Look, we're gonna figure this out.”