Fault Line (5 page)

He glanced left and right as he moved. People were screaming and fleeing. He didn't see any heroes. No one was even looking at him. They were all just trying to get the hell out of there as fast as they could. He kept his chin down and his eyes forward, the Glock close at his side.

Suddenly he sensed something out of place, someone who didn't fit in with the crowd's panicky rhythms. He glanced ahead and saw a stocky Slavic- looking guy standing motionless and watching him intently. Ben pulled up short. They locked eyes. No question the Slav was a professional. It was in his face, his posture, his balanced demeanor.

They stood like that for one frozen second, each trying to determine the other's intent. Then the Slav's nerve broke. He cut left, reaching into his jacket as he moved. Without thinking, Ben brought up the Glock in a two-handed grip. He fired three times, moving closer with each pffft, walking the shots in. The Slav crumbled to the ground. He managed to get his gun out, too late. Ben drilled him in the head from less than five feet away.

He moved off and cut down an alley, his head swiveling, searching for problems at his flanks, badly rattled. Jesus Christ, he hadn't seen that guy at all. Fucker had been standing right there like a ghost when the whole thing went down. If the crowds hadn't left him stranded like driftwood at ebb tide, Ben never would have noticed him. And goddamn it, if the guy had shown the presence of mind to get his weapon out a second earlier

He swapped a fresh magazine into the Glock and kept moving. He knew these streets from reconnaissance and made sure to keep to dark ones until he was well away from the Spice Bazaar. Along the way he stripped off the fake beard and discarded it in a Dumpster overflowing with waste. He lost the black hat and replaced it with a red one. The jacket was reversible. He shrugged it off, turned the inside out, and was suddenly wearing yellow instead of blue. He would get rid of the gun later, when he was sure he was safe.

He began to circle toward the Galata Bridge, back among blissfully ignorant crowds again. He would walk across, catch a cab to HaydarpaAYa Station, then a train to Ankara, his original arrival point, which would make for a safer departure, as well.

He heard sirens in the distance. They were heading away from him. He let out a long breath. He was okay. No one was following him and no one could connect him with what had just happened. Istanbul was a city of over ten million people. He was a needle in a haystack, a drop in the ocean. He kept moving, just another tourist again.

Damn, though, who was that guy? Bastard had almost gotten the drop on him, no question.

Well, he hadn't. Some days you eat the bear, and some days the bear eats you.

The bear.

He stopped. Holy shit, was that guy Russian?

He sure looked Russian. Well, it wasn't Vasilyev, he was certain of that. The guy had been a pro, no question, not a scientist or other civilian. Maybe someone connected with Vasilyev, though. Yeah, who else would have been ghosting along behind the Iranians? And why else would the guy have delayed so long before going for his weapon? Because he was thinking he wasn't the target, maybe. But maybe because he was thinking he was immune, at least until he'd seen Ben's eyes. After all, no one was going to drop a Russian agent. You'd have to be crazy.

Son of a bitch. Maybe he hadn't killed the Russian, but he had a feeling he'd just killed a Russian.

He thought, Oops, and in the giddy, adrenaline-charged aftermath, the thought was hilarious. He pushed the back of his hand over his mouth and shook with silent laughter.

He hoped the brass wasn't going to be too pissed.

Chapter 6 IMPLACABLE

Once he'd canceled the meeting, Alex felt a little calmer. It was like running late to catch a plane-the stressful part was racing around, hoping you might still make it. Once you knew the plane was gone, you could relax, accept it, come up with an alternative.

Except there was no alternative to Hilzoy. Hilzoy was a once-in-a-lifetime ticket.

He worked on a few other matters, but he couldn't get Hilzoy out of his head. He wanted to find out what would happen to the patent application if Hilzoy were gone. Presumably it would be treated as part of Hilzoy's estate, and pass to his descendents or beneficiaries. But who would those people be? Alex didn't know the first thing about Hilzoy's family, other than that he was divorced and had no kids. Was there any way to salvage this thing without Hilzoy, with just the patent?

His mobile rang. He checked the readout. It was a blocked number, but he was so hungry for news he answered anyway.

Alex Treven.

Mr. Treven, this is Detective Gamez of the San Jose Police Department. Am I reaching you at a convenient time?

Alex's heart started kicking. Uh, yeah, it's a fine time. Is this about is it about Richard Hilzoy?

There was a pause on the other end, and Alex wondered whether maybe he shouldn't have said that.

There's been a crime, Gamez said, and we'd appreciate it if you could come down to the station to answer a few questions.

Sure, Alex said. When?

Right now would be best.

Sure, Alex said again. Just tell me where you are.

Two-oh-one West Mission Street. Use the front entrance and ask for Detective Gamez.

I should be there in about a half hour. Can I just ask you-

Let's talk when you get here, Gamez said. A half hour, right?

Right, Alex said, and the line went dead.

He started tidying up a few things on his desk, then realized he was being ridiculous. He was afraid of what he might learn, that was it, and was looking for a reason to delay. Or maybe he was seeking to impose some order on the universe by straightening up his desk. Please.

He headed out. I just got a call from the police, he told Alisa as he walked past. I need to go down to the station.

Is it Hilzoy? she called after him.

We'll find out.

He plugged the address into the M3's nav system, then followed it onto Page Mill Road toward 280. As he crossed Foothill Expressway, he remembered reading about some bicyclist who had died nearby about a year earlier. A freak accident, a broken neck. The memory increased his certainty that something really had happened to Hilzoy. He knew life was like that, knew it firsthand. Just when everything was fine, when it couldn't be better, fate liked to reach out and remind you of exactly how tenuous it all really was.

He wondered why Gamez would be calling him. It had to be Hilzoy. But how had the police known to call him? And how had they gotten his mobile number?

Then he realized. Hilzoy's mobile. The appointment with Alex and the VCs would have been in the electronic calendar. And Alex had called him, what, twenty times that morning? All those calls, and Alex's number, would have been in the log.

He tried to imagine what the appointment and all those logged calls would look like to the police. He wondered if he could be a suspect. Jesus.

San Jose Police headquarters was a fortress, all concrete blocks and ninety-degree angles and dark reflective windows. The two benches in front were bolted to the cement beneath and did nothing to leaven the formidable atmosphere of the place. Even the trees and plantings felt more like camouflage than decoration.

Alex took a deep breath, walked up the cement stairs, and entered a lobby. It was more of the same: bulletproof glass, surveillance cameras, heavy high-tech-looking metal doors. A half dozen people were plopped down along two rows of metal chairs, all of them wearing the kinds of expressions you might expect on someone about to be called in for a nice long root canal.

Waiting rooms. He hated them.

A woman who looked like she might be there to answer questions was standing behind the reinforced glass. Alex walked over and said into the intercom, Hi, my name is Alex Treven, I'm supposed to ask for Detective Gamez. I think he's expecting me.

Treven? she asked, and when Alex nodded in confirmation, she said, I'll call him and let him know you're here.

Twenty uncomfortable minutes later, a guy came through the interior door and looked around the room. He was about six feet and muscular under his gray suit jacket and dark tie. He had close-cropped black hair, and with the coloring and the name, Alex figured he was Latino.

Alex stood up and looked at him. The guy said, Alex Treven?

Alex nodded and walked over. Hi, you're Detective Gamez?

That's me. The man didn't offer to shake Alex's hand. Sorry I kept you waiting-we've had a lot of information coming in on this case and it's keeping us jumping. Let's go inside where we can talk.

Alex followed him in. He wanted to ask about the case but decided it was better to say less. Besides, he figured he'd know more soon enough, one way or the other.

They took an elevator to the second floor, then walked down a short corridor. The place felt governmental to Alex, though he couldn't articulate exactly why. Maybe it was the functionality of the decor. Fluorescent lights overhead, drop ceilings, plain tile floors in the hall. They passed a few open doors, and the sounds of conversation from within were muted, serious, as though the people inside were hard at work. Alex was struck by the size of the facility, by the amount of manpower and other resources the government obviously could bring to bear on a problem if it wanted to. There was something implacable about the place, and Alex found it intimidating.

They turned right through an open door. There was a sign overhead-something like CRIME INVESTIGATION UNIT. Alex didn't quite catch it before they had gone through. Inside was a large carpeted area with about a dozen cubicles. Alex could see people working at a few, but no one looked up.

Gamez led him into a small room to their right, maybe eight feet by six. The ceiling was low. A table, three chairs, and no shadows under the harsh fluorescent lights. All the noise without seemed to die in the room, and Alex wondered if it was soundproofed.

Gamez closed the door and they sat facing each other. He pulled a notepad out of his pocket and fixed his eyes on Alex. When we spoke on the phone, you asked whether this was about Richard Hilzoy. Why did you ask that?

Alex was mildly taken aback by the guy's abruptness. We had an important meeting this morning and he didn't show up. I called him a bunch of times, then sent my secretary down to his apartment to see if she could find him. She said it was surrounded by police, and someone said someone had been killed. I was worried it was Richard. Is there a reason you won't just tell me? I'm his lawyer, I'm concerned.

Gamez was looking at him closely. After a moment, he said, Richard Hilzoy was murdered this morning in the parking lot of his building.

Murdered. Even though Alex had suspected the worst, and thought he'd been prepared for it, the news shook him.

Damn, he said. How what happened?

I have a few more questions I'd like to ask you, Gamez said. Your meeting this morning. Who was it with? What was it about?

Alex answered Gamez's questions. Gamez wrote things down in a small notebook. Occasionally he asked Alex for clarification. Sometimes he circled back to something Alex had said earlier. He confirmed that it was the appointment in Hilzoy's calendar, and the multiple calls in the phone log, that led the police to Alex. Alex realized Gamez wasn't just looking for general information, but that he himself actually was a suspect, and even though he knew he had nothing to worry about, it was unnerving to sit in front of this cop who was thinking that maybe just a few hours earlier Alex had killed someone.

At one point, Gamez asked Alex if he knew whether Hilzoy was using or dealing drugs.

No, Alex said. I mean, I didn't know him that well, but I never saw him saw any sign that he was using drugs. And he didn't seem like the kind of guy who would be dealing them. Can I ask why you're asking?

Gamez pursed his lips. His cheeks expanded, then he blew out a long, slow breath.

We found a substantial amount of heroin hidden in Hilzoy's car.

Heroin? Are you serious?

Gamez looked at him. The look said, Do I not look serious?

Alex was trying to process it all. You think he was killed because he was dealing drugs?

It's possible.

Yeah, but I mean, why wouldn't whoever killed him take the drugs?

The moment he said it, Alex felt foolish. He was no cop, and he didn't want Gamez to think he was second-guessing him.

But Gamez only shrugged. Someone searched his apartment. Most likely looking for the dope. The way it was hidden in the vehicle it could have been overlooked. What about enemies? Did Hilzoy have any?

I don't think so. Well, he was divorced last year and it sounds like it was a little messy, but I don't know any more than that.

After another hour of Q&A, Gamez closed his notebook. I appreciate your cooperation, he said. Just one last question, and it's really a favor because it helps us rule things out and saves us time. Would you mind giving us a DNA sample before you go?

Alex's eyes widened. At some point, Gamez had asked him if he'd ever been in Hilzoy's car or apartment. The answer was no, thank God, and now Alex understood why he'd been asking.

Gamez was looking at him closely again. Alex was suddenly aware that this guy interviewed people, maybe dozens of them, every single day. He had probably been lied to more that morning, and by experts, too, than Alex had been lied to in his life.