The Garden of Betrayal (20 page)

It was a smart policy, and his caution prompted me to take a step back and reconsider my own circumstances. I’d been around the block enough to know that I was okay publishing the Saudi data, regardless of the source. Any potential legal repercussions would attach to the person or persons who leaked the information, not to me. But my situation was different if I simply sold the information on to a foreign national. Morally, and maybe legally. I didn’t want to become the kind of sleaze-ball that I’d been mentally condemning a few minutes ago, and I certainly didn’t want to go to jail.

“So, what exactly are you suggesting?”

“Yesterday’s offer stands. I buy you out, and you come to work for me exclusively. It’s not just the Saudi data I’m interested in—I receive far too much information to process myself, and the people I currently employ frequently don’t grasp the subtleties of what’s important. I need someone like you—someone who can operate independently, and who I can trust.”

I shook my head regretfully.

“It’s still not going to work. I can’t negotiate a private sale of something that originated in the U.S. intelligence community, particularly to a foreign national. Assuming I can verify the data, my only option is to make it public.”

He frowned at the carpet for a moment and then looked up.

“How about this? The raw Saudi data and anything else you might receive from U.S. government sources constitute an exception to our agreement. You’re free to publish through whatever channel you see fit, provided it can’t be traced back to you or my operation.”

It was a clever concession, and eminently workable. There were any number of competent reporters I could use as a blind to get stuff into the public domain. I felt a sudden rush of professional elation, excited by the offer for reasons that had nothing to do with Walter’s disapprobation. Absent Alex, I didn’t feel any emotional tie to my current situation. I respected my hedge-fund clients, but I didn’t particularly like them. They were too self-absorbed, too focused on making money, and—perhaps—too much of an endangered species. A move now would be smart.

“Perfect. Assuming we go forward, where would you want me to locate?”

“Entirely your choice. I’ll want to meet face-to-face at least monthly in London or New York, at my discretion, but otherwise you’re free to set up shop wherever you’d like.”

Which would let me accommodate Claire, if she wanted me to move with her to San Francisco.

“Great. I still need to run it by my wife, but I think we might have a deal.”

“Excellent.” He took hold of the envelope nestled against his leg and offered it to me. “A good-faith gesture. The bits and pieces I’ve been able to collect on Saudi independently, as promised. I’d be interested in hearing your preliminary conclusions as soon as possible.”

I reached out and took the envelope eagerly. Unwinding the red thread sealing the flap, I saw that it contained three data CDs in purple-tinted jewel cases.

“Thanks,” I said, deciding it was the right moment to do a little trolling of my own. “Tell me, did your guy in Washington tell you whether he thought the Saudi data was good?”

“No. Only that it had the correct provenance—which, of course, is a powerful recommendation in and of itself.”

“True.” I got to my feet. “Assuming no problem at home, I’ll have my lawyer draft some terms and get back to you first thing next week.”

He smiled.

“Welcome aboard.”

I was standing outside Butterfield an hour later, waiting for the car that was supposed to pick me up, when my cell phone rang. I rested my right foot on top of a fire hydrant, balanced the heavy lasagna I was carrying precariously on my uplifted knee, and cautiously let go with one hand. The number on the phone display looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“Hello?”

“As-Salāmu ‘Alaykum.”

Shoot. It was Rashid, calling through the switchboard at the Four Seasons. Not that I didn’t want to talk to him, but this was an awkward moment for an extended hello. The tin tray sagged in the middle like an overtaxed seesaw as we executed the compulsories.

“Can I ring you back in a few minutes?” I asked, at the first polite opportunity.

“No need. I’d appreciate it if you came to see me tomorrow morning. Is that convenient?”

“Sure,” I said, wondering if he had feedback on the Saudi data already. I’d sent it to him only the previous day. “Can I bring you anything?”

“Nothing, thank you. We’ll have coffee in the lobby. At eleven?”

“At eleven,” I confirmed.

I hung up just in time to save the tray from disaster. It was good that Rashid wanted to get together—it would give me a chance to ask him what he thought about my potentially working for Narimanov. I respected his opinion. A Town Car with livery plates cruised past, my
name in the passenger window and the driver’s head turned the wrong way. I shouted, waving an elbow like a chicken, and watched him go around the block. The burst of optimism I’d felt after my meeting with Narimanov had left me. It was time to go see Claire.

Memorial Sloan-Kettering occupies an entire block on the Upper East Side, near the East River. The original building was a brick box, but they added a modern tower with updated facilities a few years back. The Pediatric Pavilion—a dual-storied atrium featuring a twenty-foot-high kinetic wall sculpture—was the showpiece of the addition. I dropped the lasagna on a table set with steam trays and went hunting for my wife. I found her in a conference room nearby with Kate, Phil, and a handful of other youngish people I didn’t recognize. The door was shut, so I hung around in the corridor, watching. A scruffy-looking kid asked a question, and Claire’s answer made everyone laugh. She’d always been a natural with students. She noticed me through the glass wall and beckoned for me to come in, her smile fading.

“Okay, then,” she said as I entered. “Six o’clock in the atrium and six-forty-five back here. And remember to spread out and talk to people during dinner, please.”

There was a ragged chorus of assent as the volunteers got to their feet and began departing. I smiled at Kate, but she gave me a furious look and hurried away without saying anything. I couldn’t imagine why she was upset with me.

“Hey,” I said, planting an awkward kiss on Claire’s cheek. “Something bothering Kate?”

“Not that I know of.”

Her tone was clipped, and she wasn’t making eye contact. I glanced at the clock. An hour suddenly seemed like an impossibly short time to cover everything we had to talk about. I took off my coat and draped it over a chair.

“Shall we sit?”

“I called you at the office this morning,” she said, ignoring my suggestion. She was twisting her wedding ring on her finger. “It occurred to me that you might want to pass on the concert and spend the evening with Alex’s friends or parents. Amy mentioned that you were at breakfast with Reggie and another man.”

I could hear the question in her voice. Amy routinely posted Claire on my schedule, with my approval, but I wished to God she hadn’t mentioned Reggie. It was exactly where I didn’t want to begin.

“That’s not why I’m here.”

She looked at me quizzically, perhaps hearing something in my voice.

“Mariano Gallegos. Amy didn’t know him. Is he a police officer?”

I couldn’t think of any way to put her off without lying to her.

“Sit,” I said gently. “Please.”

She sat. I told her everything—about the e-mail, and the stolen car, and Carlos’s murder, and my conversation with Gallegos. A single tear ran down her face when I related what the e-mail had said. I wanted to reach for her hand, but her shoulders were hunched and I was afraid she’d pull away.

“That’s everything, except that Reggie mentioned he might have a lead on the car. He’s supposed to call me later.”

Silence fell. Claire hadn’t asked any questions. Her head was bowed, and her hair was hanging down limply. She looked defeated. It was torture to see her suffering.

“I’m sorry,” I continued. “And not just about keeping secrets. I love you, and the most important thing in the world to me is to be with you. I meant what I said last night—I think it’s time for us to get away and make a fresh start.” I hesitated, cautious of mentioning San Francisco, lest it sound like I was accusing her of something. “My sense is that you feel the same way but that you don’t know how to tell me, because you don’t know if you can start over with me. You can. We can. I swear it. I’ll do whatever I have to do.”

She took a deep breath and pushed the hair back from her face.

“And what about Reggie and these Venezuelan people?”

“Reggie doesn’t really need my help. He’s just keeping me involved.…” I trailed off, aware that I’d headed in the wrong direction.

“Because you want to be kept involved,” Claire said, finishing my sentence.

“If it weren’t for the fact that Kate is still in school,” I said slowly, looking directly into her eyes, “I’d drive to the airport right now, and get on a plane with you, and never come back to New York, and never speak to Reggie again. Kyle’s not coming back. I know that now. Being with
you, moving forward with you, that’s more important to me than the past.”

She touched my cheek fleetingly, as if afraid I might burn her.

“I love you, too,” she said. “I always have. Enough to know that you’ll never stop being tormented, the way I’ve been tormented.…”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” I said, pleading with her to believe me.

“Shh,” she whispered, touching a finger to my lips. “Listen. After Kyle disappeared, I felt … panicked. All the time. Like I was frozen in that moment when I first hurried into the video store with Kate, and the man behind the counter told me he hadn’t seen Kyle, and the woman next to me suggested I call the police. All those months when you and Kate were out searching and handing out the leaflets, I was trapped in that moment, and with that feeling, and I couldn’t get out.”

“I wanted to help you,” I said, feeling tears on my face. “I didn’t know how.”

“I know. I’m not blaming you. Even at the time, I was glad you were doing what you were doing, and that you’d taken Kate with you. It was important for our family, and I felt terrible that I wasn’t strong enough to help.”

“I never judged you or thought less of you.”

“No. You and Yolanda and Kate, you all took care of me. And then you went back to work, and Yolanda went home to the Dominican Republic, and I woke up one morning and realized that I had to get Kate off to school, and shop for dinner, and pick up the dry cleaning. And I felt better, because I had responsibilities, and I wasn’t just thinking about Kyle all the time. That’s when I decided to volunteer here at the hospital. Being here, helping people who needed my help—it keeps the feeling of panic away.”

“And being with me makes the panic come back,” I said, feeling as if my heart might break.

She nodded.

“Sometimes. More than I can bear. I’m sorry.”

My phone rang in my coat. I ignored it, but Claire took the phone from my pocket and checked the display.

“It’s Reggie,” she said. “Answer it.”

“I don’t want to,” I choked.

“You have to. I’ve thought about us a lot. The only way we can be together is if you’re at peace, and the only way you’re ever going to be at peace is to learn the truth.”

She held the phone out to me. I wiped my face with my hand and took it from her.

“Reggie,” I said.

“Hey. I’m out front. You got a minute to come outside and talk?”

I looked at Claire beseechingly.

“Go,” she said. “For both of us.”

Reggie’s car was parked at a hydrant just outside the main entrance. I opened the door and climbed in, letting my head drop back against the rest as I sat.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

Everything, but I wasn’t ready to get into it with him.

“Smells like puke in here.”

“Gave a runaway a ride home this afternoon. Bought him a thirty-two-ounce orange Slurpee and a foot-long Snickers bar to keep him quiet. Live and learn. But you looked unhappy before you got in.”

“Family trouble,” I said, scrabbling for the window switch.

“With Kate?”

“Maybe,” I replied, thinking of the angry look she’d given me. I lowered the window halfway and turned my face to the opening, inhaling a lungful of cold, fresh air. The car really stank.

“I saw her canoodling with some Asian kid on a bench down the block. They going out?”

“I guess so.” I hadn’t considered her relationship in quite those terms before. It was another subject I didn’t feel ready to pursue. “So, what’s up?”

He struck a match and lit a cigarette. It was the first time I could recall being grateful for the odor.

“I think I found the guy who stole the car.”

I jerked upright, galvanized as if by an electric shock.

“You talk to him?”

“Not yet,” he said, stuffing his crumpled pack of cigarettes and matches into a cup holder. “Tonight.”

“So, what are we waiting for?”

He gave me a baleful glance.

“Who’s ‘we,’ paleface?”

It was the punch line to an old joke, Tonto’s reply to the Lone Ranger when he observed that they were both about to be killed by hostile Indians.

“There’s some kind of problem because I’m the wrong color?” I asked, confused.

Reggie laughed.

“Nah. There’s some kind of problem because you look like you work in an office on Park Avenue. The guy I found will be more talkative if he’s scared.”

“Trust me,” I said forcefully, “I meet the person who might’ve murdered my son, and I’m going to look like what I am—someone who wants to fucking kill him.”

He nodded, perhaps conceding the point.

“Which brings us to the second issue. You’re involved here.”

“And you aren’t?”

The rebuttal popped out before I had time to think about it. Reggie chewed on it for a minute, one thumb drumming on the steering wheel, and I realized it had been exactly the right thing to say. He’d dedicated his life to finding people who were lost or taken, and he was honest enough with himself not to pretend it was just a job. He’d never given up on Kyle, because he cared.