In the Company of Killers, Bryan Christy [love story books to read .txt] 📗

to might have been compromised. Half the people above me are compromised, for Chrissake. I had no idea how far up it went—”

“Now you do?”

When Barrow didn’t reply, Klay upended his glass and set it down hard. Barrow reached out to pour him another, but Klay waved it away. He wanted to wave away the voice in his head, the one saying, You could have stopped him, Tom . . . You were the gun . . .

“Hungry was always going to be sacrificed,” Klay said.

“We would not have let her proceed, that’s true. We care about predictability, tolerable risks. That part of investing we do understand. Ncube has proven himself to be a reliably corrupt ally, but hanging you out was Eady’s plan from the beginning. Keep that fact firmly in your mind, Tom. Destroying your lady friend was Vance Eady’s idea. But the plan wasn’t moving fast enough. Krieger was impatient, offered to send one of his operators, a woman named Mapes. She and Tenchant crawled out of the same dark hole a long time ago. Kinetics is their specialty.” Barrow shook his head. “So the plan got accelerated.”

“What about Botha? He’s yours?”

“That man’s a skeleton key. He who has the cash gets to turn him. Eady turned him for this project. We went along. Your white whale, Eady called him.”

“Does he have cancer?” Klay asked.

“Eady? Oh, I expect Vance Eady’s got himself a terminal disease, all right,” Barrow said. “Cancer’s not what they call it. No.”

Barrow kept talking, but Klay wasn’t listening. He was going back, retracing. That night at the Confession Club, Barrow’s aggressiveness made sense now. Barrow had been hostile to force Eady to state explicitly what he had in mind. Klay had been in Barrow’s shoes plenty of times. You found a good branch, laid out plenty of rope, and waited for your target to hang himself. He wondered if Barrow had recorded the conversation that night. He had no doubt Barrow was recording their conversation now.

“You said you wanted my help,” Klay said. “You’re going to prosecute Eady?”

Barrow gathered his photographs into their files and returned the files to his briefcase. He closed the lid, laid his forearms over the top, interlocked his fingers, and looked at Klay. “No, Tom. I don’t expect so, not the way you mean.” He separated his hands and tapped a fingernail against an incisor. “Different set of teeth.”

MARCHING ORDERS

Chadian Airspace

The plane shivered. The pilot made an announcement. Klay and Barrow fastened their belts. Barrow explained that a look-alike, carrying Klay’s passport, was currently flying on Delta Air Lines flight 9470 from Johannesburg to Washington, DC. The flight had a regular stop at Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport. “We’re headed there now,” Barrow said. “You’ll pick up your passport and continue on home. We papered it with the embassy. You were never officially arrested—Ms. Khoza helped you there. You’re not a fugitive. You’re a victim. Eady has antennae of his own. He may try to meet you at the airport. He’ll suspect you’ve caught on to him, but he can’t be sure. He’ll want to be sure. Our people will approach you at Dulles Airport, just for show. Refuse to talk with them. Make a scene if you’re up to it.” Barrow touched the skin under his swollen eye. “Nothing permanent.”

“And then?”

“Be yourself. That move Ms. Khoza pulled with her press release was clever. He doesn’t know you were there. It’s not foolproof, and Eady’s no fool, but it opened us some space.”

“Space for what?”

“Get some rest, Tom. We’ll discuss it.”

Troy brought Klay a blanket and a pillow. He put his seat back and closed his eyes. He fought it but the movie in his head began to play: Sehlalo’s ankle pistol . . . surprise on Tenchant’s face . . . Hungry adjusting the bodies. The scenes speeding up, spiraling. Bernard’s smile . . . shots fired . . . brakes squealing . . . her red wool coat . . . “Wait for me” . . .

Klay sat up.

Barrow looked up from his paperwork. After a moment, he removed his reading glasses, set them on top of his papers, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You know what keeps me up at night?” He poured himself another drink. “It was that day in September. Whole city had a smell to it. Smell of what we used to call the ash can.” He tapped his pen on the table. His voice softened. “It was the people in the streets, you know? Not just that morning, with the dust on their shoes, but for weeks. Complete strangers saying hello to one another. ‘Are you okay? May I help you with that?’” He chuckled. “Russians called me at home. ‘You okay, comrade? Anything I can do for you?’”

“You were there?”

“I had a lunch date that day. Took the Amtrak up. It’s a habit, I show up early. Not early enough . . .” He coughed and cleared his throat. “It was my daughter, Julia. She loved her work, yessir,” Barrow said. His voice trailed off.

“She was there?”

“She was,” Barrow said.

“I’m sorry, Will,” Klay said.

“We looked at all sides of that date. Krieger, he’d opened up a small logistics company, registered in Cyprus. Called it Executive Prospects. Moved highly placed individuals out of harm’s way. A valuable service in a world gone mad. Invisible exfils. No fingerprints.”

“You mean for the Saudis who got out. Right afterwards.”

“Oh, the Saudis, sure. That prince with the embassy, the cousins. I’m talking about timing. Krieger registered that exfil company a month before the Towers.”

Klay stared at Barrow. “I never heard any 9/11 reference to Krieger . . .”

“No, I expect you didn’t. It’s not in those twenty-eight pages, either. Had to go to the FBI to get that information. Agent who gave it to me was working for Raptor Systems when I got a hold of him.” Barrow shook his head.

As the plane flew north toward Europe, Klay slipped back into his own thoughts. How many innocent people have died because of your lies . . . ?

“What happens to Krieger?” Klay asked grimly.

Barrow cleared his throat. “We’ll block his export applications, bar him from government