Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [65]
I drew a sketch of the plaza and the surrounding streets. Explained I’d be there first, and Gem should take whatever spot looked best to her. We couldn’t script it any closer than that—no telling what other actors would be on the stage.
“You’ve got the tricky part,” I told Byron.
“And I’ve got help,” he said.
“We can’t—”
“Not ‘we,’ partner. Me. I have a … friend. A very close friend. One that I can trust. All he knows is we’re going to do a box tail.”
“Does he know how to—?”
“Better than me,” Byron said, pride in his voice. “He’s a spook.”
CIA? Did they have a “don’t ask, don’t tell” like the Army? And did anyone actually believe that bullshit? I let it go. A man who could hide from his own employers could certainly handle his end of a box tail.
“They’re going to be edgy,” I warned them both.
“Then we shall be calm,” Gem replied.
“You’re going to have to improv,” I said to her. “It really doesn’t matter so much what you say. You’re only there to give information. Sent by a friend. A friend you never met—a friend of theirs, see? You’re just the messenger.”
“Yes.”
“Whatever you do, no matter what kind of opening they give you, don’t ask any questions. They’ll be looking for that.”
“I understand.”
“Something else is happening. Something besides me. These people disappeared a while ago. Put some very complicated systems in place, must have been planning it for a while. And they can’t be earning money legit; not in their professions, anyway. I saw their setup in Chicago. Expensive. Real expensive to maintain, the way they’re doing it. Heavy front, heavy cost. It’s a tightrope. We have to make them nervous enough to contact whoever set me up. But not panic them into running.”
“What good will that do?” Byron asked. “There’s a million ways for them to contact their principal, if that’s what this is. Phone, fax, e-mail, telegram, FedEx, UPS, carrier pigeon … you name it. No way we can put a trap on all that.”
“All this money, all this planning … Whoever wanted me dead isn’t someone they can just call on the phone. They’ve got other things going. So they’ll have cutouts in place.”
“So you figure … the Russians reach out, it takes a while for whoever it is to get back to them.”
“Yep.”
“And we’ll be waiting, right?”
“Watching.”
“For what?” Byron asked.
“Fear is a communicable disease,” I told them both. “Whatever makes them afraid, they’re going to run to the people who put them in the jackpot, looking for answers. But, see, whoever put them there, they’ll have to wonder, too. The wheels come off, you know the car’s going to crash … but you don’t know where it’s going to hit.”
“So you believe these … people, whoever they are, they will come to reassure the Russians?” Gem asked.
“Or to reassure themselves.”
“You think …?” Byron lifted an eyebrow.
“This was about murder, going in,” I reminded him.
“So if they come to cut their losses …”
I nodded. Saw Gem out of the corner of my eye, doing the same.
It was raining when we got up the next morning, but the sun made its move before noon, and pressed its advantage once it got the upper hand. By one o’clock, it was almost seventy degrees on the street.
I’d been in the plaza for a couple of hours, making sure I had the bench I wanted. Byron was in position somewhere on the side opposite where I was, aimed the right way to exit quickly. I couldn’t see the car he’d gotten for the job, but I knew it would be something bland. Maybe not as anonymous as his friend—the one whose name he hadn’t yet mentioned—but close.
Gem would be walking toward the meet from somewhere within a half-mile radius, taking her time, the red coat neatly folded into her backpack.
I wasn’t wearing a watch—it wouldn’t have worked with my ensemble: Basic American Homeless. Stretched out on one of the benches, newspapers for a mattress, all my belongings in a rusty shopping cart, a big garbage bag full of recyclable plastic bottles next to me—the sorry harvest I’d turn into cash when the