Judge & Jury - James Patterson [80]
Nordeshenko’s mouth was as dry as sandpaper. “How much do you want?” he muttered.
“How much do we want? Not a cent, not a penny. You can have your boy back and go on with your decrepit, lying life. All you have to do is give me a single piece of information.”
“Information.” Nordeshenko wet his lips. “And what is that?”
“Cavello,” the caller answered.
Nordeshenko’s heart crashed to a stop. He had never once given a client up. He had never traded with anybody, never considered it. The list of people he worked with was sacred.
The American went on, “I’m giving you one hour. After that, you’ll never see your boy again. Your identity and Interpol dossier will be turned over to the Israeli police.”
“And what if I can’t help you?” Nordeshenko asked. “What if I don’t know?”
“Then I’d start packing.”
What could he do? They knew his name. How to reach him. They knew it was he who had helped Cavello escape. And they had the one thing that he valued most in the world in their possession. “Okay,” he said.
“Give me your mobile phone number—I’ll contact you within an hour. Drive down the hill. Wait for my call. The meet will be quick. And Kolya, I think we both know what a tragedy it would be if the police were involved.”
“You’ve got a lot of balls,” Nordeshenko said. “Whoever you are.” But he gave the man his number.
“That’s quite a statement, Kolya, after what I’ve seen you do.”
The line went dead. Nordeshenko gave Mira a reassuring nod. Then he signaled to the South African.
“Come on, Reichardt. There’s work to do.”
Chapter 99
WE DROVE THE CAR to an abandoned tobacco warehouse I had scouted in the seedy Hadar section of town. And waited. The boy was sleeping peacefully. I gave him a breath of fresh ether every time he stirred.
Over the years, in the course of my job, I’d done a few things I wasn’t proud of. None like this. The boy was innocent, whatever his father had done. We watched him sleep in the backseat. Andie was sitting next to him, calming him. Once or twice she brushed his light-brown hair.
The exchange couldn’t come too quickly for either of us.
“Where are we going to meet?” Andie asked, the boy’s head resting on her thigh.
“You mean, where am I going to meet him? In the Baha’i Gardens. Six o’clock. There’s an outdoor concert going on an hour later. The place should be jammed.”
Andie nodded.
“I’ll need to tape his mouth and bind his hands, Andie. It’s necessary. He’ll be awake. I want him in the car with you. You can reassure him he’s going to see his father in a few minutes. When it’s time, I’ll call you. You drive up, look for my signal, then you let him go. And you get the hell out of there—you understand? I don’t want you anywhere around after it’s done.”
“Where?”
“Back to the hotel.” We’d changed lodgings this morning, out of the fancy Panorama to a smaller pension in the Old Town, where we didn’t even have to leave our passports. “We’re leaving for Tel Aviv tonight.”
“Where are we heading?”
“Paris. Late flight out. Assuming all goes well.”
“And after that?”
I opened the car door. “That part of the itinerary is yet to be determined.”
The boy stirred. The anesthetic was wearing off. Soon, I would let him wake. I glanced at my watch for about the fiftieth time. The hour had passed. “Time.”
Andie smiled bravely.
I got out and called Remlikov on his mobile. I told him the location where we were going to meet. I didn’t want Andie to hear what I had to say.
I came back to the car and sat in the front seat. “It’s done.” I nodded, leaning back with a sick expression, as if I’d been chewing rancid meat.
“You know, I’m okay with this, Nick. I am. There’s just one thing that doesn’t seem right.”
“What’s that?”
“Remlikov. And the blond guy. They’re the ones who killed Jarrod. They get off free?”
“We knew that coming over here, Andie. We came for Cavello. He’s the one who ordered it done.”
Suddenly, I heard the sound of the boy stirring. “Father?”
I got out of the car and opened the rear door.