The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [125]
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.”
He looked at me quizzically.
“You need to get home? I’ll run you up to the hotel first, and we can talk on the way.”
“No,” I said. “It’s over.”
He took another hit from his cigarette, staring at me.
“Over, over? Or over for me and you?”
“Over for me and you.”
“You promised to keep me in the loop,” he said quietly. “I don’t know where you’ve been the last couple of hours, or who you’ve been talking to, but if you’re getting ready to do something crazy, you have to talk it through with me first.”
“I wish I could,” I said, feeling bad about not being able to confide in him. “I’m more grateful to you than I can ever say, but the situation’s changed.”
“You gave me your word.”
“And I’ll keep it if you want me to. But I’m involved in stuff now that you can’t be involved in, with people you can’t know. You have to believe that I’m thinking about your best interests here, Reggie. I don’t want to compromise you.”
I must have glanced toward the truck again involuntarily, because he turned his head and followed my gaze. Ten seconds ticked past. He put his cigarette in his mouth and turned up his collar.
“I read about Rashid in the afternoon paper,” he said. “Some kind of Israeli spy, huh?”
“I guess.”
“Which tells me something about the guys who saved our bacon this afternoon, and about the identity of the ‘influential foreign ambassador’ who called the mayor on your behalf, right?”
I shrugged, hoping he wouldn’t press. There was no way I could put Reggie and Shimon together without unforeseeable and potentially disastrous consequences. They were operating by an entirely different set of rules.
“Things go to shit, and how can you be sure you won’t be the fall guy?”
“I know too much at this point.”
“Great. So they’ll put you in the river.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, maybe you aren’t thinking clearly.”
I caught his arm by the sleeve and shook it gently.
“This is what’s happening,” I said. “This is what I have to do. I’ll tell you what I can, when I can. Right now, you have to walk away.”
He pursed his lips and then sighed deeply.
“You talk to Claire?”
“Not yet. But I’ll bring her up to speed tonight, before I go any further.”
“Make sure you listen to her,” he said, looking at the van again. “She’s a smart woman.” He extended his hand. “And remember that I’m around if you ever need backup.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking it. “I appreciate it.”
“Good luck.” He broke our grip and punched me lightly on the shoulder. “Call me when you’re done. We’ll have a beer.”
44
Walter got up to answer his front door, leaving me alone in his study. I was sitting in one of the club chairs, staring into the embers of a dying fire. His house staff had been dismissed for the day. Voices sounded in the hall. Clifford White entered the room, Walter behind him. White was wearing a navy suit and a red tie; his wispy gray hair looked windblown. He arched an eyebrow when he saw me, lips compressing. The loathing I felt at the sight of him was a physical sensation.
“I didn’t realize Mr. Wallace would be joining us. Are you getting him involved on the political side now?”
“A miscommunication,” Walter said, closing the study door and leaning against it. “Or, more precisely, a misdirection. The truth is that I don’t have anything urgent to communicate regarding Senator Simpson’s campaign. But Mark has a subject that he’d like to raise with you.”
“I’m managing a bid for the Republican presidential nomination,” White objected warily, turning his back to the fireplace so he could see us both simultaneously. “I don’t have time for extraneous matters.”
“I think you’ll have time for this. Mark?”
I extracted a single sheet of paper from my inner jacket pocket. I’d dressed formally, in the black suit and black tie I’d worn to bury my son. I unfolded the paper and slid it across the coffee table toward White.
“What’s this?” he demanded, fumbling for his reading glasses.
“A photocopy of a signature card for a Cayman bank account. I believe that’s your signature,