or a sadist or anything. He likes to party is all.”
“How about the business side? Is there any country he’s especially close to? The Russians, say?” Wells still didn’t think the Russians would have helped the Taliban, but anything was possible.
“Not particularly. He sells mostly Russian stuff, but he keeps them at arm’s length. Smart man. And he makes sure to keep his business far from Zurich. Also smart. Pays enough in taxes to keep the Swiss happy and keeps his money in local banks, mainly UBS.”
“Did he ever work for U.S. companies?”
Tarks nodded. “Lots of folks wish he still would. The Indian Air Force is looking at a huge order, close to a hundred thirty planes, and the French have hired him to convince the Indians to go with the Mirage”—a French- made fighter jet—“and not the F-16. That would be a very big sale. North of five billion. If we don’t get it, some Lockheed lobbyists”—Lockheed Martin manufactured the F-16—“will tell the Armed Services Committee it’s because we don’t have guys like Kowalski on our team. They’ll say it quietly, but they’ll say it.”
“Wonderful world,” Wells said. “Could you see him selling weapons to the Taliban?”
“That’d be pushing it, even for him. He’d know we wouldn’t be happy if we found out. To put it mildly.”
“But if the money was right, and he thought he could get away with it?”
“Under those circumstances? I’d say there’s nothing he wouldn’t do.”
WELLS’S LAST CONVERSATION with Ed Graften, the East Hampton police chief, had been more gratifying. After the East Hampton police freed Kowalski, he refused to answer any questions. He had no idea who had attacked him and his guards, he said.
“Boys will be boys. Why don’t you ask them? I was in my bedroom.”
“What about the tape, the handcuffs?” the lead cop on the scene said.
“A new weight-loss method recommended by my physician. With my mouth taped shut, I cannot eat.”
“Sounds like you need a new doctor.”
“I have already lost five pounds,” Kowalski said, sucking in his gut in a show of dignity. “Now, I appreciate your leaving my property so I can return to bed.”
The unconscious guards were taken to Southampton Hospital. By morning, they were stirring. All four claimed they had no memory of what had happened. They refused to answer questions and demanded to speak to Kowalski’s lawyers. Since they appeared to be victims, not perpetrators, the cops had no choice but to let them go. They were asked to return for interviews later.
But they never showed up. And when the police went to Two Mile Hollow Road to find them, they discovered the mansion was empty. Flight records showed that Kowalski’s Gulfstream had flown out of the East Hampton airport less than eight hours after Wells’s courtesy call. According to the flight plan they’d filed before takeoff, the jet was bound for Miami — which probably meant it had wound up in the Dominican Republic or Barbados or Venezuela. In any case, Kowalski and his men were gone.
“Just thought you might like to know he’d flown the coop. My guys said he was a very cool customer,” the chief said. “Hardly complained when that tape came off him.”
“He is smooth.”
“A weight-loss program. Have to give him credit for coming up with that.” Graften chuckled. “Did you get what you needed?”
“Thanks for the help, chief. If you hear anything more, let me know.”
“Will do.”
WELLS HOPED HE WAS ONLY temporarily stalled on Kowalski, although in truth he wasn’t sure where to look next. The trail seemed to have dead-ended. So he’d decided to catch up on the mole investigation. But as he read over the personnel reports that Exley and Shafer had put together, Wells wasn’t convinced that Exley’s hunch about Keith Robinson made sense. Then again, he hadn’t seen the guy’s house or his wife.
A rap on his door startled him. Exley. “Want to go for a drive?”
WHEN THEY GOT TO the Robinson house, Exley was glad she’d asked Wells to come. The lights in the house were off, but through the windows Exley saw the television in the den flashing.
“Sure she’s home?” Wells said. He was standing beside the door, hidden against the wall of the house.
“She’s home.” Exley knocked again. Finally she heard footsteps. Janice pulled open the door, glassy-eyed, a steak knife wavering in her hand.
“You,” she said. She jabbed the knife in Exley’s direction. She seemed more likely to drop it on her foot than do any serious damage, Exley thought. Janice took a tiny step forward, and Wells reached out his big right arm and twisted her wrist until the knife clattered down. Janice’s mouth opened and closed in wordless drunken confusion as Wells tossed the knife aside.
Exley knew Wells was just making sure they wouldn’t get hurt, but somehow she was angry at the almost robotic ease with which he’d disarmed this pathetic woman. Forget breaking a sweat. Wells hadn’t even blinked. She realized something about him then, something she should have known all along. For all the emotional weight Wells carried, the thought of death hardly scared him. On some unconscious level he must feel immortal, Exley thought. He probably couldn’t imagine losing a fight, couldn’t imagine anyone was stronger or faster than he was. Exley had seen firsthand what he could do in close combat. She wondered what it would be like to have such physical confidence. She’d never know. Women never got to feel that way. No wonder Wells was addicted to action.
Janice staggered forward, tripping over her feet. Wells put a hand on her arm and held her up. Her eyes flicked helplessly between Wells and Exley.
“You can‘t—” she said softly.
“Ma‘am,” Wells said. “We’re sorry, but can we talk to you inside? Please.”
Janice’s face crumpled on itself like a leaky balloon. She didn’t answer, just stepped into the yard and stared at the sky. The golden retriever stood behind her in the doorway, tail down.
Finally she waved them inside. “What difference does it make anyway?” she said. “Wait in the kitchen.” She wandered upstairs as Wells watched, a hand near the Makarov he had tucked into his shoulder holster before they left the office. But they had nothing to worry about, Exley thought. Janice was harmless now. Sure enough, her hands were empty when she reappeared. She seemed to have gone upstairs mainly to fix herself up. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail and fixed her makeup.
“I thought maybe when you showed up again that you were his girlfriend. But you’re not.”
“Your husband’s girlfriend? No, I’m not.”
“Because I know he’s got a girlfriend, and he got all nervous when I told him you came by. He wanted to know what you wanted. Then when I woke up this morning, he was gone.”
“You know where?”
“Haven’t seen him or that Acura of his since last night. He hasn’t called neither, and his phone’s turned off.” Janice focused her wobbly attention on Exley. “But anyway I see you’re not his girlfriend. He likes ‘em younger than you. And prettier. You from the agency?”
“Yes, ma‘am,” Wells said. “We are.” He passed her his identification card, the one with his real name. Janice held it close to her face, her eyes flicking between the identification and Wells.
“I don’t believe it, but I guess I do,” she said. “Is Keith in trouble?”
“We’re trying to find out,” Exley said. “He tell you where he was going?”
“As I just recounted”—Janice sat up straight as she used the half-dollar word—“he didn’t even say he was leaving, much less where. He was just gone when I woke up, and his favorite clothes too.”
“Did he take anything else?”
“I don’t rightly know. Maybe some stuff from the basement. He spends a lot of time down there. Last night he was saying strange stuff, like what would I think if we left the country and started over somewhere else.”
“Do you mind if we take a look?” Wells said. “In the basement?”
“I guess not. It’s locked, though. And I can’t find the key. I don’t know if he took it or what.”
“I can take care of that.” Wells reached into his jacket for his pistol.
