“She is indeed. You’ll see her very soon.”
She watched him, still so convinced by the disguise that to hear his Eastern European-accented English flowing from the familiar lips was as unnerving as having a dog talk to you.
“Why Winter?” she asked.
“I don’t understand your question,” Styer said.
“Why all this to kill Winter?” she asked. “What did he do to you?”
Styer sat in the chair across from her, crossed his leg, and studied her without answering.
“I understand you were supposed to kill him in New Orleans. Why did you lie-say you weren’t?”
Styer said, “He both knows and talks too much. He talks about me to the CIA and the FBI. I saw a photo of him meeting with the new leader of the shadow group that is seeking to kill me. I explicitly forbade him from looking for me as the condition for allowing him to rejoin his family and take care of the orphaned Porter girl. He chose to ignore that. Did he imagine I wouldn’t know everything? I thought he was smarter than that.”
“I know for a fact that he hasn’t been looking for you. A man he presumed was from the CIA spoke to him about you, in the guise of warning him.”
“I saw a picture of him meeting with a cell leader.”
“Somebody made sure you got it then. If they told anybody he was looking for you, if there was a picture of that meeting, it means they took it to spread the word, figuring you’d come after him so they could nail you. Doesn’t that make more sense?”
“Winter lied to you,” Styer said, rubbing his chin gently so as not to disturb the synthetic skin or the makeup that covered it. “He wants revenge for those old people in New Orleans.”
“You mean Millie and Hank Trammel?”
“That wasn’t personal. I explained that to him. In this line of work, there is often collateral damage.”
“The Trammels were like family to Winter. I don’t expect you to understand that. But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re a killer. He isn’t.”
“Don’t be so naive. Do you know how many men and women he has killed?”
“He only kills when there’s no alternative. His life is filled with people who love him. You don’t have any idea what that is like. Despite all of your expertise, you’re never going to be more than a heartless calculating predator.”
Styer smiled warmly. “Alexa. We are all only animals of varying intelligence. Our thoughts are no more than chemical reactions. Our movements are just electrical responses to stimuli. Like all living things, we are born, we live our lives, and we die and rot right off our skeletons. Family is accidental and random, based on sexual desire and fertility. Friendships are merely selfish associations. We join together as animals to feel safer, to pool emotions others have convinced us are necessary to feel better about ourselves. He has to kill me, as I have to kill him. As long as I live, he will not be able to feel the world is more than chaos, that there is a god, that anything matters. Conversely, as long as he lives, I will have to look over my shoulder, and I can’t allow that. I gave him a chance to live, but he can’t forget about me and what I did to those old people.”
“How did you know he’d be here?” Alexa asked.
“I keep close tabs on him.”
“You don’t know everything.”
“What don’t I know?” Styer asked.
“You’ll see,” she said.
“Tell me,” Styer said, taking a knife out of the pocket of his cardigan, and opening it so she could see the short serrated blade. “I’d like to know what the great FBI agent Alexa Keen could possibly know that I don’t.”
Styer stopped smiling and stood, casually holding the knife down by his leg.
“Oh, there’s one thing I should tell you,” Alexa said, taking a deep breath.
Her scream was the loudest, most powerful sound she had ever made, and completely took Styer by surprise.
He lunged at her.
94
Kurt Klein tried to relax, but every few minutes he checked the computer for Styer’s reply, softly cursing the empty screen. He was accustomed to business-borne intrigue and suspense, but so much was hanging on this deal that he was screaming inside.
Kurt winced when the phone rang. Finch answered it and spoke softly into the receiver before placing his hand over the instrument and walking over. “Sir, a Senator Raffleman wishes to speak to you.”
Kurt took the phone and waited until Finch had left the room. “Klein here.”
A woman said, “Just a second, please.”
After a click, Bert Raffleman’s voice came on. “Kurt, how are you?”
“I am fine, Senator.”
“And Freida?”
“She’s in Paris spending money. And how is Cindy?”
“Doing the same here in Washington, of course. Any word on when you’re going to hold that press conference on your resort?”
“Absolutely. I will be scheduling it tomorrow, and the invitations will be going out Monday. Can’t do it unless you’ll be here to take credit, since you have been so instrumental in paving the way for it.”
“Well, it’s not every day we get an investment like yours down there. Going to be a big boost to the economy. I can’t wait to get on one of those golf courses you’ll be building. And Cindy is excited about the spa. Not that she needs any help in the beauty department. Just let me know when and I’ll be there. You know I wouldn’t let you down. That’s what friends are for,” Raffleman drawled.
After he hung up, Kurt glanced at the computer screen and saw that Styer had answered his e-mail. Sitting forward on the edge of the couch to see better, he put on his glasses and read the response.
Uncle, Message understood. Good news on land. Girl will be home by ten tonight. Will be away from computer from here out. Wire money if satisfied. I have personal business to attend to before leaving.
Kurt closed the connection and sat back, thinking. Styer knew he had been called off the Gardner family. The part that was of concern was the “personal business” reference.
He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Massey’s name had been vaguely familiar to him even before Mulvane mentioned it. Kurt had learned from his source in D.C. that Winter James Massey, while he was a deputy U.S. marshal, had crossed swords with a rogue group of shadows, killing several of them in a series of firefights. He knew that when Yuri Chenchenko had betrayed Styer, he had sent him to kill an ex-federal marshal. That contract had been a ruse, designed to put Styer in a position to be killed by the CIA-sponsored shadow men. Since Massey knew Styer by name, and knew he was in Tunica, the only explanation was that Massey was Styer’s target, and that had to be the personal business Styer mentioned.
It all made sense. Styer had pushed Klein for the assignment in Tunica after Klein had asked Styer to recommend a lesser talent for the job. Styer, claiming he needed an easy assignment to stay sharp, had asked Kurt to let him solve the Gardner problem. For the past eight months Styer had lived here among the natives, doing research and crafting a plan that would make the land deal happen by the drop-dead date Kurt had given him. That date was at hand, and, however it had happened, the land was as good as Kurt’s.
Styer could not kill Massey. Not here or now. He stared out the window unseeingly as something came to him. The only people who could possibly take Styer out were the shadows-the cutouts who’d been Styer’s main adversaries before the Berlin Wall fell. They had wanted Styer dead for years, and had made a very expensive deal
