have to go.
“John,” he said, turning to his son, “you can represent us there—can’t you?”
“Sure, Pop. I’ll do it.”
Saint leaned forward, about to tap on the window glass to give Dante instructions, when he sensed a car pulling up alongside them.
He turned and saw Quentin Glass climbing out of the newly arrived vehicle’s passenger door, a thick manila envelope in his hand.
Saint rolled down his window. Glass tossed the envelope in his lap.
“From our Mr. Weeks. He apologized profusely for taking so long.”
Saint opened the envelope and pulled out two files. The first had printed across it:
OPERATION ARES EYES ONLY SURVEILLANCE SUBJECT: MICKEY DUKA
Inside was a sheaf of papers. Saint glanced quickly through them; there was a lot of background information on Micky Duka, little of which was new to him.
The last few pages were slightly more interesting. Transcripts of conversations apparently recorded without Duka’s knowledge. Conversations between Micky and this Otto Krieg, who was identified in the papers as undercover operative A14-Z11. Who had spent the last year and a half arranging the deal between Duka and his supposed boss, Yuri Astrov.
Saint closed the file and handed it to Livia.
She attacked it eagerly. Saint had brought her up to speed yesterday on what he’d learned from Weeks— she’d been just as anxious as him to get the paperwork the man had promised, to get to the truth about the man who was responsible for their son’s death.
Saint turned to the second file.
The outside of this one had a lot more writing on it.
TOP SECRET EYES ONLY UNDERCOVER OPERATIVE PROFILE DESIGNATION: A14-Z11 NSA CODE: AQUA
There were also a lot more pictures inside.
Pictures of Otto Krieg in a marine uniform. In a camouflage outfit. In a photo captioned BOSNIA—1998. In a group shot, next to a smiling Agent Weeks. Huddled in a restaurant booth with Micky Duka and Yuri Astrov.
“That’s him?” Livia whispered, leaning across his shoulder.
Howard Saint nodded. “That’s him.”
Quentin Glass leaned in through the window.
“His name is Frank Castle. Senior agent, just got the bureau’s London desk. The name, connections, apartments in Europe—none of it was real. Not even his death.”
Saint was skimming through the memo outlining that particular phase of the operation even as Quentin spoke. He saw the shoot-out between Weeks and “Krieg” had been Castle’s idea—the agent had apparently been worried about two of Astrov’s men, who were supposed to be a little trigger-happy. Castle had thought the sight of blood, blood belonging to one of their own, would make persuading them to lay down their arms easier.
There it was in black and white, then. Any way you looked at it . . . Castle was responsible for what had happened to Bobby.
“It wasn’t real. The shoot-out?” John asked.
“Maybe it was. Maybe he came back from the dead just to die again.” Saint looked up at Quentin. “Where is he now?”
“You have your chance. He’s leaving for England next week, but at this moment . . . he’s at a family reunion in Puerto Rico.”
“You should be there. So you can tell Livia how he died.” Glass nodded, and pulled back from the limo.
“Wait.”
Livia leaned forward in her seat.
“The family.”
Quentin Glass blinked, as if he hadn’t heard her right.
“Livia?”
“The family,” she said again, and then lifted her veil.
Her makeup had run. Her eyes were bloodshot and filled with tears. Saint squeezed her hand. “His whole family, Quentin.”
Glass’s eyes went to Saint, who considered his wife’s request.
The whole family. There would be a major, major stink. They couldn’t afford it now. The whole FBI thing, the governor’s race, business . . .
Then he considered the grave he’d just come from, the look on his wife’s face, the endless hours of pain that lay before them, and, most of all, the effrontery of the fuckin’ FBI, staging a play that cost his son’s life, and nodded.
“Do it,” he said to Quentin. “The whole family.”
Glass set his jaw, and went to his car.
ELEVEN
At the very bottom of his suitcase, hidden in between two shirts, one of which he’d just pulled out to wear during dinner, Frank Castle was surprised to discover his journal.
He hadn’t meant to bring it. Hadn’t even recalled taking it out of his attache since he’d come back from Florida. Maria must have done it, he thought, probably by accident, packed the journal along with his clothes.
It was funny to see it here, to hold it in his hand again. Felt a little unnatural, in a way, because Castle had always kept the journal with his equipment, with whatever gear the particular op he was on at the time required.
The little leather-bound book had gone with him all over the world, in fact, from Baghdad to the Balkans and back again. Now that he thought about it, it had always represented a little piece of home to him—maybe even a little bit of Maria, who’d given it to him in the first place, that first Christmas he’d spent in Iraq. Writing in it, he suddenly realized, had been like unburdening himself to her—even though he’d never once shown her what was inside.
But now he didn’t need the little book anymore.
From now on, he was going to be able to confide in Maria firsthand. Take the tube home from work, and talk to her.
He started to put the journal away, and then thought:
Ought at least to say a proper good-bye.
Flipping the little book open, and taking pen in hand, he began to write.
25 June 1630 Hours
Last entry. Has me wondering: is anyone else ever going to read what’s in here?
Not if I die in the line of duty, that’s for certain. One look at what I’ve written, the service will burn every page on the spot, deny it ever even existed.
On the other hand . . .
Say I serve out my time, die peacefully in my sleep, this probably ends up mixed in with all my other papers. In which case . . .
Will, maybe there’ll come a day when you find it, and start flipping through these pages. Maybe you’ll read about some of the things your old man did, and think that you never really knew me, that the man who did the things I write about in here was the real Frank Castle, and the one you grew up with an impostor.
Which, I just this second realized, is the exact opposite of the truth.
These last few days have taught me that I’m only a real person when I’m with you, and your mom. You two complete me-the rest of the time, I might as well be
“Dad!”
Castle looked up and saw his son in the doorway of the bungalow. He shut the journal and stood quickly,
