A Quiet Vendetta

Schaeffer turned and nodded at Hartmann.

Hartmann paused for a second, and then he came forward with his heart thundering in his chest and his throat tight like a tourniquet.

Later, because thoughts that came after the fact always seemed more incisive and relevant than those born in the moment, Ray Hartmann would recall the tension of that moment, the way everything had unfolded, the way the old man had come forward to greet him, how the collective body of agents had withdrawn, and how – when he opened his mouth and spoke – it seemed that everything that had gone before, everything that had brought them to that point, seemed so insignificant. This man, calling himself Ernesto Perez, had appeared without fanfare, without armed escorts, without blaring sirens and flashing cherry-bars; had appeared in the foyer of the Bureau’s office in New Orleans, perhaps the FBI’s most wanted man, coming of his own accord, coming without demand or warrant. He had appeared quietly and politely, and yet somehow commanded the attention of all who were there with his unmistakable charisma and presence.

Ernesto Perez, whoever he might have been, had arrived before them, and for the moments it took for everyone to register what he was saying, it seemed the world had stopped.

Hartmann spoke first; opened his mouth and said, ‘Mr Perez… thank you for coming.’

Perez smiled. He stepped back and gave a courteous bow of his head. He slowly removed his overcoat, his scarf also, and then – without seeming in the least presumptuous – handed them to Sheldon Ross. Ross turned and glanced at Hartmann, Hartmann nodded, and Ross took the scarf and gloves.

Perez took another step forward.

Schaeffer raised his hand. ‘Stop right there,’ he said.

Perez looked at Hartmann, his expression one of slight bemusement.

‘It’s okay,’ Hartmann said. He stepped ahead of Schaeffer, crossed the room to where Perez stood, and reached out his hand.

Perez took it, and for a moment the two of them stood there immobile.

‘Seems we have a great deal to discuss, Mr Perez,’ Hartmann said.

Perez smiled. ‘It seems we do, Mr Hartmann.’

There was a moment’s silence, and as Hartmann looked at the old man he saw nothing more than the reason he might once again lose his family. Had it not been for this man he would still be in New York, nothing to concern him but making it to Tompkins Square Park on time…

‘I have a proposition,’ Ernesto Perez stated matter-of-factly.

Hartmann’s train of thought was derailed.

Perez smiled. He seemed almost effortlessly in command of the situation. ‘But perhaps it is not so much a proposition as a presentation of incontrovertible fact. I have the girl. I have her somewhere safe. I can guarantee that no matter how many federal agents you bring down here you will never find her.’

From the inside pocket of his jacket he withdrew a single color photograph. Catherine Ducane – strained, exhausted-looking, standing against a blank and featureless wall, in her hands a copy of the New Orleans Herald from the previous day. The Herald meant nothing; the paper could be bought all across Louisiana and in some of the adjoining states as well.

Hartmann stood silent, watching every move the man made, his body language, the way his turn of phrase emphasized certain points. Hartmann knew two things from watching him: that there was indeed no possibility of finding Catherine Ducane without this man’s direction, and secondly, perhaps more importantly, that he was in no way afraid. He had either done this before, or was free of any concern regarding his own welfare.

Hartmann sensed Schaeffer beside him. He sensed his thoughts, his feelings, the kaleidoscope of emotions that would be running through him, the anxiety he would be feeling about how to explain this situation to his superiors in Washington. All these things, and underlying them the conviction that a man such as Schaeffer would feel: that Ernesto Perez was beneath him, that Ernesto Perez was the sort who was always better dead.

Hartmann willed Schaeffer to stay silent, to say and do nothing. Perez was used to being in control, and he would merely rise to any provocation by making their predicament all the more dangerous.

‘My terms, if terms is an appropriate description, are simple, if perhaps a little peculiar,’ Perez continued. He seemed relaxed, unhurried. ‘I have some things to say, a great many things, and thus my request that Mr Hartmann be present.’

Hartmann looked up at the sound of his name.

Perez smiled, and once again nodded his head. ‘Perhaps I feel I owe you something, Mr Hartmann.’

Hartmann frowned. ‘Owe me?’

‘Indeed. We have crossed paths before, indirectly, never face-to-face, but in some small way our lives connected some little while ago.’

Hartmann shook his head. There was nothing about the man that struck a chord with him.

Perez smiled. His eyes were dark and intense. He seemed to be speaking of something for which he held fond memories.

Hartmann clenched his fists. He bit his tongue. He said nothing.

Perez lowered his head, and then looked up once more and scanned the faces of the men looking back at him. ‘I think it was Pinochet perhaps, yes it was Pinochet who said that sometimes democracy must be bathed in blood.’

Perez shook his head, and turned once more to Hartmann. ‘But that is past,’ he said, ‘and we must talk of the present. As I said, I feel that there is a small matter for which I owe you a debt, and thus I have asked for you to be here. There are a good many things of which I wish to speak, and Mr Hartmann will be present to hear them. Once I am done, once I have said all I wish to say, then I will tell you where you can find the girl and she can be returned to her father. Is that understood?’

There was silence, perhaps for no more than ten or fifteen seconds, but those seconds drew out infinitely, and it seemed that everyone present was waiting for another to speak.

Finally it was Hartmann. ‘Do we have a choice?’ he asked.

Perez shook his head slowly and smiled. ‘If the life of Catherine Ducane carries any importance at all then no, Mr Hartmann, you do not have a choice.’

‘And if we concur with your wishes, if we give you the time to say what you have to say, then what guarantee can you give us that Catherine Ducane will be found alive?’

‘No guarantee, Mr Hartmann. No guarantee at all save my word.’

‘And once we have her back, what will you ask for yourself?’

Perez was silent for some time. He once more surveyed the faces that looked back at him, and it was as if he was taking a mental note, a series of snapshots of his surroundings, the people present, so as to always have them to view in hindsight. Hartmann sensed that here was both the beginning and the end of something for Ernesto Perez.

‘For myself?’ he asked. ‘I will stand and face whatever justice is deemed fitting for a man in my position.’

‘You will give yourself up?’ Hartmann asked suspiciously.

Perez shook his head. ‘A man like me never gives up, Mr Hartmann, and that is perhaps where you and I share a little in common. No, I will not be giving myself up, I will merely be relinquishing my power of choice regarding my own fate.’

Hartmann said nothing. He turned and looked at Schaeffer, whose expression was one of total incredulity. There were things he wanted to say, questions he wanted to ask, but in some fashion his mind and his mouth failed to connect.

‘So be it,’ Hartmann said finally. ‘It seems we’ve been placed in a situation where we have no choice.’

‘So be it indeed,’ Perez replied. ‘I would ask for safe housing in a nearby hotel. We shall conduct our discussions either there or here in this office, that is up to you. You can escort me from one building to another under armed guard. You can place me under arrest and keep me watched twenty-four hours a day, but I would ask for sufficient time to sleep and for adequate food. You can record our discussions or have them transcribed by someone else in the room, again that is your choice. I make no conditions as to the security or retention of those things I tell you, and I will trust Mr Hartmann to make a decision as to whether or not any action is taken against any other person whose name I might divulge. Those are the parameters within which we shall work.’

Perez turned to Sheldon Ross and extended his hand. Ross looked at Hartmann, Hartmann nodded and Ross