A Quiet Vendetta

particular juncture in our lives, and I felt it would be good to take advantage of it. I believe that we are both humble enough to realize that something mutually educational and beneficial can be gained from this relationship.’

‘I have learned something,’ Hartmann said.

Perez looked up. ‘Pray tell.’

‘That no matter the situation a person might find himself in there is always a choice, and dependent on that choice his life will advance or decline.’

‘You believe, of course, that I perpetually made the wrong decisions?’

‘Yes, I do. I accept that you made your decisions based on what you believed at the time, but I consider that your beliefs were fundamentally wrong. Hindsight is a tremendously effective tool for determining the correctness of a man’s decisions, but unfortunately it is always too late by the time you have that advantage.’

‘You are a closet philosopher, Mr Hartmann.’

‘I am a closet realist, Mr Perez.’

Perez smiled. He speared a piece of steak and ate it. ‘And now?’

Hartmann raised his eyebrows.

‘You have made a decision about your life from this point forward?’

‘I have.’

‘And that is?’

Hartmann was quiet for a second. ‘I have come to the conclusion that there is no such thing as the perfect answer, Mr Perez. I do not believe Man is capable of always selecting the perfect answer. What may be perfect in that moment will not neces-sarily be perfect five minutes later. There is always the ultimate variable.’

‘Variable?’

‘People,’ Hartmann said. ‘The variable of people. The choices you made were, by their very nature, inherently connected to the people in your life. You believe you understand them well enough, especially if they are the people you live with, and you make choices based on what you consider will be not only the best for yourself, but also the best for them. The problem is that people change, people are unpredictable, and they have other factors that influence their opinions and viewpoints, and opinions and viewpoints are subject to change. The connections and interrelationships between people are tenuous and fickle, Mr Perez, and thus I don’t believe there will ever be a solution which is right for everyone involved simultaneously.’

‘You have made a decision about your own family?’ Perez asked.

‘I have.’

‘And?’

‘To make it work… to do everything in my power to make it work.’

‘And you believe you can do that?’

‘I have to believe it, or everything else becomes sort of pointless.’

‘And there is action that you can take?’

Hartmann did not speak.

‘Mr Hartmann?’

Hartmann looked up. ‘There was an action I was planning to take, but events have conspired to make that action perhaps impossible.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I was supposed to meet with my wife and daughter.’

‘Here?’

‘No, in New York.’

‘When?’

‘This Saturday at noon.’

Perez paused for a second. He leaned back. He set his knife and fork down, took the napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth. ‘And I have been the event that has conspired against you,’ he said quietly, almost sympathetically.

‘You have… though I understand that this is important, and that there is significance to our meetings. Of course these events may not be as important to me as they are to you, but I have nevertheless made an agreement, and that is something I will stand by.’

‘There is your realist, Mr Hartmann, the very thing that you are afraid of becoming.’

‘Afraid? How so?’

‘To accept the fact that you can do nothing about this because of me is fatalist. A realist would take action regardless of other causes.’

‘I will take action.’

‘Action sufficient to repair whatever damage might be done by failing to meet your wife and daughter on Saturday?’

‘I believe so, yes.’

Perez nodded. He placed the napkin on his lap once more and lifted his knife and fork. ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘I believe you will take whatever action is necessary and deal with the situation effectively.’

Hartmann looked at Perez and saw that this line of conversation would go no further. He continued to eat, though eating was the last thing on his mind, and when he was done they spoke more – of music, of art, of philosophy – but Hartmann knew that it was all a pretence, a face Perez was wearing for the world, a means by which he could talk without saying anything at all. He wished to reserve his revelations for the FBI office. This was the way he wanted it, and this was what he accomplished.

Hartmann left a little before eight-thirty. He met Woodroffe and Schaeffer in the downstairs foyer. They had been party to all that had been discussed in Perez’s hotel room, and already Perez’s response had been relayed to the attorney general and the director of the FBI.

‘Still nothing on the wife,’ Woodroffe told Hartmann. ‘We can only assume that both the names, Perez and Tiacoli, are assumed. There is no record of any woman with those names ever having been born, resident, married, divorced or anything else in the mainland United States. But we keep looking,’ he added, ‘and we keep looking until we have something better to look for.’

‘And Criminalistics and Forensics have come up with nothing else to help us? And the teams of people you sent out to search the different routes in and out of the city?’ Hartmann asked. ‘Nothing that gives any kind of indication of where he might have her?’

Woodroffe shook his head. ‘Absolutely zip.’

‘You got people tearing their hair out.’

‘I got people tearing my hair out,’ Woodroffe said, and for the first time Hartmann saw how utterly exhausted these people were – mentally, physically, emotionally. Upon this their entire futures could rest, and that was something Hartmann had never really taken into consideration. He had only considered how this affected him. Perhaps here he had found another lesson worth learning.

‘I’m going,’ Hartmann said. ‘Gotta get some rest.’

‘I didn’t know this thing about your wife,’ Schaeffer commented.

Hartmann shrugged. ‘What’s there to tell? I screwed it up… up to me to un-screw it up as best I can.’

‘Good luck,’ Schaeffer said.

Hartmann nodded. ‘Need as much as I can get.’

‘Don’t we all?’ Schaeffer replied, and then he smiled, and as Hartmann turned towards the door he said, ‘Sleep good, eh?’ and Hartmann realized that when he saw Schaeffer the following morning the man would probably have not slept at all.

From the Royal Sonesta he drove across town to Verlaine’s Precinct. Verlaine was off-shift but the desk sergeant called his mobile and put Hartmann on the line.

‘You ready for this?’ Hartmann asked.

‘As ever,’ Verlaine replied. ‘You wanna meet me somewhere?’

‘Where?’

‘You know the Orleans Star? Bar in the Vieux Carre near Tortorici’s Italian.’

‘Yes, I can find it.’

‘Meet you there in about twenty minutes. I can call her from my cellphone… that way she can’t get Information