“That’s not wrong either.”
“Well, the problem is good old Nick and the rest of your Cavalry kids got the lesson somewhere,” Charlie said, in bitter realization of exactly where, “that business comes first.”
Drummond said nothing. For several long seconds, Charlie heard only lashes of wind against them and the squeaking of snow as they crawled through it. He suspected that, in spite of the conditions, his father was simmering.
“I see your point,” Drummond said. “It’s valid. Also, I’ve been remiss, and I’m going to rectify it.”
The contrition threw Charlie. “Rectify what?”
“Alzheimer’s disease shouldn’t be fatal to a thirty-year-old. I’m going to take care of my own.”
Charlie appreciated the sentiment. Unfortunately, Alzheimer’s disease, on top of the circumstances, probably dictated the sentiment would be fleeting.
“No doubt Fielding will pin Burt’s death on me,” Drummond said. “What we need now is to buy some time.”
“You know somewhere that sells that?”
“Brooklyn. If we can just get a vehicle-”
“And drive to Brooklyn? Why not just save gas and drive right to Langley?”
“Brooklyn’s so obvious that, ironically, it will provide an element of surprise. Also I have a safe house there that no one else knows about. For years, under an alias, I’ve rented one of the little offices in the back of the Desherer’s building.”
For more than a century, Desherer’s Sweet Shop on Bedford Avenue, with its iconic art deco front, was a favorite destination of every kid in Brooklyn. Every kid except Charlie, that is, and not by his choice. “So all of the times I wanted to go to Desherer’s, your litany of horrifying facts and figures about sugar…?”
“I didn’t make those up. But I did have an ulterior motive. Desherer’s is as crowded as any place in the neighborhood. If I were wary of surveillance, I could enter the candy store, then exit from the offices having changed my hat or coat or face. It wouldn’t have done to run into you there or have the people who worked there see you with me.”
As they crept down a dark slope, Charlie reflected that as he learned more of the truth, the corresponding scenes from his youth were no longer as bleak.
“I’ve always kept a flight kit there in case I ever needed to disappear,” Drummond said. “It has travel documents and enough cash to tide us over until we can draw on the Bank of Antigua account.”
Charlie sensed that another bleak scene was about to be re-rendered in Technicolor. “What Bank of Antigua account?”
“The numbered account with eight million dollars. Remember, I told you-”
“Yeah, I know, but at the time I figured you were delusional. With all due respect, you’re okay now?”
“Just a bit chilly.”
“The thing is, you said you made the money at Perriman.”
“Correct.”
“But at Perriman, you really were just an appliance salesman, right?”
“When I started there, as a loyal company man would, I elected to take my bonus in stock options, which were close to worthless in the aftermath of the Chubut fiasco. But my end of the business ended up being very profitable-bombs that cost relatively little to make sold for hundreds of millions-and it was least conspicuous to keep the profits in Perriman, so the stock price increased.”
“So why didn’t you ever buy a new car? Or a new chateau?”
“My role was middling sales executive, not multimillionaire arms dealer. Also, there was nothing I needed. The Olds is reliable; I rarely drive it more than five thousand miles per year-”
“Well, if you want to get me a Christmas present this year…” Charlie felt giddy in spite of the enormous odds against surviving to spend a dime of the fortune.
“There is one hitch,” Drummond said.
“It’s eight million in Antiguan dollars?”
“You’ll need to leave the country, likely for an extended period of time. You’ll be able to say no good-byes, and while you’re away, you can’t have contact with anyone you know. You won’t be able to maintain connections to any aspect of your current life.”
Charlie considered shedding his current life a significant net gain. Only one negative came to mind: He would miss having that beer with Helen. Which was silly, of course. She was a spook. Probably she’d meant to poison the beer.
“I suppose I can handle it,” he said.
The tree limbs and needles began to hiss. A helicopter rose over the hillcrest.
Mimicking Drummond, Charlie stopped and became a random mound of snow on the hillside. As the helicopter thundered overhead, the only movement on the hill was that of snowflakes stirred by the rotor blades.
The ship flew on to the ridge behind Charlie and Drummond.
The racket receded into the usual babble of wind and woods.
“Get up now, both of you, nice and slow,” came the voice of a man behind them. Charlie saw the shadow of a machine gun. “Hands up high where I can see them.”
40
Charlie rose inch by inch, so as not to spur the unseen gunslinger into precipitous use of his trigger. Charlie was confident that Drummond had had the presence of mind to take the Colt from Candicane’s saddlebag when he took the fountain pen. When Drummond stood and followed the instruction to put his hands up, however, Charlie saw no hint of the gun.
“I could stand another fifty-fifty proposition,” Drummond said. Charlie understood this to mean Drummond required a diversionary tactic, like at the battlefield.
“Zip it,” the stranger barked.
His black-lacquered machine gun was distinguishable from the night by a filament of light. Although Charlie saw him only in silhouette, it was obvious the barrel of his machine gun was shaky. Probably not coincidentally, the man was chattering furiously-oddly, without making any sound. He collected himself sufficiently to steady the barrel, point it at Charlie, and get out, “Time to say your prayers.”
An idea struck Charlie. “Sir, first, there’s one thing that, legally, I need to inform you,” he said.
“What?”
Charlie looked past him, in the direction the helicopter had flown. “Our helicopter has you locked in its sights.”
The stranger peeked over his shoulder at the dark sky. “I can’t even see it anymore.”
Drummond’s bullet hit the man in the head. He fell dead long before the brash report ceased bouncing around the ridge. Charlie was at once sickened and glad the diversion worked.
“Are you okay?” Drummond said.
“Better than him,” Charlie said numbly.
“We need to hurry.” Drummond scrambled back to his horse blanket.
“You think he might have a car around here somewhere?” Charlie asked.
Drummond packed snow into the bald spots on his blanket. “Maybe, but that shot was probably heard for miles. If there’s a road down from here, they’ll block it.”
Charlie pulled his blanket back on with all of the joy of getting into a cold bath.
“Fine diversionary tactic, by the way,” Drummond said.
“The old there’s-someone-behind-you trick? Who’d have thought it would work?”
“It wasn’t that simple. There was nothing distinctive about his appearance or dialect. Yet you deduced he wasn’t in league with the helicopter. How?”
“Oh, that,” Charlie said. “Lucky guess: I didn’t hear anything when he was chattering. I got the sense he was
