Horn sat in the car with the engine idling, wondering if maybe he was being overconfident. Vine was trained in methods beyond those usually dealt with by the NYPD. And the truth was, Horn hadn’t really thought of everything, not so far, and that disturbed him.
He started the car, but before driving away used the cell phone to call an old friend named Morris Beiner on the bomb squad. Men like Mandle and Vine knew how to get their hands on explosives, or they could make explosives themselves.
As the phone on the other end of the connection rang, he remembered Kray’s cautionary voice:. .
All those years in the NYPD, Horn thought. Maybe he hadn’t seen it all. Maybe nobody ever saw it all.
He thought about Anne, hidden away and heavily guarded, and in more danger than she knew. Vine’s motivation might be more understandable-raw, irrational vengeance-but he was no more an ordinary killer than was Mandle. They were both practitioners of the same rare trade. Death’s craftsmen, even artists, in a world of dilettantes.
48
When they’d left her alone in the cabin, Anne stood in the center of its main room and looked around. It was a small structure, not much more than the single room in which she stood, with a tiny kitchen area, a bathroom, and a crude staircase that led to sleeping lofts. At least it had indoor plumbing, though her brother told her it sometimes didn’t work all that well. She made a mental note to check it as soon as she got unpacked. Maybe before.
Though the construction was crude-stained cedar planks on the outside and on one of the inside walls-there was a certain coziness about the way the place was furnished. A large nubby sofa faced the big stone fireplace. Antlers and stuffed fish were mounted on the walls, along with a few unframed prints of hunting scenes. The floor was rough-hewn cedar, with an oval red and gray woven rug in its center. There was a smaller woven rug in the same colors in front of the fireplace. Framed photos of her brother holding up fish he’d caught over the years were propped on the mantel, and above them an old rod and reel were mounted on the wall. There was a mustiness about the cabin, made somehow pleasant by the underlying acrid scent of all the cedar.
Anne looked over at her suitcase, placed just inside the door, then up at the sleeping lofts.
She hadn’t been here in years and didn’t even recall if the place had a generator and electricity. But she was relieved to see a light switch on the wall, and that there was a ceiling fan mounted high on the beamed ceiling. Electrical cords extended from the oversized lamps on tables at each end of the sofa. It would be dark soon. At least she’d have light.
There was a knock on the warped plank door as it creaked open. Anne felt a thrill of terror, then relaxed.
It was only Paula, who’d driven her here.
Paula smiled. “Sorry if I spooked you. I forgot something.”
Anne was spooked, all right. She wondered how secure she really was in the cabin.
Cindy Vine was finally talking, but hestitantly. Horn and Larkin watched through the one-way glass of the precinct interrogation room as a detective named Millhouse, whose specialty was sly interrogation, questioned her in the presence of her Legal Aid attorney. The attorney was a handsome, stern woman in her forties named Vicki Twigg, who, in private practice, had almost been disbarred five years before for her romantic involvement with her client. Rumor had it she’d also been doing drugs but had cleaned up that act before it destroyed her personally and professionally. Horn knew Twigg could be her old clever and unprincipled self from time to time. Cindy Vine hadn’t done badly in the luck of the draw.
“You’re the only one in any sort of position to help your husband,” Millhouse was telling Cindy.
She glanced at Twigg, who sat motionless and might have been thinking about a Macy’s sale.
“And help yourself, of course,” Millhouse added. “Unfortunately your husband’s crossed a threshold into a lot of serious difficulty. I sincerely believe he wouldn’t want you to follow him, but I’m afraid that’s what you’ll do if you continue your refusal to cooperate-”
Cindy squirmed. Twigg remained unmoving, maybe wondering how crowded Macy’s would be.
“Damn her,” Larkin said, on the other side of the thick glass.
He punched out a number on his cell phone. The phone in Millhouse’s pocket vibrated soundlessly, and Larkin broke the connection.
“I’m authorized to offer a deal,” Millhouse said.
Twigg looked over at him without moving her head.
“If your client is completely truthful and cooperative-”
“She walks,” Twigg finished for him. Twigg knew the score, the inning, the pitch count. “It’s her husband you want. My client has done nothing actionable.”
“Being an accessory to murder is actionable,” Millhouse said. “But even so-”
“She walks.”
Millhouse glanced over at the glass behind which Larkin and Horn stood unseen. Twigg made it a point not to follow his gaze, but she smiled slightly.
“Okay,” Millhouse said. “Charges won’t be brought as long as she’s truthful. I’m authorized to make the offer. You have my word.”
Twigg looked over at Cindy and nodded. Cindy began to sob.
“Agreement in writing,” Twigg said.
“Sure,” Millhouse said. “I’ll set it up.”
49
SSF trooper Joe Vine used a polymer line and belayer to rappel down the rocky mountain face to the cave entrance they’d spotted from the ground. The main cave was still being explored. The Taliban had been driven from the area, or deeper into the caves, so there shouldn’t be much danger in Vine checking out this cave by himself. Judging by the contours of the mountain, it was probably small and shallow and not much more than a grotto. This region was full of such minor caves, sometimes man-made, with dark entrances that usually led nowhere.
The mission was to mop up any remaining Taliban resistance, then search the caves for records and munitions. That could, of course, be extremely dangerous.
Vine stopped his descent about a yard to the side of the cave entrance. He saw now that the cave might be reachable by using a narrow path below, but it would be difficult, and, in places, the rocky path disappeared.
He would have tossed a grenade into the cave before entering, only the unit didn’t want to make its presence known.
The sound of the grenade explosion would echo around the mountainous terrain, and the resultant smoke might be visible for miles.
So Vine readied his automatic weapon, gathered his guts, and pushed off from the mountain face to swing in through the cave entrance and take anyone inside by surprise.
From sunlight to dimness. It took a fraction of a second for Vine’s vision to adjust.
Which was a good thing, or he might have squeezed the trigger.
Inside was his fellow SSF unit member Aaron Mandle. He was stooped over a bundle of some sort and staring up at him in surprise.
