my pocket for my Gitanes?’
Evan put the knife back at Khan’s throat, opened his jacket. Fished out a pack of Gitanes cigarettes. Stepped back and dropped them on Khan’s lap.
‘My lighter’s in my pocket, may I get it?’ Thomas Khan’s voice was calm.
‘Yes.’
Khan dug out a small, Zippo-style lighter, lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke with a weary blow.
‘I gave you your goddamned cigarette,’ Evan said. ‘Now I want this client list.’
Khan blew out a feather of smoke. ‘Ask your mother.’
‘Don’t be a dick.’
‘You appear to be a bright boy. Do you really think that if your mother stole the files that could identify the clients, we would leave those accounts open?’ His voice was gentle, almost chiding, as though talking to a slightly dense but adored child.
Evan said, ‘I’m not falling into the trap. You have the accounts that the operatives – like my parents – used. That’s all I need. I can break Jargo either way.’
Khan laughed. ‘Do you think our operatives will keep working under those names, given the danger we’re facing?’
‘If they have families and kids like my folks or you, your suburban camouflage, they can’t change.’
‘Sure they can. Your mother’s account isn’t under Donna Casher, you stupid, stupid boy.’ Khan shook his head. ‘It’s under another name she used. You won’t catch anything in that net. We’re far too careful. We’ve got escape routes built in if our covers are ever blown. We’ve all been doing this a very long time, before you were off your mother’s teat.’ He stubbed out the cigarette. ‘I suggest you leave now. I will give you half the money in your mother’s account, and I will keep the rest for my silence. It is two million U.S. dollars, Evan. You can vanish into the world instead of a grave. You will not be able to get your father back. Your dying won’t bring back your mother.’ Khan pulled a fresh cigarette out with delicacy. ‘Two million. Don’t be a fool, take the money. Get a new life.’
‘But…’ And then Evan saw the hole in Khan’s offer. Accounts with false names. The explosion. Escape routes. The phone ringing only twice. A new life. This was a trap, but not the kind he’d expected.
Khan had all the time in the world sitting here in this house. Smiling at him. No dying sister-in-law. No Khan name attached to this house. Escape route.
‘You shit,’ Evan said.
Khan flicked the lighter again, holding it sideways, a blast of mist jetting from the lighter’s end. Evan threw up his jacketed arm across his face. Pepper spray seared his eyes, his throat. He staggered and fell across the Persian rug. Pain gouged up through his eyeballs, his nose.
Khan dashed across the room, knocking a thick tome from the shelf, reaching in, drawing a Beretta free, spinning to fire at Evan. The bullet barked into the coffee table by Evan’s head. He blindly seized the table, brought it up as a shield, charged at Khan, his eyes burning as if he’d had matches poked into them. Two more silenced shots and wood splintered into Evan’s stomach and chest, but he rammed the table into Khan, forced the gun downward, drove him back into the oak shelves.
Pressing and pressing and pressing harder. Evan powered his legs, his arms, the agony in his face fueling him. Flattening the man into the wall. He heard Khan’s lungs empty, heard him gurgle in pain; the man dropped to the floor, the gun still in his hand.
Evan dumped the table and snatched at the gun, Khan’s face and fingers nothing but a blur. But Khan held on to the Beretta. Evan fell onto the older man. Khan pistoned a knee into Evan’s groin, jabbed bony fingers at his clenched-shut eyes. Evan let go of the gun with one hand and punched, connecting with Khan’s nose. The man’s face was a haze through his tearing eyes. Evan seized the Beretta again with both hands, fought to turn it toward the cloud of the ceiling. Khan jerked it back, aimed it toward Evan’s head.
The gun fired.
35
T he heat of the bullet passed Evan’s ear. He put all his weight and strength into twisting the barrel toward the floor. Khan jerked, trying to wrench the weapon free. The gun sang again.
Khan spasmed. Then went still. Evan yanked the gun away, staggering, clawing at his eyes.
He retreated to a corner of the room. He could barely see Khan, but he kept the gun trained on him. Evan moaned; the pain in his eyes was blinding.
No movement from Khan. He forced himself back toward the body, touched the throat. Nothing. No pulse.
Agony. Evan stumbled into the kitchen. Powered on the faucet, splashed handfuls of water on his face. The brown contact lenses Bedford had given him washed free. After the tenth handful the agony started to subside. No sound in the house but the water hissing into the sink. He rinsed his swollen eyes, again and again, the gun still in his other hand, until the pain lessened. He walked back into the den.
Khan stared up at him from the floor, three-eyed, the middle eye red. Evan checked again; the neck, the wrist, the chest, were all empty of a heartbeat.
I just killed a man.
He should be sick with fear, with horror. A week ago he would have been paralyzed with shock. Now simple relief flooded him that it was Khan lying dead on the floor and not him.
He went to the bathroom and studied his face in the mirror. His eyes hazel again and swollen almost shut. His lip was badly split and bloodied. He opened the cabinet under the sink and found a fully stocked first-aid kit. Of course there was one here; in this house was everything Khan needed.
This was Khan’s escape route.
He had not thought clearly in the chaos of the bomb blast, he was so focused on getting his hands on the man who could unfold the map to his parents’ lives.
Khan had screwed up in Jargo’s eyes, but maybe Jargo didn’t want him dead. Maybe Jargo wanted to dead-end any immediate investigation into the Deeps. Khan had walked out after Evan had said the name Jargo. Or maybe he already knew Evan’s face. Then Pettigrew walked in with the bomb, or Khan triggered the bomb once he was clear of the building. Khan, with his own business destroyed, would not run to a place that would only give him a few hours’ sanctuary. He would run for his escape hatch. If the Deeps had fallback identities, so did Khan, their moneyman. He’d brought Evan to a place where Khan could hide, clothe himself in a prepared identity, melt into the world. Even better, he would be assumed dead in the bookstore blast.
When Thomas Khan was assumed dead, then no one in the CIA would be looking for him.
It was no small thing to walk away from your life. And if this house was Khan’s hidey-hole, his first stop in the journey into a fresh and secret life, he would have resources here to shut down his operations, money and data to cover his tracks and to step into his new identity. But if Jargo knew this was where Khan would run – and Jargo might – then Evan didn’t have much time at all. Jargo could send an agent to ensure Khan had escaped the blast if Khan didn’t check in.
The ringing phone. Maybe it had been Jargo calling for Khan.
Evan might not have much time at all, but he had to risk it. The answers he needed could be inside the house.
Evan checked every window and door to be sure it was locked. He pulled down every window shade, closed every curtain. Two small bedrooms, a study, and a bath upstairs, a master bedroom and bath downstairs, with den, kitchen, dining room. A door off the kitchen led down to a small cellar; Evan ventured down steps, flicked on a light. Empty. Except for in the corner, a large, black, zippered bag. A body bag.
Evan eased down the zipper.
Hadley Khan. He recognized the face – what was left of it. He had been dead for a few days. Lime powder dusted his body, to minimize the burgeoning odor of decay. Shot once through the temple. He lay curled tight in the bag, naked; long, vicious welts marred his face and his chest. His hands were missing. His mouth gaped open; there was no tongue.
