were priests, goddamnit! As of right now,” he said, rising from his big chair, looking as tall as he ever had, “we’re all on leave. Go home, or wherever you want to go, and don’t come back until this is over. We’ll stay in touch with cell phones.”
The room was deathly quiet. The light behind Nathan’s desk was such that none of the other three could actually see his face. Were his eyes darting from side to side? Was his nose twitching? They had no idea. Despite the brief outburst, his voice was calm and smooth, his demeanor subdued, not agitated. Louise and Wes took the moment as a sign of Nathan’s leadership. Had they thought it through they would have seen the folly in such judgment, but they badly needed reassurance, and how they got it was of no importance. Maloney stayed seated and Stein stood, towering above him as Tom Cruise might be made to appear tall when shot from the proper angle. “He might be a wee little man,” thought Tom, “but his name’s on the door.” Wesley Pitts and Louise Hollingsworth left.
“Let them go hide,” Nathan said. “This is real horseshit, Tom. You know that. What the fuck is going on with Sherman? He knows his guy is Leonard Martin-the whole fucking world knows it. Results!”
“I haven’t heard from him, but that means he’s working, Nathan. That’s what it means. The time will come when Walter Sherman calls, and Leonard Martin will be right there.”
“You still think we’re safe?”
“No, not safe, not the way you mean it. People we know are already dead, for Christ’s sake! We’re in the crosshairs alright, but Leonard Martin has something up his sleeve.”
“Great. When do we find out?”
“If Sherman doesn’t find him first, and soon, we’ll find out when he wants us to. In the meantime there’s nothing we can do, Nathan. Nothing.”
Louise and Wesley went home, kept their blinds closed, and stayed away from the windows. She drank and he paced, talking to himself, cursing. They didn’t hurt for any creature comforts. The very rich can have anything delivered. They were used to having things brought to them. Each passed off the new, higher cost of such luxury to market conditions. Their stocks were tumbling, and in the end they knew the servants would just as soon pick their bones as wish them good morning. For both of them, bitterness and anger grew in direct proportion to personal jeopardy. After a couple of days of this, Tom called to say Nathan wanted them to “take off,” to go somewhere they won’t be found and try to relax.
Under different conditions Wesley Pitts might have flown off to Cabo San Lucas or Palm Springs. Not now. Instead, he bought a first-class ticket with a private cabin on the Amtrak train that ran from Washington, D.C. to New Orleans. Lawrence made the long drive from Manhattan to Union Station in the nation’s capitol. From there, Wes was on his own. Although his ticket was to the end of the line, he got off the train when it stopped for a few minutes in Meridian, Mississippi. From there he rented a car and drove the hundred miles or so to the tiny town of Hintonville. His grandmother welcomed him with open arms and a warm smile.
“Are you hungry, honeychild?” she said. “Oh, Wesley, I’m so happy to see you.” She squeezed her grandson, although she barely came up to the middle of his chest. “I love you so, boy.” She was not surprised to see him. Even in the backwaters of the Deep South people read the newspaper, even the New York Times.
Like Wes, Louise would have preferred La Costa or Vail. Unlike him, she had no grandmother who would take her in, no family who had been proud of her since childhood, eager to protect their loved one. There were many men she slept with, but none of them were of any use to her now. What she did have was an enormous amount of money. She called a real estate agent she found on the Internet in Brattleboro, Vermont. The same day she bought a house nearby, just north of the Massachusetts state line. She was adamant. She wanted privacy, off the beaten path, no neighbors. The agent suggested three properties. Louise chose the second one, a six-year-old cabin with all the amenities, three bedrooms and three and a half baths on two and three-quarters acres at the foot of what passed for a small mountain. The agent offered to fax Louise pictures of the property and directed her to a website where she could take a 360-degree virtual tour of the house. “Not necessary,” Louise said. She wired power of attorney and approved a wire transfer from her bank to the realtor’s escrow account in Vermont. “Close on it immediately,” she instructed the agent. “Today, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest.” She packed and began driving. She thought of Nathan’s house in Wevertown and prayed the one she just bought would be as nice. It had to be, she figured. She paid almost six hundred thousand dollars for it.
Tom Maloney believed the best place to hide was in plain sight. He moved into a suite at the Waldorf, arranged for private security, and settled in for the duration. He was quite happy to get away from his current wife for a while, and she was so pleased with his decision she immediately left for Switzerland, telling friends she’d be gone until the spring.
Nathan Stein stayed home in the city for two days, then took off for the country, upstate. A day after arriving in Wevertown he was already going stir crazy. He called Maloney.
“Get a bigger suite,” Nathan said. “Hell, get the whole fucking penthouse.” By dinner he had moved into the Waldorf with Tom.
St. John
The phone woke him at six o’clock the next morning. It was noon in Holland and van de Steen had other business to attend to that day.
“Hoe gaat het, Walter.”
“Hoe gaat het yourself. What time is it?”
“It’s nice to see you haven’t lost all your Dutch.”
“No, I still know how to say ‘hello’ and how to find the toilet.”
“And the polar bear.” Van de Steen laughed, recalling an old joke between the two men.
“Waar is de ijsbeer?” said Walter with a smile. “I don’t remember much, but I remember that.”
“Listen Walter, some of your man’s arsenal is too common, too available to trace to any one individual. You knew that, of course, but not all of it. The Holland amp; Holland, a fine and excellent piece of equipment-truly a work of art-that one I am sure came from California. How do you say S-a-n J-o-s-e?”
“San Jose,” said Walter. “How did he get it and where?”
“I cannot say for sure it was the man you are looking for, but the rifle itself was sold through a dealer, on the Internet, paid for in money orders.”
“Money orders? I thought that gun sold for more than twenty-five thousand dollars. That’s a helluva way to pay that kind of money.”
“Yes. Quite normal, actually. And it was twenty-seven thousand, plus a dealer’s fee and shipping.”
“That’s great, Aat. I think I can find the trail of a money order that size. Is there a name?”
“Not so quickly, my friend. These dealers never sell to people who use their real name. In your country there are many named Smith or Jones. It will be a name like that. Dealers know the name is untrue. They don’t care. The name-whatever it is-will do you no good. And, you will not be able to track down a money order.”
“Why not?”
“Most individual clients pay in this manner, and they do so with a group of money orders, none for more than nine hundred dollars, all of them purchased separately. It’s an inconvenience, but it serves its purpose. Again, the dealers have no interest in the procedure, only the result.”
“Where did they ship to?”
“Ah ha, now you are talking-what is it-turkey? Do you know where is Fargo, North Dakota?”
Walter listened as van de Steen told him how the Holland amp; Holland double rifle was shipped from an anonymous owner in San Jose, California to a PO Box at a private mail and packaging store in Fargo, North Dakota. The transaction was completed under the auspices of a dealer Walter’s Dutch friend saw no need to name. He wasn’t asked. The owner of the PO Box was listed as Evangelical Missions Inc. Van de Steen said the commercial mail store, following instructions, forwarded the package, knowing nothing about its contents, to a private address in Raleigh, North Carolina.
“Jackpot!” said Walter.
“The Israeli gun,” van de Steen said, “I believe it too went to this address. Of that one I cannot be totally certain, but I think it is so. There are many of them-it too is a wonderful piece-and I believe at least one went to this place in North Dakota.”
“That’s great,” Walter said. “The Holand amp; Holland is enough. That two of them were sent to the same place makes it a hundred percent.”
“A word of caution, my friend. It was not on your list, but I can trace a Walther WA2000 to the same
