The Names of the Dead Page 18

  How things had changed, how easily cooperation had become collusion, how quickly a diplomatic and strategic success had become something that needed to be buried.

  “Why didn’t you just kill Grishko? You killed him anyway.”

  “It was too late for that. Grishko would’ve offered confirmation, but she’d already dug too deep. And she thought she was clearing your name, but my God, she was close to learning things about you that would not . . . Well, the only consolation is that she never got to that.”

  Sam was the second person to suggest this, that Rachel had been spared unpalatable truths about Wes by being murdered. Maybe she’d have discovered details she wouldn’t have wanted to know—he’d had to do things in the Middle East that might have weighed heavily on some consciences—but there was some irony in Sam suggesting that death was better than the truth.

  “You think she didn’t know the kind of person I am, the kind of things I’ve done? She worked out of my office for nearly two years. Even if she didn’t know the details, she knew. And instead of trying to deflect things onto me, how about we concentrate on the important truths. Grishko and I both knew that someone in my team was working with Omar Shadid, working against our interests, even jeopardizing our missions. When Davey Franklin started to suspect you, you betrayed him, made sure he fell into ISIL’s hands.” Until now, Wes’s explanation for what had happened to Davey had been only a theory, but Sam’s blank expression convinced Wes he’d been right about it all along. “But even that wasn’t enough. You thought I was close to finding out, so you set me up for a fall, too. Took my job, took my team. And then Rachel made the mistake of looking into my past, trying to clear my name. So you killed her, you sent your team to kill me, and then you killed the only other person who could’ve exposed your dealings with Shadid—Konstantin Grishko.”

  Sam leaned forward and forced himself to take another sip of his drink. Wes downed his in one, and filled his glass again.

  “Are you done? It’s a great story, Wes—”

  “I’m gonna kill you, Sam. I guess it’s because of what you did to me and what you did to Rachel, but ultimately, it’s because I still think of myself as an Agency employee, as a servant of the US government, and there’s no doubt in my mind that killing you would be a great service to my country.”

  “No, Wes, you aim to kill me because it’s what you do. It’s your default option. But that’s not how this plays out. I’m sure you’ve deduced by now that we have the girl. And really, you accuse me of being stupid, but you waltz into a small city like Zagreb with a high-profile companion and check into this place, and you didn’t think we’d notice.”

  That stung because it was true, but Wes didn’t let it show, smiling instead.

  “The ‘stupid’ thing really got under your skin, didn’t it, Sam? Because it’s true, and you know it. You’re acting like you’re in control, but you’re not. It’s why I climbed the greasy pole ahead of you, and why it took a scheming traitor like you to bring me down.”

  “Maybe I am stupid. Maybe that’s why it took me so long to realize you’re completely nuts, but enough of the reminiscing. Be in your room tonight at ten. You’ll get a phone call and you’ll have thirty minutes to get to the rendezvous. If you’re not in your room when we call, or if you don’t reach the rendezvous, we’ll kill the girl, slowly.”

  Wes laughed a little, then more, a response that appeared to crack the surface of Sam’s confidence.

  “That’s your bait? You think after all I’ve been through, I’m gonna walk into an ambush and get killed just to save her? You paint me as inhuman, yet you still think I’ll commit suicide to save a woman I hardly know? No. I don’t care what you do with her. And you really do seem to be having trouble understanding, so I’ll make it plain. I. Am going. To kill you.”

  It was true, Sam wasn’t the smartest, but he was smart enough. After staring back at Wes for a few seconds, calculating, he relaxed, even produced a smile, then stood up.

  “Ten tonight. One way or another, this plays out the same. You can do it the easy way and save the girl, or the hard way and she dies. Your choice.”

  He walked away quickly. Wes waited a few seconds, then jumped up and followed, calling over to the waiter, “Charge it to my room—I’ll sign later.”

  “No problem, Mr. Wesley. Have a good day.”

  Wes smiled back, because that was exactly what he planned to do.

  Thirty-Six

  By the time Wes got to the main doors, Sam had already crossed the street and was walking away to the left, talking into his cell. Wes watched him walk, struck by his confidence, by the fact that he didn’t once look back.

  “Everything okay, sir?”

  “Everything’s fine, thanks, Josip.”

  Despite Wes’s jokes about him being dumb, Sam wasn’t dumb enough to walk away so casually, not unless someone was covering his back. Wes looked around but saw no one. He ducked back in through the doors but moved so that he could stare back out, looking over Josip’s shoulder.

  He was there for a full ten minutes before he spotted someone walking out of a small café across the street and heading in the opposite direction to that Sam had taken. Even then, Wes had registered the movement and almost dismissed it before he realized it was Billy Tavares.

  Billy had already turned the corner and disappeared from view by the time Wes stepped out and pointed, saying to Josip, “Where does that street lead to?”

  “To the shopping district and up to the old town.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Wes broke into a run to get across in front of an approaching tram, then kept running until he was on the same street as Billy, a tree-lined avenue of what appeared to be grand apartment blocks. He slowed to a walk once he caught sight of Billy up ahead of him.

  Billy Tavares was an imposing presence and looked every bit the Native American. In Turkey and Iraq he’d been able to blend in easily enough, but in a predominantly white city like Zagreb he was an all-too-visible target, so Wes was confident of keeping him in sight now that he had eyes on him.

  But Wes wasn’t sure what he planned to do. He didn’t have a gun on him. He’d momentarily considered going back to his room to get one, but Billy would have been long gone by then.

  On the other hand, Billy would be armed and was no pushover even without a weapon. At the very least, Wes could find out where he was going, make a note of the address, and head back there later—not that he had an abundance of time in which to act.

  For the next ten minutes, he followed Billy, the street more or less a straight line so that Wes was able to keep his distance. He closed in more tightly as they hit a pedestrianized stretch and the shopping district—there were a lot more people about now so it would be easier for Wes to lose him, and harder for Billy to notice a familiar face behind him.

  Billy cut into a passage and then climbed some steps up into a small tiered park built into the hillside. It looked like a hangout for students and artists—deck chairs here and there among the trees, someone in a hammock, a table tennis game in progress, a small bar.

  Billy disappeared from view, and as Wes reached the top of the steps he saw that he’d walked into a pedestrian tunnel, the outside painted like a cartoon monster, its open mouth forming the entrance. It appeared to cut right under the hill that made up the old town, but it was long and straight and Billy was the only person in it, clearly visible as he walked away, so Wes had no choice but to hold back.

  He only followed when he thought he might be in danger of losing him, but even now he was conscious that Billy could turn at any moment and Wes would be an easy target against the light of the tunnel entrance. Would he shoot him here? Wes guessed it depended how much they’d all fallen for the portrayal of their former boss as some kind of dangerous maniac.

  Billy turned right up ahead, so Wes picked up his pace, and as he got nearer to the junction he could hear voices, echoes of conversation and laughter, footsteps on the stone floor.
He rounded the corner into a larger tunnel and he could no longer see Billy at all.

  There were stalls set up here selling jewelry and crafts; another that appeared to be some kind of art installation, two women fitting people with VR headsets. Wes threaded through them, picking up his pace again. There were more people ahead of him—a young couple, a small group of teens—and by the time he got through them, the tunnel ahead was empty, right up to the point where it broke back into the light.

  Wes ran on. Did Billy know he was being followed? He’d covered this distance pretty quickly for someone just walking home, but then he’d had a decent head start. Wes only slowed again as he emerged from the tunnel, back into the full glare of the sun.

  He turned left, reckoning Billy wouldn’t have come all this way to double back on himself, and he was proved right—there he was, a short distance ahead, not looking rushed. For the first time, Wes wondered if Billy wasn’t heading home or back to the office, but to wherever it was they had Mia.

  He closed in again as they walked along another busier street. They passed alongside a restaurant that had tables out on the street, full of couples and groups, a mix of tourists and locals. Wes spotted a steak knife sitting next to a plate, and as he walked past he let his hand brush the edge of the table and took the knife with him—no one seemed to notice him taking it, but as he slid it inside his sleeve he also wasn’t sure how much use it would be.

  A couple of minutes later, Billy stepped into an old apartment building. The street door was open, and as Wes approached, he could hear Billy’s light footsteps on the stone stairs. Wes moved quickly, noiselessly ascending, pulling the knife free from his shirt sleeve, an action that inevitably reminded him of releasing the blade from Patrice’s bible.

  Billy’s steps were still above him, but Wes could tell he was gaining on him. And then the noise stopped and so did Wes. He glanced up. There was no sign of Billy, so he was somewhere on the third floor. Wes moved again, reaching the landing, a quick step forward and a glance to left and right. Billy wasn’t there.

  Wes moved forward again, looked left, took in the deep doorways that opened into each of the once-grand apartments. He started to turn back to his right but instinctively sensed someone stepping out behind him, and he was annoyed with himself for not seeing him there, for being outwitted.

  But he had to channel that anger. Even without looking he knew Billy would have a gun, and that he was maybe only ten feet away. Without even thinking about it, without even turning to make sure it was Billy behind him, he hurled himself back, colliding with him, crunching him into the wall.

  He’d closed the space down before Billy had raised his gun arm, but he knew the gun was drawn as it cracked hard against the top of his head. A fist slammed into his torso on the other side then the gun arm got withdrawn, and Wes knew Billy was pulling it back just enough to take aim so he punched back hard with his right arm, three times, Billy’s arm smashing against the corner of the doorway until the gun clattered to the floor.

  Wes rammed the same hand down then, a fierce blow with the knife into Billy’s leg, and used the shock of that injury to spin around. He took a punch at Billy’s face with his left and immediately brought the knife up and pushed the tip under his chin, and both of them became still.

  Wes’s heart was racing, he was out of breath, his head and his ribs already beginning to throb. Billy was out of breath, too, and his lip was bloodied. He looked afraid. Wes had seen Billy Tavares go into some dangerous situations over the years, and he’d never seen him look so scared before.

  “Which is your apartment?”

  Billy gestured with his eyes to the door behind him.

  “Anyone else in there?”

  “No.”

  “Turn around. Face the door, hands up where I can see them.”

  He eased the pressure of the knife but kept it at neck level and Billy made a hobbled turn, struggling to put pressure on the stabbed leg. Wes took a quick look to the left, saw the gun on the floor a few feet away. He had the knife pressed into the back of Billy’s neck now, the sweet spot just under the skull.

  “Where’s the key?”

  “Right-hand pocket of my pants.”

  Wes kept the knife firm and reached his hand into the pocket, pulling the key free and slipping it into Billy’s hand where it was pressed against the door. He stood back then, and in one swift movement stepped away, scooped up the gun, and aimed it.

  “Okay, open the door.”

  For a second, Billy didn’t move, and his reluctance was visible even as he grudgingly slid the key into the lock. He’d moved from fear to grim realization, but Wes was pretty certain he could at least rely on him not to beg.

  Once the door was open, Wes pushed the gun into Billy’s back and moved inside with him, closing the door shut again with his boot. They moved around the apartment like that, like some fraught modern-dance routine, until Wes was certain there was no one else there.

  The bathroom was the last stop and Wes opened the cabinet and found a first-aid kit. He handed it to Billy, who for the first time showed another expression—confusion.

  “Through to the living room.” Wes walked behind Billy, and now that he was more relaxed, he noticed how tidy it was, how spare. “Take off your shoes and your pants, then sit on the couch there and fix your leg.”

  Billy stared at him groggily. He kicked off his shoes, loosened his pants, easing the bloodstained material away from the wound and then dropping them. He sat and looked down at the wound as he opened the first-aid box.

  “Doesn’t look too bad,” said Wes.

  “It went into my quad pretty deep. Lucky, I guess.”

  He didn’t sound as if he meant it, and Wes was pretty sure he understood why. Billy thought this was a bluff on Wes’s part, to make his victim think he didn’t plan to kill him, to get him to talk.

  “I’m not gonna kill you, Billy.”

  Naturally, he didn’t look convinced, and grimaced as he wiped the wound with disinfectant.

  “Is that what you told Scottie?”

  “Have they found him?”

  “Yesterday.” He looked up briefly, then went back to patching up his leg. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Scottie killed my wife. I feel like you all betrayed me, too, but frankly I’m not bitter enough about that to kill you. Scottie killed my wife. Sam ordered it. There’s no need for it to go beyond that.”

  “I never betrayed you, Wes. I do the job I’m told to do, so did Scottie. I liked working for you—you were a good boss, but you went to prison.”

  “Sam seems to think I was out of control.”

  “I don’t hold with that. You were in control. You were extreme, but that was the nature of where we were. It needed someone who didn’t believe in taking prisoners.”

  “Was I extreme?”

  Billy looked up. “Permission to speak candidly?”

  “Granted.”

  Billy still looked reluctant to talk, a hesitancy that for the first time made Wes uneasy about what he was going to hear.

  “Yeah, you were extreme, everyone thought so. The Kurds loved that about you, the fact that you were always willing to do whatever it took. The thing is, you were scary to be around sometimes, in the field, but in a weird way I always felt safe, because you were on our side, not theirs.”

  For a second or two, Wes could think of no response, because he still didn’t recognize Billy’s depiction of him, or not all of it.

  In the end, he said, “Thanks for being honest.”

  “I’m sorry, Wes. I meant no criticism. We need people like you, we—”

  “It’s okay, Billy, I understand. And so I guess that’s why you think I’m gonna kill you?” Billy looked back at him but didn’t answer. “It’s not about taking no prisoners for me, but I’ll admit, it’s about always doing what needs to be done. If I needed to kill you, I would. You could argue it’s a risk for me to leave you alive, but I’m willing to take that risk
. You’re a good man, Billy. I thought Sam and Scottie were too, but I was wrong about them.”

  “They—”

  Wes silenced him with a raised finger, because he didn’t want to hear another defense of either man. “Where have they taken the girl?”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t tell you if I did, but Sam has this philosophy of separate cells. He’d have told Kyle and Brandon to pick her up and keep her somewhere but then he’d have just left them to it. As of now, not even Sam will know where they’ve got her.”

  That squared with what Sam had said about telling Scottie to shut Rachel down but not how to do it. It was a smart way for a traitor to operate, ensuring there was no thread running through the maze.

  “You have an office here in Zagreb?” Billy shook his head, not a denial but a refusal. “This is between me and Sam. How about an address? Let me go in there on even terms.”

  “I can’t. You know I can’t.” There was an air of resignation about him—even if he’d accepted that Wes didn’t intend to kill him, he looked like a man who was expecting to be tortured. And he was right in a sense, because if Wes thought it would do any good, he’d have tortured Billy to the outer edges of death. But he knew Billy was too strong, that it would take too long.

  Wes thought of a line from the bible and was amazed that he could remember it—maybe some of it had been sinking in after all.

  “Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”

  “What?”

  “Something a friend of mine underlined in a bible he gave me. I guess it fits. I don’t know if you consider Sam a friend, or even a comrade, but you certainly know you’re risking your life to protect him.”

  Billy nodded. “I know that. And yeah, I consider him a friend. I consider you one too.”

  “You remember Omar Shadid?”

  “It’s probably my only regret out there, that we didn’t take that cockroach down before we left.”

  “Sam was working for him.” He nodded in response to Billy’s incredulous expression. “We knew someone was, but didn’t know who. I think Davey Franklin had his suspicions—that did for him. Sam set me up. I guess he was worried I was getting close to the truth. That’s certainly why he killed Rachel. And why he killed Konstantin Grishko.”