Bigot list, p.24
Bigot List, page 24
“So maybe I’m not yet a danger to myself?” Tries for levity, but it falls flat.
“Look, what I hear from you is the doubts of a writer. Any writer whose book suddenly does a U-turn on him. Upsets the damn apple cart for this Helen to be the malign genius in back of Reckoning. Much better your old nemesis, Mr. Armitage. But you know what?”
Jake doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.
“This new twist is much better than what you were working on,” Maxwell says. “Newspapers have already reported all of that. We are running the risk of selling yesterday’s news. But with this new angle, you get to bring the reader into the story as you yourself discover what the hell is going on. It’s fresh. It’s alive. We’ll beat the news media at their own game.”
“We’re not talking fiction here, Bob. Or games. There’s a squad of folks who have died already. I mean, died for real.”
A sudden coldness now from New York. “You telling me you want to forget the book deal?”
“No. no. That’s not it. I just thought all this Reckoning bullshit was over. That maybe I could relax. Live a life. Not be looking over my shoulder all the time.”
“Well, friend. Book or no book, it sounds like you’re going to be checking your rearview mirror for the foreseeable future anyway. Look, I think you’re on to something here. And I don’t want you to feel pressured by time. Research this. Get to the bottom of things. From a literary point of view, this could be a windfall.”
“Well, I’m sure as fuck happy somebody’s pleased about this. So, fine. I’ll follow my nose on this.”
“Just don’t get it chopped off. And watch your back. She may not be working alone.”
“You know, Bob. That makes me feel so much better. Happy I called.”
“You want Freud, you got the wrong number, friend. I’m not a shrink. I’m an expander. Did you get the contract in your email?”
“Right, yes, I did.”
“Get it signed.”
“Need to take a look at it.”
But no good-bye from Maxwell. Just a dead line.
“We need to talk.”
“So go ahead. It’s called a phone, Jake. You use it to communicate.”
“Face-to-face.” Late in the day now. Got the lights on in his east-facing study.
“What, you worried about a tap? Big fucking bro with his cartoon ear on your phone.”
He says nothing for a moment, collecting his thoughts, jabbing a finger on the article by Helen Karla McReady. Telling himself this is not an act of utter idiocy. Convincing himself to trust his instincts.
Silence broken: “What’s all the drama, friend?” Helen finally asks.
Takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment. “We need to talk about … Karla. With a K.”
Now the silence is coming from her end. And he nods. It’s the kind of silence you’re trained to listen for. The kind of quiet that cuts through bullshit and bravado. He rides it.
But she ends his ride. “Well fuck me. Aren’t you the clever one there Mr. Jacobs.”
Feels like she’s cracking. Opening up. Ready to share. So he goes conciliatory. “I wish I weren’t. Wish I didn’t have to be.”
“And how did you discover my middle name? Got to be a damn fine agent to track that down.”
Her voice is full of sarcasm now. Attempt at peacebuilding just makes her feel stronger, he figures.
“Get real, Helen. Vosenko knew your codename. Plus, I’ve got his cell.”
“Vosenko’s?”
“No. That’s why we need a face-to-face. Cut through all this bullshit. Huber’s.”
“Are you insinuating that Mr. Bell’s invention is cumbrous?”
“Jesus, Helen, I’m trying to communicate here.”
“And Jesus back at you, Jake. What the hell are you getting at? What bullshit do we need to cut through? What freaking codename? Christ, you want a little sit-down, just say it. You’re making me nervous.”
“We need to talk about the fourth mole.”
An exasperated laugh from her end. “Isn’t that what we’ve been going round and round about for the past year?”
“About why the fourth mole…” Say it, he tells himself. Just do it. “Why the fourth mole is you.”
“You fucking crazy, Jacobs? Your adventures in Austria get to your brain?”
“My editor doesn’t think so. I went through the evidence with him. He finds it pretty damn convincing.”
To let her know he’s got an insurance policy.
“Now you’re spreading libel about me?”
“Slander.” He knows she hates being corrected. “Libel’s when it’s spoken. This will be in writing. And no defamation if it’s true, right?”
“You sanctimonious shit, Jacobs. I spent my good time and energy sharing with you. Teaching you, and this is how you repay me. Bastard.”
Her anger sounds real. Wonders if he could be wrong about this.
“Who’s to know you aren’t the fourth mole?” she says.
Which confirms things for him. “I’m driving up there tomorrow. My editor knows I’m going. We’ve got to talk about this. And lock the goddamn cats in your bedroom.”
Jake hangs up before she can protest.
On the other end of the line, Helen’s guest hangs up the extension he was listening in on, goes to the living room where Helen was talking on the phone. “Well handled, Housekeeper.”
“He’s fucking on to us.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Halfway there and he’s still stuck on first thoughts: This is the dumbest move I’ve ever made. Got his old SIG-Sauer P228 along. Cold comfort.
What do you expect from a confrontation?
But he has to. She gave it away yesterday. Clear what her next move is: try to make it seem that he is the fourth mole. The mastermind behind it all.
He spent much of the late, sleepless hours last night mapping Helen’s next moves. Primary among them would be for her to somehow use my last visit to Armitage against me. Can’t pin the hit on me, but she can blur the facts by accusing me of hiring a killer. Then the visit itself, when she’ll say I planted the suicide note and workout journal.
That’s the easy lifting for her.
Reckoning itself is a bit more difficult. He realizes now that Helen has been working on covering her ass for decades, all the way back to her time in Vienna. She was most likely the one to come up with the name of ‘Carlo’ for Armitage, Daniel Huber’s father. In case her own codename became known. To insert confusion. And it worked.
That;s what made me think Armitage was the mastermind of Reckoning, he now understands. But now, just as I thought that Reckoning could all be cover for Armitage, Helen could twist it to be engineered by me, to cover my supposed activities as a Sov mole. Pretended in emails to be the missing father—just as Helen herself did—to ratchet up Huber so he’d seek vengeance for his mother. But Huber gets out of control. Goes completely rogue.
She’ll say I had to take him down, like a mad dog. But not a hero, just covering my own tracks. And she could sell it, Jake knows. Plus, I let her know I had Huber’s cell. Should have turned it over to the Austrians. What am I trying to cover up?
So the trip. Seems I’m entering the jaws, he tells himself. But actually it’s self-defense. Stop her before she gets things rolling.
Keeps the SIG-Sauer on the seat next to him. Mid-morning, light traffic, he makes good time. Stops for a po-boy at a roadside café, and sticks the gun under the seat. Place is called King Cajun, big old alligator sign on the roof in faded green with red flames coming out of its mouth and eyes. Should have been the warning signal.
Gut’s already on fire by the time he makes it back to the car. Knew with the first bite that the shrimp was marinated in a death-flame sauce, but kept on eating. Mindless mastication. Thoughts on Helen and what the hell to expect from her.
Gets back in the car and lets out a massive belch. Helpful, but not enough. Pulls the gun out from under the seat and sets it next to him again, then back on the road. Turns on the car radio for distraction, and goes zombie. Has a CW station on for a good ten minutes before he even hears it. Usual sad song about a lost love and a bottle of JB.
“You got nothing on me, buddy,” he says to the singer.
Then turns it off.
Pulls over at a rest stop, roots around in the glove compartment and finally finds an old cassette recording of Vaughan Williams’ “The Lark Ascending.” Neville Mariner and Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Been donkey’s years since the last listen and his Merc is old enough to still have a functioning tape deck—he hopes. Plugs the cassette in and sure as sunrise, the music comes out sweet and lofty and almost too good to drive to. But he puts the car in gear and heads off down the road as the music fills and sways and lifts. Takes him out of the here and now. He’s forgotten how much he loves the piece of music. Saw it performed at least five times in Vienna. But mostly by visiting orchestras. High and mighty Viennese thought Vaughan Williams too parochial for the elevated tastes of the Vienna Philharmonic.
And the music opens stuff in him, takes him back to the nights with Tania. It was their love music. Their flight from the world outside. He’s near tears, and it’s not just the music. It’s the thought of her. Tania. The desperation of first love. He feels a hollow where she should be. So he’s got to get this straight. Put an end to the hunt for the fourth mole, to Reckoning. Has to build a safe zone so she can come into it with him.
So we can be together, he tells himself. No way I can ask her to be with me if I’m forever looking over my shoulder.
And he remembers what Bob Maxwell said about that, about the whole new angle with Helen: “And watch your back. She may not be working alone.”
He gets to Aberdeen at three in the afternoon, but follows his instincts. Doesn’t go straight to Helen’s. Drives around the northern outskirts of town near her house. Not sure what he’s looking for. No plan. Just following gut feeling now. All he knows is that Maxwell’s words resonated. Stuck with him.
Finally parks the car a block away from the house, on the edges of a park that abuts the rear of her house. Watches a couple of kids in the park throwing a frisbee. A small dog going crazy running between them, jumping for the disk over and over. No luck. Finally, just gives it up, plops down on the grass, tongue hanging out, panting.
I know the feeling, Jake thinks. Chasing and chasing this.
Puts the pistol in his rear waist. No leaving it in the car this visit. Locks the car and heads along a sidewalk to the end of the park that takes him into the woods near Helen’s house. An earlier visit, he and Helen walked in these woods, taking a break from mole hunting. Gives a look over his shoulder. Kids are too busy with the frisbee to pay him any attention.
Not ten feet into the park and his cell vibrates in his pocket. Pulls it out, knows the number.
“Where the hell are you? You’re late.”
“Sorry, Helen. Had a date with a po boy. Didn’t sit too well.”
“Please do not share the gory details. Where are you now?”
“Twenty miles or so out of town. Be there in a jif.”
“Had me worried.”
“I’m touched.”
“Fuck you, Jacobs.”
“That’s the Helen I know. You going soft on me? Touchy-feely?”
“Just want to get this cleared up. You got it all wrong.”
“I hope so.” But sliding the cell back into the front pocket of his jeans, he’s looking at the back of hope. Never heard Helen like that before. Something way wrong there. Fingernails on a blackboard. The tone raises an alarm.
She’s not alone. Not how she talks. Like she’s playing a part. Playing for an audience. Got the same feeling yesterday when she called.
Pulls his phone out again, taps her number in Recents. She answers on the fourth ring,
“Hello.” Then there is the faintest click on the line seconds later.
He kills the call. Like he suspected. Somebody on the extension.
Moves deeper into the woods, looks around. Alone, he pulls out the pistol, makes sure he’s got rounds in it. Sticks it back in his waist. Moves slowly through the woods, and then sees the fencing ahead through the newly-leafed trees. The low-slung, crazy-quilt build of Helen’s house; the roof is tired, slumps in the middle.
Comes to her back gate. Not going to keep anybody out; gate’s barely hanging from the top hinge. Plus, low enough for him to leg it over. Doesn’t bother opening it. Doesn’t want to make any sounds. Instead, lifts his right leg forward up and over the gate and then his left once he’s balanced. Feels a grab of pain from his wound and almost groans. Catches himself, takes deep breaths. Then sets both feet down. Feels under his shirt, thinks he’s torn it again, but the bandage is still dry.
Focuses once more. Small windows in back, closed off with faded curtains.
He moves around the back to the kitchen. Another window there, partially open, and a splash of curtain. Catches a side-angle glimpse of movement inside. Feels like he needs to pinch himself. Can’t be. No way.
Then the figure paces by the slant view again.
Moody. Toby fucking Moody. An electric shock passes through him. He shivers, feels a cramping in his guts.
Can barely make out muffled voices now. Moody is fulsome and pedantic as always in tone. “…be here now… suspects…finish it all…”
Then Helen, abrasive, pissed off: “… bad sandwich… coming soon…talk to him…”
Moody’s not here for a vacation, Jake figures. He’s playing fixer. But why? Never was a fan of Helen’s. Or was he? Are they working together?
He suspected that Helen might have back up, but Moody? Christ, a head of station. If he’s involved, then how deep does the rot go? Mind’s a blizzard of thoughts now. Who to trust?
Moody! Jesus Christ. Guy’s got a wife and kids back in Vienna. A real career. So was Karla a sanctioned op?
Have I got my hands around a boa that’s going to take me down? he wonders.
Pats the pistol in his waist band. Stupid reassurance. But it works for a moment. Time to think. To plan.
“You believe him?” Moody asks.
“I don’t know. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
“So, who was on the phone just then? The second time?”
She shrugs. “Hung up without saying.”
“Fuck,” he groans with the realization. “Old-time tradecraft. Checking for a second pick up. And he got it. Played us.”
“Come on,” Helen says. “Jacobs? Probably but-dialed by mistake and hung up. He always was a worthless wank in the field. Couldn’t clear a drop box without chipping a thumbnail.”
“Well, he took out your man in Austria, didn’t he? Not such a fuck up.”
“Thanks in part to you.”
She’s had enough of Moody. He slept on her couch last night, kept her awake most of the night with his heavy breathing. Not snoring, just breathing. Never liked to share a living space. Hasn’t done so in decades. Hates his patronizing; disgusted with his criticism, his “disapproval” of Reckoning. A gimmick he called it. Son of a bitch even led Jacobs to Daniel Huber, helping one of the old boys out before he knew what the hell Reckoning was even about. He would just as soon hang her out to dry all on her own. Take the fall. The good little woman.
He’s the messenger. The others are none too happy with her, either. Well, fuck that. Anger and frustration have built to a boiling point. All those years, all those asshole men looking down on her, getting the promotions she deserved. Anger roils through her body like a storm. She’s tired of holding it in. Playing nice. Taking the back seat.
Looks at the counter behind Moody, the rack of knives there. Her favorite among them, a seven-inch Wüsthoff Classic Craftsman. Loves the feel of it in the hand, the balance, the upward sweep of the blade at the tip. Her one passion, cooking.
The orange tabby at his feet, Moody sneezes, bringing her out of her reverie.
Kicks at the cat. “Get that fucking animal out of here!”
Which decides the matter for her. Calm now. Knows what she needs to do.
“Hold your horses,” she says. “Don’t have a hissy fit about it.” Moves around him as if going to the cat, but instead reaches for the blade, slips it quickly out of its nest in the knife block and then, as he’s still glaring at her cat, she thrusts it upward into his back, just below the left scapula, pushing and pushing and pushing now with both hands, and stopping only when the blade is totally inserted, the wooden handle fast against his shirt.
Not a word from him. Not even a grunt of pain. Moody collapses onto the floor, his lips moving as if now wanting to speak.
“Good-bye to you, too, motherfucker,” she says, kicking him in the face.
Eyes bloodied, blinking a couple of times, a twitch of the entire body. She watches this with clinical interest. Watching him pass, hearing the last gasp of breath. Wipes the blade on the sleeve of his blue oxford cloth button-down.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
She looks up and sees Jake standing in the kitchen doorway, a pistol aimed at her.
“What took you so long, asshole?”
“But you can’t just kill a person like that,” Jake says.
“Well, I did. He fucked with my cat. Threatened me. It was self-defense.”
“Jesus, Helen. I saw it from the back window. You butchered the man. You’re not in enough trouble already?”
She lets out a low laugh. “You haven’t got a clue, do you Jake?”
They sit now at the kitchen table, Moody’s body on the floor nearby. Jake’s still got the gun in his hand and aimed at her.
“Well, why don’t you clue me in then, lady?”
