Exit Strategy Part 33

Something had pa.s.sed though his gaze, but he'd dropped it before I could get a good look.

I checked my compa.s.s. North-northwest was that way. Down on all fours again, flashlight between my teeth, and I was on the move. Dust swirled up with every step. Despite the contacts, my eyes watered, and more than once I had to stop and chomp down on the flashlight to swallow a sneeze.

"Take this," Jack had said, thrusting the map at me. "Keep it handy."

"I won't need it," I'd said.

"Humor me."

I had, but I didn't take the map out now. I didn't need to. In high school, I'd spent a summer working as a guide in Algonquin Park, and the first thing I'd learned was not how to repel black bears and blackflies, but how to memorize maps. Nothing destroys tourists' confidence-and a guide's chance at a tip-so much as having her stop in the middle of an endless expanse of forest to pore over a map.

From below came muted whispers of conversation against the backdrop of the constant whirs and dings of distant slot machines. As I crossed one room, the sound changed to a steady clinking, a river of chips going through a mechanical counter-the sound of broken marriages, busted kneecaps and shattered lives. Never saw the appeal of gambling. Not with money, anyway. The risk of parachuting or white-water rafting is one thing-you know the odds are in your favor. But casino gambling? Just take a look at the owners, and how they live, and tell me where you think all that money is going.

I supposed it was all about the threat of risk and the possibility of reward. But the risk of financial ruin was, for someone who'd been there, not enough to get my heart pumping. Not like this-the thrill of true danger, crawling into the unknown.

Regular spelunking is risky enough. But there, in a cave, you have partners who can go for help and, most times, the biggest danger you face is broken bones. Here, if I fell, I'd be exposed as a thief or, worse, an a.s.sa.s.sin. Men like Gallagher didn't handle either by simply breaking bones.

And with spelunking, it's all about the journey, the thrill of knowing every move you make could land you in a creva.s.se, that you can try your d.a.m.nedest to control every variable, but you still leave something to chance. The goal is the simple satisfaction of survival. Here, there was more. Not just increased stakes, but an actual prize. A name that could rip the mask from the Helter Skelter killer.

Crawling through this ceiling was the ultimate extreme sport. Or, perhaps, only the precursor to it.

As I moved, the clatter of coins gave way to slurping, interspersed with moans set to a sound track of "yeah, baby, that's right, baby, uh-huh." I listened for the familiar wocka-wocka music of a seventies p.o.r.n movie. Yes, I knew what p.o.r.n movies sounded like. When you've worked in a testosterone-dominated occupation, you have two choices: lecture the guys on the political incorrectness of watching p.o.r.n with a female co-worker or laugh it off with cracks like, "Hey, how come my my pizza delivery boys are never hung like that?" pizza delivery boys are never hung like that?"

As I s.h.i.+mmied forward, being careful not to disturb the video watchers below, a shaft of light glimmered up through a fist-sized hole in the ceiling tile. Below it, I could see a balding head. The rafters on either side had pipes running over them. No detours possible. d.a.m.n. I eased back onto my haunches, took the flashlight from my mouth, turned it off and tucked it into my pocket. Then forward again, relying on the hole for light. I inched to the edge and peered down.

Below was a middle-aged man, his hands wrapped around a bleach blond head bobbing in his lap. He continued his p.o.r.n star dialogue and she continued slurping, making way more noise than was necessary for the act-at least, as far as I remembered it. I was tempted to look around for the video camera. The man groaned and exhorted the woman to "Take it in. Take it all in," which, from my vantage point, didn't look very difficult. I crawled over the hole. Not like either of them was going to look up anytime soon.

As the live p.o.r.n sound track faded, I put the penlight back in my mouth and pushed on. Only a few more rooms to cross now. In spite of the racket from the distant casino and the filth of seriously overlooked housecleaning ch.o.r.es, more than once a sudden grin almost sent my flashlight tumbling to the ceiling tiles below.

"Spelunking," I'd said when Jack had expressed some doubts about the wisdom of rafter-crawling. When his look demanded an interpretation, I'd said, "You know. Exploring caverns, caves, natural tunnel systems, that sort of thing."

His look didn't change.

"It's a sport," I'd said.

He'd shaken his head, as if unable to believe anyone would voluntarily do such a thing.

"What about getting down?" he'd said. "Long jump. You fall? He'll hear."

I'd rolled my eyes. "I'm not planning to fall...or jump. I'm going to abseil."

The look again. When I'd opened my mouth to explain, he'd lifted his hand and shaken his head. "You can do it? Good enough. Just be careful."

I paused for another compa.s.s check, realized I'd veered off at the last turn and backed up a few steps. Then there it was: the final marker-a tangle of wires that snaked the feed of every security camera into Gallagher's room. He'd be alone. Both Evelyn and Jack had sworn there was little question of that. Seemed Gallagher was antisocial as well as agoraphobic. He spent his nights locked in his control room, watching his money roll in.

Despite their a.s.surances, I wasn't taking anything on faith. I stretched out across two rafters, grabbed a third with one hand, then lowered my head down as close to the ceiling tiles as I could get without slipping. A moment's pause, to double-check my balance, then I reached down with my free hand, hooked my fingertips around a tile edge and eased it to the side. It moved less than a half-inch, just enough to open a crack to the room below. And there sat Maurice Gallagher.

"He's a big guy," Jack had said.

He wasn't kidding. Evelyn had called Gallagher a spider, and I couldn't imagine a better metaphor. Gallagher was obese, at least four hundred pounds, with sticklike arms and legs, and a too-small, round head. He wore his dyed red hair slicked to each side, the part a blazing white stripe of pasty flesh that made his two patches of hair look like giant arachnid eyes. A spider, perched in his lair, watching his prey buzz about in the casino, entangling themselves in his web.

I wriggled back onto my main rafter, being careful not to make any noise, then crawled to the east side, where I'd find the bathroom. Next I took off my belt. It was a blue rope wrapped three times around my jeans, plus a length of chain and a ring clasp. A very practical fas.h.i.+on statement. I wrapped the chain around the rafter, attached the abseil ring, then looped the nylon cord through, and knotted it.

Again I braced myself on three parallel rafters and leaned down, tugging the tile up and out of the way. The whole time, I kept my eyes closed, concentrating on sound-how much I was making, and how much was coming from the adjacent room. One squeak of Gallagher's chair and I was out of there.

Once the tile was moved aside, I took hold of the cord and lowered myself through the hole. I aimed for the toilet seat, which, thankfully, Gallaher's mother had taught him to keep down. My sneakers made contact, but I kept rappelling down until my full weight was on the seat and I had my balance. Then I slid to the floor, leaving the rope dangling in case I needed to make an emergency exit.

THIRTY-SEVEN.

The bathroom door was closed. I eased it open and used my makeup compact to scout the room, keeping it tilted down so a stray reflection off the mirror wouldn't give me away. Jack had said the call b.u.t.ton for security was on Gallagher's right. I located it, then turned my attention to Gallagher. He had his back to me as he scanned the bank of screens, his head swiveling from left to right, then back again.

His gaze moved at such a constant rate that if it wasn't for the measured breathing, I'd have suspected Gallagher had indeed croaked, and I was looking at an automated version of him. I could even time his visual scan. Eleven seconds from one side to the other.

I waited until he began the right to left scan, counted off five seconds and slid forward, moving between him and his call b.u.t.ton. Then I waited. It wasn't until he scanned all the way back from left to right that he saw me "Hi," I said.

He didn't jump. Didn't dive for the call b.u.t.ton. Didn't even blink. Just looked at me, gaze moving from my head to my feet, as slow and impa.s.sive as if I was a row of security screens. Then he eased back in his chair.

"If you've come to rob me, young lady, you've made a very serious mistake." His voice was high pitched, almost squeaky. "There is no money here and you will not get anything from me but a one-way ticket to jail."

"Jail?" I said.

"I was being polite."

"Ah. Well, if I was here to rob you, I'm very unprepared." I lifted my hands, stood and turned around. "No money bags, no cans of mace, not even a gun."

"So I noticed," he murmured. "Yet you must have a weapon hidden somewhere on that pretty body. I'd bet on it."

"How much?"

He tilted his head, gaze traveling over me, studying me with a scientist's eye. "Unarmed. That is most...peculiar." His gaze lifted to mine, head slanting the other way. "I do hope, my dear, that you didn't intend to use your body as your weapon because, I a.s.sure you, I am quite immune."

"Well that's good, because when it comes to the Mata Hari routine..." I shook my head. "Hopeless. Guns are really more my thing, but that just didn't seem right. You want to talk to someone, you don't pull a gun on them. Very disrespectful."

"Quite so." He leaned back in his chair. "So you wish to talk? And what would a young lady like you want to talk to me about? Employment, perhaps? An interesting way to go about it. Much more...personally revealing than dropping off a resume."

"Actually, it's an employee I want to talk to you about, not employment. A former employee, that is." I gestured at the row of screens. "Camera number six. Recognize him?"

He looked for a few seconds, then shook his head.

"Try this. Pick up the phone, dial 555-2978."

"And say what?"

"Nothing. Just try it. Please."

He did. The phone in Jack's pocket vibrated, and he looked straight into the camera, and mouthed something.

"Jack," Gallagher said, twisting the name into a curse.

"He said you might not be happy to see him. That's why I'm here doing the talking instead of him. Well, that, and I'm much better at talking."

"So I noticed. I take it then that you are a..." He let the sentence fall away, as if he couldn't come up with a "polite" term for what I did.

"Right," I said. "I'm working something with Jack, and we need something from you."

He laughed, the sound a nails-on-chalkboard screech. I waited through it, then continued.

"And yes, Jack knows he's in no position to ask for a favor, which is why he sent me with an offer. An exchange of information. Seems you hired someone a while back to make a hit, and he double-crossed you."

Gallagher's eyes narrowed. "No one double-crosses me."

Gallagher locked gazes with me, but I just sat there, and waited him out.

"Double-crossed me how?" he said finally, mouth barely opening to let the words out.

"He told the mark about the hit, collected a tidy sum for the info, waited until the guy skedaddled to Europe, then came back, told you it was done and collected again."

"And Jack expects me to pay for the name of this traitor?" A tight laugh. "My dear, all I'd need to do is run a more thorough verification of the hits I've called."

"Sure, but Jack thought this might be faster. A lot lot faster, considering you're a high-volume customer." When Gallagher hesitated, I went on. "How about this? I tell you what we need and you decide if it's worth it?" faster, considering you're a high-volume customer." When Gallagher hesitated, I went on. "How about this? I tell you what we need and you decide if it's worth it?"

Another hesitation, then he waved for me to continue.

"Twenty years ago you bought a hit on a man under the protection of the Nikolaev family. The man's name was Sasha Fomin. We'd like to know who you hired for the hit."

Gallagher waited. When I didn't go on, his lips pursed. "And that's it? Jack wants to know who I hired on a twenty-year-old contract?"

"If you remember..."

"Of course, I remember, my dear girl. I don't forget anything. Including an insult. You make sure you tell Jack that."

"Jack insulted you by refusing to take your jobs? Well, he's lining up a whole battalion of enemies then. Between you and me, sir, I think the guy has a serious attention deficit problem. Does a job here, a job there, gets antsy and moves on. He doesn't mean any disrespect...he just can't seem to keep at one thing for very long. I think it's his age. Been in the business too long. I'm already counting the hours until he tosses me aside."

Gallagher said nothing but I could see he was digesting this. I had no idea how loyal Jack was to his regular employers, but Gallagher wouldn't know, either-Jack didn't go around bragging about his clientele. If Gallagher thought he wasn't the only one Jack had abandoned, that should lessen the insult. After a minute, Gallagher relaxed into his chair.

"And that is all Jack wishes to know? The name of the man I hired?"

"That's right."

"I can hardly imagine what use he'd have for such information. The man is no longer even in the business. Retired a year or two ago." He met my gaze. "And he had the civility to inform me of his retirement, and apologize for any inconvenience it might cause."

A mini-tornado whipped up in my gut. Retired a year or two ago? That fit our profile. But if Gallagher respected this man, felt some allegiance to a loyal former employee- "Wilkes."

I remembered that name. It was the first one Jack had thought...and the one Evelyn had dismissed.

"Wilkes?" I repeated, to be sure.

Gallagher waved his hand. "After John Wilkes Booth, I suppose. These men are hardly creative geniuses. Still, it's better than 'Jack.' Anything is better than Jack. Anyway, Jack knows him. They were...comrades of a sort, back when Jack was more...approachable."

No question then. This was the same Wilkes-Evelyn's former lover.

I related what Jack had told me about Gallagher's traitor. Gallagher accepted the information without any reaction, then called the security room and told them to release Jack. Once Jack was out, Gallagher called him and pa.s.sed the phone to me, so I'd know he was safe before I left.

"Mind if I use the front door this time?" I said.

"Be my guest. A last word before you go..."

"Hmmm?"

He met my gaze. "You appear to be a bright young lady and I have no doubt you are quite capable at your chosen occupation. Choosing Jack as a mentor speaks well to your intelligence. However, a continued...alliance with him would not. There are three kinds of people in this business, my dear. Those who play the game, those who cannot and those who will not. Only a fool aligns herself with the last. You'd do well to remember that."

"I will. Thank you."

"Should you ever be in need of employment, you know where to find me."

Success. I hadn't realized how much I'd needed that after the opera house. I walked out of that casino with such a spring in my step I attracted the notice of a prost.i.tute standing outside, waiting for winners. She gave me a once-over, as if thinking maybe my gender wasn't a complete deal breaker. I flashed her a wide smile, and she sighed before resuming her vigil.

I stepped into the side alley where I'd agreed to meet Jack. He was there, smoking one of his hated American cigarettes, his free hand drumming against the wall. When he saw me, he exhaled a long stream of smoke, then ground out the cigarette and dropped the b.u.t.t into his pocket.

"You okay?" he said, squinting through the darkness.

"You're the one I should be asking that. Lose any fingers?"

"None I needed." His gaze slipped to my hand. "Where's your gun?"

"I didn't need it."

"Nadia..."

"What?"