More than anything else, that was what had led to the peace-a better economy that gave those in the country something to protect. Deep in his heart, Sean Broadark was okay with that. He would follow his orders to the end. But he allowed himself, on occasion, to hope that those orders someday would be to stand down.
Liam Kilbranish watched Broadark as he approached the house. He knew where the man had been; Sean hadn’t tried to hide it. “I have to check in,” he’d said. The fact that he’d left the house made clear that there were things he had to talk to his superiors about that he didn’t want Liam to hear.
Liam wasn’t surprised. When he had laid out the plan, he’d made it all sound so easy. Perhaps he’d even believed that it would be easy. He’d certainly wanted to believe it. And yet, deep in his heart, he’d always known it wouldn’t be.
He blamed himself. Not for his failure in the past few days, but for his failure twenty years before. The plan had been perfect. They had all the intelligence they needed; the target was virtually unprotected; the information regarding the paintings themselves was flawless. If the execution was imperfect, that was the fault of the man assigned to him by the Boston contingent. Even with Devon Malley’s lack of professionalism, though, the objectives were achieved-at least Liam thought they had been.
Now, as he looked out the window toward the depressing concrete yards surrounding the safe house, watching Broadark climb the front stairs, he knew he was suffering for his own shortcomings, and he was petrified that the silent promise he’d made to his father years before would go unfulfilled.
It was ironic. If not for him, the movement would have stalled even earlier. Fund-raising was always the difficulty. The fighting came easy, but keeping the supply lines flowing with guns and explosives and ammunition was a challenge that required more ingenuity than most possessed. By the late 1980s, the wells were running dry on both sides of the Atlantic. People were losing heart and losing commitment. Those who had given generously before were tightening up, unwilling to continue giving to a movement that had lost direction. Those who had not given before were turning them down flat, unwilling to cast their lot with a cause that had become unpopular. People seemed weary of the death and destruction.
By then fighting had become a way of life for Liam. He couldn’t imagine himself without it. His hatred had burned for so long that it had consumed much of what had been human inside of him. Without the money, though, the fighting would end.
The drug trade served as a band-aid for a while, but it was a dangerous business. Art theft had been Liam’s brainchild. There were so many private museums throughout the UK and continental Europe that were ripe for the plucking, and the proceeds kept the money rolling in. American targets were less plentiful-the Americans were, by their nature, less trusting than their European counterparts, and security was generally much more severe. Liam had stumbled onto the idea of the Gardner Museum during one of his visits.
Now, what had been the perfect job and the perfect fix had destroyed the fight. He wouldn’t let that be the end.
Broadark opened the door and walked into the tiny house. He didn’t even look at Liam. He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. The fact that the man had the temerity to drink simmered in Liam’s craw. It seemed to him a statement that the mission was lost.
Broadark walked over to the sofa in the living area and sat down. He turned on the television and began ritually flipping though the channels. It was a compulsion. He never stopped long enough to see anything coherent on the screen, and it was clear that there was nothing in particular he was looking for. He just kept flipping as the panoply of mindless, sex-filled American bubblegum pop culture flashed by like some eye-searing experiment in subliminal torture. The man was so attached to the process that he slipped the beer under his arm so he could open it without breaking stride.
Liam walked over and grabbed the remote out of Broadark’s hand, pointed it toward the television and pressed the power button. The set blinked once hard, the light exploding in a flash that consumed the screen, then receded from the corners to a pointed horizon in the center of an ancient, darkened picture tube. “No more television,” he said.
Broadark looked up at him from the sofa. Liam wondered whether he would make his move. It depended on the orders he’d received on the phone call. Liam figured he’d rather know sooner than later.
He could see the calculations that ran through Broadark’s mind. In some respects they both functioned in the same way. Confrontations like this came down to a series of calculations: who could reach his weapon first? What were your adversary’s weaknesses? Where was he exposed? Who was more willing to take the chance? How far were you willing to take the fight?
Liam could see all these questions rattling off in sequence in Broadark’s eyes, the sums of the equations being added and multiplied and calculated. Then an answer was reached. Broadark shrugged and pulled his beer out from under his arm and took a sip.
Liam reached out and grabbed away the beer. He walked over to the sink and poured it out. “No more booze, either,” he said. He knew Broadark was not a threat-yet. If he had the go-ahead to take Liam out, he would have reached for his gun when Liam took the remote. Liam had a little more time. Not much, though.
Broadark rose from the couch. He walked over to the narrow counter in the kitchen. “What, then?” he asked.
“I told you, there’s one more.”
“Yeah, you told me,” Broadark said. “You also told me he’s in jail. Not much we can get from him while he’s there, is there?”
“There are other ways.”
“What are they?”
The truth was, Liam didn’t know. He was running out of time, and he had lost all his leverage. “The lawyer,” he said. He wasn’t even sure what it meant when the words came out of his mouth, but when he heard them, they triggered something in him-a hope that had been slipping away.
“The lawyer,” Broadark repeated. There was skepticism in his voice. “What about the lawyer?”
“We follow the lawyer,” Liam said. “He’s the only contact we have with the last one, but we can use him to make our point.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet. All I know is that he’s the key.”
For a moment, Liam thought Broadark would pull out his gun right then and be done with it all. Instead, though, he nodded without conviction. “All right, then,” he said. “Follow the lawyer.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Captain Melvin Skykes shared little with other Boston police officers. He didn’t swear; he didn’t drink; he didn’t smoke. He ran to stay in shape, and he ate no meat. He was partial to dark pinstriped suits more appropriate for a Wall Street trading floor than a grimy police station. He was devoid of ethnicity. In appearance he was nothing like most of the officers who served beneath him; and yet he commanded respect. He had built his career by being the best example of the “new cop” Boston had tried to introduce to the force in the wake of scandals in the 1980s. Most of the others brought in had long since sought refuge outside the department. Skykes succeeded because his attention to detail-whether investigative or administrative-was unparalleled. Those who entered his office unprepared to discuss every aspect of any case on which they were working risked their careers. The detectives under his command toed a line straighter and sharper than any other in the department, and the results showed.