“They must have financing, then.”
“I suppose. My people estimated they spent three, maybe four hundred thousand quid. We thought that at the first sign of cold weather they’d pack it in, but it’s been three years now, and they seem to be thriving.”
“Have you given any thought to ousting them?”
“Well, yes, but the consensus among the cabinet and the military is that it’s hardly worth the effort. Plus, we’d be fighting them in court for years, spending a lot of the people’s money. Why does this interest you, Will?”
“Well, we have a little situation with Sealand, and I thought I might mention it and see if you have any ideas.” He went through the problem.
“Yes, of course I’ve read about these murders, and it’s awful- even if the killer is eliminating your enemies.”
“A senator actually accused me the other day.”
“Good God! Was he serious?”
“He was preaching to the converted, as we say, getting in a dig to appeal to his right-wing constituency.”
“So this is becoming a real problem for you?”
“No one really believes that I have anything to do with the murders, but the fact is we have a serial killer on the loose, and the FBI and the relevant local law enforcement haven’t been able to track him down. He’s very intelligent and has left us without any traceable evidence.”
“I see. And you’d like me to ask my people to get this information for you?”
“If you can see a way to do it without causing an uproar in your press or otherwise compromising your personal position.”
“Gosh, I just don’t know,” Ridgeway sighed. “Let me talk to some people and see if anybody has a suggestion.”
“I’d appreciate that, John. I wouldn’t bring it up if I thought we had any other option-at least, at the moment. I mean, eventually, the man will make a mistake and we’ll catch him, but how many more murders is he going to commit before that happens?”
“Quite.”
WILL CLIMBED INTO BED, his bones aching.
“Was Ridgeway willing to help?” Kate asked.
“He says he’s going to talk to his people.”
“That sounds like a no.”
“Probably. When he gets home, he can drop me a little note saying that he can’t help. I suppose it’s easier than looking me in the eye.”
Kate almost told him about the latest letter from Ed Rawls, but she thought better of it. Maybe the Brits would surprise them.
29
ED RAWLS WAS WORKING at his desk in the library when his mail was delivered by a trusty pushing a metal cart. He picked up the stack-three magazines and a couple of envelopes-and set it next to the computer where he was working. He had intended to look through the stack later, but he recognized his own prison-issue envelope in the pile.
He picked it up and looked at it. NO LONGER AT THIS ADDRESS, NO FORWARDING ADDRESS, the stamp said. “Shit,” Rawls said aloud, attracting a frown from the librarian, a fiftyish schoolmarm type who Rawls had been screwing on a sofa in her office for two years, twice a week, like clockwork. “Sorry, Imelda,” he said.
“You must learn to control your language, Ed,” she replied, then went back to her filing.
Rawls finished his work, read the other letter, which was a fund-raising appeal from a Republican candidate, who hadn’t figured out yet that his box number address was the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary. He threw that away, ripped the returned letter to shreds and put the pieces in his pocket, then he went back into the stacks as if he were looking for something.
He found the volume, Songbirds of North America, a book that had never been checked out of the library, and opened it. He had cut out the pages enough to allow him to hide a cell phone in the book. The charger was hidden elsewhere in the library. He switched on the phone and dialed a number.
“Yes,” a man’s voice said.
“You know who this is,” Rawls replied. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“I want to find a guy we used to know at work,” Rawls said. He spoke the name. “Remember him?”
“Yes. I don’t see how I can help.”
“Do I have to remind you that you would be in my company at this very moment, had I chosen to-”
“All right,” the man said, cutting him off. “Do you have his last address?”
“ Sixty-nine Riverview Drive, Arlington. Mail is being returned from that address. They’re not forwarding.”
“You have any clue where he might be?”
“He’s traveling, I think, but he’s got to have a base somewhere.”
“Does he have any family?”
“He had a wife. I don’t know if she’s still alive.”
“Kids?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re a big help.”
“I do what I can.”
“How will I get in touch with you?”
“Email me, but be circumspect.” Rawls gave him a Hotmail address.
“Give me a couple of days,” the man replied.
“Thanks for your help,” Rawls said, and hung up. He replaced the phone in the book and went back to his computer. He logged on to the Internet and checked his email. There was one from Hotbooks.
“Dear Fast Eddie,” she wrote. “I’m still wet from your last email. I printed it out and took it to bed with me last night, and I still can’t get it out of my mind.” She described what she had done to herself while reading it, then what she would have done to him, if he had been there. “Are you sure there isn’t some way we can get together soon?”
Rawls wrote back that he’d love to, but the demands of work kept him constantly on the road. “I’m in Kansas City right now, putting out a fire, then I have to go to Witchita, then to L.A. Believe me, I’d rather be with you. We’ll work it out soon.” He would, too, just as soon as he had a fix on this guy, as soon as he was a free man again. Rawls finished his workday and went to the rec room to wait for dinner. There had been a time when he had been uncomfortable in the company of large numbers of prisoners, but he had grown accustomed. Anyway, when prisoners were gathered in the yard or the common room, they tended, like everybody else in the world, to gather in groups that had something in common-murder, rape, gang activity-and Rawls nearly always sat with the stockbrokers, accountants, bankers, and other con men who, in their past lives, had worn suits to work. Today, however, he took a seat with a tall, skinny man who sat alone at one of the steel tables.
“Hello, Nickolai,” he said. “I hear you wanted to talk.” Rawls had known the man professionally, when they were working opposite sides of the street in Scandinavia. Nickolai had posed as a chauffeur for the KGB at the USSR embassy in Stockholm, and later, in Washington, until CIA people had caught him working in their embassy without a diplomatic passport. His lengthy interrogation had been a disappointment, and now they kept him on ice in Atlanta for a time when they might want to exchange him for an American agent. But time had overtaken Nickolai; the USSR was defunct, and it was extremely unlikely that he would ever be exchanged.
“Hello, Ed,” Nickolai replied. He sounded less mournful than usual. “I wish you to send a message to your people at Langley.”
“What sort of message?”
“I have something to offer them in exchange for… exchange.”
“Yeah? And what would that be?”
Nickolai’s thin mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. “I cannot tell you that, of course. Not until we have established contact.”
“And what makes you think they would want to hear from me?” Rawls asked. “I’m no more popular at Langley than you are.”
“Ah, but you have friends, right, Ed? People whose friendship is stronger than… what you were punished for.”
“Maybe, but what’s in it for me?”
Nickolai looked serious, now. “I may be able to get myself sent home and you released from this place.”