American, no mistaking that accent. A westerner.
On the seat next to him was a small flatscreen computer, a digital camera, and a pair of binoculars. There was also a thermos and a grease-soaked paper bag under a cardboard container with the remains of a fried fish and chips dinner. And on the floor was a large-mouth jar, empty. In case nature called.
If there had been any doubt in Michaels's mind before, this put it to rest. Mr. Cigar here was sitting surveillance.
"Okay, pal, so who are you, and why are you following me?"
"What the hell are you talking about? I don't know you—"
"Look, we can do this easy or we can do it hard. You can tell me, or I can call my friends at British Intelligence and have you picked up as a spy, stuck in a cell so deep it'll take a month for the foggy sunshine to filter down to it."
"Hey, I'm an American citizen, I got rights—"
"This is England, friend. They don't play by the same rules. Your choice."
Cigar considered it for a few seconds. He'd been burned, and he wasn't going to talk his way out of it. He shrugged. "I'm a private investigator from Boise."
Michaels blinked. A private detective?
"Who hired you?"
"I know who you are. I know you can give me a world of crap. You can stick me in a dungeon if you want, but I can't tell you who hired me. Word gets around, I'm outta business. But you're a bright guy, figure it out."
Boise. Oh, shit! Megan. But — why?
Michaels tucked the taser away. He stood. "Might as well go home. If I see you again, I will have the local law take you away."
There was a long moment, then Cigar started his car. Michaels watched him drive away.
He pulled his virgil. It was the middle of the night here. They were what? Seven, eight hours ahead of Idaho on the clock.
Never mind what time it was there. Too bad if he caught her at work. He tapped the memory button, clicked on Megan's number.
"Hello, Alex," she said. Cool. Her voice was a warehouse full of ice in the winter at the North Pole. In the shade. "Hold on a second, let me get where we can talk."
She came back on in a moment, and she lit her cam. She was dressed for work, her hair up. She looked good, as always.
"Megan. How is Susie?"
"She is fine. You called me at work to ask that?"
"No. I just had a few words with your balding, cigar-smoking private eye," he said, his voice barely controlled. "Why are you having me followed?"
"Self-defense," she said.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"After you beat Byron senseless at Christmas, you threatened me, remember?" The ice in her voice melted. Now she sounded like a volcano rumbling, about ready to let go. "You told me that if he spent a night under my roof—my roof, Alex, not yours and mine — that you would have me declared an unfit mother!"
"I never said that. I never said you were an unfit mother—"
"Like hell you didn't! You said you would throw Byron up in my slutty face and go for full custody. Well, mister, two can play that game. Byron will be spending the night tonight, just like he did last night, and the night before, and just like he will be spending it tomorrow! And as many goddamned nights as I want him to be here! And you know what? He will be screwing my brains out, too!"
Just as she had always been able to do, she pushed his hot button. He lost control, snapped back at her almost reflexively. "That won't take much, screwing your brains out. By the time he gets his zipper down it'll be done."
She laughed, knowing she had made him lose his temper. When she spoke again, it was back to the ice queen: "Funny. But laugh at this, funny man. I know all about your sleeping arrangements. About sweet little butter-wouldn' t-melt-in-her-mouth Toni Fiorella. At least Byron is my age, not a child. Let's see how the court views you boinking an employee!"
Oh, shit!
"At least I'm not doing it in front of Susie," he said. Not much of a response.
"So what you're saying is, it's okay to sneak around like a preacher with a whore, but it's not okay for an engaged couple about to be married to do it? I doubt the judge here in Boise will be much impressed with that argument. You were always good at twisting the story to fit your definition of righteous, weren't you?"
He should apologize, he knew. Pour a tanker full of oil on the troubled waters, calm her down. Tell her he'd lost his temper when he'd punched out her new boyfriend — who had grabbed him, don't forget — and said things he didn't really mean. The problem was, he had meant them. Still did, though this certainly put another face on the problem. She was right. A judge wasn't going to take Susie away from Megan unless he could show she was a bad mother, and the truth was, she was a great mother. He'd thought so when they were together, and he thought so now. And he didn't want to lose his daughter. If he was limited to visiting Susie once or twice a year on holidays, their relationship was doomed. She'd grow up thinking of Byron as her father. He'd be the one who'd take her to school and to the mall and he'd be the one helping her with homework and doing the things Michaels should have been doing.
He should apologize, try to get this resolved. But he waited too long.
"Good-bye, Alex. You can call Susie. I don't want her to think I'm shutting you out of her life, but you and I don't have anything else to say to each other. Give my regards to your teenage girlfriend."
She broke the connection.
Michaels blinked. He was in the middle of the sidewalk on a street in downtown London in the middle of the night, feeling as if he had just been slammed in the groin by a linebacker's knee. His ex-wife knew about his affair with Toni — who was a dozen years younger than he was, but hardly a teenager — and he was going to have to hear that in court if he contested the custody hearing for his daughter. He and Toni were both adults, but he was her boss. That wouldn't look good. The FBI frowned on such relationships, and since he didn't have any history with the new director, she wouldn't be ready to put her ass on the line to save his if this all blew up in his face.
He was — not to put too fine a point on it — fucked.
Chapter 18
Peel's first real assignment from his new boss was a field operation, and it was right up his alley. Much better than sitting in a drafty old shed of a church watching stats stream by on a computer's holoproj. Of course, almost anything would be better than that.
It seemed that a certain scientist, formerly one of Bascomb-Coombs's university teachers and now retired to a private consulting position, was poking around in computer territory best left alone. Old BC was about to unleash some new electro-deviltry on the world, and he didn't want his former professor to tread on him while he was about it. And while he didn't want to seriously injure his old mentor, he did want him out of the way for a day or three. Could Peel manage that?
"Level Two," Peel said to the three men in the car. "Are we clear on that?"
The trio in the back — Peel sat in the driver's seat of the big right-hand-drive Dodge four-door-nodded. "Yes, sir," they said as one. They were the youngest of his men, Lewis, Huard, and Doolittle, dressed now as low-life rowdies, in Doc Martin steel-toed boots, baggy denim pants, and black shirts cut to reveal fake tattoos on their arms and chests. The outfits came complete with false nose rings, earrings, and tight skinhead wigs that easily covered their militarily short haircuts.
Here was a picture: a trio of thumpy boys, out for a lark, trouble on the prowl. It was exactly the right image, one that authorities would not look at twice before accepting. Coppers were good about that. You gave them an obvious picture, they didn't scurry around looking for hidden meaning in the brush strokes and hues, they nearly always went for the overall model.