“And the coins?”
“They were in my pocket.” He patted his jacket. “They’re gone.” His voice cracked with disappointment. “I figured if I had Max I’d be okay. I never thought someone would—”
“Don’t worry about that now. I’ll get a doctor down here, get you checked out.” Jennifer stood up. “Okay?”
Corbett nodded feebly.
Jennifer took her mobile out of her purse, flipped it open, but paused before dialing.
“By the way, why are the Brits here?”
“Who?” She couldn’t see Corbett’s face, the handkerchief was masking it, but she sensed him frowning.
“The British police. I saw them outside. Did you call them?” Corbett lowered the cloth from his head and narrowed his eyes, his voice suddenly firmer.
“Stay out of that, Jennifer. It’s way over your head. It’s straight from the top.”
“Stay out of what? What the hell’s going on?”
“It’s for the best.”
Her eyes widened.
“You’re turning him in? He helps us and you just hand him over? He’s done nothing wrong. He’s innocent.” Her eyes flashed with indignation. Corbett gave her a watery smile.
“Innocent? Of what? Maybe he didn’t kill Renwick. Maybe he didn’t steal the coins. But he’s done plenty of other jobs. He’s a crook, Browne, a two-bit thief who deserves to be inside.”
“That’s bullshit!” she shouted angrily.
“You think we can have a guy like that running around knowing what he knows? It would just be a matter of time before he spills his guts and then what? A diplomatic shit storm that would set our foreign policy back twenty years.”
“We had a deal. He helped us and promised to keep quiet and in return we wiped his slate clean. He trusted me. I gave him my word.”
“And you believed him? Hah!” Corbett snorted. “I told you not to get too close, that he was dangerous. There’s more riding on this than your word. As far as the Brits are concerned, Renwick’s been murdered and Kirk’s their man. This way we get to go after Renwick and Kirk gets taken off the street and his silence is guaranteed.”
“Screw that.” Jennifer’s voice shook with anger. “You’re betraying him for what? So the president doesn’t get asked a few awkward questions? So the CIA doesn’t have to face up to its own mistakes? So you can stick another collar on your resumé?”
“Wake up, Jennifer.” Corbett snapped back, using her name for the first time. “This is the real world and sometimes it gets ugly.” His voice was rough and unfeeling. “This is about getting the right result. For all of us. It’s cut-bait time and you know it.”
“This is exactly the sort of bullshit you told me you hate. If you think I’m going to stand by and just let this happen, you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”
“Hold it right there,” Corbett snapped. There was a pause. “You need to think about your next step very carefully.” Corbett’s voice was edged with menace. “And I’m telling you this because I care about you.” He paused. “You see, back home we’ve been a little worried that you were getting too close to Kirk. That you might be in danger. So Piper got one of our guys in Amsterdam to keep an eye on you both; you know, sort of watch your back.”
Jennifer swallowed, not daring to break eye contact.
“I’ve got a sworn statement saying he followed two people back from a museum to your hotel three nights ago. Turns out the museum was robbed the same night.”
He paused again.
“It would be a goddamned shame if he was to identify you as one of the people he saw. You know, I’m not even sure what would happen.” His voice had a carefree tone now. “You’d do time for sure. The Bureau hates its own agents crossing over to the other side. It’s not good for morale.”
“You bastard,” she spat the words out but knew he had her. He would place her at the scene and she would go down for it. Five, seven years inside. There would be no going back.
“You bastard,” she said again, hearing the uncertainty in her voice.
“It hurts now,” said Corbett soothingly. “But in time you’ll see it’s for the best. It ain’t pretty but this is how the system works. Sometimes, you gotta take some shortcuts. There’s no reason anyone should know what happened in Amsterdam. That’s between me and you. I know you only did it for the right reasons. You play your cards right now and you’re going all the way in the Bureau. I guarantee it.”
Jennifer didn’t answer, staring instead at the floor. She wanted to hit him.
“Why don’t you clean up,” he said, pointing at her blood-covered fingers, “and then we can talk some more.”
Jennifer went into the small chamber and picked up the vase from the floor, emptying its contents into her cupped left hand. Then she put the vase down and rubbed her hands together, the water splashing and dripping onto the floor, the white marble blushing red. She looked up, tears of rage and frustration in her eyes, at the statue.
Was this it, she found herself wondering as she gazed into the statue’s unseeing and proud eyes? Was this what it was all about? Using and discarding people. Was that the secret of Bob Corbett’s success? Is that what she would have to do if she was going to make it herself?
And all for what? They had nothing. The coins gone. Cassius vanished. Tom betrayed. But what could she do? Whatever she said, they’d still put Tom away for the Amsterdam job. It was pointless.
She rubbed her hands down the sides of her skirt, the black material soft and absorbent, preparing herself to turn around and face Corbett’s smug smile. She checked to make sure all the blood had gone from under her nails and the sight of her fingers made the memory of Renwick’s severed hand flash into her head — a bloody stump dropped callously into a clear plastic evidence bag and then carried off to some lab or evidence room. His right hand.
Her brain snapped into focus. His right hand.
What was it that Finch had told her back in Louisville after Short’s autopsy? Something about an old forensic trick. About how right-handed people would tend to strike down on the right side of their victim’s head because otherwise they couldn’t get any real force into the blow. Bob had a gash down the right-hand side of his head. How could Renwick have done that if he was missing his right hand?
“Bob, I’m going to go and get you a doctor.” She tried to keep her voice casual, her eyes steady. “Let’s talk about all this later.”
There was no reply.
She turned around and saw Corbett almost standing on top of her. He had his gun out and brought it crashing into the side of her jaw. She collapsed to the floor, blood pouring from her mouth.
“Move,” Corbett barked. “Back in there.” He kicked her in the ribs as she half crawled, half dragged herself into the depths of the small chamber, shielding her face from Corbett’s immaculately polished black shoes.
“I’m sorry, Jennifer. Really I am. I never thought it would come to this.” He reached into his pocket and took out a thick silencer that he screwed carefully onto the end of his standard-issue Beretta as he spoke.
“It’s Kirk’s fault I’m going to have to kill you.” There was an almost hysterical edge to his voice as he spoke. He pulled back on the Beretta, the gun giving a distinctive metallic click as a bullet was loaded into the chamber.
“What are you doing, Bob?” Jennifer croaked. She coughed, swallowed the blood in her mouth, felt her back against the cool marble of the statue’s pedestal.
“I would have thought that was obvious.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
Tom’s hand was on the door handle, poised to open it, when he heard raised voices on the other side. Then it fell quiet again. Instinctively, he knew something was wrong. Very wrong.