Al and Spade engaged in a few more volleys, the shadowy Val lurking close by, until by sheer force of will Al broke down Spade’s barriers. Immediately, Vann created a private chat room for Al and Spade to enter, then slammed the door closed before Val could sneak in. Once they were inside their cozy, private corner of cyberspace, Spade relented.
Spade: Your 411 better be white hot, chum. Send me the stuff to Ponyfan@earthlink.com, and give your return address. If it’s as good as you say, I’ll fill you in on the nitty-gritty with Mercury.
Vann jumped out of his chair, roaring. “Gotcha, you big m.f. You are so nailed!” Vann had a dozen buddies at Earthlink. A few calls and he’d have Ponyfan’s IP address before he knew it. From there, it would be smooth sailing. By morning, he’d have all the info he needed to earn his fifty-thousand-dollar bonus from Mr. John J. Gavallan: the Private Eye-PO’s name, home address, and phone number.
Child’s play!
The line for the valet car park stretched from the curb to the lobby. Gavallan stood near its head, Nina at his side. She’d barely said a word since he’d returned from his extended tête-à-tête with Cate. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about how to avoid a good night kiss. Giles was dutifully back with Tony. Meg and her husband, Harry, stood arm in arm, mooning at each other like love-struck teenagers. A cell phone chirped, and every man, woman, and valet froze, listening to hear if it was theirs. Gavallan answered. “Yeah?”
“Jett? That you?”
“Graf?” he asked, the relief spontaneous, bringing a wide smile to his face. “Graf, where the hell are you?” He laughed out loud, thinking it was wonderful. Byrnes was okay. He was safe. The fucking shaman had answered his prayers.
“Where do you think? The heart of the evil empire: Moscow. Back in the USSR.”
Gavallan turned his back on the crowd and walked a short distance up the sidewalk. “You were supposed to call this morning, you prick. You had us all worried.”
“Sorry. Had to double-check on a few things before I got back to you. Didn’t want to give you any information until I knew for sure. Look, I’ve scoped out Mercury’s operations. I made it out to the network operations center. Place is in Timbuktu, I don’t mind saying. I’ve seen their offices in town. It’s all like we thought it was. The Private Eye-PO is full of shit. Mercury’s up and running.”
“So the deal’s a go?”
“Green light all the way.”
“Fantastic,” said Gavallan, controlling his urge to holler. Turning his head, he saw the others locked in a group stare in his direction. He waved a hand and gave a big thumbs-up.
“You there?” asked Byrnes.
“Hell, yes. I’m definitely here.”
“I knew you’d be happy. Listen, Jett, everything’s copacetic over here. Copy?”
“Yeah, I copy, pard. Thanks for the great news. I’ll get that champagne all iced up; you bring back the caviar. Two billion, man. Our biggest fish ever. Can you believe it? Just let me know when you’re getting back.”
And then the words sunk in and Gavallan held his breath while the hairs on his arms and neck stood on end.
Everything’s copacetic.
“I’m going to stay the weekend if you don’t mind,” Byrnes went on. “Moscow’s a hell of an interesting place. Thought I might check out some of the sights tomorrow. Saturday, Kirov’s invited me out to his summer house in the country. An honest-to-God dacha—can’t miss that. By the way, he sends his regards. He’s delighted that we decided to take a look for ourselves. Says we’re welcome anytime.”
“Tell him thank you.” It was another man speaking Gavallan’s words. “So he wasn’t upset when he found out you’d flown over to check out Mercury without letting him know beforehand?”
“I told you he wouldn’t be,” said Byrnes. “He wanted me to tell you that Mercury must be as transparent as any of its counterparts in the West.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, he did. Anyway, I thought I’d fly into New York and meet you for the launch party.”
“Sure thing,” said Gavallan, searching for words, stumbling. He felt hollow, shaky. A rod of pain, searing and white-hot, fired inside his skull. Wincing, he touched at his forehead. “Um… yeah, sounds good, see you Monday. Oh, and call Emerald and give her your flight details. We’ll send a limo to pick you up at JFK. When you see Kirov, ask him if he’s free for dinner.”
Gavallan waited for a response, but the line was broken and only static answered his words. Besides, it didn’t really matter. Grafton Byrnes had told him everything he needed to know.
Everything’s copacetic.
18
Gavallan was walking the ward.
His pace was slow, his steps measured. The click of his heels against the linoleum floor sounded to his anguished ears like the final ticks of a time bomb. With every step, he was tempted to draw a last breath, to squeeze tight his eyelids in anticipation of the blast to come. But what would it destroy? he wondered. What was left that hadn’t already been torn apart by his own merciless conscience? What might it damage that hadn’t been shredded eleven years ago?
The clock on the wall read 2:15. The room was extremely bright and extremely quiet, a fluorescent universe of hushed sounds. His ear seized each in turn—the rise and fall of a neonatal respirator, the gasp of a fragile patient, the sibilant bleed of oxygen—then he continued his all-night vigil.
He was back at the Zoo, doing tours of the Quad for having missed his second curfew in a month. He was pacing the ready room before his first flight into combat. He was the star witness at his own trial. All that was left to decide was the penalty. The verdict had already been given. Guilty on all counts.
“Everything’s copacetic,” Byrnes had said, a footnote from their shared history to let Gavallan know he was testifying under duress.
Hardly, mused Gavallan acidly.
A skeleton staff presided at this late hour: a few nurses, orderlies, and cleaners. Through the glass partition, he kept track of a janitor polishing the corridor, his green-clad back bowed and sober, his worn mop eating up miles of hallway with a methodical, unerring rhythm that was a science unto itself.
Gavallan glanced down at the child in his arms, a frail boy swaddled in a sky blue blanket. He’d been awarded the provisional name of Henry, and the name would stick until his mother could come to long enough to provide him a more permanent one. He’d been born one week before, full term, 4 pounds 2 ounces, 14 inches long. To look at him, he was a healthy child. His features were well-formed. Broad nose. Full lips. Dignified chin. His eyes were closed, and a cap of curly black hair crowned his brown skin. But the experienced eye knew differently and ticked off the indicators of the infant’s affliction with weary ease. The bluish, trembling lips. The drawn cheeks. The eyes twitching beneath the lids and the head that every minute or so jerked along with them. Ataxic aphasia, they called it, a condition prevalent among children born to crack-addicted mothers.
A tap on the window drew Gavallan’s attention.
“Coffee?” asked Rosie Chiu, the head duty nurse, pointing at her own mug. If she was surprised to see a man wearing a dinner jacket beneath his operating gown in the pediatric intensive care ward, she didn’t show it. He’d been coming too long for that. Always at night. Always alone.
Gavallan shook his head and said no.
He’d first visited St. Jude’s eight years earlier on a Friday evening benefactors’ tour. The donors were lectured about the miracle of magnetic resonance imaging, the latest advances in open-heart surgery, and the newest cures in the war against children’s leukemia. But it wasn’t until Gavallan made it out of the neonatal intensive care unit that he grew angry. His neck grew hot, his suit two sizes too small. Like little Henry, he’d become twitchy all over. He wasn’t sure why, but suddenly, he was mad—white-hot, steaming mad. Maybe it was the relentless sunniness of the place—the yellow walls decorated with dancing murals, the cheery nurses, the upbeat smiles—contrasted against the bleak reality of the situation. Even if these kids survived, what did they face? A life lived in medical institutions, state-run homes, or at best foster families. These kids with underdeveloped lungs and diseased eyes, with hair-trigger emotions and chronic aphasia. They had no right to their expectations, he’d railed silently.