Agent X - Boyd Noah (серии книг читать бесплатно .TXT) 📗
Vail wasn’t convinced that Kalix had been completely forthcoming about why he was there. “Does the director know about Kate?”
“Yes.”
The single syllable was delivered abruptly, as some sort of implied message. “Did he send you here?”
“If I had to guess,” Kalix said, “I’d say he didn’t believe any of the charges either. Of course I’d just be guessing, because the director couldn’t get personally involved in a case with the ramifications that this one promises to carry. Especially with how much he likes Kate. You have to remember, however, that the Justice Department has got their teeth into this, so his hands are tied. They won’t even let us interview her, because she’s so high up in the Bureau.” Kalix opened the briefcase he was carrying and took out Vail’s gun and credentials, handing them to him. “I would also guess that if he had his way, Director Lasker would want you more than anyone to do something about this.”
It was apparent that the director had sent Kalix unofficially to enlist Vail’s help.
“John, I’m starting to think that Langston’s not the only one I’ve underestimated. It looks like you have more than one backup plan.”
Kalix smiled. “I’ve built a career on letting people underestimate me. I am what I am.” He started to leave. “Let me know if you need anything.”
As soon as the door locked shut, Vail sank down on the marble stair where he’d been standing. Thoughts were rushing through his head at blurred, indecipherable angles. He sat paralyzed, a prisoner of what he’d just been told. After a moment he leaned back, setting his head on the black stone tread above him, looking for the comfort of its hard, cold reality. He closed his eyes and searched his memory, trying to find the image of Kate’s face. At least her smile. Then he realized that more than anything he wanted to recall her laugh. Its slightly husky tone, its honest depth. But it wouldn’t come to him.
He thought about how confused she must be, how she certainly wasn’t laughing at the moment. Was that why he couldn’t hear her? Because she couldn’t laugh?
Vail bolted upright in anger. Someone had to pay for this. No, everybody was going to pay for this.
He turned and ran up the stairs two at a time. In the workroom he let his eyes run along the wall covered with photos and reports. He started pacing back and forth. Since her innocence was not a consideration, only one conclusion could be drawn: Kate had been framed. To clear her he would first have to answer two questions: Who? And, more important, why?
The who had to be the Russians. Calculus, whoever he was, was not a double agent but a front man for the plot to take out Kate. With his mission completed, he probably had disappeared into the maze of his country’s bureaucracy. He was probably in Moscow, not being tortured but being decorated. And Vail had fallen for it, all of it.
They had known how to appeal to his ego. He had figured out each of their codes because he was supposed to. If he was really that smart, he would have seen through the plot from the start. There were all those little inconsistencies that he’d explained away so that his answers were the only ones that were acceptable. Ariadne’s thread—he had to admit that was the one thing that drew him in. Although its presence didn’t make any sense—and Kate had questioned why Calculus would leave a trail of clues if he wanted money for each of the individuals being exposed—Vail had invented a reason so he could feed his own ego.
And now Kate was paying for it.
If he was going to figure this out, the first thing he had to do was disconnect himself from all the emotion of the situation, and that included self-recrimination. He went to the desk and found the file with Calculus’s grainy photograph. He pinned it to the wall to remind himself that, although extremely elusive, his enemy was not invisible. He started searching the face for clues of his deception, but of course there were none. Finally he saw the Russian as just another face, his true identity meaningless. The only thing that mattered now was finding a way to destroy his plan.
He got up and went into the kitchen to make some coffee. After filling the pot with water, he started measuring the coffee. As he was about to put in the third scoop, it hit him. He dropped everything and headed for the shower.
18
The flight attendant asked Vail if he wanted anything to drink. He smiled absentmindedly and said no. Checking his watch, he looked out the window. They were crossing Lake Michigan, and he could finally see Chicago’s ice-covered beaches. The white-and-gray bleakness swept under them, and his thoughts returned to Kate. The one good thing about something as catastrophic as Kate’s arrest for treason was that it reduced everything around it to a level of insignificance. Whatever problems there were between them, real or imagined, they would have to wait. Right now her freedom was the only priority.
The thing Vail admired most about money was its way of leading to the truth. Stories could be faked and lies told, but when money was introduced into the equation, honest answers had little choice but to rise to the surface.
While the three-quarters of a million dollars the Bureau had already wire-transferred to Calculus’s designated account in Chicago was a drop in the bucket for the Russians, it was still seven hundred fifty thousand dollars American, and chances were that some enterprising soul wasn’t going to just let it sit there unclaimed. Even dishonestly gained money had a way of tracing itself back to the truth.
Since he no longer had to worry about Calculus’s Chicago “relative” warning him that the FBI was trying to discover anything about the account, Vail could now go to the bank and ask direct questions. Once the plane landed and he collected his luggage, he took a cab to his apartment. He dropped his bags inside and, after spending a half hour clearing the snow off his truck, drove to the Lakeside Bank and Trust in downtown Chicago. It was an eight-story building on LaSalle Street.
Vail flashed his credentials and asked to see the head of security. A few minutes later, a gray-haired man in his late fifties walked toward Vail. Although Vail had never seen him before, his smile was one of familiarity, causing Vail to check the man’s hands. He was wearing an FBI ring made from a twenty-five-year service key. Vail stood up and smiled back. “Steve Vail,” he said, extending his hand.
“Les Carson.” He shook Vail’s hand. “I know a lot of the guys from the Chicago office. Are you new here?” There was the slightest edge of suspicion in Carson’s voice.
“Can we go somewhere a little more private?”
“Sure, my office.” Carson led him to an elevator and then to an office on the third floor.
As soon as Carson closed the door, Vail said, “Actually, I’m out of headquarters, working a special for the director. And it’s extremely confidential.”
“I’m sorry, Steve, can I see your creds?”
Vail took them out and handed them to Carson. He looked at them for a moment, running his thumb over the embossed seal at the edge of the photo to verify their legitimacy before handing them back. “Why is there something familiar about your name? What other offices have you been assigned to?”
“I was in Detroit for three years, but that was a long time ago.”
“That’s it. You’re the one who was fired during that cop-killer investigation the year before I retired.”
Vail smiled. “Sounds like me.”
“And now you’re back, and at headquarters?”
“The director asked me to come aboard to handle this one case.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I did it once before, and it worked out. No one was supposed to know about it.”
“What do you do when you’re not on the Bureau clock?” Carson asked.
“I’m a bricklayer. I actually live here, on the Northwest Side.”
