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He’d heard that explanation before, but was finding it difficult to separate the two. Both were based on lies.
“You knowing who that man is will change nothing,” she said, her voice cracking.
“But I want to know. You lied to me all of my life. You knew the truth but told no one, not even Dad. I know he did bad things, too. There were other women. You told me. But he didn’t lie to me.”
His mother started crying. She was a lawyer who represented people in court. He’d watched her try a case once and saw firsthand how tough and smart she could be. He thought he might like to be a lawyer one day, too.
“I’m fifteen,” he said to her. “I’m not a kid. I’m entitled to know it all. If you can’t tell me where I came from, then you and I have a problem.”
“So you’re going to leave and live in Denmark?” she asked.
He decided to cut her no slack. “I might just do that.”
She stared at him through her tears. “I realize I messed up, Gary. It’s my fault. I take the blame.”
He wasn’t interested in blame. Only in ending the uncertainty that seemed to grow inside him by the day. He didn’t want to resent her—he loved her, she was his mother—but she wasn’t making this easy.
“Spend some time with your dad,” she said, swiping away the tears. “Enjoy yourself.”
That he would.
He was tired of fighting.
His parents divorced over a year ago, right before his dad quit the Justice Department and moved overseas. Since then his mother had dated some, but not much. He’d always wondered why not more. But that was not a subject he was comfortable talking about with her.
Seemed her business, not his.
They lived in a nice house in a good neighborhood. He attended an excellent school. His grades were not extraordinary but above average. He played baseball and basketball. He hadn’t tried a cigarette or any drugs, though opportunities for both had come his way. He’d tasted beer, wine, and some hard liquor but wasn’t sure he liked any of them.
He was a good kid.
At least he thought so.
So why was he so mad?
He was now lying on a sofa, hands tied behind his back, head sheathed in the wool cap, only his mouth exposed. The drive in the Mercedes had taken about thirty minutes. He’d been warned that if he made a sound they would gag him.
So he stayed still.
Which helped his nerves.
He heard movement, but no voices, only the faint sound of chimes in the distance. Then someone came close and sat nearby. He heard a crackle, like plastic being torn, then the sound of chewing.
He was a little hungry himself.
A smell caught his nostrils. Licorice. One of his favorites.
“You got any more of that?” he asked.
“Shut up, kid. You’re lucky to even still be alive.”
Seven
MALONE AWOKE WITH A POUNDING HEADACHE. WHAT WAS supposed to have been a simple favor had evolved into a major problem.
He blinked his eyes and focused.
His fingers found dried blood and a nasty knot to his forehead. His neck was sore from Devene’s attack. His and Gary’s travel bags were opened, their clothes strewn across the mews, the plastic bag containing Ian’s personal items still there, its contents scattered about.
He pushed himself up, his legs stiff and tired.
Where was Gary?
Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure they found Ian Dunne. Even more troubling was the reach of the information network possessed by whoever they were. Somebody in an official position had given Customs clearance to allow Ian into the country. Granted, Norse and his pal were imposters, but the person or persons who’d managed to bypass Britain’s passport laws were the genuine article.
Norse had demanded a flash drive from Ian.
He had to find Gary. He’d told the boys to run. Hopefully, they were nearby, waiting until all was clear to return.
But where were they?
He checked his watch. Best he could tell he’d been down about twenty minutes. He spotted his cell phone among his clothes. Should he call the police? Or maybe Stephanie Nelle at the Magellan Billet? No. This was his problem. One call he would not be making was to Pam. The last thing he needed was for his ex-wife to know about this. Bad enough that he once risked his own ass on a daily basis.
But to involve Gary?
That would be unforgivable.
He surveyed the mews, noting yard equipment, a couple of gas cans, and a tool bench. Rain fell beyond the open doorway. He stared out to the wet drive that led to the tree-lined side street, expecting to see both boys appear.
He should gather his clothes.
The Metropolitan Police would have to be involved.
That was the smart play.
A noise caught his attention, at the hedges separating the mews from the property next door.
Somebody was pushing through.
The boys?
To be cautious, he decided to lie back down.
He pressed his cheek to the cool cobbles and closed his eyes, cracking his lids open just enough to see.
IAN HAD HUGGED THE SIDE STREETS AND USED THE STORM, trees, and the fences that fronted the stylish neighborhoods for cover. It took only a few minutes for him to find the courtyard where the Mercedes had first been parked. The mews door remained open, but the car was gone.
He glanced around.
No one seemed to be in any of the surrounding houses.
He stepped into the open garage and saw the contents of both Malones’ travel bags scattered across the pavement. In the dim interior Malone lay sprawled near one wall. Ian crept over, knelt beside him, and heard labored breaths. He wanted to shake Malone awake and see if he was all right, but he hadn’t asked this man to get involved, and there was no need to involve him any further.
He searched for what he came for and found the plastic bag beneath a balled-up shirt. Apparently it had not been considered important. Why would it? Those men were looking for a computer drive. Not some books, a pocketknife, and a few other insignificant items.
He stuffed everything back into the bag and again stared at Cotton Malone. The American seemed like a decent fellow. Maybe his own father had been like him. But thanks to a worthless mother, he would never know who his father had been. He’d seen genuine concern in Malone’s eyes when he learned that Norse was not with Scotland Yard. Fear for both boys. He’d even felt a little better knowing Malone was there in the car. Not many people had ever cared about him, nor had he cared for anyone.
And this wasn’t the time to start.
Life was tough, and Cotton Malone would understand.
Or at least that’s what he told himself as he fled the mews.
MALONE ROSE UP AND YELLED, “WHERE’S GARY?”
Ian whirled and the shock on the boy’s face quickly changed to relief. “Bloody hell. I thought you were out.”
“I could see your concern. You only came back for your stuff.”
Defiance returned to the boy’s eyes. “I didn’t ask you here. I didn’t involve you. You’re not my problem.”
But a hint of resignation laced the declaration, the expression half defensive, half angry. So he asked again, “Where’s Gary?”
“Those coppers have him.”
He rose to his feet, head spinning. “They’re not police and you know that. How did they get him and not you? You’re the one they wanted.”
“I got away. He didn’t.”
He lunged forward and grabbed Ian by the shoulders. “You left him?”
“I told him to jump with me, but he wouldn’t.”
Jump?
He listened to what had happened in Little Venice, how Ian had leaped from the bridge.
“Those men have Gary,” Ian said.
He yanked the plastic bag away. “Where’s the flash drive they want?”
Ian did not reply. But what did he expect? He was just a street kid who’d l
earned to survive by keeping his mouth shut.
“I tell you what,” Malone said. “I’m going to let the police deal with you. Then I can find Gary.” He locked his right hand onto Ian’s left arm. “You so much as twitch and I’ll knock the living daylights out of you.”
And he meant it.
