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“Marco Polo Airport,” Abel said in a voice that was loud enough for both the driver and the valet to hear. The German sat on one of the long white vinyl seats and began mulling over his options. He would go to the airport, but he would not be getting on a plane. He would go to the terminal and then take a cab to the port where he would book passage on one of the floating buffets. And then he would try to fit in among the large people.
49
MONTERREY, MEXICO
T he drive from Indianapolis to the Mexican border took nineteen hours with a stop for dinner and a quick nap near Lake Texoma in Oklahoma. Along the way the gun, the rifle, and the ammunition were all disposed of piece by piece. Neither weapon had been used to kill anyone, and there was no way of tracing them back to Gould, but they weren’t worth the trouble of trying to take across the border. Gould drove the entire time and despite feeling unsympathetic to Claudia’s depressed state he continued to apologize and at least act like he was sorry about the woman. In truth, though, he could have cared less about Rapp’s wife. He knew it sounded harsh, and there were many, including the woman who was carrying his child, who would think him a monster for such a callous attitude, but it was the nature of his business.
To survive, much less succeed, his work had to be approached with an analytical detachment that focused on maximizing success and minimizing failure. At first it had been relatively easy. The men he killed were not on the road to sainthood. Their corrupt, and sometimes vile, behavior made it easy, but as larger contracts came in, the ethical waters became murky. Who was to say which side was right and which side was wrong? Gould came to accept the fact that the players had all willingly entered the arena with a full understanding of the risks. This rationalization started him down a path of moral ambiguity. Rapp knew full well the risks his job involved and by association so did his wife.
The secondary figures in these operations, the bodyguards and spouses, for example, had signed on knowing who they were getting involved with, or they should have. Would it have been better if Rapp’s wife had survived? Yes, but Gould felt he’d made an honest effort to spare her. In the end, however, it wasn’t meant to be. As much as Gould wanted to engage Claudia in this debate, he knew that in her current state it would be foolish. He had always worried that she would not be able to handle the messy end of the business, and he’d done everything possible to shield her from it. She had seen him kill only one person, and that was in self-defense.
It was during the mid-nineties after the Soviet Union had collapsed and the tycoons and robber barons were dividing up the spoils and killing whoever got in their way. Politicians, journalists, competitors all were fair game. This had been Gould’s proving ground and where he had made a name for himself. The work was steady and the money was exceptional. Gould had just popped a man in his hotel suite and was leaving the lobby when the warning bells were sounded. The crazy Russian bodyguards drew their guns and tried to shut the place down. Gould had to shoot his way out, and when he got on the street, there was one last Russian waiting. Fortunately for Gould the man was a bad shot. He squeezed off a long burst from an Uzi submachine gun. He was off balance, though, and shooting at an upward angle as Gould came down the steps. The bullets whistled high past his head. Gould took only one shot with his silenced pistol, striking the man in the face, dropping him to the ground right in front of Claudia, who was waiting behind the wheel of the getaway car.
Claudia had understood the need for him to kill or be killed. They’d even had passionate sex that night, but this was all different. Gould suspected she saw herself in Rapp’s wife and wondered if she saw him in Rapp, if she was making some twisted Freudian parallel between the two couples. Nineteen hours of mostly silence in a car gives the imagination ample opportunity to run riot.
They approached the border during the peak of morning rush hour and had no trouble making it through customs. They were a man and a woman in a minivan headed to Mexico. If they had been trying to cross from Mexico into America they might have faced more scrutiny, but going south was easy. Gould relaxed almost immediately and Claudia smiled for the first time in days. They rolled down the windows, held hands, and cranked the radio. The drive along the toll road from the border to Monterrey was easy. Gould followed the signs to the airport and they parked the van in the crowded lot. He left the driver’s window down and the keys in the ignition. They grabbed their backpacks and entered the airport. Gould purchased two tickets at the Mexicana counter from Monterrey to Mexico City and then on to Zihuatanejo. They had a little more than two hours to kill before the flight left. After passing through security, they found a café with wireless Internet service. Gould finally felt like they could relax and ordered a margarita while Claudia turned on her laptop and began checking e-mail.
There was some strange game show on the television that was holding the attention of both the bartender and the waitress. Gould had to wave his arm to order a second drink. Claudia asked for a bottle of water. It wasn’t quite noon and no one, including the other travelers, seemed to be in a hurry. Gould was starting to feel the buzz from the tequila when he realized something was wrong. He glanced over and Claudia had her face buried in her hands and was shaking her head.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t believe it,” she mumbled, her hands still covering her face.
“What?”
She turned the laptop toward him so he could read the e-mail. “It’s from the German.”
Gould read it, his face contorted in disbelief. “This is bullshit. ‘Finish the job or send the money back.’ What in the hell is he talking about?”
“I’d say it’s pretty obvious.”
Gould kept his voice down but was intense. “The job is finished.”
Claudia spun the laptop toward her and her fingers began dancing over the keys. Within seconds she was scanning the home page of the Washington Post. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. She turned the computer back to Gould and pointed at the headline that read RAPP STILL ALIVE.
Gould read it and said, “I don’t believe it. It’s a trick. See if you can find another source.”
Claudia pulled up one newspaper after another. They were all running the same story. She suggested Louie call and check their messages. There were three. The first was from his father mumbling something about a family gathering. Gould skipped it and erased it. The next one was from the German. His voice was calm, but he was adamant as to what must be done. The third and final message was from Petrov, who said that he had been put in a very difficult situation. He had recommended them to the German and it was his reputation that was on the line. He ended by telling Gould he knew how he thought, and this was not some trick by the Americans. Rapp was very much alive and if Gould wanted to stay alive too he’d better do the right thing.
Gould turned off the phone and stood. His entire body was tense with frustration. He ran his hands through his hair and took a step to the left and then the right. “How the hell did this happen,” he mumbled to himself. He looked at Claudia. “I was there. I saw the house blow up. I know he was inside.”
Claudia pointed at the screen. “It says here he suffered a broken a
rm and several broken ribs. The explosion blew him into the water, where he was picked up by a fisherman who saw the whole thing.”
“Damn it.” He spun around and looked at the exit. “I can’t believe this. Grab your stuff. Let’s get out of here.”
Claudia didn’t budge. She looked at him with an icy stare and said, “Sit down.”
Gould’s head snapped around. “What?”
“You heard me. Sit down right now.”
Gould placed a hand on the back of his chair, but refused to sit.
“Where do you want to go?” Claudia asked.
“Back,” he said as if she was a moron. “We have to go back and finish this.”
