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“Whatever you’re doing with him must be big-time, maybe big enough to get him back cozy again with Putin.”
“It goes up that high? How do you know? I thought they only spoke Russian in front of you?”
“Well, his houseboy said something to me before Abram came out and told him to mind his own.”
“Abram’s one tough cookie.”
“Yeah, the boss listens to him, lets him run both his houses, on the Potomac and in Washington.”
“Yeah, right,” Liam said, nodding. “What did the houseboy say before Abram shut him down?”
“Only that something big was cooking. And then last month, Petrov had me fly him to New York, to the United Nations. He was feeling really pleased with himself, even drank some champagne. He said something about being more important than any of those idiots at the embassy.”
The Russian embassy? Liam said, “It’s not like he’s one of them. He’s got his own agenda.”
“That’s the truth.” Henley cut the helicopter down through the clouds, and rural Virginia sprawled out below them, the pastures, trees, and towns south of the maze of highways. They flew northward over bedroom communities, until the jumble of highways spiraled out like spokes on a wheel, all the roads leading to Rome. He said, “You ever been to Petrov’s place on the Potomac?”
“No,” Liam said, “but I figured I’d see it sooner or later. That’s where we’re going?”
“Yes. It’s nice and private, right on the water, and it’s only a short flight from D.C. He wants something from you, right?”
“Oh yeah, he wants something,” Liam said.
“What?”
“Maybe he wants me to make him Putin’s best friend,” Liam said.
30
MCKEE, KENTUCKY
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
Cam and Jack climbed out of the Crown Vic in the small town of McKee, population eight hundred souls, and looked up at the biggest building in town, a redbrick three-story wonder boasting square concrete columns at its entry.
“Pretty impressive for a small town,” Cam said.
Duke waved his hand. “Well, it’s not only the seat of town government, the Jackson County Judicial Center, it’s also the Jackson County Sheriff’s Department. Anything you need to get done you get done here. Even the three bars in the next block can’t compete.” He paused, kicked a pebble out of his path. “I sure hated leaving Chief at the hospital. He was cursing a blue streak about having to call his wife. She’ll be flying up here, fussing over him, and he hates that. Cam, good thing you got out of there with only some stitches and a sling, thank the good Lord.”
“Better yet,” Cam said, “the sling makes it look more serious than it really is, and I don’t have to worry about calling a husband.”
Jack looked around, getting the feel of the town. McKee was charming, if on the funky side. The short, squat gray store right across from the redbrick monument that housed the jail and courtrooms had a big sign over its window: MR. BILL’S GUNS AND GROCERIES.
They left Duke to chat with the sheriff and were directed by a deputy to the single, small, windowless interview room. Clyde Chivers was already seated at the banged-up wooden table at least twice as old as he was, tapping his fingertips on a piece of paper in front of him. He was in his early twenties, skinny as a flagpole, a seedy mustache trying to take root on his upper lip. He looked scare
d and slightly sick. He met their eyes and tried to manage a look of outrage at this indignity.
Cam pulled out a chair, sat down, eyed him for a moment. “Hey, Clyde, I like the alliteration—Clyde Chivers—your daddy come up with that one? Or is that on your mama’s head?”
He blinked, opened his mouth, shut it, then managed, “Nope, it was my aunt Mabel, my mama’s sister. She writes poetry.” He shut his mouth, straightened his shoulders, and tried to dial up the outrage again. “You’re the people who tried to kill me. You wrecked my Tahoe. You should be the ones here in jail, not me.”
Jack lounged back in his chair, relaxed and as loose as a lizard on a sunny rock. “Nah, we didn’t want you dead, Clyde. Actually, we usually don’t want anyone dead. We only wanted to catch the three people you pretended to pick up.”
“I don’t know about any three people. I was driving to McKee, to see a bud of mine. Why am I here? What do you want? I didn’t do anything. You know I was alone, so you have no right—”
Cam sat forward, looked him straight on. “Shut up, Clyde. The sheriff found five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills under your front seat. You going to tell us who gave you the money to pull your little stunt on Clover Bottom Creek Road?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I didn’t do anything, nothin’, you hear me?”
