Thirst No. 5: The Sacred Veil

  “You look very handsome,” I say, fixing his collar. He stops me, his hands touching mine.

  “You’re nervous,” he says.

  “I’m not nervous.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “I assumed you had one,” I say.

  He releases my hand. “Does it bother you I’ve taken control?”

  “Someone had to.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Just don’t kill Mr. Grey without asking my permission.”

  “Why are you so taken by the guy?”

  “He’s a mystery. What girl can resist a mystery?”

  “He’s a liar. Someone sent him to us to get something from us.”

  “He’s useful. Until he proves otherwise, I want him alive.”

  “Fair enough.” We resume our walk toward the law firm. “Who are we pretending to be?” he asks.

  “Let’s be a couple of rich Germans looking to invest in cutting-edge technology. Whatever he brings up, we steer the conversation toward the defense industry. I want to see how he reacts when we bring up the Pentagon and weapons contracts.”

  “Why German?” Matt asks.

  “Just a hunch. How’s your accent?”

  “Better than Anton’s.” Matt pauses. “You loved him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask what became of him?”

  “He’s part of my story. I’ll tell you later.” I pause. “Did I really say his name in my sleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why were you listening so closely?”

  “I was awake, I hear everything. Like you.”

  “You were playing that bloody game. Why do you keep at it?”

  “Why are you so afraid of it?”

  “John told us to stay away from it. I trust his instincts.”

  “You’re no different from me. You listen to his advice when it suits you. Besides, he’s never said what’s so dangerous about it.”

  “You and Seymour examined it. You warned me that it’s loaded with subliminal images and voice messages. It gave Seymour a headache. The Cradle programmed the damn thing.”

  “You fear it’s brainwashing the youth of the world?”

  “I do. It’s addictive. I just have to look at you to see how much.”

  Matt shakes his head. “Its subliminal tricks don’t work once you’re aware of them. They wouldn’t affect me anyway.” He pauses. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  “At least tell me why you keep playing it.”

  “I want to win.”

  “Win what?”

  He speaks seriously. “The Cradle put the game out there for a reason. I need to find out why.”

  “The Cradle wrote what they channeled. They had no will of their own.”

  “Same difference. Whoever was behind them had a reason for putting it on the Internet.” Matt pauses. “Maybe it was to lead us all straight to hell.”

  “I never said Tarana is the devil.”

  “But you think he is a devil?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure he’s the one we’re fighting?”

  I hesitate. “It’s something evil.”

  The entrance to Pointe, Wolf, & Larson is located on the fifty-second floor of the GE Building. They appear to rent out three floors. Their lobby has wonderfully comfortable chairs and sofas. We act as a married couple: Mr. and Mrs. Straffer. It pleases me to use the general’s name. When the receptionist says she can find no record of our appointment with Michael Larson, we tell her in our thick accents that we have flown all the way from Hamburg to see him. I put a spark in my gaze and she quickly fumbles for the phone and demands that Mr. Larson meet us in the lobby. He appears within a minute.

  I study his reaction. He does not recognize us.

  “How can I help you folks?” he asks after shaking the hands of “Lara” and “Karl.” Michael Larson is big, six-four, forty, with the body of a jock gone soft. His shoulders are broad; he still has a full head of black hair, but he’s developed a stoop and needs at least a hundred morning crunches to combat the caloric tire growing beneath his belt. His smile is automatic, joyless. He gives off the stress of someone with too many responsibilities. The bags under his eyes say he’s not sleeping well.

  But does he have nightmares?

  Or is he just a typical overworked New York lawyer?

  “We would prefer to talk about money matters in the privacy of your office,” Matt says.

  “Of course. Please,” Larson says, gesturing us deeper into the maze of the firm. It appears larger than Brutran let on. We follow our host to a corner office with a view of Central Park. The man is not just a partner, he has his name on the firm’s front door. Forty seems young to have risen so high. Matt appears to read my mind and points that out to Larson. But Matt makes it a compliment. He can be charming when he wishes.

  “I work hard,” Larson admits. “Probably too many hours, if you were to ask my ex-wife and daughter.”

  “How old is your daughter?” I ask.

  “Nicole will be five next week.”

  “Wish her happy birthday for me,” I say.

  “Thank you.”

  “It must be hard not seeing Nicole after work every day,” I say.

  Larson nods, glancing at a picture of his daughter on his desk. Her eyes shine; she looks like a happy child. “It’s been an adjustment. But it’s a cutthroat business. There’s no middle ground, not if I’m to give my clients a hundred percent.”

  “How would you describe your business?” Matt asks. “Or should I say, your expertise?”

  Larson pauses, his antennae rising. I find his paranoia interesting. “You must know something about my background to fly so far to meet,” he says.

  Matt shrugs. “We are rich. We heard you can make us richer.”

  “What sort of money are we talking about?”

  “A billion euros. Maybe two,” Matt says. “Maybe more if we like the results. Where would you start if we agreed to invest with your firm?”

  Larson flashes his usual smile. “That would be entirely up to you. But with such a sum we could play in a number of courts. It’s all a question of risk versus reward. You know that. How exotic do you wish to get?”

  “Cutting-edge weapon systems,” I jump in. The words make Larson blink. I have hit a nerve.

  “Pardon me?” he says quickly.

  “We have heard through the grapevine that your firm has close ties to the Pentagon,” Matt says. “That you can predict who is going to receive the next major contracts.”

  Larson loses his smile. He studies us both. “Who told you this?”

  “Friends,” Matt says casually. “Don’t be alarmed. We understand the relationships are very private. But they are the reason we’re here. Today, this afternoon, we are willing to write you a large check if you could just enlighten us a little on what you do with the Pentagon.”

  Larson stands. We have only arrived but we have already crossed the line. The man is visibly upset. His words gush from his mouth.

  “I’m sorry you have come so far for no reason. The information you have been fed is false. I know of no one at this firm who is working with the Pentagon. And to imply that we have influence over who is awarded specific defense contracts is not only outrageous, it’s . . . a dangerous accusation. Now, please, I have clients I have to attend to. If you would be so kind as to leave. It’s possible we can talk at another time. This afternoon is just too busy for me.”

  Matt and I exchange a look and get to our feet.

  “Heard enough?” he asks me.

  “Enough to know he’s a keeper,” I say.

  Moving fast—not so fast that Larson cannot follow him but faster than any human being can move—Matt circles the desk and clamps the lawyer’s arms behind his back with one hand. With his other hand Matt presses a .40-caliber Glock in Larson’s back. I reach down and pick up the lawyer’s laptop. It sits square in the center of his desk and I h
ave a feeling it’s loaded with all kinds of goodies.

  “Please listen, Mr. Larson,” Matt says in a persuasive tone. “The three of us are going to walk out of here together. You will lead the way. I won’t touch you, but I will have this gun you feel right now against your spine pointed at your back. If you make even the slightest move to alert your security, I’ll shoot you.”

  “Our guards will stop you,” he gasps.

  “They might if you warn them. But then you will be dead and their help will not help you,” Matt says.

  “Cooperate and you’ll be okay,” I say. “I promise.”

  “But why are you doing this? What do you want?”

  “We will explain everything after we leave here,” Matt says. “Do we have an understanding?”

  Larson breathes rapidly. “Yes, yes. I’ll go with you.”

  We leave his office. I walk beside Mr. Larson, Matt stays directly behind us. If the firm is equipped with cameras, I can’t see or hear them. Yet Brutran told us they would have heavy security. It makes me wonder. Also, Mr. Larson isn’t as tense as he should be when he tells the receptionist he’s taking us to lunch. He’s accepted that he’s a hostage rather quickly, which tells me he thinks he’s going to be rescued. Soon.

  Out in the street, we hail a taxi, put Mr. Larson in the front seat. Matt looks to me. “Where do you want to go?” he asks.

  There’s no way I’m taking him to where the others are staying. Even though I’ve frisked Larson and found no tracking device, he continues to act like he’s being followed.

  “Let’s get a room at the Hilton,” I say.

  It’s a short ride; the taxi lets us out a few minutes later. Matt gives him a generous tip. He keeps Larson outside while I go in and get us a room. I actually get three adjoining rooms on the top floor. We lead the lawyer to the center one and force him to sit in a chair in the middle of the suite. Larson is fearful but confident. It’s obvious he’s waiting for help.

  “How much time do we have?” I ask as I sit on the bed in front of him. Matt paces behind Larson.

  “I don’t understand,” Larson says.

  “We want to know when to expect your friends,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t alert anyone, I swear it.”

  “No lies,” Matt says, pulling a switchblade from his pocket, releasing the steel razor, and yanking Larson’s right arm into the air. He practically pulls the limb from its socket. Holding the blade tight to Larson’s thumb, drawing a steady drip of blood, he speaks in a no-nonsense tone. “Tell us what we want to know or you’ll never be able to lift up Nicole again.”

  “Who are you people?” he cries, finally getting a glimpse of how strong Matt is.

  “Friends of Shanti Garuda,” I say.

  Larson goes to deny knowing her but his eyes stray to his bleeding thumb and the blade Matt has pressed against it. He’s in pain, he struggles to breathe. Matt has lifted him several inches off his chair. I lean forward.

  “But before I ask about Shanti, tell us how long before your buddies arrive?” I ask.

  He trembles. “Not long. Ten, fifteen minutes.”

  “How are they tracking you?”

  “A microchip. It’s implanted in my arm. It can’t be removed.”

  “Want to bet?” Matt says, waving the knife in front of Larson’s eyes.

  “They already know where I am,” he pleads. “They’re assembling their team. If you want to live you should leave now.”

  “Don’t worry about us,” I say. “Now tell me about your relationship with Shanti?”

  “I hardly knew her. My boss ordered me to help her with whatever she needed, no questions asked. She’d call, usually to get information on people. That’s not my expertise. I’d pass the task on to private eyes. Then I’d get back to her with what they found out.”

  “How long did this go on?” I ask.

  “Two years.”

  “Did you ever meet her in person?”

  “No.”

  “Who did she ask about?”

  “Plenty of people. I don’t know their names offhand.”

  “Did she ever ask about Roger and Sarah Goodwin?” I ask.

  “A few days ago. She wanted to know where they lived, who their parents were, their grandparents. The information was important to her. She told me she needed to know fast.”

  “Did you get her the information?” I ask.

  “Partly. Two days ago I discovered where they live. Somewhere in North Carolina. I gave her the address.”

  “Did she ask about a veil?”

  Larson trembles. “She did. She wanted to know if they had it. She said it was some kind of artifact. I told her I couldn’t find anything about it.”

  “Did she give the veil a name?”

  “She just said it was very old and it belonged to the Goodwin family. No, wait, she said at first it belonged to the Levine family.”

  “Did she tell you why she wanted it?”

  “I didn’t ask. I mean, who would want a veil?”

  “How did she treat you on the phone?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was she rude? Polite? Professional?”

  Larson hesitates. “She was cold. She made me feel, I don’t know, dirty. I hated getting her calls.”

  “Do you know why your boss had your firm work for her?”

  “He said it was because of the money. But . . . I don’t know.”

  “What made you doubt him?” I ask.

  “Hey, I’m cooperating,” Larson complains to Matt. “Let go of my arm. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Matt glances at me and I nod. Matt takes a step back but keeps his knife handy. “Answer,” I say.

  “He told me once that she was connected to the big deals we had with the Pentagon. It was weird but he acted like she was more important than any general I spoke to.” Larson shakes his head. “She sounded like a young girl.”

  “A cold young girl,” I say.

  Larson nods. “Yeah. It sounds like you know her.”

  “I did. She’s no longer with us.” I let the information sink in before continuing. “How does your law firm help the Pentagon?”

  “We arrange financing for black projects.”

  “Projects the House and Senate know nothing about?”

  “Projects the president knows nothing about.”

  Larson sounds as if he’s boasting. Everyone likes to be in on the skinny. “What type of projects are these?” I ask.

  He holds out his hands as if he’s afraid Matt’s going to react to his answer. “The details were all hush-hush. I was never told anything directly. Just heard hints when the partners had a few too many after work. A lot of it sounded like science fiction. They said the air force is building aircraft that can take off from a runway and fly right into orbit.” He stops. “They said the whole shuttle program, all of NASA, was just a front to what was really going on.”

  “Did you believe them?” Matt interrupts. Nothing has gotten a reaction out of him until this. He practically breathes down Larson’s neck. By this time the lawyer is terrified of him.

  “It was hard to believe,” Larson says. “But the money they’re spending out there, it’s crazy. It would fund a mission to Mars.”

  “Where is ‘out there’?” Matt demands.

  “Somewhere in Nevada. I’m not sure where.”

  “What kind of aircraft are we—” Matt begins.

  “Quiet!” I interrupt, listening to what’s going on down the hall. The elevator has halted on our floor. It’s being held open. Ten very silent and well-trained men are exiting it. One guy is in charge. He leads them in our direction, slowly, cautiously. I hear automatic rifles bump against clips of ammo, concussion grenades, Kevlar vests. I smell the weapons. They’re worse than a SWAT team, more like a small army.

  Matt hears them as well. He hurries to the window, throws it open, pokes his head out, searching up and down. “The roof is near,” he tells me.

 
“Good.” I pick up Larson’s laptop and speak to the lawyer. “I have excellent hearing, Michael. I’ve been listening to the men who are outside. They have orders to shoot to kill, and whoever’s behind them has told them that you’re a hundred percent expendable. This is no joke. They are not going to give us a chance to surrender. They are going to hit this room with everything they’ve got and pick up the pieces of bloody flesh afterwards. Your only chance to live is to come with us.”

  It is all too much for Larson. “Where are you going?” he mumbles.

  “Up to the roof,” I say. “After that we improvise. This is your one chance. Do you want to come with us?”

  “How are you going to get on the roof?”

  “Sita. We have to go,” Matt says, already climbing onto the edge of the open window. I kneel beside Larson.

  “I don’t have time to explain,” I say. “But you’ve cooperated with us. I don’t think you’re a bad man. I don’t think you even know what you’re involved in. For that reason, I promise I will protect you, but I can only do so if you let me. You have to come with me now.”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t. My daughter, I can’t . . .”

  I stand over him. “You’ll never see Nicole again if you don’t come with us.”

  He’s too frightened, and I pity him. He starts to cry but makes no effort to follow. Unfortunately, Matt is right, we’re out of time. I pat Larson on the back and tell him I’m sorry. Throwing off my freshly bought coat, I run to the window.

  Matt has already leapt for the roof. He hangs on the edge of it for a second and then swings his body upward. A moment later he is standing up and looking down at me. I toss him Larson’s laptop and he catches it with one hand.

  “Hurry, Sita,” he says.

  Heights do not frighten me, of course. And this move is nothing compared to leaping out of one jet and grabbing onto another. Still, I’m careful to balance on the ledge before I spring upward. I fly past the roof and Matt catches me on the way down. For a moment he holds me in his arms and I swear he’s going to kiss me. But the moment passes.