I couldn’t take my eyes off Corrigan’s face. I couldn’t believe I finally knew what he looked like-well, thirty-odd years ago, but still. It was something. It was more than something.
It would lead me to him.
It had to.
Kurt and Gigi didn’t know where the portraits had come from. Kurt hadn’t been privy to that side of the story when I first roped him into helping me track down Corrigan. I had firewalled it off from him, just as I’d kept his involvement secret from all the others who’d been involved. Right now, though, given how much they’d stuck their necks out for me and how deeply enmeshed we were in everything that was going on, I felt I owed them the full story.
I told them “L+D” were Leo and Daphne Sokolov. Leo was a brilliant Russian scientist who’d invented a incredible, world-changing piece of technology while working for a secret lab in Russia back when the USSR was still intact. With commendable insight, he decided his invention was too dangerous to hand over to his Soviet minders. He contacted the CIA and arranged for his defection, promising to hand over his invention to our government instead. What he didn’t tell them was that he’d already decided he didn’t trust them with it any more than he did the Soviets. Once they’d whisked him and his wife Daphne safely out of the Russia and brought him onto US soil, he also gave his CIA minders the slip. Leo and Daphne had lived in Queens in anonymity for over thirty years until an unfortunate outburst at an anti-Russian demonstration outside the Russian Consulate in Manhattan a while back had blown Leo’s cover.
I had been instrumental in rescuing him and Daphne from the Russian agents who wanted him and his technology. I also agreed that the technology was too dangerous to hand over to any government, even ours, and I got my connections at the Vatican to help me set them up with a new life outside the US. For that, Leo and Daphne were immensely grateful, and they hadn’t failed in expressing it before we parted company. We had another connection, too. Their CIA minders had been none other than Reed Corrigan and Frank Fullerton.
Hence the drawings-portraits of what Corrigan and Fullerton looked like back in 1980, when Leo and Daphne last saw them. I didn’t know who had drawn them up, but they were good, clean sketches showing two clearly identifiable faces.
Kurt shook his head. “Well, the obvious thing would have been to digitize them, then compare key features with the CIA employee database. But they closed that door.”
“I doubt you could have got anywhere near the full roster anyway,” I said. “And these guys are probably off the books.”
Gigi threw up her hands. “I hate this. Ever since I got into their deep archive, they completely reconfigured the firewalls. I can’t clone a valid authorization; I can’t create a new one. I’ll get in eventually, but I need more time.”
“Which is not something we have,” I said.
It was supremely frustrating. I had him, had as good a forensic sketch artist’s rendition of a suspect I’d ever seen, but I had nothing against which to run it.
Kurt tapped the drawings with two fingers. “Why doesn’t your friend at the Bureau run with them?” he asked. “She could give them to your boss, get him to show them to the CIA, say they’re from a witness they’ve got in protective custody. That’ll get them worked up.”
“No,” I said, “they’ve stonewalled every request I put through from day one. The party line is that Reed Corrigan does not exist. Period.”
“Bastards.”
“Yep,” I said.
Gigi waved her favorite waiter over-Theo, an aspiring stand-up with a slightly psychotic gaze who, he gleefully informed us, was excited about an audition he’d just done for a part on Louie-and ordered us some fresh coffees and three slices of an apparently life-altering raspberry cheesecake.
I gave my face a good rub and looked across the restaurant. It was packed, as usual. Was there a single trendy eatery in Manhattan that wasn’t? The morning espressos and croissants had long given way to after-work beers and mojitos. Watching the constant tide of people gliding by outside the restaurant, on their way home from work, maybe tired, maybe fulfilled, maybe looking forward to a nice meal and a cuddle in front of the TV, maybe about to spend an evening alone trawling through social media apps on their phones while eating cereal out of a box, I couldn’t help but envy them, all of them. Normalcy of whatever kind felt like such an alien concept for me right now. This obsessive search had taken over my life and flipped it over and inside out.
I thought of my dad, of my mom and Faye, and of Tess. Whatever negative effects Dad’s death had on me, it had also ensured that I didn’t marry young. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more now felt like the right time to talk to Tess about tying the knot.
Though now would have to wait. Perhaps indefinitely.
As Theo brought the coffees and cake, I turned and noticed Gigi giving me a mischievous little self-satisfied grin. I looked at her curiously, but she just held my gaze and said, “Jake Daland.”
Which totally threw me, since I’d never mentioned him to her or to Kurt. I almost did the full Kramer double-take-eyes popping, electrocuted limbs, the works.
She grinned. “What? Did you really think we wouldn’t know about something like that?” Then, off my continuing surprise, she said, “Settle down, G-Boy, and lend me your ears. ’Cause Daland might just be the key to your salvation.”
The velvet rope outside the nightclub’s entrance had only just been set up and nobody was lining up as yet. It was still early for a Manhattan night spot, which suited Sandman fine. He wasn’t there to party. At least, not in the traditional sense, and only if he couldn’t avoid it.
There were two men milling around outside, two bouncers in black suits over black shirts and black ties to add a splash of black, the whole look accessorized with the ubiquitous clipboards and earbuds. One was beefy, the other supersized-easily two hundred and fifty pounds. Sandman was not in the least intimidated. Like any fighter worth his salt, he knew that size really didn’t matter.
He noted the security cam over the club’s entrance as he walked up to them and flicked a small gesture to the bigger of the two to come aside for a chat. The bouncer seemed put out and somewhat bemused by the request; he shuffled over on beefy, lumbering feet that couldn’t have moved with less interest.
Sandman flashed him a Homeland Security ID card-a real one-then pulled out his phone and showed him a screen grab of the two targets that seemed to be accompanying Reilly as he left the club.
“I’m trying to ID these two,” he told him. “They were here Saturday night. You know who they are?”
The bouncer tilted his face to one side and grimaced as he gave Sandman a once-over that was overflowing with disdain. “Dude, seriously. This club-it’s like a church. Sacred ground, sanctuary. People who come here, they know they can be who they want or what they want without anyone giving them a hard time. You understand what I’m saying, brother?”
Sandman shrugged with a bored roll of his eyes. “I think you’re saying you don’t plan to be helpful in this matter.”
The big man moved in closer and was suddenly right in his face. “I guess I’m saying you need to-”
His face froze on that syllable, then quickly morphed into a shock of wide eyes and round lips as he howled with pain from the testicle lock Sandman had him in. The assassin squeezed harder, almost sending the bouncer to his knees.
The big man tried to push Sandman off him, but Sandman had already calmly pocketed his phone and used his other hand to stab the bouncer’s throat with a quick jab using the outstretched tips of his fingers, causing the bouncer to gasp for air and eliminating all resistance.