“I honestly do not know. I don’t know what he’s doing. Edward tried to kill me. Did you forget that? I can help you, Sam—I can help you.”
Deal with the devil, I thought, part two.
93
MOONLIGHT BROKE THROUGH THE CLOUDS above Brooklyn, like a smile in the night.
Time was scarce. The burglar had to assume that there were hidden camera feeds in the empty apartment, scrolling data onto a hard drive. There might only be minutes for the burglar to find what was needed.
The burglar headed straight for the bathroom. A comb, a brush, and a toothbrush lay on the shelf under the mirror. The burglar held up the hairbrush and examined it. Sam Capra had a full head of brownish-blond hair. Several strands lay entwined in the stiff bristles of the brush.
The burglar hoped some held surviving follicles. The brush went into a plastic bag, to be joined by the comb and the toothbrush. A slide of the gloved fingers along the bag and the job was done.
Then out the door, down the stairs, back into the moonlight-dappled night. The burglar slid up the dark heavy balaclava that hid his face and walked off into the black. The key to dealing properly with Sam Capra lay rustling like a whisper in the plastic bag.
94
I CALLED HOWELL BACK three hours later.
“What did you find?”
His voice sounded grim. “The photos match a set of prototypical weapons being developed by the Company.”
By the Company? Oh, my God. “Being developed for you by Bahjat Zaid.”
God or nature or biological accident gives us these awesome brains and this is what we do with them. We think of better ways to kill. Ways that make murder as easy as taking a breath.
These guns could change history. Kill a CEO, kill a president, kill a pope, kill a good guy, kill a bad guy, with total confidence that the bullet will find its mark.
Howell said, “Sam, do you know what the goal is? Of this man having these guns? Why’s he doing this?”
“Profit, I’m sure—he must be selling the guns to someone who has an agenda. He has the DNA of fifty people. One of my contacts, Piet, said there were fifty packages Edward was smuggling. Fifty. Fifty means something, but the fifty people aren’t famous.”
“Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” My head pounded.
The guns were a ticket back to having my life back. If the Company forgave me my sins, then I had a chance of getting back and keeping my son without looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.
“New York,” I said. “He’s shipping the guns to New York.” Piet had told me that.
“Why? To who?”
“I don’t know.”
Silence. Then: “You listen to me. If you’re setting me up for another fall, then you will seriously regret it.”
“I have bigger problems than you, Howell. I know you’re just doing a thankless job. I’m sorry I’m your headache. I really am.”
“Sam—”
“When I find out more I’ll call you.”
“You are still a Company officer.”
“I am not.”
“You are—and I am ordering you to come in.”
I hung up. I went downstairs and found Kenneth, the manager of Adrenaline. He came back up to the office with me. He sucked in his breath when he saw Yasmin’s body.
“I didn’t kill her,” I said.
“All right,” Kenneth said.
I explained what had happened, without telling him about the specific nature of the weapons. Best to keep that to myself. When I told him Mila had been captured, he said, “How can I help?”
“Kenneth, who runs this? Who do you work for?”
“I work for Mila.”
“Who does Mila work for? This technology, this level of resources—you folks have serious clout.”
Kenneth said, “Mila should have told you.”
“Mila may be dead.”
He sat. “She works for the Round Table.”
“Round Table? Like King Arthur’s Round Table?”
“Mila likes to pretend they date back to a distant time, but it’s simply a name. They’re a group of powerful and wealthy people who have joined forces over many years, and I don’t know more than that. I do know I can make phone calls and certain resources are arranged for Mila, or for whoever is working for her.”
“Okay, I am working for King Arthur.” I nearly laughed. With all the insanity of the day, I felt on edge.
“No, sir.” Kenneth seemed alarmed that I believed this.
“And the Round Table owns the bars? Adrenaline, De Rode Prins in Amsterdam?”
He nodded. “Under a front company.”
“Why do you work for them? What’s your background?”