“You’re late,” Gatling says.

Kidder shrugs, and Gatling notes that he seems not the least concerned with any timetable. Idiot. He’s still wearing the wool cap, which Gatling suspects has scabbed to the back of his head. His eyes, always weirdly blank somehow, have gone seriously strange. Sign of a concussed skull, perhaps. Not a concern, long term, because, frankly, the man’s time is just about up. Gatling hasn’t arrived at the precise scenario, there are a couple of interesting options, but this particular threat is getting his ticket punched in the next forty-eight hours. After an enhanced interrogation has revealed whatever pathetic backup plans the nutball’s put in place. In the interest of containment, Gatling will have to take charge of the interrogation himself, but that’s not a problem, he has the skill set. Been there, done that.

“You’re sweating and you stink,” Gatling says.

“I love you, too.”

“Not that you appear to care, but your mess has been cleaned up. Even if the woman goes to the authorities with some wild tale there will be no proof, no evidence. Her mental history will make any investigation unlikely.”

“What are you saying?” Kidder says with a sly grin. “You finally offed the little brat?”

Gatling looks repulsed by the suggestion. “Of course not. We’re not baby-killers. Not on purpose, anyhow. No, no, the flight has been arranged. He’s going back to China, where he will be hidden in plain sight. There are thousands of families eager to adopt. He’ll be given to some nice, hardworking peasant family in a remote province on the mainland.”

“Oh yeah? I heard half-breeds end up in state orphanages. Nobody wants ’em.”

Gatling shrugs, “Whatever happens, it will no longer be our responsibility.”

“Out of sight, out of mind, eh? I like the way your brain works, Cap. Always have. But you’re dreaming if you think New Mommy is going away.”

“Who?”

“That chick you hired to nurse the brat.”

“I told you, with her mental history no one will believe her.”

“So that’s why you picked her? On account of her medical record?”

“You know I did.” Gatling doesn’t like where this is going. He shouldn’t have to discuss tactics with a grunt.

“Just so you know—I wouldn’t want to keep you out of the loop, Cap, no sir, that’s not my style—I dropped by the Nantz house to check on New Mommy. Figured she might go there.”

For a long, stunning moment Gatling is at a loss for words. “You what?” he finally says.

“Aside from anything else, the bitch knows what I look like. I can’t have positive IDs walking around in the world.”

That’s not entirely true, nor his reason for invading the Back Bay residence. It’s more that he can’t let a woman get the better of him; the thought is insufferable, and makes the wounded back of his skull pulse with anger. As a matter of fact, not to be shared with his boss, he didn’t enter the Nantz residence in disguise and there are now at least three more people who have a pretty good idea what he looks like. He’s thinking, once he extracts sufficient funds from Gatling, that a little face surgery may be in order. He’s always wanted to look like George Clooney—why not?

“I don’t know what to say,” Gatling says carefully, hiding his own spike of anger.

“Done and dusted, nobody home.”

“So they don’t know you gained access?”

“Not a chance,” Kidder lies.

“Okay, I think we’re done,” Gatling says, pausing to finish his juice.

“Done? Really?”

“Take a shower, Bob. Feel free to use the facilities. And for God’s sake, peel off that filthy cap. It makes you look demented.”

Kidder appears to find the insults amusing, and makes no move to leave. He keeps hitting the trigger on the lock-pick gun. It makes a screechy little noise that has him smiling. “Since you’re so calm and everything, I’m assuming you haven’t heard the latest news.”

Gatling is thinking that he has a gun in his desk drawer, fully loaded of course—what’s the use of a gun if it isn’t loaded?—and he could take care of the problem right this very minute. Except for the mess. No, better to wait, find his moment. “What news?” he says, not really interested in anything Kidder has to say.

“Randall Shane is in the wind.”

“I knew that five minutes after it happened,” Gatling says dismissively. “A physically and mentally damaged man wanders away from custody. So?”

“He’s coming for the kid, Cap.”

“Not a problem. He won’t know where to start.”

Kidder seems to be amused by his nonchalance. “You had him on the premises. You think he can’t find his way back?”

Gatling shakes his head. “He’s not a homing pigeon. Shane had no idea where he was being detained, believe me. And any connection he or Naomi Nantz have made to this organization is strictly theoretical. She came right here to my home and made demands, can you believe the nerve? But she was bluffing. She hasn’t got anything tangible, just a suspicion, and we’re going to keep it that way.”

“Are we? That’s nice.”

“Fancy a trip to Sichuan?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“Too bad. Because that’s your final assignment. You’ll handle the drop-off, and when you get back you and I are going to have a discussion about your severance package. It will be generous. You can retire and make crush videos, or whatever it is you do for fun.”

“That your idea of a kiss-off?” Kidder smiles, clicking his front teeth together.

“I think we’ve outgrown each other, Bob.”

“Crush videos? If I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to hurt my feelings.”

“I wasn’t aware you had any.”

“Oh,” Kidder says. “That hurt.”

He’s thinking that between here and China, accidents can happen. He intends to make sure the brat never has a chance to identify him. Gatling may not want a dead child on his conscience, but Kidder doesn’t suffer from that particular weakness. Murder can be fun, if you give it half a chance.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Good Enough for Alice

Maybe there are people who can sleep soundly after having a gun put to their head. I’m not one of them, and if the previous sentence is ungrammatical, blame it on edgy insomnia.

So at four-thirty in the morning, having showered more than once to get the stink of creep off me, I’m wide-awake and brushing my teeth when I hear the rat-tat-tat of a certain distinctive knock upon my bedroom door.

“Ah,” says Naomi. “You’re up. Good. Dress quickly and meet us in command.”

“Us” turns out to be Naomi and Jack. It’s clear that our senior investigator hasn’t been to bed at all and is eager to get on with whatever mission he’s been assigned. His “tell” isn’t subtle—he keeps glancing at his wristwatch.

Boss lady, attired in one of her full-length silk kimonos, looks similarly determined. “Less than fifteen minutes ago Randall Shane made contact with Jack, using a throwaway phone. We have to assume the call was picked up by one of the national security agencies, because all calls are run through their filters. So that’s a given. Whether or not the raw data has been tagged or identified is unknown, but we have to assume that Mr. Gatling and his associates have access to the data banks, or can tag certain calls and callers. No doubt we are on his list. Shane spoke in a code familiar to Jack, but the mere fact that he made contact indicates an assumption that we intend to provide assistance, so there isn’t much time.”

“Time for what?” I ask.

“Providing assistance, of course. We need your help. Are you willing to risk the legal exposure?”