“How?” the voice said calmly.

Yeah, the guy asking questions was always calm, Stone thought as he tried to shake the vomit out of his eyes. He was probably sitting in a nice warm room with a cup of coffee while I’m getting the shit kicked out of me.

“Suffocated,” he spat out. “Just like you’re doing to me, you prick!”

That got him another quick dunk. He’d done it on purpose, though, so the water would wash the puke off him. Stone had taken a quick breath before they plunged him in, and he came out in relatively decent shape.

“How?” the voice said.

“Not the halon 1301, something else.”

“What?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Stone felt himself being tipped back for another plunge. He frantically shouted, “But I can find out.”

The voice didn’t immediately answer. Stone took that as a good sign. Interrogators hated to be at a loss for words.

The voice said, “We looked at your journals. You were reading up on Bradley. Why?”

“Seemed too coincidental. His death and then DeHaven’s.”

“They have nothing in common.”

“You think so?”

Stone snatched a long breath, but they held him under so long this time he still almost drowned. He came out with his brain exploding from lack of oxygen, every limb quivering; his whole body was starting to shut down on him.

“What do you think they have in common?” the voice demanded.

“You’re one dunk from killing me, so if that’s your plan anyway, why don’t you just get it over with?” he said feebly. He braced for the tip but it didn’t come.

“What do you think they have in common?” the voice said again.

Stone took a shallow breath, which was all he could manage right now, and decided whether to answer or not. If it wasn’t what they wanted to hear, he was dead. But he was nearly dead as it was.

He mustered his energy and said, “Cornelius Behan.”

He braced for the last dunk. Instead, the voice said, “Why Behan?”

“Bradley was anticorruption. Behan won two major contracts under the old regime. Maybe Bradley found out something Behan didn’t want known. So he killed him, burned his house down and blamed it on a fictitious terrorist group.”

There was a long silence. All Stone could hear were the anguished smacks of his tortured heart. The sounds were terrifying, but at least he was still alive.

“DeHaven?”

“He’s Behan’s neighbor.”

“Is that it?” the voice said, clearly disappointed.

Stone felt himself being tipped back. “No, that’s not all! There was a telescope we found in DeHaven’s attic pointed at Behan’s house. DeHaven might have seen something he shouldn’t have. So he has to be killed too, but not like Bradley.”

“Why not?”

“People gunning for the Speaker wouldn’t be that surprising. But DeHaven’s a librarian and Behan’s his neighbor. It had to be made to look like an accident away from DeHaven’s and Behan’s homes. Otherwise, fingers might start pointing at Behan.”

Stone waited in silence, wondering if the answer had been the right one or not.

He lurched up as he felt the painful jab in his arm. A second later his eyes closed, and Oliver Stone let out a long breath and lay still.

From the corner of the room Roger Seagraves watched them carry Stone out. He was pretty tough for an old guy. Seagraves imagined that thirty years ago Stone might have been as good as he was. Now he at least knew that Stone suspected Cornelius Behan to be the man behind it all. And because of that, Oliver Stone would get to live another day.

Chapter 27

Annabelle’s hotel room overlooked Central Park, and on impulse she decided to take a walk in it. Her hairstyle and color had changed once again. She was now a brunet with short hair, parted on the side, a look that matched the passport photo Freddy had made for her. Her clothes were typical New York, meaning black and stylish. She rambled through the park trails hiding behind a hat and sunglasses. Several people she passed stared at her, perhaps thinking she was someone famous. Ironically, Annabelle had never sought fame. Her whole life she had clung to the comforting shadows of obscurity where a talented con could find professional traction.

She bought a soft pretzel from a street vendor and carried it back to her room, where she sat on the bed and looked through her travel papers. Leo and she had parted company at the airport in Newark. Freddy was on his way out of the country already. She hadn’t asked either man where they were going. She didn’t want to know.

After arriving in New York she’d contacted Tony. As promised, Annabelle had made arrangements for him to fly to Paris. After that, he was on his own, but with excellent if fake identification and travel documents and millions sitting in a readily accessible account. She’d given him one final warning: “Even though he never saw you, Bagger will know I needed some con really expert with computers, and you have that reputation. So lay low for a year or so out of the country. And do not flash the money around. Get a small place, dig in, learn the language, and lose yourself.”

Tony promised her that he would do as she advised.

“I’ll call and tell you where I end up.”

“No, you won’t,” she’d told him.

She still had three days before Bagger’s money was due back and he discovered he’d been conned. She would have given half the money back to be able to see his reaction. He would probably kill all of his IT and money guys first. Then he’d stalk through his casino with a pistol, popping off senior citizens playing the slots. Maybe a New Jersey SWAT team would swoop in and do the world a favor by putting the bastard out of his misery. Probably unrealistic, but she could always fantasize.

Her escape route would take her through eastern Europe and then Asia. That would last about a year. After that, it was on to the South Pacific, to a little island she’d discovered years ago and never been back to for fear of it not being as perfect the second time. Right now she’d be happy with almost perfect.

Her share of the take was currently parked in a series of offshore accounts. She’d live off the interest and investments the rest of her life, maybe occasionally dipping into the principal. She might even buy a boat, albeit a small one, and sail it herself. Not around the world; short excursions around a tropical cove would be just fine with her.

She had debated whether to send Bagger a note of triumph, but in the end decided such bravado was both unworthy of her and the con she’d pulled. Let him spend the rest of his life guessing. Paddy Conroy’s little girl wouldn’t be high on his list of usual suspects because she was certain Bagger didn’t even know Paddy had a daughter. Annabelle’s relationship with her father had been truly unique, and he had never held her out to the con world as his child. Leo and a few others they’d worked with had eventually discovered the truth, but that was all.

Yet this time her picture had been captured on numerous Pompeii casino cameras. And she knew Bagger would take those photos and run around the con world paying people or even torturing them to get an ID on her. Every con she knew would cheer what she’d done to Bagger. Yet there might be someone who looked at the photo and let her name slip if Bagger threatened enough. Well, she thought, let him come. He might find it a little harder to kill me than he thinks. It wasn’t the size of the dog in the fight, it was the size of the fight in the dog. Ironically, it wasn’t her father that had told her that; it was her mother.

Tammy Conroy, despite her criminal ways, had been a good woman, and a long–suffering wife to Paddy. She’d been a cocktail waitress before tying her life to the charming Irishman, who had an endless supply of funny yarns and could sing any tune in a voice you’d want to keep listening to. Paddy Conroy dominated any room he was in. Perhaps that was why his potential as a con had never been fully realized. The best cons, you never even knew they were there. Paddy apparently didn’t care, believing that his Irish luck, pluck and smile would save him every time. And it had, mostly. But it hadn’t saved Tammy Conroy.