Chapter Eleven

The first step was obvious—and for that matter, so was the second. If they were going to run, the first thing they needed was transportation, and the second was money.

Where to go after they had transportation and money wasn’t so simple, but as Casper led the two women into the parking garage he’d chosen he made a suggestion. Neither of them had any comment on it, at least at first.

“Maybe we should take a train,” Mirim said nervously, as Casper looked over the silent rows of vehicles on the second level of the parking structure.

Casper shook his head. “Too easy to search,” he said. “And a train goes in a straight line, you can’t turn off and get lost on the side roads. If they decide to search the trains for me, and I’m on one, I’m dead.” He looked over a brown Toyota, then moved on.

“They can stop cars and search those, too.”

“Some of them, yeah, but do you have any idea how many roads there are out of Philadelphia?” He zeroed in on an old blue Honda four-door and looked it over for any sign of a security system. There was no thumbprint scanner on the car’s computer, no warning lights or labels beyond the usual required safety notices. He noticed the clutter of old maps and empty fast-food wrappers on the back seat—exactly what he was looking for, signs of a disorganized owner.

“I don’t like this,” Mirim said, her arms folded across her chest. She looked about nervously as Casper ducked down, got on his back, and peered under the Honda.

Cecelia watched Casper with interest. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m checking to see if there are any wires that don’t look like they belong,” Casper said. “I figure that if there’s an added security system, there’ll be wires.”

“Some of them are subtler than that,” Cecelia said. “I had a few clients who tried this sort of thing when I did my year as a public defender.”

“It’s a Honda, Celia, not a Ferrari or something,” Casper said as he got to his feet.

“You’d be surprised.”

“So be ready to run,” he said, as he made a sudden whirling movement and kicked out the driver’s side window. The safety glass buckled, and dropped inside in a single large sheet—the glass was shattered into bits about the size of teeth, but the fragments were still held together by the layer of plastic.

“Jesus, Casper!” Mirim said. She looked about, waiting for an alarm to sound, for cops to jump out of nowhere with guns drawn.

No sirens wailed, no horns beeped; the only sound was the normal buzz of traffic outside. Casper ignored her as he reached in, tossed the ruined window away, and opened the door. He slid into the driver’s seat, leaned across and fished through the glove compartment, checked the storage compartments and sun visors—and found the spare key in the ashtray. The clutter in the back seat had made him optimistic that such a stash existed.

A few seconds later the engine roared to life.

“Get in,” he said, as he used the power-lock button to unlock the other doors.

The two women hastened to obey; Cecelia took the front passenger seat while Mirim ducked into the back, shoving the trash aside.

Casper backed the car carefully out of the space, then asked, “Either of you have any idea where the nearest ATM is? And have you got your cards? They may have stopped mine already.”

Both women began digging through their purses as Casper headed down the ramp. Cecelia found her card first, Mirim a moment later.

“I didn’t know you knew how to steal a car,” Cecelia remarked, as Casper pulled out of the parking structure onto the street.

“Neither did I,” said Casper, as he scanned the traffic. It wouldn’t do to get into a fender-bender or get stopped by the cops. The broken window was going to be risky enough in that regard without doing anything else to attract attention, like speeding or any sort of hot driving. “I was guessing—it seemed like something this stupid imprinting ought to include, and sure enough, once I started looking, I knew what to look for.”

“I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” Mirim muttered from the back seat.

“What, stealing the car?” Casper shrugged, then ducked his head to get a better look at the traffic light. “Maybe it wasn’t. I mean, taking it from the middle of a commuter garage, I figure no one will notice it’s gone until 5:00 or later, and we’ll have ditched it by then. And except for the window we aren’t going to hurt it. If you want, we can leave a couple of hundred bucks for the gas and the repairs. I mean, once we’ve got some more money.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Mirim said. “I meant going to Leonid’s place.”

That had been Casper’s suggestion; this was the first feedback he’d gotten on it.

“Oh, that.” Casper turned the corner. “Well, no one had a better idea. If you think of one while we’re getting money, you know, while we’re at the ATMs, let me know, okay? But I didn’t know what else to suggest. They’ll be watching all my friends and relatives, they’re watching your apartment, and Cecelia’s office, and probably Data Tracers—where else could we go?”

“But if they’re being that thorough, they must know I’m with you,” Mirim protested.

Casper hesitated. “Well, yeah,” he admitted, “but if you were after a man and a woman who were running away together, would you expect them to hide out with her boyfriend?” Cecelia threw him a suspicious glance. Casper saw it from the corner of one eye, but ignored it. If he once started trying to allay Cecelia’s suspicions about something going on between himself and Mirim, he’d never be able to stop. Best to just ignore the obvious, as if he were so innocent that he didn’t even realize she had doubts.

A few days ago he wouldn’t have thought that way; he’d have been telling Cecelia how there wasn’t anything between himself and Mirim and saying it so badly that he’d be stuffing his foot further into his mouth with every word.

Now, even though he felt pretty much like himself at the moment, he knew better.

Had he figured it out for himself, or was the imprint telling him this? What the hell kind of imprint would include advice on keeping a girlfriend from being jealous, on top of everything else?

“Why not?” Mirim answered. “After all, we picked up your girlfriend—what’s the difference?”

Casper didn’t have a ready reply to that; he was sure there was a difference, but he couldn’t put it into words. The imprint didn’t offer any help on this one. “They probably think I took you hostage or something like that,” he said at last.

“Why would they?” Mirim asked.

“I don’t know. I just think… I mean… Look, we’ll get the money first, and when we get to Leonid’s place I’ll check for a stake-out—you know I can do that, right? You’ll trust me on that? I managed okay back at Celia’s office, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but back there you were…” She stopped in mid-sentence, not sure how to say what she meant—or at least, not sure how to say it without offending Casper.

Back then, he had been calm, controlled, efficient, in charge—the imprinting had been telling him what to do, she supposed. Now he was being, at least intermittently, timid and confused and whiny and unsure—his old self, in other words. He’d been the new Casper when he kicked out the window and started the car, but his voice now was back to his former personality.

It was hard to explain just what the difference was, but she could sense it instantly. Sometimes Casper was on, was the new assertive Casper, and sometimes he was off, was the old, timid Casper.

She had heard stories about how movie stars could turn something on—without it they were ordinary people, but when it was on they were stars, they drew stares, they were always the center of attention. Charisma, star quality—she wasn’t sure what to call it.

She’d never really believed the stories—until now. She’d never met a movie star, but she’d seen Casper turn on, turn into this irresistible force, this presence she couldn’t resist. He’d done it with his speech at Data Tracers, he’d done it when he killed those two men at his apartment, again when they had arrived outside Cecelia’s office, when he’d killed the two men in the street, and in the coffee shop when he’d convinced them to join him.

But right now it was off, and he wasn’t a leader of men, he was just Casper Beech, liability analyst. It was hard to take him seriously, hard to trust him with anything important. He was a nice guy, fun to talk to, but no more than that.

Could he turn it back on, whatever it was, when he needed it? Could he spot people watching Leonid’s apartment?

Well, they’d find out soon enough.

She just hoped they’d survive it.

“So after he took out Groves and Dominguez, he spotted their back-up? Spotted the tail?” Smith said.

“Maybe,” his assistant said. “We don’t know if he spotted her or was just getting loose on general principles. She didn’t think he’d made her.”

“He probably had, though. This son of a bitch is good. He’s spotted and dealt with everything we’ve done—dodged it if he could, killed if he couldn’t dodge.”

“Yes, sir,” his assistant said.

“So we have to assume he’ll spot any of our people, no matter what we do,” Smith said.

“Yes, sir.”

“So he won’t approach anyone we have covered.”

The assistant hesitated. He wasn’t any too sure of anything about what this Casper Beech would or wouldn’t do.

“Yes, sir,” he said at last.

“But he has to go somewhere. He’s got the women with him—he’s not going to just sleep in the street, not with all three of them. And he can’t get a hotel room without using a credit card, and we’ve flagged all their cards.”

“He’s getting cash from ATM machines,” the assistant pointed out. “We can’t cover all of them, and we can’t reach them in time when his card registers.”

“Freeze his accounts—haven’t we done that?”

“Uh…no. You just said to flag them, not to freeze them.”

“Well, do it, idiot! And the women’s accounts, too. How much have they already gotten?”

“Uh…about two grand. His own account’s cleaned out; they’ve been working on Ms. Grand’s.”

“Well, freeze what’s left. And have you ever tried to get a hotel to accept cash? No respectable one will take it any more. Besides, put out a notice, in case they try—if any hotel has a customer pay cash, we want to be informed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So we’re covering Beech’s friends and relatives?”

“Of course.”

“And Anspack’s?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Grand’s?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You said Anspack’s got a friend who works in security?”

The assistant glanced at his computer screen. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Leonid Chernukhin, senior operative at Spartan Guardian Services.”

“He’s covered?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pull ‘em off, right now—and get him on the phone for me.”

“Sir?”

“I said to phone this Leonid Whatsisname. If Beech can spot all our people, we’ll use someone else. And if he won’t touch anyone we have covered, we’ll leave someone open.”

“Yes, sir,” the assistant said.

Leonid hung up the phone and gazed out the window as contemplatively as he was capable of.

So the feds wanted a hit. He could handle that.

He’d never done a hit before. He’d killed a couple of guys once who chose the wrong place to try to rob, and he’d put some others in the hospital, but he’d never deliberately set out to kill anyone before, let alone someone he knew.

He didn’t know Beech well, but he’d met him the other night—and that made it easier, actually, because Leonid didn’t like Beech much. Beech was a snotty little wimp, thought he was smart. He’d be no loss to the world.

And the son of a bitch had been screwing Mirim, if the fed’s hints meant anything; that made it personal—and a lot more fun, too.

Beech had been imprinted with some sort of combat file, the man said—but Leonid grinned.

Beech was a wimp. Combat imprint or not, he was still a wimp.

This was going to be fun.

“Anyone there?” Cecelia asked testily.

Casper hesitated.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

He’d driven the stolen car around the block twice now, and hadn’t seen anyone suspicious—but it didn’t look right, somehow, and he wasn’t sure whether the stupid unpredictable imprint was working properly.

But he couldn’t see anyone, and where else were they going to go? No respectable hotel would take them unless they used their charge cards, and even if the cards had still been good—which they weren’t, as they knew from the last ATM they’d hit—they’d have been like waving a red flag for the government to see.

Besides, Cecelia was suspicious that something was going on between him and Mirim, he knew she was suspicious despite his innocent act, and if Mirim’s lover was around maybe she’d realize there wasn’t.

Not that Casper was sure he’d mind if there was something going on.

He pulled the car into the lot and turned off the ignition. “Come on,” he said.

No one shot at them as they left the car and entered the building; no one followed them, or came anywhere near them. Some kids were playing a game a block or so down the sidewalk, and a woman was walking a dog, but that was all. It was almost 4:00; rush hour had started back in Center City and would be reaching this neighborhood soon, but right now everything was quiet.

Casper still didn’t like it.

Mirim led the way and rang the bell, Casper and Cecelia hanging back. Casper could hear a TV going in one of the other apartments.

The door opened, and Casper tensed, but it was only Leonid, in jeans and tank top.

“Hi,” he said. “What’s up?”

His tone didn’t sound right to Casper—and what was he doing home at this hour, anyway?

Well, security people didn’t all work the day shift, Casper told himself, and he was probably just being paranoid.

“May we come in?” Mirim asked.

“Um…sure,” Leonid said, stepping aside.

Mirim turned and beckoned to the others, and the three of them trooped into Leonid’s apartment.

“What’s going on?” Leonid asked, as he closed the door behind them. “Why aren’t you guys at the office?” He looked from one to the other—but something made Casper think he was acting.

“Someone’s trying to kill Casper,” Mirim said.

Leonid glanced quickly at Casper, then back at Mirim. “Who?” he asked.

That wasn’t right, Casper thought; he should have said “What?” rather than “Who?”

“We don’t know,” Mirim said.

Casper didn’t contradict her, but he watched Leonid’s expression closely. He thought he saw Leonid’s lips twitch slightly, as if he were thinking, “Yeah, sure you don’t.”

Paranoia, he told himself. Yes, someone was after him, but that didn’t mean everyone was.

But something was clicking away in his head. Leonid worked in security, he was known to be acquainted with Mirim, the feds knew Mirim was with Casper.

“Tell me about it,” Leonid said.

“Two men broke down his apartment door,” Mirim said. “He managed to get away out a window, and came back to Center City to talk to Celia and me, and when we were on our way to lunch two more men came after us with guns.”

Leonid turned to Casper. “Men with guns?”

Casper nodded.

“You don’t know who they were?”

Casper shook his head. “Not for sure,” he said. “I think it has something to do with the imprint I got from NeuroTalents last week, though. For Data Tracers.”

“Shit. Any chance they followed you here?”

Casper shook his head.

“No,” he said.

“You seem pretty definite about that.”

Casper shrugged. “I’m sure,” he said.

“So why’d you come here?”

“They were watching Celia’s apartment and office.”

“So you came to me for help?”

“Well, if there’s anything you can do…” Mirim said.

Leonid considered.

Mirim thought he was thinking over Casper’s situation, but what he was actually thinking about was whether he should take out Mirim, too, and say it was an accident. The bitch was lying—the Covert contact had said she was at Beech’s apartment, not in Center City with her roommate. She was lying because she’d been fucking Beech. And she hadn’t mentioned that Beech actually managed to kill two of his pursuers—Covert had told him that.

If she was lying for Beech like this, she was never going to be any good to him, to Leonid, again. And she’d be a witness, a witness with a grudge.

The other woman would be a witness, too, but that was no big deal—she was a lawyer, Covert could get her to stay quiet. Lawyers could be bought or intimidated.

Besides, she looked nervous. She’d probably be glad to be rid of Beech, to not be mixed up with him any more.

The first bullet for Beech, then, but the second for Mirim.

“You know, I have access to a lot of information on criminals,” he said. “Part of my work, y’know—I’m on the closed law enforcement nets, got access to all the secure sites. Maybe I could find out something about this. You three wait here.”

He turned, and ambled down the passageway into the bedroom, and the instant he was sure he was out of sight he headed directly to the drawer where he kept his .357.

In the living room Casper watched Leonid go, and then, without consciously thinking about it, moved swiftly across the room and took up a position beside the entrance to the little corridor, his back to the wall. He drew the Browning and checked the magazine.

Nine rounds left.

He rammed the clip back into place, chambered a round…?

“Casper, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Celia asked. She had her hands on her hips, and was glaring at him.

He held a finger to his lips. Then he pointed toward the front window.

Cecelia blinked, and turned to see what he was pointing at.

“I don’t…” she began.

He said, “Shhh!” and pointed again, more urgently.

As Leonid came down the passage, his revolver in the hand behind his back, he noticed both women staring toward the far end of the room.

That must be where Beech was, down by the window.

He stepped out into the living room and started to bring the pistol around…?

And Casper stepped up right beside him, the Browning ready in his hand, catching Leonid totally off-guard. Casper pointed the weapon at Leonid’s chest.

“Drop the gun,” Casper said.

Leonid could see that the safety was off on Beech’s 9mm, that Casper’s hand was steady, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Beech was smaller than he was, a nebbish, a nothing—but he had the gun in his hand pointed at Leonid’s heart, and Covert said he’d had a military imprint of some kind. He knew how to use a gun, knew how to fight, knew how to kill.

And when Leonid saw the look in Beech’s eyes, any doubt he’d had that Beech would shoot vanished.

Maybe Beech wasn’t quite such a wimp after all.

“Shit,” Leonid said. He tossed his .357 away and raised his hands.