show up here?” Abrams said to Gage, reaching to close the living room drapes of his Central Park West apartment.
“Don’t bother,” Gage said. “Enjoy the sunrise. I’m not telling them anything new. They began following me from here. They probably followed us from the airport. Somebody might even have been with me on the plane out here.”
Abrams turned back. “Which means?”
“That you’re the real target, not me. And it’s somehow because of Hennessy.” Gage surveyed the room, then walked up next to Abrams and whispered. “How often do you have this place swept for bugs?”
“What?” Abrams said, also in a whisper. “I bought it from a former defense secretary. He would’ve checked. Anyway, nobody could get in to do it.” He pointed downward. “There’s a concierge at the door twenty-four hours.” He spread his hands. “And there are cameras on every floor.”
“Let’s go into the kitchen.”
“Aren’t you being a little paranoid?”
Gage stepped back, pulled up his shirt, and exposed the bruises where Strubb’s partner had punched him.
Abrams’s eyes widened.
“Paranoia doesn’t come in black and blue,” Gage said.
Gage led him down the hall to the kitchen, turned on the water, set the nozzle to spray, and tuned to a local television news show to cover their voices.
Over coffee at the table, Gage recounted the previous twenty-four hours.
“If the point was to kill Hennessy before he talked to me,” Abrams said, “then why would Gilbert still be interested in what I’m doing? ”
“We don’t yet know whether Hennessy was murdered, and if he was, whether it was related to you or—”
“Then I’ll rephrase it. Once Hennessy was dead for whatever reason.”
“Maybe someone is trying to determine whether you’re acting on something that Hennessy might’ve told you ahead of your meeting.”
Abrams thought for a moment. “And that would be why they followed you, thinking that I had hired you to follow up on whatever that was.”
Gage shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. They were interested in what his wife gave me, and that could go either way. It could be that they’re only afraid that you asked me to take up Hennessy’s search for Ibrahim.”
“Or for who or what caused Hennessy to be dead.”
“I suspect that they think—or maybe know—that it’s the same thing.”
Gage’s cell phone beeped with an incoming text message. It was from Faith.
I’d like to find a way to stay. Things are calm up here and the kids are helping the villagers and learning more about Chinese culture than if they’d actually done the research project. So am I. Love you.
Gage wrote back.
Love you too. Be careful. Let me know if you need anything.
Abrams rose and walked to the window and looked out toward the gray-fogged Central Park West. He took in a long breath, and then exhaled and turned back.
“I appreciate you coming out here,” Abrams said, “but I think I should just let the thing go. My record in the world of intrigue isn’t so good.”
Neither of them had to say what that record was. Twenty-five years earlier, Abrams had gone on a factfinding mission to Chile on behalf of the World Bank to determine the success of the Milton Friedman- and Augusto Pinochet-imposed economic upheaval on the country.
A government economist named Orlando Ferrada had slipped Abrams secret data showing that the result of those policies was that forty-five percent of Chilean families had descended into poverty, seventy percent of family incomes were being spent on bread alone, and most of the country’s wealth had been transferred to offshore tax havens. Among those funds were ten million dollars in World Bank loans that had been diverted to a secret account in Bermuda controlled by Pinochet’s wife.
Abrams had passed through Chicago on his way back to MIT. He showed the documents to an economist at a think tank founded by a Friedman disciple, hoping that the evidence would persuade them
“Don’t bother,” Gage said. “Enjoy the sunrise. I’m not telling them anything new. They began following me from here. They probably followed us from the airport. Somebody might even have been with me on the plane out here.”
Abrams turned back. “Which means?”
“That you’re the real target, not me. And it’s somehow because of Hennessy.” Gage surveyed the room, then walked up next to Abrams and whispered. “How often do you have this place swept for bugs?”
“What?” Abrams said, also in a whisper. “I bought it from a former defense secretary. He would’ve checked. Anyway, nobody could get in to do it.” He pointed downward. “There’s a concierge at the door twenty-four hours.” He spread his hands. “And there are cameras on every floor.”
“Let’s go into the kitchen.”
“Aren’t you being a little paranoid?”
Gage stepped back, pulled up his shirt, and exposed the bruises where Strubb’s partner had punched him.
Abrams’s eyes widened.
“Paranoia doesn’t come in black and blue,” Gage said.
Gage led him down the hall to the kitchen, turned on the water, set the nozzle to spray, and tuned to a local television news show to cover their voices.
Over coffee at the table, Gage recounted the previous twenty-four hours.
“If the point was to kill Hennessy before he talked to me,” Abrams said, “then why would Gilbert still be interested in what I’m doing? ”
“We don’t yet know whether Hennessy was murdered, and if he was, whether it was related to you or—”
“Then I’ll rephrase it. Once Hennessy was dead for whatever reason.”
“Maybe someone is trying to determine whether you’re acting on something that Hennessy might’ve told you ahead of your meeting.”
Abrams thought for a moment. “And that would be why they followed you, thinking that I had hired you to follow up on whatever that was.”
Gage shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. They were interested in what his wife gave me, and that could go either way. It could be that they’re only afraid that you asked me to take up Hennessy’s search for Ibrahim.”
“Or for who or what caused Hennessy to be dead.”
“I suspect that they think—or maybe know—that it’s the same thing.”
Gage’s cell phone beeped with an incoming text message. It was from Faith.
I’d like to find a way to stay. Things are calm up here and the kids are helping the villagers and learning more about Chinese culture than if they’d actually done the research project. So am I. Love you.
Gage wrote back.
Love you too. Be careful. Let me know if you need anything.
Abrams rose and walked to the window and looked out toward the gray-fogged Central Park West. He took in a long breath, and then exhaled and turned back.
“I appreciate you coming out here,” Abrams said, “but I think I should just let the thing go. My record in the world of intrigue isn’t so good.”
Neither of them had to say what that record was. Twenty-five years earlier, Abrams had gone on a factfinding mission to Chile on behalf of the World Bank to determine the success of the Milton Friedman- and Augusto Pinochet-imposed economic upheaval on the country.
A government economist named Orlando Ferrada had slipped Abrams secret data showing that the result of those policies was that forty-five percent of Chilean families had descended into poverty, seventy percent of family incomes were being spent on bread alone, and most of the country’s wealth had been transferred to offshore tax havens. Among those funds were ten million dollars in World Bank loans that had been diverted to a secret account in Bermuda controlled by Pinochet’s wife.
Abrams had passed through Chicago on his way back to MIT. He showed the documents to an economist at a think tank founded by a Friedman disciple, hoping that the evidence would persuade them
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