“So, the Director of National Intelligence, or a White House advisor, or…?”
“The director will be briefed in due course, once we have something to report. Our channels are more … informal, at present, but rest assured they are of the utmost security. We cannot risk a leak in a matter of such national importance. Why such an interest in personnel?”
“I’m just trying to figure out how secure any information I share will be. Can I assume you’re no longer recording this conversation? Missing video of one crucial interrogation could be an accident. Two? That’s gonna be harder to explain.”
Schneider shrugged. “I just thought we could be more open with each other without the constrictions of an interview.” He looked up at the two-way mirror. “And without anyone watching. And since you seem determined to make this personal… Maybe you and I can come to an arrangement.”
“What arrangement?” Carter said through clenched teeth.
“You see this folder?” Schneider tapped it. “Inside is a printout of the report into your wife’s death. Top secret—the highest classification. It’ll come up for public release in—what year are we up to now? In forty years or so? But, if you fully cooperate with me right now, I could just slip this right across the table, well, once I have this evidence of yours in my hands.”
Carter didn’t respond, keeping his gaze locked on Schneider’s eyes.
“I can see you’re tempted, Mr. Beck. We’re both looking for answers here. How about we both get some closure?”
“You think I’d let this all be whitewashed purely to satisfy my curiosity about something that happened years ago, that I’ve moved on from? I asked for my lawyer. You don’t look like her.”
Schneider gave a curt laugh. “Curiosity. Ah, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? Your wife’s disappearance… It eats at you every day, little piece by little piece, doesn’t it? I’ve read your file, the psych report. There are reminders everywhere you look, and each one drives you a little crazy, isn’t that what you told the psychologist? That’s why you always wanted to be on postings abroad, so you didn’t have to drive down the streets you and your wife drove down together, go to the cafés you visited, see the friends you both knew. Because there’s always gonna be someone missing, and that space will never be filled. You don’t know where she is, so she is everywhere, and also nowhere.” When Carter remained still and silent, Schneider leaned forward. “I know you are trained to withstand interrogation to the point that it’s your instinct, but I can tell my words are affecting you. Of course, if you’re not interested, I’ll just take this file and shred it. Thing with the archives around here? Even the most secure ones—files get lost, wiped. Happens all the time. Happened, as you say, with the video interrogation of Ms. Vasnetsova, which was unfortunate, because she had some very interesting things to say, in my foggy recollection. It would be a great shame if the same thing happened with this file in front of me. Because it’s gonna make fascinating reading, in … what decade, now? The 2060s? That’s a ridiculous time to wait to see what happened, why it had to be covered up. Who copped the blame! Now, that piece of information, in particular, would beveryinteresting to you.”
“Go to hell.”
“Oh, I can see you’re tempted, Mr. Beck, as much as you’re trying to hide it. Your breathing has sped up, your eyes are flickering, your jaw is clenched, you’re jamming your lips together to stop yourself from saying yes. You are a man who is desperate for answers. Sick with it.” He splayed his hands. “And of course, now it’s happening all over again. Anotherwoman you’re … intimate with … has vanished. And we know these guys don’t mess around—not with their interrogation techniques—boy, not with their disposal methods, either.” He lowered volume. “Just a swap of intel, Carter, like so many others in your career. We make compromises all the time in this business, you know that. This for that, that for this. No room for purity, idealism. No room for a woman like your schoolteacher. What did you call her? A regular nice person? The second I secure those documents you claim to have, you’ll find out what happened to your wife, and we’ll get you your phone so you can find Ms. Thornton. Win, win, win.”
“Something tells me you’re the only one who’d come out of that deal with a win.”
“I don’t want to make an enemy of you, Mr. Beck. I know what you’re capable of. This way, we all win. Play it your way, you and Alice lose.”
“You wouldn’t be coming to me like this if you weren’t scared.”
There was a knock. Schneider swore and pushed up from the table, taking the file. “I told you, no interruptions,” he said as the door opened. After some intense whispering that Carter couldn’t make out over the hum of the air-conditioning, Schneider left, taking the folder. Carter swallowed, but his throat was so dry there was nothing to work down.
When the door opened again, Schneider wore a big, stupid grin that made Carter’s jaw tense to the point of pain. “Well, well,” he said, holding the door open with his foot. “Local police have responded to reports of shots fired at a riverside apartment. A motorcycle registered to you was discovered in the visitor parking lot, alongside a car registered to a Florence Beck. Two fatalities so far—one found in a white van. I’m heading down there to oversee the investigation personally. Looks like this might all be resolved much more neatly than anyone hadthought. I’ll let you know if we need your help, but at this point that seems unlikely.”
Carter forced himself to show no reaction, which seemed to intensify the roaring in his ears. Schneider left, and it took all Carter’s self-control not to shout after him, pound the door. Instead, he closed his eyes. Under the table, he fisted and straightened his hands.
Maybe an hour went by before the door opened again—or it could have been three days, the way Carter was feeling. It was just a guard, carrying a paper bag—a burger, by the smell of it—and a plastic bottle of water. Water. Carter had had nothing to eat or drink since leaving the apartment that morning, and his mouth was so dry he could hardly even salivate. He had no idea of the time. Late afternoon, he guessed.
Survive the day.
He could only hope Alice and his mother were doing the same. And he hated having to leave matters to hope. Thing was, all that bullshit he’d fed Alice about not being able to move on? Turned out he’d been lying to her—and himself. He was going to get out of here and then he was going to damn well start living again.
One day, you must let yourself feel again,Nika had written. Otherwise, what is the point?
Nika didn’t get a second chance. But maybe he could. Maybe she gave him that chance, by leading him to Alice.
The guy dropped the bag and bottle on the table, and drew a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket, knocking his ID card so it spun on its lanyard. “Here,” he said, unfolding the paper and holding it up to Carter. It was a photo, printed on a regular printer. “I was told to show you this.”
Carter stared at it, his scalp prickling. “Who told you?” he said, shooting to his feet. “Who gave it to you?”
“Can’t say.” The guy pulled it out of Carter’s reach and scampered back to the door. He made a point of screwing the photo up. “I’m just the messenger. Enjoy your meal.”
Chapter 36
Alice
It certainly wasn’t the best-case scenario. It wasn’t quite the worst, either, which was dying from a gunshot wound or plunging off the balcony to her death. But here Alice and Florence sat, bound and gagged, and held at gunpoint by a bunch of thugs in some farm outbuilding in who-knew-where, given that she’d been held face down in the back of the blue sedan as it sped here. All she could hear was her pulse thumping in her ears and the chickens.
Her hands were zip-tied in front of her, the ring jammed uncomfortably against her knuckle. It was useless now, of course—not only was Carter’s phone disabled, but Florence’s had been destroyed and thrown from the moving car.
