But they were onto him; in one way or another Holden wasn’t as safe as he’d hoped. Maybe he knew it too, maybe that was the reason he wasn’t still with the Bostridges, whether for their sake or his own. And depending on the information the Russians had, the Copley Inn could be just as dangerous a place for JJ to be.
Even worse, as hard as it was to imagine, the entire comfortably domestic atmosphere of the place itself was in as much danger of being fractured by these people, and that of the family with it. That was Holden’s problem, not his, but after just a day there JJ felt like he had a responsibility to eliminate that risk, at least for the time being, whether it served his own ends or not. And until he found Holden, it was best to assume their ends were the same anyway.
Either way, he had to go back up there, take the other Russian, try to flush out Holden in the respite. For the moment it felt like he was losing sight of the whole game, of who his real enemies were and how close he was. It seemed if he could only find Holden the pieces would begin to fall together again. He was aware more than ever that he was nothing without information, and that his information sources were dead or dried up.
JJ went down to the garage, checked out the freezer, then went back up to the bathroom. The Russian’s eyes were still looking up at water that was no longer falling; he had the appearance now of someone who’d just crashed out of a race. JJ wrapped the larger towel around him, dragged him downstairs, and put him in the freezer.
When he left, he took the passports and phone number with him, and at the first pay phone he pulled over and called, getting through to an inn, asking where it was located. If he made good time he could maybe kill the other one before going back to the Copley, certain he’d rest easier knowing that the calm would be preserved, that no one would bring that violence back into the Bostridges’ lives. It was the least he could do, to fend off for a while the thing he’d once delivered to them himself.
11
The Fallen Pine Inn was actually a roadside motel, low-rise, sprawling, like it wanted to be something else, a holiday village or something like that. As an opening gambit he called from the pay phone out front and was surprised when they happily answered his request for the Russian gentleman’s room number, describing even where it was in the motel.
He went back and sat in the car for a while, with dusk beginning to dull the edges on everything, and he thought through the possible ways of dealing with the Russian. He had to kill him, that was certain, it was just a question of how and where.
The motel room itself was the easiest but didn’t seem like a good idea. A Russian murdered in some city was one thing but JJ was in no doubt it would make big local news in Vermont, cause a lot of speculation. And though it was probably overcautious he couldn’t help but think that kind of speculation would gravitate toward him, not least in the mind of Susan Bostridge.
So he’d get the Russian out of there, play on what he knew already to get the guy somewhere out of sight. He spent another ten minutes working it through in his mind, checking his map, then loosened the buckle on his small rucksack and strolled over to the far wing of the building, counting along the doors till he got to the right one.
He knocked and as he waited he savored the smell of the woods that surrounded the motel and the faint encroaching sounds as day shifted toward night. It was beautiful, even there. Then he heard the door opening, the security chain bracing itself across the narrow gap. The Russian’s face was peering through; he had cropped fair hair, a military look like his partner.
JJ didn’t smile but said matter-of-factly, “I’m Hooper. Berg sent me.” The guy looked at him suspiciously, not like he didn’t understand but like it still didn’t explain JJ’s presence. “We know where Holden is.”
“Why are you here?” he asked, softly spoken, one of those Russian accents that was pitched halfway between mournful and musical.
“To show you where Holden is, and to help. He has two bodyguards.” The guy still looked unconvinced but then JJ added like he was breaking bad news, “The CIA killed Korzhakov.”
“When?” The Russian’s eyes began to dance around a little.
“I don’t know. Sometime today.”
“I make a phone call,” he said and JJ responded, blasé, “Okay, I’ll wait.” The guy left the chain on but didn’t close the door, so JJ could see him as he walked across the room and was ready to make a move if he had to.
But the Russian checked his watch and didn’t bother with the phone, obviously realizing that any place he wanted to phone was already in the middle of the night. Instead he put on a shoulder holster, put the gun he was carrying in it, disappeared from view, and appeared again at the door a minute later, wearing a suit jacket now and carrying a briefcase.
“Your car.”
“Of course,” JJ replied, making it clear that he understood the Russian’s caution. He led him to the car, opening the passenger side first, throwing his own rucksack on the backseat to keep the guy relaxed.