“I transfer the money back to you and you let me go?” said Gibson, projecting nervousness.
That was their deal, although Merrick seemed capable of anything at this point. The dried blood caked down the front of his suit made Gibson wonder what had really happened in the presidential suite. The fisherman had claimed that Lea had killed all those people, but Merrick’s clothes told another, grimmer story.
“Just drive,” Merrick said.
The car’s clock read 5:56 a.m. when they turned onto the road that led up to Dule Tree Airfield. Somehow they bumped their way up the hill without Merrick accidentally shooting Gibson. Praise be.
Gibson drove out to the runway and parked. No plane. That fact wasn’t lost on Merrick.
“It’ll be here,” Gibson said.
He hoped that was true.
Merrick ordered him out of the car.
To the east, the sky was rimmed in jaundiced yellows and reds, as if a burner, lit beneath the horizon, were bringing it slowly to a boil. Gibson watched it with a sense of gratitude. He was so close now. One last thing and then home. Improbable as it felt, he’d come through this night whole. He felt both alive and dead—a foot resting in both worlds.
He glanced back to Merrick leaning on the hood of the Nissan, Gibson’s laptop beside him for the mythological transfer of a billion dollars once they were safely in the air and out of the country. Merrick looked gaunt and old. His eyes had the haunted distance of a man sobering up after a historic bender and remembering in painful clarity all his worst excesses. Gibson knew those kinds of memories—the ones that never faded but only became more lurid and disgraceful with each remembering. He consoled himself that the things he’d done had been for good reason; he doubted Merrick knew any such solace.
“One hell of a night,” Gibson said.
Merrick flinched at having his mind read. “This plane—what’s its flight plan?”
“Doesn’t have one.”
“Good. And it’s not owed anything?”
“I paid in full.”
“You mean I paid.”
“I met your son,” Gibson said, thinking of those who had truly paid.
“Martin?”
“You have other bastards?”
Merrick ignored the jab. “How is he?”
“He’s dead.”
Merrick absorbed that information. Gibson couldn’t tell what the father felt about it one way or another.
“Did you kill him?”
No, you did. A part of Gibson wanted to tell Merrick how he found Martin Yardas. How guilt over losing his father’s money had led to drugs, and drugs had led to madness. Or maybe that hadn’t been the order of things at all. In Martin Yardas, Gibson saw a son unmade by his failure to live up to his father’s image. But he knew that was simply the lens he saw the world through. Lea. Swonger. Martin Yardas. These were his people. His kin. Through what lens would Merrick see his son’s suicide? Gibson decided he didn’t want to know.
“Would it matter?”
Against the dawn, they saw the plane descending. Merrick stood up from the hood of the car to watch it take shape. He smiled over at Gibson, and for the only time, Gibson smiled back. They were both relieved to see the plane, albeit for different reasons. The plane touched down at the far end of the runway, braked hard, and taxied toward them. They stood well back as it turned around for takeoff. The engines powered down, and stairs lowered at the front of the aircraft.
Two pilots met them at the bottom of the stairs, each built like a linebacker. Merrick immediately began issuing instructions about their destination. A booming voice interrupted him.
“Hello, Charles.”
The man who called himself Damon Washburn stood at the top of the stairs. A simple bandage had been wrapped around his wounded calf, but he looked like Caesar returning victorious to Rome. Merrick stared up at the CIA man. It took an endless second for him to grasp the situation and go for his gun. One of the pilots seized Merrick by the arms while his partner divested Merrick of the gun. Merrick fought them like an animal, writhing to get free, but it was futile. Gibson took a step back and raised his hands, just to be on the safe side.
Damon came gingerly down the steps, flanked by two more men in combat rigs, compact shotguns slung across their chests. They wore sunglasses even at dawn. Probably wore them to sleep.
Merrick’s face morphed into a relieved smile. “Damon, I’m so glad you’re all right,” he said. “It was a terrible situation at the hotel.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Obviously it was pandemonium. No time for clear thinking. But rest assured, I told that Chinese bastard nothing. Not one word.”
“I believe you.” The man from the CIA took a breath and then, as if reciting a comforting prayer, said, “Charles, didn’t I make it clear to you the consequences of violating our agreement?”
“What are you going to do? Read me my rights now?”
“What rights?”
One of the agents stepped forward and cuffed Merrick’s hands in front of him. The second knelt and shackled his ankles. Merrick watched them do it with a mixture of fascination and disbelief. “This is completely unnecessary. I didn’t tell him anything.”
“And we’re going to keep it that way.”
“You can’t do this.”
“Good-bye, Charles.”
Merrick turned his fury on Gibson, lunging for him. “You. You did this. You stole my money.”
“I left you a penny,” Gibson said. “Wasn’t that enough?”
A black hood came down over Merrick’s head, cinched tight around his neck. He howled as the two agents dragged him to the plane. Damon turned to Gibson and put out his hand.
“The Agency appreciates the assist.”
“We’re square?”
“Still don’t know whose side you’re on, but for now we’re square.”
Gibson shook his hand. “So you have something for me?”
“Jenn Charles and George Abe—”
At the top of stairs, Merrick twisted around and cried, “Gibson Vaughn! It’s Peng Bolin.”
Damon froze. Everything on the tarmac seemed to slow, and it was Gibson’s turn to be confused. He stared up at Merrick, who kept screaming the same name over and over from under his hood: “Peng Bolin! Poisonfeather! It’s Peng Bolin, you son of a bitch!”
Gibson looked at Damon for some kind of explanation. Damon looked back apologetically.
“I really wish he hadn’t done that,” Damon said.
“Done what?”
Damon nodded slightly to his men, who took hold of Gibson’s arms.
“Wait? What are you doing?” Gibson asked, dimly aware of how much he sounded like Merrick.
“I’m sorry,” Damon said as a hood came down over Gibson’s face.
Gibson fought them all the way to the plane; it did him no more good than it had Merrick. On board, they cuffed him and strapped him into a seat. The needle in his arm sent a wave of cold through him. The drug worked quickly, and by the time the plane bumped forward, Gibson had forgotten why he’d been upset. Calm settled over him. A short time later, he felt his ears pop and wondered why.