Gibson didn’t believe him but let it pass, wary of being drawn off script. He was a good improviser, but the chances of a miscue increased with each unforeseen topic. His host knew it too and would look to get him talking and keep him talking. Loosening him up until the truth slipped out. This was an interrogation, not a conversation. The fisherman stowed the gun and cell phone in Gibson’s bag and pointed to an old rattan couch for Gibson to sit.
The small living space looked like it had been decorated by picking one piece of furniture at random from six different houses. Everything was second-or third-hand. A kitchenette the size of an airplane galley took up the far wall. Two closed doors led to bedrooms or bathrooms . . . and his new business associate, Charles Merrick. Between the doors hung a framed needlepoint that read, “Everyone should believe in something; I believe I’ll go fishing. —Henry David Thoreau.”
The fisherman stowed all of Gibson’s things by the kitchenette and returned with a stool. Adopting a friendly, convivial tone, the fisherman asked him the same questions a second time, probing for inconsistencies. They could have been mistaken for good friends catching up after a hard day, and Gibson admired his host’s illusion of nonchalance. It was false—the gun resting on his thigh attested to that—but it made for good theater. He wouldn’t kill Gibson until certain that this location hadn’t been compromised beyond Gibson and Swonger. So they talked in circles, despite that being the only question that mattered.
Gibson tried to steer them back to a topic that mattered to him. “Look, I have Charles Merrick’s money.”
“So why are you here?”
“Did you give my name to the CIA?”
“Why would I have any cause to speak to the CIA?”
“Well, someone gave Damon Washburn the impression that I worked for you.”
“I don’t know a Damon Washburn. In what capacity does he believe you work for me?”
There it was. If this were poker, the fisherman would have just raised Gibson all in. Gibson now had two options—fold or call. If he called, it meant showing all his cards, and if he did, the fisherman would never willingly let him leave this room alive. Gibson tried and failed to keep his eyes from drifting down to the gun pointed casually at him.
“Washburn thinks you’re with the Chinese Ministry of State Security. He says Charles Merrick knows the name of a mole in your Politburo. Poisonfeather, I think you call him. That’s why you helped me steal Merrick’s money. So he couldn’t leave the country without your help and would have no choice but to give you the identity of Poisonfeather. Which makes me a traitor. Thank you for that, by the way. You really fooled me with that accent.”
“We had an arrangement. You’re a very rich man now, thanks to me.”
“What good is money going to do me? Where can I go that the CIA won’t find me? Washburn accused me of treason. They’re going to hang me.”
“So what is it you want?”
“You need to get Merrick out of the country, yeah? That’s the deal, right? You take care of him; he gives you Poisonfeather. I have a plane, fueled and ready to go. Take me with you.”
“It’s not possible.”
Gibson did his best to look frustrated and desperate. Not that much of an act, really. “I’ll split the money with you. One point two seven billion dollars,” Gibson enunciated emphatically more for his audience in the back bedroom than for the fisherman. He needed to convince only one of them, and he wasn’t getting anywhere with the fisherman.
“A very generous offer,” the fisherman said and sat back thoughtfully, pretending to think it over. In fact, he was shifting the gun off his thigh. There’d be no final speeches; the fisherman would put him down with as little fuss as possible. Gibson’s daughter’s face flashed before his eyes. A face he’d been suppressing these last few weeks while he’d been on this fool’s errand. These were the consequences of ignoring his better judgment. How many opportunities had he been given to walk away? How many times had he ignored the warnings?
One time too many as it turned out.
A second thought occurred to him, and this one was terrible. That his daughter was better off without him. Because, even now, he didn’t think he’d do it differently if he had it to do over. He’d put the judge ahead of her, then Lea, and now Jenn Charles. Each of those choices felt right to him, even now. Maybe he didn’t possess the bravery to live the quiet life that his daughter deserved. So how would he ever be the stable presence that she needed? He’d been fading from her life for years; better to pull the plug now than this slow dissolution. The fisherman saw it on Gibson’s face—not the details but the awareness—and smiled at him.
“You can have it all,” Gibson said.
“I know.”
The fisherman wasn’t taking the bait, but the same couldn’t be said for Charles Merrick. It saved Gibson’s life, at least in the short term. A crash came from the next room, followed by the sound of breaking glass. The windows in the cabin were narrow; a grown man wouldn’t fit through without smashing out the upper frame. It sounded as if Charles Merrick was having second thoughts about their partnership.
The fisherman rose with a stark warning. “Move and I will shoot you.”
At the bedroom door, he glanced back to make sure Gibson had stayed on the couch. His divided focus might have accounted for how much he underestimated Charles Merrick. The fisherman unlocked the bedroom door and hurried across the room toward the broken window. Charles Merrick stepped out from behind the door. He had something large in his hands. It was like watching a movie through a peephole. Gibson saw a red blur. The fisherman cried out and crashed to the floor.
Gibson scrambled across the room to his bag, unzipped it, and dug through it for his gun. He grabbed something metallic and yanked it out from among his unfolded laundry. Wrong end. He cursed. Two steps to reverse the gun in his hand. At one, a gunshot splintered the wall above his head. Gibson froze. Charles Merrick stood in the doorway with the fisherman’s gun.
“So you’re the one who stole my money.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
In a predictable turn of events, the cabin didn’t get the best cell service. Gibson’s phone showed only one bar. He thought how funny it would be to die now because he couldn’t reach Washburn. Merrick held the gun to Gibson’s ribs and watched over his shoulder to make sure it wasn’t a trick.
Sending . . . sending . . . sending.
Miracle of miracles, the text went through. After a short interval, a reply came back:
Confirmed. Plane inbound one hour. Thank you for your business, Mr. Vaughn.
A nice touch. Just the thing to convince Merrick that Gibson’s flight out of the country was real. They took the fisherman’s Sentra, Gibson driving while Merrick kept the Chinese agent’s gun trained on him from the passenger seat. Gibson kept his hands on the wheel and eyes on the road. The way Merrick tapped the trigger restlessly made him wince every time the car hit a bump. At least with the fisherman, if he had been shot, it would’ve been on purpose.