The Viper

From Gurney’s sense of movement and the time it took, he concluded that they’d reached a sub-basement level. Horst pushed him out into a room with three concrete walls and one glass wall. Behind the glass wall there was darkness. Opposite the glass wall there was a large wooden desk and chair, and behind that, a closed metal door.

“Go over there,” said Horst, prodding him in the back and pointing to a spot in the middle of the floor where two metal rings were embedded in the concrete.

When he got there, the door behind the desk opened and a bony-faced white-haired woman emerged in a flowing black dress, conjuring up in Gurney’s mind a fairytale witch. She walked soundlessly toward him, regarding him with steel-cold eyes for a long moment before kneeling and securing his ankles to the metal rings with zip ties.

She stood up and gave Horst a curt wave of dismal. Without a word, he got back in the elevator, the door closed, and Gurney heard the soft whirring of the mechanism carrying him back up to the garage level.

The woman in black went to the door behind the desk and opened it. Three men entered—a linebacker type with an oily black crew cut, black polo shirt, black jeans, and a black Uzi; an unimposing middle-aged man with thinning gray hair, sallow skin, and tinted glasses; and Valdez, who eyed Gurney with an expression of distaste that looked very real. Gurney tried to reassure himself that things were going according to plan.

The man with the tinted glasses sat in the chair behind the desk. Valdez and the linebacker with the Uzi took up positions on each side of him. The man with the tinted glasses spoke first. His speech, like Valdez’s, was an amalgamation of accents, predominantly Slavic.

“You are very quiet, Mr. Gurney. Do you know why you’ve been brought here?”

Gurney took a short nervous breath. “Who am I speaking to?”

“To me, Mr. Gurney. To me.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Ivan’s father. Now, I ask you again. Do you know why you are here?”

“My assumption is that there’s been a huge misunderstanding.”

“What has been misunderstood?”

Gurney was trying to sound nervous. It wasn’t difficult. “The whole . . . the whole point of my investigation. What it is that I’m . . . that I’m trying to do.”

“And what is that?”

“I’m just trying to get at the truth. The case against Ziko Slade had gaping holes in it. I’ve been looking at the aspects that make no sense.”

The man shrugged again. “It made enough sense to convict him.”

“Yes, but now even the DA is beginning to have doubts. She believes your son was involved. She may want to pursue a case against him. Slade may be posthumously exonerated. If he is, Stryker is sure to find a new target. Your son could be in real legal jeopardy. But I can help reduce that danger. I’m an experienced investigator. I have important contacts. I can discover the weak points in any case she tries to make, before she makes it. We can be ready. Proactive.” Gurney was talking fast, duplicating as best he could the panicky voice of a salesman with nothing but bullshit to sell.

The man nodded. “This readiness—it would cost money?”

“Naturally, there’d be . . . expenses. Time, effort, inducements to key individuals to share information, perhaps an exploration of Stryker’s private life. She’s not well liked. I’m sure I could buy the cooperation of someone on her staff.”

The man kept nodding. “So, quite a lot of money.”

“But it would be well worth it. To avoid serious consequences. For peace of mind.”

The man smiled. “Peace of mind is important.”

“Absolutely!” cried Gurney. “Peace of mind is worth whatever it costs.”

“Perhaps you are aware that my son is receiving a large inheritance, so a great deal of money is available. You are aware of this?”

“I . . . yes . . . I heard something about that.”

“So, to make it simple, you are saying there is a great danger to my son, which you can protect him from, if we give you enough money. Is that correct?”

“I think . . . that’s . . . correct.”

“Protecting my son is important to me.”

“Of course!”

“A danger to him is a danger to me. The son is part of the father. Part of my body, like an arm or a leg. To lose a son is to lose a limb. This is what a son is. If he is not this, he is nothing. You understand?”

“I think so.”

“And you understand that a threat to him is a threat to me?”

“Yes . . . yes . . . I can see that, but . . . what I don’t know is why I’ve been brought here like this.”

“Soon you will know. Do you have a hobby, Mr. Gurney?”

“Sorry?”

“A hobby. Something you enjoy, other than what you are paid to do.”

“I enjoy what I’m paid to do.”

“To protect my son, no matter how much it might cost him?”

Gurney said nothing. He tried to look like a man who couldn’t think of a safe answer to a dangerous question.

“I have a hobby, Mr. Gurney. A passion. I want to share it with you.” He turned to the man beside him with the Uzi. “Victor, remove the restraints from his wrists and from one of his ankles, so he has more freedom to move.”