“Who ordered it? Be better if you tell me.”
“Ha, Mr. Colter Shaw, truth? Okay. Truth? Just wanted scare you. So you take bargaining serious. Nobody hurt a hair on head. Come on, come on, let’s us get back to turkey talking... You are not made of money. I can line your pockets. We can do accounts, we can do offshore. Bring in the experts. We have insurance, guarantees in place, so you safe, family safe. No more that.” A nod at the paperwork, the plan to get Shaw to his “destination.”
Shaw frowned. “How do I know your money’s good? Who’d write the check?”
“A rich friend.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“He likes secrecy. Orshelikes secrecy.”
“You’ve got to have a handler.”
“Why?”
“You don’t sound like you come from Boston or Atlanta.”
“Oh, maybe I am born in the U.S.A. Maybe my handler is Bruce Springsteen! Two hundred fifty thousand. A quarter million! Buy you lots of anything.”
“Tell me who.”
Instantly the man changed. His face contorted and his voice was a snarl. “Fuck Abe Lincoln. No fun and cute anymore. You don’t help, I come back and visit you. Middle of night. I will say, ‘Hello, Mr. Colter Shaw’ and that will be all you hear. Maybe when you with your woman. Surprise, surprise, and goodbye to both of you.” His wild gaze danced around the room, twitchy, if eyes could twitch. Like Jon Merritt, perhaps, Lemerov sported a borderline personality.
And, true to his diagnosis, the cheerful side of Lemerov returned, so quickly the transformation was eerie. “But what will come of this today? Your little clever scheme? What? I wonder.” He was as calm as could be. “Here is what happens, your police people come and take me away. I spend hour or two in jail, meet interesting friends. Have a Coca-Cola. Then lawyer comes and I leave. How is that? Because I have friends here, oh, in the state capital. What do you think of that? I call them, they call someone else, I finish my Coca-Cola and I’m out.” He affected a pout. “We have to start all over again. Waste of time. Two hundred fifty thousand? All you do is walkintoHEP, walkoutwith trigger and you a rich man.” His grin was conspiratorial.
Shaw knew there were places where a quarter million made you rich. Not even Ferrington was one of them.
A knock sounded.
Shaw walked to the door, keeping the gun aimed at Lemerov’s torso—in a moment of mania he could charge them; his hands were bound but they were in front of him and could still punch and strangle.
“Yes?”
“Customs and Border Protection,” came a husky woman’s voice.
The captive’s smile vanished.
He was being arrested by thefeds. Whoever he’d paid off in state government would have no sway. Shaw had called his friend Tom Pepper, who arranged for the takedown with CBP.
A large man and a large woman stepped into the room, both in dark blue uniforms. Three other agents stood in the hallway. They too were not small.
“Colter,” the woman said.
“Agent Gillespie,” Shaw offered, then nodded to the man, dark complected, muscled and broad. “Agent Stahl.”
They looked over Lemerov. Gillespie, blond hair in a ponytail, nodded to her partner, who walked forward and, while the womankept her hand near her gun, cut off the zip and cuffed the Russian, hands behind his back. The agent then frisked him and removed his wallet and passport, money, a long locking-blade knife, which Gillespie glanced at with raised eyebrows.
“You can’t do this! I didn’t commit no crime!”
She picked up his passport and took a picture of the front page.
“Now, Mr. Lemerov, Mr. Shaw swore out an affidavit that he observed you in possession of a firearm. The one right there?”
Shaw nodded.
“He’s lying!”
“There are photos of you with the weapon, attached to the affidavit.”