Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(109)

The lights went out inside the cabin and the door opened. The fisherman stood in the doorway, a gun rested at his side. Most likely the gun that had shot Lea, Gibson reminded himself.

“Mr. Vaughn. You should not have come.”

“I need your help.” Technically true.

“How did you find me?”

“I had my man tail you after our first meeting.”

“The hillbilly?” The fisherman sounded skeptical.

“I know, right? Surprisingly handy that way.”

“Is he here with you now? In the woods with a rifle, perhaps?”

“I’m alone.”

“Of course.” The fisherman studied Gibson’s face for clues he might be lying. The dance had begun. Seemingly satisfied, the fisherman stepped back from the door, a welcoming smile on his face. “Come inside.”

An instruction, not an invitation. More instructions followed—Gibson shut the door and switched on the lights. The fisherman never allowed him closer than ten feet, his gun raised now.

“Do you have a weapon?”

“In my bag.” Gibson hoped to establish his good intentions with overt cooperation.

The fisherman patted him down anyway and confiscated his cell phone, the gun pressed firmly to the base of his skull. As Gibson knelt, nose to the door, the fisherman searched his bag for the gun.

“There is blood on this gun, Mr. Vaughn. Were you on the fifth floor of the hotel earlier this evening?”

“Yeah, took it off one of the men you killed.”

“I haven’t killed any men tonight. You have Chelsea Merrick to thank for that.”

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?