Tightrope (Burning Cove #3)(68)

She rose from the chair and walked across the plush carpet to join him. She could not think of anything helpful to say so she took his hand. His fingers closed very tightly around hers.



* * *





    Two hours later the phone in Luther’s office rang. Jolted, Raina looked up quickly from the magazine she had been trying to read. Luther closed the ledger he had been perusing and picked up the phone.

“This is Pell,” he said.

He did not say anything else for a time but his eyes narrowed a little and his fingers tightened on the phone. Raina realized she was holding her breath. Part of her hoped that the deal was off, because that would mean that Luther would not have to take the risk of implementing the rest of the dangerous plan.

“Consider the favor repaid,” Luther said. He hung up the phone and looked at Raina. “Smith took the bait.”

The fierceness in his eyes and the grim satisfaction in his words said it all, Raina thought. Whatever the outcome, Luther needed to take this risk.

“How do a couple of mob guys handle a business transaction with a ruthless gunrunner?” she asked.

“Very carefully,” Luther said.

He picked up the phone again and dialed a number.

“Hello, Miss Vaughn,” he said. “This is Luther Pell. I’m calling for Matthias. I’m hoping he is free to join me for a game of poker tonight.”

Raina reflected on Luther’s earlier comment about Matthias Jones. Nobody who knows him well will risk playing poker with him.

Anyone who knew Luther well would know that he was not calling Matthias to discuss a possible poker game.





Chapter 47


At five minutes after midnight, Matthias stopped the black sedan on one side of the narrow bridge. The car had been borrowed from one of Luther’s security men. It blended well into the night. It was the sort of car one expected a couple of mob guys to use on a job like this one. Unmemorable.

He flashed the headlights twice. On the opposite side of the bridge the piercing beams of another set of headlights responded with the same signal. Both drivers left the lights blazing, illuminating the bridge in a fierce glare.

Luther, sitting in the passenger seat, a pistol in one hand, studied the night-darkened scene through the windshield. “He’s here. He wants the rotors very badly.”

“The Ares machine is just a busted typewriter without them,” Matthias said. “Besides, as far as Smith is concerned, he’s doing a deal with a couple of mob guys who have as much to lose as he does if they get caught with the critical components of a top secret cipher machine. He’s probably telling himself he’s in control of the situation.”

“He may be right,” Luther said. “He’s not the only one taking a risk tonight.”

The location of the meeting point had been arranged by the Broker after consultation with both parties. The single-lane bridge was in the hills above the town of Burning Cove. For several miles on either side it was the only crossing point that spanned the small Burning Cove River. There was no cover in the vicinity—no trees or large rocks that could be used for concealment. The thin vegetation along the banks consisted of low, scrubby bushes and grasses.

The details had also been established by the Broker. It was a given that neither side could fully trust the other, so both parties were expected to arrive at the scene with an armed bodyguard. The blinding headlights from the two cars limited visibility and made a shoot-out less likely.

The headlights of the vehicle on the other side of the bridge flashed again. Matthias responded. At the signal, both cars drove partway onto the bridge and stopped. Both drivers left the engines running.

“Here we go,” Matthias said.

He reached for his hat, angling it low over his eyes. Luther plucked his own hat off his knee and adjusted it in a similar manner. The blinding headlights would render everyone into dark silhouettes. It would be impossible to see faces. But there was a protocol for underworld business meetings, just as there was for the legitimate kind. Fashionable drape cut suits, wide ties, and fedoras constituted the appropriate uniform for a successful mob man. The primary distinction between the two classes of businessmen was that the criminals accessorized their suits with guns.

Pistol in hand, Matthias opened the door and climbed out from behind the wheel. Luther got out on his side. They both left the doors open to be used as shields in the event that the other side decided to start shooting.

The doors of the car on the opposite side of the bridge cracked open, the sound unnaturally loud in the deep silence of the night.

“Pell and Jones,” a male voice said from the driver’s side of the other vehicle. “I wondered if you would show. Couldn’t resist the cash, I see.”

Matthias recognized the voice. It belonged to the motorist who had stopped to offer assistance with changing the tire on the night of the blowout.

“Are you going to stand around and chat?” Matthias asked. “This is a business deal. We’re not here for a drink.”

“Fucking right. Where are the rotors?”

“There’s no deal until we see the money,” Luther said.

“My pal here has a briefcase full of cash for you. He has a gun, too, and so do I. But I’m sure you already figured that out. I do have one question. Did you find those rotors inside Pickwell’s robot? Is that why the thing went missing from Ward’s workshop?”