Before the Fall(82)

And in this case, where this single kidnapper had taken Rachel Bateman (aka Robin) was across the street, to the stalled modern remodel, hidden away behind plastic. To a sweltering attic space, soundproofed with newspaper, where food came out of a plastic red cooler and water from a hose connected to a second-floor bathroom sink. The nanny, Frankie Butler, lay dead in the open foundation, covered with cardboard.

It was from this spot that the kidnapper—a thirty-six-year-old ex-con named Wayne R. Macy—watched the comings and goings across the street. From his vantage point in the future, Gil knew that Macy was not the criminal mastermind they first thought they were dealing with. When you have a principal like David Bateman—worth millions, as well as a high-profile political target—you must assume that the child’s kidnapper has targeted the principal for specific reasons, with full knowledge of his profile and resources. But the fact is, all Macy knew was that David and Maggie Bateman were rich and unprotected. He had done a stretch in Folsom Prison in the 1990s for armed robbery and had come home to Long Island with the idea that he might turn his life around. But straight life was punishing and unrewarding, and Wayne liked his booze, and so he burned through job after job, until finally one day—hauling trash bags out of the back of the Dairy Queen—he had decided, Who am I kidding? It’s time to take my fortune into my own hands.

So he set out to grab a rich man’s kid and make a few dollars. Details came out later that he had cased two other families first, but certain factors—the husbands were on the premises full-time, both houses had alarm systems—deterred him from acting, and ultimately steered him to settle on a new target—the Bateman family—the last house on a quiet street, unguarded, populated by two young women and a child.

The consensus was that he had killed Frankie that first night, after getting all the information out of her he could—there were signs of physical cruelty and also evidence of sexual assault, possibly posthumous.

The child was taken at twelve forty-five a.m. on July 18. She would be missing for three days.

*



The word came back as they were already in transit. Command relayed it to the lead car and the lead car transmitted it to Gil, who listened to the voice in his ear, speaking to him through fiber and void, without betraying anything.

“Sir,” he said in a certain tone of voice, as the car left their road. Condor looked over, saw Gil’s expression, nodded. Behind them, the kids were animated, like push-button toys. They always got this way before getting on the plane, excited, nervous.

“Kids,” he said with a look on his face. Maggie saw it.

“Rachel,” she said, “that’s enough.”

Rachel sulked, but stopped the game of poke and tickle. JJ was too young to get the message the first time. He poked Rachel and laughed, thinking they were still playing.

“Stop,” she whined.

Condor leaned over to Gil, who closed the gap, speaking quietly into Condor’s ear.

“There’s a problem with your guest,” he said.

“Who, Kipling?” said Condor.

“Yessir. Command did the routine check and a flag came back.”

Condor didn’t respond, but the question was implicit: What flag?

“Our friends in State are saying Mr. Kipling may be indicted tomorrow.”

The blood drained from Condor’s face.

“Jesus,” he said.

“The actual charges are sealed, but research think he may be laundering money for non-friendlies.”

Condor thought about that. Non-friendlies. Then it hit him. He was about to host an enemy of the state on his plane. A traitor. How would that look in the press, if the press found out? Condor pictured the bored paparazzi at Teterboro, waiting for all the celebrity returns. They would stand when the plane taxied in, then—when it was clear Brad and Angelina weren’t on board—they’d snap a few photos just in case and go back to their iPhones. Photos of David Bateman arm in arm with a traitor.

“What do we do?” he asked Gil.

“Up to you.”

Falcon was looking at them, clearly worried.

“Is there something—?” she said.

“No,” Condor told her quickly. “Just—it looks like Ben’s in some legal trouble.”

“Oh no.”

“Yeah, bad investments. So I was just—the question comes up for me—do we want to—if we’re seen together—after the news comes out—are we going—it could be a headache is all I mean.”

“What’s Daddy saying?” Rachel asked.

Falcon was frowning.

“Nothing. Just a friend of ours is having some trouble. So we’re going to—”

—this directed at Condor—

“—we’re going to stand by him, because that’s what friends do. Sarah especially is just such a lovely person.”

Condor nodded, wishing now that he’d dodged the question and handled things privately.

“Of course,” he said. “You’re right.”

He looked forward, met Gil’s eye. The Israeli had a look on his face, which implied he needed direct confirmation that they were going with the status quo. Against his better judgment, Condor nodded.

Gil turned and looked out the window as they talked. It wasn’t his job to be part of things. To have opinions. On the road, he could see the marine layer hanging low, lampposts vanishing into the mist. Only a hoary glow at height indicated they were whole.