The Face of the Assassin Part 8

"Yeah, okay, then."

"Now listen," Cooper added. "That being said, I don't know what's going on there, but . . . well, those people, these are curious times. Lots of hocus-pocus going on in the intelligence world right now. Just be careful. Whatever. Anyway, I want you to know that all I'm vouching for is that I trust this guy who called me. I, personally, am not vouching for whoever you're talking to. I mean, I can't do that, obviously." He hesitated. "You get what I'm saying here?"

"I do. Sure. I appreciate it."

"Yeah. Okay. I guess that's it, then. . . . You sure you're okay? You sound kind of funny."

"No, I'm fine, Mitch.e.l.l. I appreciate the help. Sorry that we had to bother you."

"Well, okay. No problem from this end. I hope it's what you wanted to hear."

That was it. Bern handed the cell phone back to the woman, who had been waiting, and she went away.

Chapter 16.

Mondragon appeared immediately after the woman's departure and returned to his dark leather chair, resuming his position in the partial shadows. An inch or so of the white cuffs of his shirtsleeves glowed in the low light as they rested on the arms of the chair. Bern could just make out the whites of Mondragon's lidless eyeb.a.l.l.s through the slanting shadow.

"That was impressive," Bern admitted.

"Do you feel better now?"

"I feel better. I can't say I feel comfortable."

This elicited no response from Mondragon. They sat in silence a moment, and then Mondragon said, "You will find this interesting, Mr. Bern. Your brother was also an artist. It was his profession as well as his cover. He had what I think you would call cla.s.sical training. He studied in London. I don't remember where exactly. He was a very good draughtsman. His nudes were elegant, more than mere academic exercises. They were . . . human. But he excelled at portraiture. His portraits were exceptionally fine, I think. He got behind the eyes of his subjects, into their minds. I think it was his ability to see . . . underneath a face that enabled him to excel as an intelligence officer."

An unfamiliar feeling surged through Bern, sending a pungent taste into his mouth. Jesus. Strangers in everything but the moment of birth, he and Jude had gravitated to an artistic medium that focused on the face, a human attribute that was famous for its infinite variety, except in rare cases such as his own.

"You are, you know, remarkably like him," Mondragon went on. "Aside from the obvious, there are things about you that are eerily evocative of your brother. Sometimes it's . . . just a gesture, the way you turn your head, or . . ."

Mondragon's voice trailed off, and Bern was surprised to feel a sudden deep sorrow. It was a baffling but undeniable moment of yearning for something that could never be. If only he could have talked with Jude. The questions he would have asked flooded his thoughts, swelling and multiplying into an explosion of curiosity. And regret, regret that this extraordinary experience of having had a brother, of having been a twin, was completely beyond his reach by the time that he realized that it had even been a part of his life in the first place.

Bern had always had the reputation of being something of a loner, and now this vague sense of isolation that he had lived with, and which he had simply accepted as being his own peculiar kind of individuality, was cast in an entirely different light. There was no way that he could have known that somehow, in some tragic and inexplicable way, he had been robbed, almost from the beginning, of his second self.

"Mr. Bern." Mondragon's voice had a sterner tone now, which caught Bern's attention. "Paul," he said then, seeking to redefine their relationship. Then he paused to spritz his face and eyes. When the sparkling mist settled out of the slanting light, Bern felt a change in the tension in the room.

"As you must surely see by now," Mondragon continued, "you are in a unique position. All the more so when you consider your situation from the point of view of your brother and his role in the unfolding events in Mexico. And more to the point, what was left undone when he was killed."

Mondragon paused and slowly, calmly clasped his hands together in his lap. It seemed a gesture at once careful and preparatory.

"Whether he was present or not, we don't know," Mondragon said, "but we are sure that Ghazi Baida was responsible for Jude's death."

He raised a hand; the mist flew through the light.

"I will tell you something, Paul, a critical truth about hunting men. War has a thousand faces. Behind the public face of war, behind the florid rhetoric of politicians who whip up the public will to move armies and navies in pursuit of other men, the truth is that a man like Ghazi Baida is eventually brought to ground because another man possesses a relentless desire to see him brought to ground. It has always come down to the fearful, sweaty efforts of one man against another man. It has always been, and always will be, personal."

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice carried forcefully from the shadow and the faceless head, driven by more than breath and discipline.

"Surely you see where this is going," he said. "We need your help, the kind of help that only you can give us. We want to use your face to find Ghazi Baida. All you have to do is cooperate with our people, who will guide you. You will not be asked to be a soldier or an a.s.sa.s.sin. You will not be asked to perform heroic and fearsome feats. Just lend us Jude's face and body. Help us finish what he began."

Bern couldn't believe what he was hearing. The dismay must have showed on his face. Mondragon expanded.

"We need to convince Baida that Jude is still alive," Mondragon said. "Jude needs to be seen. He and Baida had established a relationship. Jude had accomplished an astonishing thing, convincing Baida to reveal himself to him. But more than that, he had convinced Baida to trust him-at a certain level, of course, not unreservedly, not wholly, but at least enough to engage in an enterprise with him. We need to keep that connection alive."

"That's impossible," Bern said. "It's . . . it wouldn't work for ten minutes."

"It would."

"It couldn't."

"Why?"

"How could it, for Christ's sake?"

"Several answers. One: the sheer improbability of it. Who would believe, at first blush, that a man who looks like Jude, talks like Jude, acts like Jude, has the same artistic talents as Jude-and, G.o.d, even has the same DNA as Jude-who would believe that he would not be be Jude? The absurdity of such a thing provides us with our greatest advantage." Jude? The absurdity of such a thing provides us with our greatest advantage."

"At first blush?"

"Yes! That's the second answer: You will not be in a situation in which you will have to portray Jude in the sense that you will have to live as Jude, interact with others as Jude. No, we simply want you to present the physical Jude to observers. You need to be seen as Jude, and little more. It is not necessary that you be Jude for an extended length of time."

"What's the objective? Exactly."

"For now, just reestablish contact with him. Help us buy time."

"You're right about one thing," Bern said, feeling more agitation than he was showing. "It's an absurd idea."

"No," Mondragon insisted. "It isn't."

But Bern didn't want to have anything to do with this. Why hadn't an official officer of the CIA come to him to make this plea? Why this roundabout way of getting word to him that Mondragon was legitimate? He didn't care whose a.s.set Mondragon was; he knew that the further you got from the official business of anything, the closer you got to the kinds of things that never saw the light of day. He didn't want to have anything to do with that kind of darkness.

He looked at the elegantly dressed Mondragon, this man decapitated by a shadow, and he saw the epitome of menace. This was the other side of the looking gla.s.s, but instead of encountering the Queen's nonsense, he was looking at the devil's creep show.

"There's got to be a better way," Bern said.

"No. This is the best way. It's . . . an unbelievable opportunity. Jude had an identical twin! And the CIA had the good sense to keep it a secret from the very moment they discovered it. Even from Jude himself."

Bern mentally lunged at this revealing slip.

"He didn't know?"

Mondragon tried to cover his hesitation by responding in a slow, calmer voice. "That's what it says in the piece of the file they gave me. He didn't know."

"'Piece' of the file."

"This is the CIA, Paul. 'Need to know' is a mantra with these people. Everyone accepts it."

"How the h.e.l.l did he not know?"

Silence. This time, Bern sensed the stark eyeb.a.l.l.s staring back at him from the impenetrable shadow. He felt another change in the energy in this room of faces, and he didn't like what he felt.

"Look," Bern said, and he sat forward in his armchair, "this isn't for me. You're going to have to find another way to do your business."

"You need to reconsider, Paul."

"No, I don't. I'm not Jude. n.o.body's paying me to do this s.h.i.t."

"Oh, if money is a factor-"

"No. It's not. I wouldn't do it for any amount of money. I appreciate the fact that this guy's a terrorist and needs to be stopped, but you're talking about something that requires special training, special skills. And I don't have either of those."

"Your face," Mondragon said. "Your DNA. These are the things that no other man on earth can bring to us. How much more specialized could you be?"

Bern was shaking his head. "This is CIA business, for Christ's sake. This is way past dicey. This feels suicidal, and I don't want any part of it."

He stood.

"Just a minute, Paul," Mondragon said with chilling equanimity. The young woman appeared, handed a folder to him, then waited. "I have another file," he said.

Bern hesitated.

"Sit down," Mondragon said politely. "Please."

Bern remained standing.

Mondragon opened the file folder. "This pertains to Dana and Philip Lau," Mondragon said. "And their daughter, Alice."

Bern must have been expected to respond at that moment, because Mondragon paused, as if waiting for a reply. But Bern was struck speechless. He was afraid. He didn't know why yet, but he knew instinctively that he should be. He sat down.

"Here's the way it will work," Mondragon said. "During Alice's visits to you, she often swims. She changes clothes in the lower bedroom of your home, the one nearest to the terrace door that leads down to the cove. Alice is a healthy young girl with a vivid imagination. She . . . fantasizes and sometimes she . . . caresses and . . . gratifies herself in that bedroom when she changes clothes. The pictures we have are very clear . . . and explicit."

Bern was paralyzed. Mondragon went on.

"Over the years, Jude had occasional disciplinary problems. A couple of years ago, he had a mistress. As insurance for us, she was able to collect a quant.i.ty of s.e.m.e.n for our safekeeping. That s.e.m.e.n, of course, shares your identical DNA.

"You will remember that a few weeks ago, Alice misplaced a swimsuit. Her mother was frustrated, but she has lost them before. They bought another. Never gave it another thought."

Bern's ears were ringing, his mind frozen.

"These are the components that comprise the story of the end of your life, Paul," Mondragon said, and then he fell silent, letting it soak in.

Bern reeled, his mind flickered, and his thoughts lurched into the past, into the imagined future, into a nightmare.

"Something like this," Mondragon went on, "has no satisfactory resolution. It isn't possible. Statutory rape, and the death of a disturbed girl's innocence. Devastated parents. The betrayal and destruction of a long and close friendship. The end of your anonymity and reputation. Our people are very good, and the evidence would be incontrovertible.

"But even if, somehow by some miracle, you were able to escape the facts," Mondragon elaborated, "the media coverage and the imagination of the public would condemn you. Maybe his lawyers got him off, they would say, but we know that he did something terrible to that poor girl." Mondragon sat perfectly still. "The birth of suspicion, Paul, leaves an indelible stain. Nothing cleans it."

Silence.

Mondragon held out the folder. "Would you like to see the pictures of Alice?"

The young woman took the folder from Mondragon and handed it to Bern, then disappeared.

Bern had to look. At least he had to identify Alice. He would be an idiot if he simply took Mondragon's word for something like this.

With unsteady hands, he slid the photos out of the envelope and looked. They were of Alice, of course.

They were stills from a video recording. Video. The sons of b.i.t.c.hes.

He couldn't look at more than a couple of them, and then he dropped the envelope and the pictures on the floor beside his chair.

"Jesus Christ," he said, and he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. Mondragon cruelly remained silent, and Bern felt as if he had fallen into h.e.l.l.

Finally, Mondragon spoke.

"But, as they say, it doesn't have to end like this. Those photographs never have to be seen by anyone. What I'm asking you to do, after all, is not an impossibility. Think about it. If these pictures were ever to get out, what wouldn't you give to have the chance to make this choice all over again? Pretending to be your brother would seem like a G.o.dsend, and a small price to pay to make it all go away."

Chapter 17.

Bern sat on the edge of his bed in his underwear and stared out the window of his darkened hotel room. It was 2:40 in the morning, and the traffic on West Loop South was spa.r.s.e. The night sky was hazy with moisture, and the lights that stretched eastward toward downtown receded into the misty distance. He was nowhere near sleep.

His thoughts cycled over and over and over variations of the same three concerns: his fear of the exposure of the photographs (the storm of emotions that this would unleash for the Laus was almost unbearable to consider), his anger and frustration at being extorted without any recourse, and his inability to imagine or prepare for what he was going to have to do to for Mondragon.

He wasn't a total innocent. He had heard and read about the contractors that U.S. intelligence used all over the world with increasing regularity. He knew nothing of their legal standing, but he knew enough to understand that they were proxies for a reason. Somehow they managed to squeeze between the threads of the legal fabric to do things for the CIA that the CIA didn't want to get caught doing themselves.

He had no doubt that an end-run effort around Mondragon's extortion would trigger the anonymous release of the photographs, and then he could kiss his old life good-bye. Essentially, he had no choice.

And he grieved for Alice. Just knowing that those pictures were out there somewhere and that someone could look at them as much as they wanted made him ache for her. She would be so ashamed. And Dana and Phil. G.o.dd.a.m.n Mondragon.

It was a spooky feeling, too, that someone had been in his house and installed digital video-surveillance cameras in the lower bedroom, and he hadn't even had a clue. This was scary stuff.

Midmorning the next day, Bern picked up a printout of his own DNA string at the private laboratory off North Loop West. From there, he went to the GTS labs in the Texas Medical Center, where the skull's DNA was being sorted out. After last night, the result of the DNA reading had even more importance for him than it had before.

He sat in a small sterile room with a humming fluorescent light while a molecular geneticist with a pallid complexion and round eyegla.s.ses of pinkish plastic examined and compared the two strings. Bern noticed that the pocket of the doctor's crisp white lab coat was still starched closed.

"Monozygotic twins. Yeah." The doctor looked up. "Identical. Yeah."

The flight back to Austin occupied a time zone all its own, and the fifteen-mile drive from the airport to his house on the lake was completely lost to him.