Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

• Название: The Devils Punchbowl
• Автор: Greg Iles
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

With his gift for crafting “a keep-you engaged- to-the-very-last-page thriller” (USA Today) at full throttle, Greg Iles brings back the unforgettable Penn Cage in this electrifying suspense masterpiece.

A new day has dawned . . . but the darkest evils live forever in the murky depths of a Southern town.

Penn Cage was elected mayor of Natchez, Mississippi—the hometown he returned to after the death of his wife—on a tide of support for change. Two years into his term, casino gambling has proved a sure bet for bringing new jobs and fresh money to this fading jewel of the Old South. But deep inside the Magnolia Queen, a fantastical repurposed steamboat, a depraved hidden world draws high-stakes players with money to burn on their unquenchable taste for blood sport and the dark vices that go with it. When an old high school friend hands him blood-chilling evidence, Penn alone must beat the odds tracking a sophisticated killer who counters his every move, placing those nearest to him—including his young daughter, his renowned physician father, and a lover from the past—in grave danger, and all at the risk of jeopardizing forever the town he loves.

From Publishers Weekly

Iles's third addition to the Penn Cage saga is an effective thriller that would have been even more satisfying at half its length. There is a lot of story to cover, with Cage now mayor of Natchez, Miss., battling to save his hometown, his family and his true love from the evil clutches of a pair of homicidal casino operators who are being protected by a homeland security bigwig. Dick Hill handles the large cast of characters effortlessly, adopting Southern accents that range from aristocratic (Cage and his elderly father) to redneck (assorted Natchez townsfolk). He provides the bad guys with their vocal flair, including an icy arrogance for the homeland security honcho, a soft Asian-tempered English for the daughter of an international villain and the rough Irish brogue of the two main antagonists. One of the latter pretends to be an upper-class Englishman and, in a moment of revelation, Hill does a smashing job of switching accents mid-sentence. 

---

Kelly enters first, and I follow him into a long, dim room. The walls are black, but two large TV screens in a far corner to my right glow with changing images of the casino decks above. Three chairs have been placed in a rough triangle near the hatch, facing inward. Two are occupied, the nearest by Jonathan Sands, who’s wearing a business suit, and the other by a man who must be William Hull, who looks nothing like I imagined. He has a lean, well-muscled frame, and his face is long and angular. The bureaucrat I imagined vanishes, replaced by this figure who looks more like a Cold War–era military officer.

Deeper into the room stands a single, more substantial chair. With a roll of my stomach I realize this is the chair where Ben Li and Linda Church were tortured. Beside it stands the cart that held the

electrical generator. Inside this cart, Jiao is supposed to have planted one of the microrecorders.

“You a furniture aficionado?” Hull asks with his faint trace of Southern accent. South Carolina, maybe.

Beyond the torture chair, against what must be the hull of the barge, a metal staircase leads up to a hatch near the ceiling of the room.

An escape hatch?

At some level I register that we must be below the level of the river. “I was just thinking about something that happened in that chair.”

“Nothing’s ever happened in that chair,” Sands says, looking up at me with unnerving intensity. The skin of his balding head seems stretched even tighter over his skull, if that’s possible, and his cheeks look hollow. Apparently not even Jonathan Sands is immune to the effects of stress.

“Why are we down here?” I ask.

“Privacy,” says Hull.

“We never shut off the security cameras on the boat,” says Sands. “If we were anywhere but in here or my office, you could subpoena our hard drives.”

“Look what I found on Hizzoner,” says Quinn, handing the small transmitter to Sands. “Bastard was planning to tape the whole meeting.”

Hull gives a theatrical frown, then looks up at me. “Is there any further point to this meeting, Cage? If this was just an excuse for you to entrap us, you should let us get on with our business.”

“The tape wasn'’t the point,” I say. “I’'ve just never seen a government attorney act with such cavalier disregard for the law, and I wanted some kind of record.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Sit down and speak your piece.”

As I take my chair, I realize there’s a man standing in the shadows behind Hull. He looks more like a Green Beret than an FBI agent. Quinn closes the door behind us, leaving six of us in the room. With an almost antiquated feeling of symmetry, Kelly stands behind me, Quinn behind Sands, and the Green Beret behind Hull.

“Well?” says Hull.

“I want to know the terms of your plea agreement with Sands. What happens to him after tonight, if the Po sting is successful?”

“He testifies against Po in federal court.”

“In exchange for?”

Hull shakes his head. “I'm not at liberty to disclose that.”

“Mr. Hull…that’s why we’re here. I think you’d do just about anything to get Po’s scalp, at this point. For instance, you might promise to let Sands keep his interest in Golden Parachute. You might even try to use some Homeland Security, national-interest bullshit to keep the State of Mississippi from prosecuting him on other charges. I'm here to make sure that doesn’'t happen.”

Sands looks expectantly at Hull, but Hull doesn’'t deliver the withering broadside Sands apparently expects.

“That'’s what I figured,” I say. “Well, it’s not going to happen.”

Hull sighs. “What exactly do you want?”

“I want to know that Sands isn’t going to vanish into federal custody the second Po is in your hands.”

“And how do I prove that to you? You want a letter of agreement?”

I chuckle at this. “I want plainclothes Natchez police detectives beside Sands from now until five minutes before Po’s expected touchdown, and within sight of him until the moment you take Po into custody.”

“He’s out of his fucking mind,” says Sands, not even deigning to look at me.

Hull gestures for the Irishman to be silent.

“That could create practical difficulties,” the lawyer says calmly. “If Po has anyone watching Sands—and he well may—then seeing men like that might spook him. Small-town police detectives don'’t have the training to blend into the scene I foresee tonight.”

“I'm not negotiating, Hull. I'm telling you what I need in order to give you the time you need to bust Po. Otherwise, we take Sands now. I’'ve got police standing by to arrest him, and I’'ve got the district attorney ready to take him before a grand jury in the morning.”

Sands shifts in his seat like a man preparing to spring to his feet. Quinn looks even more tense.

“Shad Johnson’s no longer playing for your team,” I tell Sands. “I’'ve got the evidence to bury you right now, and Shad knows it.”

Hull holds up his hands to calm his informant, and in this moment I sense the frightening tension between them. “Penn, you'’ve got to be reasonable here. You’ve got to try to see the larger picture.”

“I’'ve tried to do that, William. I honestly have. As a former prosecutor, I have a lot of empathy for your position. But the crimes your informant has committed in the past week alone—”

“Were part of the very operation that’s about to take place. The dogfighting—”

“Dogfighting doesn’'t even register on the scale he’s established in the past few days.”

Hull looks at his steel watch and winces. “Edward Po’s a well-known breeder of fighting dogs. Sands had to use whatever bait he could to lure Po onto U.S. soil.”

“That doesn’'t change the fact that every instance of it is a felony.”

“Christ, Cage, you can’t be

that

much of a Boy Scout. You worked in Houston for twelve years. You dealt with major crimes.”

“Mostly murder. Not this pseudo-spook stuff. That'’s why this case sticks in my craw. Jonathan Sands murdered or ordered the murders of Tim Jessup, Ben Li, and Linda Church, all employees of the

Magnolia Queen,

all of whom were in a position to supply enough evidence to put him in state prison for the rest of his life. He also ordered the kidnapping of Caitlin Masters. All those crimes are capital offenses in Mississippi. Tim Jessup was a friend of mine, but even if he weren’t, this man would not go unpunished. I don'’t give a damn what federal authority you try to invoke, once you have Po, this son of a bitch is going to jail. Either he does hard time as part of your plea with him, or Shad Johnson sends him to Parchman for murder and kidnapping.”

Sands leans in from my left and laughs in my face. “You don'’t get it, mate. If I don'’t cooperate, Hull doesn’'t get Po. And I don'’t cooperate unless I'm guaranteed immunity from prosecution.

Full

immunity. End of story.”

“Not quite,” I say. “If Edward Po doesn’'t show up for your little Roman spectacle tonight—and I’d lay ten-to-one odds that he won'’t—do you really believe that Hull’s going back to Washington empty-handed? After all the time and money he’s spent on this? No. In that case Quinn’s going to get the free pass, and

you’ll

wake up as the most vicious criminal in America. I can see the headlines now: ‘Irish mob man kills defenseless dogs, launders money for the Chinese triads. Possible links to terrorism.’”

As Quinn glares at me from behind Sands’s head, I see that Sands has obviously considered this possibility.

“After all,” I go on, “all we’re sure Seamus did is rape Linda Church and kill a few dogs. Maybe he killed Tim Jessup, maybe he didn't. But he can tell us everything

you

did. And without Po in hand, you’re the big fish everyone’s going to want to fry.”

“Why the fuck are we even listening to this?” Sands snaps, getting to his feet so fast that Quinn jumps back to get clear.

“Because I have evidence, Mr. Sands” I say evenly. “Hard evidence. I can bust you for money laundering right now. Chief Logan is standing by on the shore, and all the FBI agents in the world can’t stop him.” I lean back and look up at Sands with all the hatred in my heart flowing through my eyes. “This is still the United

States

of America, asshole.

That'’s

why you’re listening.”

Hull looks worried. “You don'’t have cops where somebody could see them, do you?”

“Take it easy, William. I want Po busted almost as badly as you do. I understand the priorities here. But I don'’t think he’s coming. And I'm making sure that in the heat of the moment, this psycho doesn’'t slip away to a fairy-tale ending.”

While Sands flexes his fists like a man preparing to beat down a door, Hull stands, turns his chair around, then straddles it and looks at me like a sergeant about to dress down his troops. I probably already have enough audio evidence to ruin Hull’s career, but I have a feeling we’re headed into serious criminal territory.

“Let me give you the facts of life,” the lawyer says in a stern voice. “Sands may be a psychopath, but who really gives a fuck? Do you think I’d be wasting my time with him if he couldn'’t deliver? The NSA confirmed that Po’s Dassault Falcon lifted off from Madrid Barajas Airport in Spain five hours ago. He was directly observed loading three Tosa Tokens aboard, and—”

“Tosa Tokens?”

“Fighting dogs, Cage! Po thinks he’s bringing them here to fight a man.”

The reality that Edward Po might actually be falling for Hull’s trap hits me for the first time, and the force of the realization shocks me. “How long till he gets here?”

“Barring unforeseen delay—like this absurd bullshit—three to four hours.”

Sands looks down at Hull. “You’d better straighten this bastard out, Will.”

“He’s seeing the light. Cage, do you know who you are in all this? I’'ve read your file from cover to cover. You think you’re Atticus Finch and Thomas Jefferson rolled into one, but I'’ll tell you who you are. Barney Fife. Barney fucking Fife, with one bullet in your gun, aimed straight at your own foot. I'm fighting for the national security of this nation, and you’re busting my balls over collateral damage that doesn’'t add up to one day’s casualties in Iraq or Afghanistan. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear. But we’re not in Iraq. And the laws of this country apply to you as well as to Sands. When you gave me the proof of life I asked for yesterday, you proved yourself an accessory to kidnapping.”

Hull laughs outright. “You’re joking, right? Do you seriously think you’ll be able to trace that text message back to me? There are so many cutouts between those communications…shit, you won'’t even be permitted to access the records.” He gets to his feet and kicks over the chair he was straddling. “This meeting’s over.”

I stand also, knowing I’'ve got more evidence than I’d hoped for.

“All right,” I say with seeming resignation. “If Po is really coming, take your best shot at getting him. I want you to get him. But I want Natchez cops standing by within a half mile of the sting.”

Hull shakes his head. “We can’t risk it. I give you my word, Sands will still be on U.S. soil tomorrow. That'’s the best I can do.”

“You gave me your word that Caitlin Masters would be safe last night, but she was nearly killed by your informant’s attack dogs, and the woman she was being held with died as Sands’s prisoner. Your word means nothing to me. I'm calling in my cops.”

“We can’t let you do that.”

“How are you going to stop me? If I don'’t walk off this boat under my own power, Logan’s men come aboard. If we have a shoot-out, or even a standoff, Po’s jet is heading back to Spain.”

Hull looks at Sands, then back at me. “One man,” he says finally. “You can put one detective with us tonight.”

“No,” says Sands, feeling the tide turn against him.

“It makes no difference,” Hull says, looking hard at the Irishman.

“It does to me.”

“Well, that’s the way it is. Who do you want, Cage? Whoever it is, make sure he has a nice suit.”

“Kelly,” I say without hesitation.

“No fucking way,” blurts Quinn.

Sands, too, is shaking his head.

“Anybody else is like no guard at all,” I say. “Sands could put down a city cop without breaking stride. I want someone who can control him.”

“Kelly it is,” says Hull. “Does he own a suit?”

“He’ll have one in fifteen minutes.”

“Then we’re done here.” Hull nods at the door, and the Green Beret steps forward and opens it. Quinn and Sands look like they'’re on the ragged edge of making a move, but Hull’s bodyguard projects the feeling that he wasn'’t party to the firearms prohibition governing this meeting.

Kelly’s hand is in the small of my back, pushing me through the hatch. He clearly doesn’'t want the two of us left in the room with Sands and Quinn. As I pass into the corridor, I'm acutely conscious that I'm leaving behind the taped evidence that will give me control of William Hull, but there’s nothing to be done about this, short of fighting the two Irishmen for it. I'’ll have to trust that Logan and his men can get down here and retrieve the recorder without trouble.

What fills my mind as we move up the passageway behind Hull is the real possibility of nailing Edward Po. I never quite believed that the billionaire would risk stepping onto U.S. soil, but maybe Hull knew his prey well, and did what was required to draw him into the net.

At the elevator we all bunch up again as we wait for Quinn to arrive and punch in the security code. The other three guards have gone, but when the elevator arrives and the doors open, it’s all we can do to fit the six of us inside the car.

Seldom have I felt more free-floating testosterone than I do in this elevator. Sands and Kelly, predictably, have gained the back wall, but I have to stand with Quinn’s chest pressing into my back. I half expect the knife he used to slice open my belt to slide between my kidneys.

“Fifteen minutes,” Hull says, as the car stops on the main deck. “You don'’t have Kelly a suit by then, we’re leaving without him.”

“He’ll have it,” I say, my mind on the recorder downstairs as the doors open.

Hull and his man are first out. When they step around the partition, Hull beckons Kelly forward. As Kelly moves past me, I feel a hand grab my shirt and pull me backward, then a man’s breath in my ear. “Remember that night on your porch?” Sands whispers. “You make all the agreements you want with Hull, mate. Just remember this. Nothing in my world gets resolved on paper.

Nothing.

”

As I pull away, he twists a piece of flesh on my side hard enough to pop blood vessels, but nothing matters at this point. Nothing but signaling Chief Logan to get the recorder from below. Kelly fades back to me with a curious look, as though sensing that something has transpired, but I shake my head and push him forward.