Silent Assassin(48)

“Hello, Mr. Chapman,” said Smith, in his enigmatically blank tone. In his gloved hand was a paper shopping bag with the name of a bookstore on it.

There was something about this Smith that made Chapman nervous. Frightened even. The way that he was calm and pleasant unnerved him. Here was a man who worked behind the scenes in a seat of global power, and he seemed perfectly tranquil and at ease. Chapman had the sense that Smith could be facing an armed terrorist or the President of the United States, and he would still maintain the same placid demeanor.

“Okay,” said Chapman. “I got your message. I’m here. Now tell me why.”

“As it happens,” said Smith, looking into his eyes, “I have something for you, Mr. Chapman.”

“Tell me it’s good.”

“You’ve been impatient,” Smith said, noting his tone. This ticked Chapman off.

“No shit, I’ve been impatient. We’re after a goddamn mass murderer here. Probably more than one. Time is somewhat of the essence.”

“I’ve been holding nothing back, I assure you,” said Smith. “I’ve come to you with this now because I did not have it before.”

“And what do you have for me, Mr. Smith?” All this cryptic talk was seriously getting on Chapman’s nerves.

“Motive. It seems someone has been profiting from these attacks. Profiting a great deal, I might add.”

Chapman furrowed his brow. “How?”

“Someone has found a way to beat the stock market, after all,” he said.

“Are you saying that someone is doing this to game the financial markets? That’s what all this death is about?”

“Some might call it an investment strategy.”

“Surely there are easier ways to make money,” said Chapman, turning sideways in disbelief.

“We are talking about a truly staggering sum,” Smith said flatly.

“Right,” said Chapman. “I’ll take your word for it, provisionally.”

“There’s no need. All the proof you will need is in this dossier.” Smith lifted the shopping bag and offered it to Chapman, who took it. Its contents were heavy, and he felt in his hands that there was a book in it.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll look through it. But you can’t be giving this to me for no reason.”

“You’re right about that,” said Smith. “Although I assure you that at least part of the reason is that you have the resources to properly look into this. I have no interest in seeing this violence go on.”

“I see,” said Chapman, thin-lipped. “But you still want something in return”

“Why, yes,” said Smith, with a subtle smile.

“And what is that?”

“Information. A first look into whatever you find.”

“Suppose you don’t get it,” said Chapman. “Suppose I use this, and give you nothing in return. What happens then?”

“I trust you will see the mutual gain to be had from our relationship, Mr. Chapman.”

Chapman sighed audibly. “What’s your game, Mr. Smith?” he asked. “Who do you work with?”

“As soon as we start using a name, Mr. Chapman, we give people a way to talk about us.”

At that, Smith turned to go. As Smith took his first steps away toward the Lincoln Memorial, Chapman said, “Mr. Smith, what is the Aegis Initiative?”

Smith turned around. He showed barely any sign of having been stirred, but Chapman saw a slight tension around his lips and eyes that gave him away. Still, with the calmest and most self-assured tone of voice, he said, “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Chapman.” He turned again and walked away.

Chapman, left alone, did not move, but instead looked in the bag. He pulled out the book that had been stuffed into the bag to give it volume, along with the much thinner dossier. He looked at its cover. It was titled, An Illustrated Guide to Conspiracy Theories.

Cute, thought Chapman as he turned his back to the Memorial and walked away.





CHAPTER 25


Boston, January 29





“So what do we know about this guy?” asked Morgan, referring to the man whom they had intended to capture, but instead had allowed to be killed right under their noses.

He was in the Zeta Division war room with Diana Bloch, Lincoln Shepard, and Karen O’Neal. They were all seated around the main table, and an air of defeat hung like a thick cloud above them.

“Marcus Lee, twenty-eight years old,” said Lincoln Shepard, glancing at his screen for reference. “Child of immigrants from China; father deceased, mother had not heard from him in just under two years, although deposits have been made regularly in her bank account, to the tune of ten thousand a month, presumably by Lee. Graduated MIT with a bachelor’s in mathematics, where he wrote an award-winning paper on predictions in financial markets.”