The days following the dinner at Stark's mansion settled into a tense, watchful rhythm. Carver remained at the Hotel Imperator, playing the role of Konrad Voss, the patient facilitator waiting for his potential partner to make the next move. He dined at the hotel restaurant, took long walks along the harbor, and visited the city's museums and galleries with the unhurried air of a man who had nowhere to be and all the time in the world. It was a performance, every moment of it, and he executed it with the precision of a stage actor who had been playing the same role for years.
But beneath the surface, the machinery of the operation was still turning. Sol Goddard had established a base of operations in a rented apartment on the north side of the city, a cramped walk-up that smelled of old newspapers and damp plaster. From there, he monitored the financial accounts that Margot had established, tracked the movements of Stark's known associates, and maintained the delicate web of communications that kept the team connected. The apartment was a warren of wires and radio equipment, the kind of setup that would attract attention if anyone knew to look. But Sol was careful, and so far, no one had looked.
Lena had taken a room in a boarding house near the docks, a grim establishment called Mrs. Calder's that catered to sailors between voyages and traveling salesmen down on their luck. It was the last place anyone would look for a woman of Elena Kuzmin's sophistication, which was precisely why Lena had chosen it. She had dyed her hair a mousy brown, traded her silk dresses for wool skirts and sensible shoes, and adopted the identity of a widowed schoolteacher from the northern part of the state who had come to Port Verne to start a new life. It was a gray, invisible role, and she played it with the same skill she had once brought to the glamorous Elena Kuzmin.
Malloy was still in Meridian County with Cora Croft, watching over the girl as the trials in Ironport ground slowly forward. The news from the north was mostly good: Cora had testified before a grand jury, her voice steady and clear, and her statement had been front-page news across the state. The public, which had been prepared to hate Julian Croft's daughter, had instead found itself sympathizing with a child who had been as much a victim of her father's crimes as anyone else. Malloy had become something like a father to her, a role he had never expected to fill, and the photograph of Rosa Vilardi that he still carried in his pocket had become less a burden and more a reminder of why he was still fighting.
And Margot Vane was in the Mediterranean, following a lead that had taken her from Port Verne to Marseille, and from Marseille to a small island off the coast of Cyprus where a shipping company called Aegean Transit maintained its corporate headquarters. The company was a shell, a paper entity designed to obscure the true ownership of a fleet of cargo vessels that moved goods—and occasionally other things—between Europe, North Africa, and the eastern seaboard of the United States. Harold Vane had discovered the connection six months before his death, and it was that discovery, Margot believed, that had sealed his fate.
Now she was on the island, staying in a rented villa overlooking the sea, watching the Aegean Transit offices through a pair of high-powered binoculars and waiting for the right moment to make her move. She had not told Carver the details of her plan. She had not told anyone. Some things, she believed, had to be done alone.
It was on the sixth day after the dinner at Stark's mansion that the next move came. A letter was delivered to the Hotel Imperator, addressed to Konrad Voss in the same elegant handwriting as before. The message was brief:
Mr. Voss,
I have reviewed your proposal and am prepared to move forward. Please come to my office at the Aegean Building, Suite 1200, tomorrow at 2 p.m. We will discuss the specifics of our arrangement.
G. Stark
Carver read the letter twice, then burned it as he had burned the others. The Aegean Building was a commercial tower in the financial district, one of several properties that Stark's network controlled. An office meeting, rather than another dinner at the mansion, suggested that Stark was ready to treat Konrad Voss as a business partner rather than a social curiosity. That was progress. But it was also a test. Stark would have questions, detailed questions, and Carver would need to have answers ready.
He spent the evening in his suite, reviewing the Konrad Voss files one more time. The bank accounts. The investment history. The fictional clients and their fictional fortunes. Every detail had to be at his fingertips, ready to be deployed at a moment's notice. Stark was not Croft; he would not be satisfied with vague assurances and impressive-sounding generalities. He would want specifics. He would want numbers. He would want proof.
The following afternoon, Carver presented himself at the Aegean Building, a glass-and-steel tower that rose thirty stories above the financial district. Suite 1200 was a corner office with a view of the harbor, decorated in the same heavy, ornate style as Stark's mansion. But this was a working office, not a showpiece. The desk was covered with papers, the bookshelves were filled with ledgers and legal documents, and the air carried the faint, acrid scent of cigar smoke.
Stark was seated behind the desk, his pale eyes watching Carver's entrance with the same detached curiosity he had displayed at the dinner. Lasker was there too, standing by the window with his arms crossed, his sharp eyes missing nothing.
"Konrad," Stark said, gesturing to a chair. "Thank you for coming. I trust the hotel is still comfortable."
"Quite comfortable. Though I hope this meeting means I won't be staying much longer. My investors are eager to see their money put to work."
"Then let's get to business." Stark opened a folder on his desk and pushed it toward Carver. "This is a proposal for the initial phase of our partnership. A shipping route between Port Verne and a port in the Baltic region, used to move certain goods that require discretion. Your investors would provide the capital to acquire the vessels and establish the route. In return, they would receive a percentage of the profits, paid quarterly, through a series of intermediary accounts that will ensure anonymity."
Carver scanned the document, noting the details. The Baltic port was one he recognized, a city where the Rigas Investment Group—the fictional entity that had been Viktor Sokol's cover—had established a presence months earlier. Stark's proposal was genuine, as far as it went, but it was also clearly a test. The route was real, but the profits were modest, and the risks were low. Stark was offering Konrad Voss a chance to prove his value without exposing the deeper layers of his operation.
"This is acceptable," Carver said. "My investors will want to see a more detailed breakdown of the costs and the projected returns, but the basic structure is sound. How soon can we begin?"
"As soon as your investors transfer the initial capital. Ten million dollars, placed in an escrow account similar to the one we discussed. Once the funds are verified, we can begin the process of acquiring the vessels."
Ten million dollars. It was a larger sum than the five million Carver had used to bait Julian Croft, but the principle was the same. Stark wanted proof that Konrad Voss had access to real money. And Carver, thanks to Margot Vane's resources, could provide that proof.
"I'll arrange the transfer within the week," Carver said.
"Excellent." Stark smiled, his thin, humorless smile. "I knew you were a man who could deliver."
Carver rose to leave, but Stark raised a hand. "One more thing, Konrad. A small matter, but one that I think you'll find interesting."
He opened another folder, this one thinner than the first, and slid a photograph across the desk. The image was grainy, taken from a distance, but Carver recognized the face immediately. It was his own face, or rather the face of Viktor Sokol, the Baltic investor who had destroyed Julian Croft's empire.
"This photograph was taken in Ironport, about three weeks before Croft's arrest," Stark said. "The man in the picture called himself Viktor Sokol. He was the con artist who infiltrated Croft's organization and brought it down. My people have been unable to identify him, but I thought you might recognize the face. You did say you followed the Ironport case in the papers."
Carver stared at the photograph, his mind racing. Stark knew. He must know. The resemblance between Viktor Sokol and Konrad Voss was not obvious—the hair was different, the spectacles, the posture—but it was there, and a man as sharp as Stark would have noticed it.
But why was Stark showing him the photograph? If Stark knew that Konrad Voss was Viktor Sokol, why go through the charade of a business meeting? Why not simply have him killed, as he had killed Diana Voss?
And then Carver understood. Stark did not know. Not yet. He suspected. He was testing. This was another test, perhaps the most important one. The photograph was a probe, designed to see how Konrad Voss would react. Any sign of recognition, any flicker of surprise, and the trap would close.
Carver picked up the photograph and studied it with the detached curiosity of a stranger. "I can't say I recognize him. The photograph is quite poor. But if this is the man who brought down Croft, I'm not surprised he's been hard to find. Men like that know how to disappear."
"They do," Stark agreed. "But no one disappears forever. Eventually, everyone makes a mistake. And when this man makes his, I'll be waiting."
Carver set the photograph back on the desk, his expression unchanged. "I wish you luck, Mr. Stark. Now, if there's nothing else, I should begin making the arrangements for the transfer."
He left the office, walked calmly down the corridor to the elevator, and waited until the doors had closed behind him before allowing himself to breathe. Stark was suspicious. The photograph was proof of that. But the Konrad Voss identity was holding, at least for now.
That night, he met Sol in a warehouse on the south side of the city, a cavernous space that smelled of fish and diesel fuel. Sol was waiting by the radio equipment, his face pale with exhaustion but his eyes alert.
"Stark is testing me," Carver said. "He showed me a photograph of Viktor Sokol. He's not sure yet, but he's getting close."
"What do we do?"
"We accelerate the plan. Margot's lead in the Mediterranean is the key. If she can find proof of Stark's connection to Aegean Transit, and if we can link that connection to the money laundering and the murders, we'll have enough evidence to destroy him. But we need to move fast. Stark isn't going to wait forever."
"And if Margot doesn't find the proof in time?"
"Then we'll have to create it. Forge the documents, fabricate the trail, do whatever it takes. We've done it before. We can do it again."
Sol nodded slowly. "Lena checked in. She says the boarding house is secure, but she's getting restless. She wants to be doing something."
"Tell her to be patient. Her part is coming."
"And Malloy?"
"Malloy needs to stay with Cora. She's the most vulnerable member of this operation, and Stark would use her in a heartbeat if he knew where she was. As long as Malloy is protecting her, we can focus on the fight."
Carver walked to the window of the warehouse and looked out at the harbor. The ships were still there, their lights flickering in the darkness, and somewhere among them was the vessel that Margot was tracking. Somewhere in the Mediterranean, a woman with iron-gray hair and a thirst for vengeance was closing in on the truth.
The game was accelerating. The pieces were moving faster. And Gideon Stark, in his corner office above the city, was beginning to suspect that Konrad Voss was not what he seemed.
But Carver had one advantage that Stark did not. He knew he was in a race against time, and he knew what he was racing toward. Stark was still operating in the dark, still trying to figure out who his enemy was. By the time he understood, it would be too late.
That was the hope, anyway. The hope that kept Carver going, that kept all of them going, through the long nights and the tense days and the constant, grinding fear of discovery. The hope that somewhere, at the end of this road, there would be justice. Not the justice of courts and laws and press conferences, but the deeper justice of the scales being balanced, of the shadows being driven back, of the dead being remembered.
He thought about his father, Thomas Ashworth, who had died on a mountain road thirty years ago because he had dared to tell the truth. He thought about Rosa Vilardi, who had died in an ambulance because a man had wanted to prove a point. He thought about Harold Vane, drowned in a lake. Diana Voss, killed in her apartment. All the others, the ones whose names he did not know but whose deaths were part of the same dark pattern.
Stark was the source of that pattern. Stark was the man who had built the machine that had ground so many lives into dust. And Carver was going to tear that machine apart, piece by piece, no matter what it cost.
He turned from the window and walked back to Sol. "Send a message to Margot. Tell her to go ahead with whatever she's planning. We're running out of time."
Sol nodded and began to type. Carver watched the words appear on the screen, a string of code that would travel across oceans and continents to reach a woman who was, at that very moment, preparing to make her own move.
The game was far from over. But the endgame was approaching, and the final battle would determine everything.
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