Part Three
Max stepped around the brownstone arch then jerked back behind it, set his shoulders low, and tilted his head down just enough to see. A stripe of lamp light angled over the hedge leading into the gardens, painting bright the shiny tips of Wesson's shoes. The intense edge of a cigarette glowed against his face, curl of smoke rising into the light as he jutted his sharp chin up to the sky.
"Max," Grant's voice hissed softly, metallic sounding through the communicator.
Max drew himself further behind the brick and muffled it into his hand. He double checked Wesson's position then lifted it to his lips. "Yeah."
"Anything?"
"Nothing yet," he answered quietly. "He's just standing there. Smoking."
"Where are you?"
"South side of the consulate. Near the entrance to the rose garden. Where are you?"
"Getting closer."
A gate squeaked. Max eased down and re-angled his view. The scuffle of expensive shoes against cobblestone stretched faintly across the courtyard. Wesson was stepping through the iron fence lining the rose garden. "Grant, he's on the move again."
"Where?"
"Don't know. Nowhere, probably. He's been walking around in circles. He seems agitated." He sighed. "No sign of Nicholas."
"Okay, hang tight. I'm almost to you."
Max clenched his teeth together. He eyed Wesson's shadowy outline, his lazy stance and the glowing tip of his angry cigarette—eased down like he planned to stand there and smoke all night, all week… possibly all year. It was getting them nowhere. Where the hell was Nicholas? The itch of impatience danced antsy under Max's skin. He took a deep breath. "My line's still open," he returned, voice just the wrong side of cavalier.
"Wait, Max, what are you going to do?"
Max was already stepping out from the arch, stiffly straightening his jacket as he moved into the open.
"Max," Grant hissed.
He clicked off the sound of Grant's voice, left the audio on, and tucked the communicator back into his pocket.
Wesson turned jerkily at the tap on his shoulder, face scowling as he sucked another breath of smoke, the pock marked dimple on his cheek tucking into a deeper line.
"Excuse me," said Max, his most elegant tone, playing up his Australian accent, voice cultured but easy. Flashing the silver tag on the jacket that marked him as consulate staff, he continued. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I've been asked to deliver a message to Mr. Craig Heming. I was told it was urgent, but I can't seem to find him anywhere. Would you, perhaps, be able to tell me where he might be?"
Wesson eased his shoulders down, dropped his cigarette and rolled it under his toe. "Why would I know?" he asked. Despite the smoke, his voice rolled out smooth and resonant.
Max flexed his fingers, but kept himself from reaching out or making a fist. He kept his face neutral. "Several of the guests saw you speaking with him. And I was told you'd be the most likely person to know where to find him."
"You were misinformed, or the guests who spoke to you are blind. I haven't seen or spoken to Mr. Heming all night."
Behind Wesson, easing out around a manicured hedge, Grant's face appeared, tense jaw and dark eyes visible through the shadows. Max held eye contact with him for a moment then looked away, back at Wesson. "Funny," he said steadily. "They seemed certain."
"Well, they were wrong. Now, I'd like to finish my walk, in peace, if you don't mind?" Wesson reached into the breast pocket of his suit, freed a silver case and withdrew another cigarette, fumbling with his lighter.
Max didn't move.
Behind the hedge, Grant glared.
Max coughed pointedly, refocusing on Wesson. "I was given the impression that you have business dealings with Mr. Heming. That you know him quite well. Is that true?"
The lighter finally sparked, flame glowing stark against Wesson's face, brightening his dismissive eyes. "As well as anyone knows him, I guess. Which is to say, not much. See, for all his projects and charities, he's not the warm and cuddly type." He closed the lighter and stared at Max coolly. "Nor am I. And yes, we had business dealings. Our delegations hold some common interests. I was supposed to meet with him tonight to discuss them, but we seem to have missed each other. Is that enough information for you, or are you going to keep bothering me? It's been a long evening, and I'm not feeling well."
Max opened his mouth.
Grant's chin tilted down, sharpening his glare.
Max conceded. "Thank you," he said, straightening his jacket. "I'll just look for him elsewhere." He turned, fingers folding around the lapels of his own coat, a physical gesture of self-restraint, and started to walk away.
"Hey," Wesson called.
"Yes?"
"What was the message?"
Max paused.
"The message to Heming—what was it?"
"Sorry, I was told it was for his ears only."
"Come on. I helped you, you help me. I'm looking for him too. What was it regarding?"
Tumblers moved in Max's brain. "It was regarding a change of plans for a shipment Mr. Heming has been overseeing. A personal shipment." He cocked his head to the other side. "And you didn't really help me at all, did you?"
Wesson coughed a laugh, eyes darting back to the sky. "Guess I didn't."
Grant hooked Max's elbow, set a palm against his chest and flattened him back against the brick before he'd even finished rounding the corner. "You took a hell of a chance, man."
"I had to find out something," Max reasoned calmly, dropping his hands to his sides.
Grant felt his muscles simmer. "You could have waited until I was closer. If we've been compromised…"
Max didn't say anything, features genuinely patient in a way they hadn't been with Wesson.
Grant took a steadying breath. Then another. The fire in his eyes dampened. He patted Max's chest once in apology then drew his hand back, rubbing it down his own face.
Max put his hands in his pockets, dipping his chin, watching Grant and waiting.
Grant threw his gaze to the side, staring at the night, the parking lot, the curve of the distant street. The garden walkway was deserted, but a distant fringe of important sounding voices reached through the hem of the consulate window—carrying on carelessly and improvidently after apparently having swallowed Nicholas whole. The atmosphere was too serene, reminding him of late night viewings of Hitchcock films with his father. The Saboteur, North by Northwest—all featuring the hidden dangers lurking within an innocent looking crowd. Nicholas in the midst of it, there, right there, and then vanished.
Max tipped the crown of his head against the brick, banging it once.
Grant breathed deeply and cleared his throat. "Wesson said he hadn't spoken to Heming all night," he pointed out.
Max swallowed visibly, returning Grant's look. "Yeah," he agreed. "And he's acting pretty calm for a guy who maybe just…"
"Yeah." Grant blew a breath out, chest hitching down, expanding again as spoke. "And if he didn't… if Nicholas isn't…" He paused, controlling his voice. "Whether he's involved with Nicholas's disappearance or not, after your meeting with him he's going to think that Heming has maybe been dealing with someone else. Then he's going to put two and two together and figure out that you aren't just a messenger."
Max shrugged. "Jim will make it work," he said. "The plan is to discredit Heming anyway. Wesson believing the agreement's been broken can work for us."
"That's not the point. I mean, where the hell is Nicholas?" Grant jerked his palm up, gesturing out at the night. "Wesson was talking to him, so we're following Wesson. But Nicholas was masked as Heming. We have no reason to think Wesson wanted to do anything to Heming. He has nothing to gain by it—everything to lose. So if he is involved, if he did something with Nicholas… if he took him, or… who does he think it is, Heming or Nicholas? And why? We don't know what we're dancing with here, Max. We could be in real trouble."
Max kept his hands in his pockets and dropped his chin, waiting Grant out again.
Grant turned, counting slowly in his head. Finally, he shifted, slumping against the wall next to Max, shoulder to shoulder. In the distance, they could still see the occasional burn from Wesson's cigarette, a sporadic spark in the dim.
"Funny thing," said Max after a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Wesson. I almost believed him when he said he hadn't spoken to Heming. If I hadn't seen him talking to Nicholas with my own two eyes..."
"Yeah," said Grant, looking sideways.
"Buddy," breathed Max. "What the hell is going on?"
tbc
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