“They’re extremely thorough,” said Devin. “That’s for sure.”
“They’re extremely paranoid and thorough. That’s how they stay alive in this business,” said Berg. “Which brings us to the most important condition of my continued participation and theirs.”
Devin cocked his head a bit. He wasn’t going to like what Berg had to say. That much was obvious from his tone and the fact that he’d waited this long to give an ultimatum he probably could have led with last night at dinner.
“What’s the condition?”
“We do this my way,” said Berg. “I don’t say that because I’m a control freak. I say that because I’ve learned a thing or two about the Russians over the years. One of them being that they don’t play by the rules or respect any conventions. You leave the rule books and the referee manuals behind when you’re dealing with the Russians.”
“Fine,” said Devin.
“It’s not that simple,” said Berg. “Some of the time, my way will not resemble your way—at all. In fact, I can guarantee you we will reach a point, at least once or twice, where you find my way to be the antithesis of everything you thought you stood for. You’ll be repulsed by it, but it will be the only way to effectively deal with the Russians.”
“I think I understand,” said Devin.
“You can’t, yet,” said Berg. “I just need you to trust me when your instincts are screaming otherwise. Once we reach a certain point in this little venture, we can’t turn back without catastrophic results for everyone.”
Devin didn’t need to ask what that meant. It certainly didn’t mean standing in the unemployment line with a black mark on your résumé. It meant ending up facedown in the Chesapeake Bay with your throat slashed or buried in a field somewhere off the beaten path with a bullet hole in your forehead. He asked the next logical question.
“When do we reach that point?”
“That’s the tricky part, Devin, and it’s never a clear path,” said Berg. “It’s why I need you to trust me enough to do this my way no matter what your gut is telling you.”
“My mom trusted you—so I trust you,” said Devin.
Berg nodded. “Then I better not let her down.”
CHAPTER 23
Marnie Young left her parents’ house a little after 6:15 to meet with the owner of the town house she had rented in the Canton District of Baltimore. The owner agreed to meet her at 8:00 p.m. to walk her through the place and give her the keys.
Devin said he’d arrive around nine with an “associate” to check the place out and pay her for the two weeks she’d fronted. Finding a thirty-day rental in the city for twelve occupants, in a good neighborhood, hadn’t left her with any bargain-basement options—especially at the start of the summer. Four hundred and fifty a night, with a two-week deposit, had been the best she could manage, which didn’t seem to faze him in the least.
The rest of his new associates would supposedly arrive later that night. She still had no idea what he meant by “associates,” or what he was up to, but she was determined to find out. They had concluded that she wasn’t under surveillance, which had been a huge relief. She’d packed an overnight bag and had every intention of sticking around until she could fully assess Devin’s mental state and determine how she could help. He’d probably argue with her, but she didn’t care. That was what friends did for each other, and unless her status as a friend had lapsed in his mind, which she highly doubted for a number of reasons, she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
She also wanted to take a good look at these so-called associates, to make sure Devin was acting in his own best interest—or his own interest at all. She’d stuffed her pistol and a few spare magazines in the overnight bag, just in case. Devin simply didn’t sound like himself. He’d looked shaken and dazed at his mother’s funeral, which was to be expected, but something was really off with him right now. He sounded rushed and unfocused. Or maybe unfocused wasn’t the right word. Scripted? There was no real way to tell over the phone, which was why she’d insisted on handing over the keys in person and sticking around for a while.
Marnie merged onto Interstate 495 several minutes later, coming to a complete stop just a few seconds later. Eight thirty p.m. might be a more realistic estimate. Traffic was heavier than she’d anticipated. If it didn’t break up after the George Washington Memorial Parkway interchange, about five miles north of here, she’d call the town house owner and let her know that she was behind schedule. Hopefully that wouldn’t be a problem and push things back until the morning. The last thing she wanted to do was add more stress to Devin’s situation right now. He sounded as though he was at a breaking point.