Read Online Even by Andrew Grant - Free Book Online Page A

were floating above them, completely disconnected from everyday life.
    Inside, the room was dominated by an enormous table. It was easily thirty feet long by ten feet wide. The surface was made from black granite, so highly polished it looked as if it were wet. I ran my eye all the way along, but I couldn’t see any joins. It seemed to be a single slab. That would explain why it was still there. The partition walls must have been built around it. There would be no way to get it out now—it was too big.
    Three men were sitting at the far side of the table, facing me. They appeared to be in their mid-fifties, and had the pallid complexion of people who don’t see enough sunshine. Their suits were plain and nondescript. They had crisp white shirts and sober ties, and each wore his graying hair in a neat, conservative style.
    The man in the center of the trio wore narrow, wire-rimmed glasses. He was looking down at a folder on the table in front of him. It held a half-inch stack of papers, but I could only see part of the top sheet. It was a computer-generated form. A photograph was clipped to the top, obscuring a quarter of the page. It showed a man’s face. It was clean shaven, and the hair was tidier and shorter, but there was no doubt I’d seen the person before. Less than twenty-four hours ago.
    Dressed as a tramp.
     
    _______
     
    Weston put his hand on my shoulder and guided me toward a broken-down typist’s chair. It was on its own on our side of the table, lined up opposite the three older men. Its blue cloth covers were badly torn. Clumps of stuffing were poking out of the holes, and various levers and handles were dangling from its base. I looked at Lavine as I lowered myself gingerly onto the seat, but he wouldn’t make eye contact. He just turned his head away and shuffled farther along the table to my left. Weston removed his hand and slunk away to my right, leaving me isolated. On the other side of the table the man with the glasses closed his folder and pressed his fingertips against his temples for a moment. Then he dropped his hands and began to speak.
    “Forgive me,” he said. “Closing a personnel file for the last time is never easy. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Bruce Rosser, deputy director of Special Operations with the FBI.”
    “I’m David Trevellyan,” I said. “But you knew that already.”
    “I did,” he said, solemnly nodding his head. “Now—my colleagues. On my left, Louis Breuer. On my right, Mitchell Varley, also with Special Operations. Agents Lavine and Weston, you’ve already met.”
    I looked at each of them, but didn’t say anything.
    “Mike Raab was a good agent,” Rosser said. “He’ll be missed.”
    “Yeah, well, everyone’s a saint, once they’re dead,” I said.
    “No. Mike really was one of the good guys. I knew him pretty well. Mentored him, his first couple of cases, back when I was in the field. We used to play cards. Any chance we could find. All night, sometimes.”
    “Beats working, I suppose.”
    “How about you, Mr. Trevellyan? Do you play?”
    “No.”
    “Shame. You should. You really get to know someone, that way. How they think. How they plan. How they adapt. How they bluff. How they lie. You know, if I had to get the measure of someone right now, given a regular interview or one hand of cards, I’d go with the cards.”
    “Is that right?”
    “Yes, sir, it is. And you know what else I use them for?”
    “I could suggest something.”
    “Problem solving. Ever gathered all the facts, but just can’t see how they fit together? Cards can give you the answer. Help you put the pieces in place, one at a time.”
    “I’ll bear that in mind.”
    “You know what? Let’s do more than that. Let’s play right now,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pack. They were white with a gold band around the edge and a large, ornate eagle design embossed in the center. They looked well used. “One hand of blackjack. For Mike. And