Even (21 page)

“That’s why they moved Agent Raab’s body,” Tanya said. “Remember how it had been dragged to the front of the alley? David practically tripped over it. Lesley wanted it found in a hurry.”

“Sounds almost foolproof,” Varley said. “Lieutenant, can you tell how many victims’ records were being audited at the time they died?”

“Not right now,” McBride said. “But give me a week. I’ll get the new parameters added to the database.”

Give the guy a week. He’ll add the new parameters. Which is fine, from an admin point of view. But if you were Lesley, would you be scared?

Some skills, the navy can teach you.

Others, they can only develop. There has to be something already there, inside you, for them to work with. I first figured that out when we were learning about close-target reconnaissance. Surveillance, as most people think of it. The approach was that before we could try out any techniques for ourselves, we had to go on loan to the army for a week. We were told they needed untainted “volunteers” to be tracked by a group of trainee spooks who were taking their final assessments. It seemed like an easy enough assignment. All you had to do was walk around a different city center each day and carry out a number of mundane tasks like posting letters or buying groceries. Our brief was to keep our eyes and ears open, and every evening give a written report on how many tails we’d spotted and where. We were warned the spooks could be anywhere. In cars, on foot, riding bicycles, walking dogs, sitting in cafes. If they could observe us without being detected, they would pass their course. But as usual with the navy, there was something they weren’t telling us. Being stalked by the army guys wasn’t just the end of their evaluation. It was the start of our own. If you couldn’t pick up, instinctively, when you were being followed, you never made it to the next stage. Because there are a lot of things you had to know to make
you effective in the field. But only one thing you had to have. A kind of sixth sense.

Useful, if you wanted to pass your assessment.

Vital, if you wanted to stay alive afterward.

The table Tanya had booked for us turned out to be at Fong’s. That was the same restaurant I’d eaten at two nights ago, just before walking into the whole debacle over Raab’s body. And as good as the place was, choosing to go back so soon did seem a little strange. The feeling that I wasn’t getting the full picture was still gnawing at me when I arrived, exactly at nine-thirty, and I knew it wouldn’t go away until I’d asked Tanya what she’d been thinking of when she made the reservation. But as it happened, I couldn’t ask her anything. Because she didn’t turn up.

I had the same waiter as last time. He gave me the same table. And when Tanya’s apologetic text arrived he gave me the same half amused, half pitiful look you always get when you eat out alone.

I ordered the same meal. The same wine. And I was staying in the same hotel, so I decided to complete the whole déjà vu experience by walking back the same way. Except that by the time I reached Raab’s alleyway, I had a strong feeling I was no longer on my own.

Five people had left Fong’s around the same time as me. Two couples and one single male. I wasn’t too concerned about the couples. They’d been in the restaurant before I arrived, sitting together, and I watched them hang around at the edge of the sidewalk chatting for a few moments before they drifted off in the opposite direction. The guy was much more interesting, though. I hadn’t seen him inside, eating or working. He’d just appeared from the side of the building, near the staff entrance, and then loitered in the shadows until he saw which way I was headed. He set off in front of me and walked fast until he was twenty feet ahead. Then he slowed his pace to match mine, carefully keeping the gap between us roughly constant.

At the first corner he turned right, the way I was planning to go. I followed him into the next street and found he’d stopped ten feet from
the intersection and was standing sideways, looking toward me and laboriously trying to light a cigarette with a spluttering old Zippo. As soon as he saw me he snapped the lighter closed and moved off again in the same direction, quickly stretching the gap back out to twenty feet. The same thing happened at the next corner, except that this time he’d paused to fiddle with the heel of his right shoe. So, when I reached the mouth of the alley, I decided it was time for a test. Without breaking step I dodged sideways into the gloom and flattened myself against the wall.

Nothing happened for half a minute. Then I heard footsteps coming back toward me. One set, fast and light. I looked down and scanned the layer of garbage on the alley floor until I spotted something suitable—a section of wooden banister rail, about four feet long. I crouched down, took a firm hold, and when the guy from Fong’s hurried into view I scythed it around in a low arc toward the street. It connected with his shins, halfway between his knees and ankles. He shrieked and cartwheeled forward, not quite bringing his arms up in time to save his face from plowing into the sidewalk.

I stepped out of the alley and checked both ways, up and down the street. There were no pedestrians. No vehicles were moving. No windows overlooked us. No one had seen what happened. I leaned down to check the guy’s pulse and breathing. Both were fine. He was just stunned, so I moved on to his pockets. He had a wallet, cash, a cell phone, and two sets of keys. Nothing of any use. The only thing worth taking was a Browning Hi-Power 9 mm, which he’d tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

The smart move at this point was clearly to dial 911 and walk away. I’d stood at this very spot two nights ago, and could hardly believe the trouble I’d brought on myself by getting involved in someone else’s problems. I took out my phone. It was the one Lesley had given me. Lesley, who’d left that glass jar with my name on at her house that morning. How had she been intending to fill it? I looked down at the guy on the sidewalk. I had no idea who he was. Where he had come from. Or why he was following me. Maybe Lesley had sent him? Because if she
had, that changed everything. There was no way I could let that pass. I needed to be sure. And if I handed the guy to the police, the chances were I’d never find out.

I reached down, grabbed the guy’s collar and dragged him into the alley. He was still pretty groggy so I took a moment to call up the main menu on my phone. I picked the option to create a new contact, typed
Lesley
(
personal cell
) and entered
917
followed by seven random digits. Then I put the phone away, sat the guy upright, propped him against the wall, and retrieved my piece of wooden banister.

“Evening,” I said, when he looked as if he could focus again. “How are you feeling?”

He grunted and wriggled forward, reaching for his gun and trying to stand up at the same time. I pushed him back down with my foot.

“Move again, and I’ll hit you in the head with this,” I said, showing him the banister. “Understand?”

He grunted again, but stayed still.

“Good,” I said. “Now. What’s your name?”

He didn’t answer.

“OK,” I said. “No problem. To be honest, I don’t really care what your name is. What I really want to know is, why did Lesley send you after me?”

He didn’t speak, but a flicker of recognition showed in his eyes.

“Actually, don’t worry about that, either,” I said. “I already know why she sent you. I double-crossed her, killed one of her guys, and now she wants to pay me back.”

“Right,” the guy said, at last.

“She wants to give me her special treatment. Just like Cyril.”

“Right again.”

“I thought as much. So, here’s my real question. What were you supposed to do once you caught me?”

“Like I’m going to tell you. Go ahead. Hit me with that thing. No way am I talking.”

“Oh, I don’t know. An adult human has 206 bones. I doubt I’d have to break more than five percent of yours before you were singing like a
canary. But hey. It’s late, and I’m tired. Let’s cut out the middleman. Why don’t we just call Lesley and ask her?”

I took out my phone.

“You’re shitting me, now,” he said. “No one knows her number.”

I showed him the contact entry I’d just created.

“I used to be her partner, remember?” I said. “Of course I know her number. Now before I call, here’s one last question. Her special treatment? Remind me. Does she save it for people who betray her? Or do people who fail her get it, too?”

He didn’t answer.

“OK,” I said. “I’m calling her now. And I’ll be sure to mention that you’re right here, helping me.”

“Please,” he said. “Don’t.”

“So, what were you supposed to do when you caught me?”

“I wasn’t supposed to catch you. Only tail you. In case you didn’t go back to your hotel.”

“People are waiting there?”

“Yes. Two in the lobby. Two in your room.”

“How did they know where I was staying?”

“Lesley’s contacts. In the feds. And the police. Someone told her.”

“What about Fong’s? No feds or police knew I was eating there.”

“You don’t get it. She owns people, everywhere. Cab drivers. Limos. Bars. Hotels. Restaurants. And she’s generous. Someone’ll be buying a new car off calling you in to her, minimum.”

“And the guys at my hotel. What are they supposed to do with me?”

“Take you someplace.”

“Where?”

“An old building. In the basement, there. A couple of blocks away. Lesley owns it.”

“You know the address?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“Beep her. So she can come down and do the you-know-what. Turn you from David to Davina.”

“Tonight?”

“As soon as we could lay hands on you.”

“Good,” I said. “Now shut up.”

I dialed Varley’s number.

There was no answer.

I tried Lavine’s.

It was switched off.

Weston’s.

No answer.

I tried Tanya’s, to get the details for Rosser and Breuer.

Her line was busy.

I knew I couldn’t trust anyone else in the bureau or the NYPD, so that left me with three choices. Hang around the alley hoping someone would answer their phone before a cop car came by. Handle Lesley myself. Or walk away.

“Who knows Lesley’s beeper number?” I said to the guy on the ground. “Just the guys at the hotel?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve got it, too.”

“Good,” I said, handing him the phone. “Now. Call your buddies. Tell them tonight is a trap. Lesley is going to dish out some special treatment, all right, but not just for me. To all four of them, as well. Tell them to run for their lives. And then take me to this old house.”

Lesley’s guy took me to a side street tucked away off Canal Street, three blocks to the east. It had no visible name. He paused for a moment then led me right to the far end, moving slowly as both the remaining streetlights had been broken. We stopped in front of an old tenement building—the last structure standing on the right-hand side. It was a complete ruin. The steps up to the entrance were chipped and pitted. The doors were boarded up. All the windows were smashed. Every inch of the walls was daubed with graffiti and a tide of empty cardboard cartons and plastic bags had drifted several feet deep along the frontage.

The guy tugged my sleeve and set off down a narrow flight of steps
to the left of the main set. They led to a recessed door. It was made of steel. I guessed it was new because it hadn’t been vandalized yet. I waited while the guy fished for one of his sets of keys and used them to work the lock. He pushed the door and it swung back, silently. I followed him inside. He hit the lights and I saw we were in a long, rectangular room. It was easily forty feet by twenty-five. The floor and walls were covered in shiny white tiles, and the ceiling was divided into a series of sloping red-brick vaults.

I moved farther into the room, toward a rusty industrial-sized boiler that sat in the far corner. It clearly wasn’t working—the place was freezing—but a maze of pipes still led out from the top and meandered their way through a series of holes in the walls and ceiling. Four piles of clothes were neatly folded on the floor in front of it. They were all men’s. Next to those lay the remains of a bed mattress—just the springs and frame, no material or stuffing. The only other thing I could see was attached to the wall on the other side of the boiler. It was a metal ring, four inches in diameter, eight feet from the ground. Two lengths of chain were hanging from it. And there was a shackle at the end of each one.

“Hospitable kind of place,” I said.

The guy didn’t answer.

“Let’s not waste any more time,” I said. “Lesley’s pager number. What is it?”

He told me, and I made the call.

“OK,” I said. “I’ve whistled. Let’s see if she comes running. How long should she be?”

“Don’t know,” the guy said. “I don’t know where she’s coming from.”

“Better get ready then, in case she’s around the corner. You get in the boiler, where the coal would go, and keep your head down. I’ll stay out here.”

“You’re not going to . . . ?”

“I’m not going to do anything. To you, anyway. Unless you come out before Lesley gets here. Then I’ll shoot you in the head. If you come out after Lesley gets here, or make any kind of noise, you know
what she’ll do. But if you wait quietly till we’ve gone, you’re free to walk away. You’ve played your part. I’ve got no axe to grind with you.”

Lesley must have been holed up somewhere nearby because it only took her twenty minutes to arrive in the cellar. She made no sound creeping down the outside steps. She just appeared in the doorway, paused for a moment with one hand leaning on the frame, then launched herself into the room like a model strutting down a catwalk. Her eyes were fixed on me. I was in the corner next to the boiler, arms behind my back, leaning slightly forward to keep a realistic tension on the heavy chains. She stopped in the center of the room, leering at me, then suddenly the smile disappeared from her face.

“Where are my people?” she said. “They should be here.”