Even (39 page)

The first of Varley’s agents stepped into the corridor at exactly 2:15. But he hadn’t sent twelve of them, as agreed. He’d sent ten. I watched them
approach, all swollen and distorted by the tiny fish-eye lens. The first four filed quietly past me and backed up against the wall on the stairs’ side of Taylor’s door. They drew their weapons. Another four mirrored their positions on the elevator side. That left one pair. They were directly in front of me. The right-hand guy stepped forward. He knocked, firmly.

“Mr. Taylor?” he said. “We’re here. James Mansell sent us. You should have something for us. Can we come in?”

There was no reply. Nothing happened. I counted to fifteen. Then the agent stepped forward and knocked again.

I couldn’t hear any instructions being given, but the two agents simultaneously raised their hands. They both took a step back. They opened their jackets, took out their Glocks and laid them on the plastic sheet. Their Glocks. The FBI’s signature weapon. I couldn’t believe they hadn’t thought to carry something else. It was a dead giveaway. Absolute naïveté. Which made me worry. If they were so lax over gun choice, how would they have handled the sentry, downstairs?

Taylor’s door eased open a crack. The agents were focused on it. So were their eight buddies. That’s where they expected the threat to come from. But they were wrong. Instead, the doors to 1010 and 1014 flew open. A man burst out through each one. They were wearing Tungsten uniforms. And they had silenced .38s in both hands.

The Tungsten guys didn’t waste any time. They started shooting straightaway. With their silencers in place it sounded like someone swatting flies with a loosely rolled magazine. I couldn’t count the shots—they came too fast, one on top of the other—but the eight flanking agents went down like pins at a bowling alley. Only the central pair was still standing. They were left like statues, frozen rigid with shock. The one who’d spoken snapped out of it first. He ducked down, trying to recover his weapon. The other one followed a split second later. But they were too slow. Their fingers were still scrabbling forlornly on the shiny plastic when two more guys appeared from Taylor’s room. They kicked the guns away, grabbed the agents by their wrists, and dragged them inside.

The uniformed guys were still in the corridor, checking that none of their victims was breathing. I saw them gather up the spent shell cases
as they went. They pocketed the two discarded Glocks. Then they lined the bodies up on separate plastic sheets and carefully hauled them, one at a time, into their own rooms. They took four each. After the final bodies had been removed the guys returned with something shiny in their hands. Aerosols of some kind. They started spraying randomly, swinging their arms in big lazy circles, and I realized they were using air fresheners. To cover the smell of the gunfire, I guessed, in case any other guests came past. They squirted away for thirty seconds, then one of them tipped his head back and pretended to sniff the breeze like a giant rabbit. He grimaced, and mimed that he wanted to stick his fingers down his throat. I knew how he felt. The other guy just smiled. Then they swapped a silent high five, glanced up and down the corridor one last time, and disappeared into Taylor’s room.

If the two captured agents were going to stand any kind of chance, the FBI would have to send its backup team in there, right away. Someone would have to get them moving. And let them know what they were up against. Varley would be best placed. I grabbed my phone. It would mean revealing I’d broken our agreement, but that couldn’t be helped now. His number rang, but he didn’t answer. I tried Lavine. Same result. Then Weston. His was still ringing when the door to 1012 swung open.

Taylor and one of the Tungsten guys came out. I hung up and watched them go into 1010. They stayed inside for less than a minute, then hurried over to 1014. The uniformed guy stayed outside the door. Taylor was out of sight for thirty seconds. He reemerged, phone in hand, scowling. He shook his head, and led the way back to his own room.

I redialed Weston’s number. He was engaged. I tried Varley again. I let it ring for longer this time, hoping the noise would be annoying enough to make him answer. But it didn’t work. And I didn’t get the chance to try Lavine because of more activity across the corridor. I saw Taylor’s door twitch. Twice. Then, slowly, it opened. One of the agents appeared. He moved forward, taking tiny hesitant steps. His arms were
tied behind his back. One of the Tungsten guys was holding him by the collar. And a pistol was jammed against his temple.

Taylor followed, backed by two more Tungsten guys. All five of them were staring at my door. Taylor hit a button on his phone. He lifted it to his ear. I wondered who he was calling. Seven seconds later I found out. It was me.

“I know you can see me,” he said. “Come out of the room. Now.”

I hung up.

He called back.

“I know you’re in there,” he said. “I just spoke to my guy in the lobby. He saw you check in. I’m a little surprised you didn’t come knocking before, with your buddies. I didn’t have you down as a coward.”

I didn’t reply.

“So come out of the room, or this guy dies,” he said.

I didn’t reply.

“What?” he said. “You don’t believe me?”

“No,” I said. “I believe you. I just don’t care.”

“You don’t care. You’re just going to stand there and watch me shoot him?”

“That’s a tempting offer. I do like a good shooting. But I’ve seen eight today, already. So maybe I’ll just lie down, watch a little TV.”

“I will pull the trigger.”

“No you won’t. You’ll get one of your lackeys to do it. But either way, go ahead. Fill your boots.”

Taylor was silent for a moment.

“Got anything else for me?” I said. “Or shall I put the kettle on?”

“If you won’t come out, we’ll come in,” he said, nodding at my door.

The guys either side of him raised their pistols.

“Five seconds,” he said.

“Then what?” I said. “Those are only .38s. Low muzzle velocity. The silencers will soak up another 10 percent. And this is a fire door. I’ll take my chances, thanks.”

“OK. I didn’t want this, but I’m out of patience. Here are your options.
Room 1005. Mother, father, and eighteen-month-old daughter. Room 1015. Mother, and two teenage sons. Come out, or pick one. Then explain to their families why they’re vacationing at the morgue.”

I disconnected him and redialed Varley’s number. It started to ring. Taylor looked at his watch. Varley wasn’t answering. Taylor started to fidget. Then he moved away, to his left. Toward 1005. The pair of Tungsten guys followed him. Their bodies stretched and curved into distorted crescents as they reached the outer fringes of the spyhole’s range, but they didn’t quite disappear. I could still see what they were doing. The phone was still ringing. And still Varley didn’t respond.

So, in the end, I had no choice. This was no dream. There was nothing to hold me back. It was no time to stand around, watching, while three innocent people were murdered in their sleep. Not to mention the 320 slightly less blameless ones who wouldn’t survive the night if I let Taylor walk away. And Tanya. I had to hold on to Taylor to stand any chance of finding her. Even if it meant losing the upper hand.

I let the phone ring two more times.

Then I hung up and opened the door.

Right from the start we knew Navy Intelligence was training us for one thing. Infiltration. The ability to worm your way into a close-knit group, extract secret information, get word back to your own side, and get out again in one piece. So it came as no surprise to find that they’d set up one of the other recruits to spy on us. Especially after all the other tricks they’d pulled. Although, to be honest, she gave herself away pretty cheaply. The type of questions she asked. The places she was spotted. The way she tried to buddy up to you for a few days, before moving on to someone else.

After three weeks an emergency announcement was made. A security breach had been uncovered, it said. We were all summoned to the briefing room, that same morning. I remember everyone sidling past the chief instructor, not making eye contact but feeling smug, confident they were in the clear. And how that feeling changed when everybody was handed a file. It was thick. It gave details of everything that had been leaked. Only it hadn’t come from the person we’d all suspected. The real culprit turned out to be the quietest guy on the course. The one we’d all talked to, trying to bolster his confidence and save him from getting thrown out.

At first I thought the moral would be the usual “trust no one.” But the real point soon became clear. That people will only talk voluntarily
if they don’t perceive a threat. Tongues will only wag when people believe they’re in a position of strength.

Even if, in reality, they’re not.

You could see the surprise creep across both agents’ faces when we reached the elevators and Taylor hit the
UP
button. They fought it back, and gave nothing more away for thirty seconds. Then surprise turned to confusion when the doors opened and Taylor stepped inside.

“Don’t play poker, do you?” he said, as the Tungsten guys herded the agents in behind him. “What did you expect? Down?”

He hit the button for the fourteenth floor.

“But don’t worry,” he said. “Your backup buddies won’t be hanging around long. Any minute now they’re going hear about my car getting spotted on the FDR. They’ll go after it. Chase shadows the rest of the night. Last place they’ll look for you is right here, in the same building.”

The elevator doors opened and Taylor led the way down the corridor. He stopped halfway along. Two of his guys took the agents into 1410. Taylor slipped his satchel off his shoulder and let himself into 1412. That left me alone with the two guys who had done the shooting. The silencers were gone and their .38s were safely holstered. It was a tempting moment. But Taylor’s confidence was sky-high, and I wanted to keep it that way. I checked my watch. It was 2:34. No time to cover any ground twice.

The guy who’d done the rabbit impression was the first to move. He produced a key and opened the door to 1414. A light flickered on from inside the room. The other guy took my elbow and guided me through, in front of him. He steered me past the thin wooden closet and kept shoving until we reached the foot of the double bed. The rabbit guy was standing on the other side, looking around at the furniture. Then he took hold of a dressing-table chair, picked it up, and thoroughly checked it over.

“An elephant couldn’t break it,” he said. “Bring him.”

I sat down on the chair. Between them the two guys bound my wrists
and ankles to its metal frame. They used four of the cable ties they’d taken from me, downstairs. Each one checked the other’s work, pulling all the ties a couple of clicks tighter. They dumped the rest of my possessions—the gun I’d inherited from Lesley’s guy, one last cable tie, my wallet, ID, room key, and key to Tanya’s apartment—on the dressing table. Then they perched on the bed behind me.

I couldn’t help wondering if Tanya was tied up somewhere, as well. Attached to a chair, like me. Or still strapped to one of Lesley’s trolleys . . .

“Is there a kettle in here?” I said. “I could really use a coffee.”

No one answered.

A picture of Lesley’s shiny wooden box crept into my mind. I could almost hear her voice. All her talk of volts and amps . . .

“Room service?” I said. “Maybe a snack, while we’re waiting?”

Neither of the guys replied. They seemed happy to just sit in silence. I couldn’t see my watch, but ten or eleven minutes must have crawled past without any activity. I stared at the wall and tried to fend off all the images that kept forming in my head. Then I heard a light knocking sound. It was coming from a door in the side wall, between the closet and dressing table. The rabbit guy jumped to his feet and opened it. A man stepped through. His hair was combed back and he was wearing a black suit with wide chalk pinstripes, like a Chicago gangster. It took me a moment to recognize who it was.

“Taylor?” I said. “What the hell have you got on?”

He came over and stood next to me.

“You struck me as a smart guy when we talked before,” he said. “So I’ll level with you. I’m looking for a little bonus. Some information.”

“Information only I have?”

“No. Several people have it. But you could save me the trouble.”

“I could save you some trouble. My lifelong ambition. And if I give you this information, I go free?”

“No. You die. In this room. In around thirty minutes’ time.”

“Well, then, it may just be me, but I’m not really seeing much of an incentive.”

Taylor went back into his room and reappeared ten seconds later carrying an old-fashioned doctor’s case. The brown leather was worn into holes where it folded and the metal clasp at the top clearly didn’t work anymore. Taylor laid it down on the dressing table and levered it open. He took out a glass vial full of a clear, colorless liquid and placed it next to the bag. Then he pulled out a brass syringe. It was huge. He curled two fingers around the curved flanges on the side of its wide body, slipped his thumb into the loop at the end of the plunger, and held it out at arm’s length.

“Trying to compensate for something?” I said.

“Bigger than average, I know,” he said. “It’s European. An antique. It came from some old veterinarian, over there. Holds eighty milliliters. More than you really need for humans. But when I go to work with this baby, you don’t need to worry about air bubbles. Because you know what I’ll be injecting.”

He tapped the needle against the top of the vial.

“Is that the stuff you implanted in your patients?”

Taylor nodded.

“Then you can’t use it on me,” I said.

“Oh?” he said. “Why not?”

“You’d end up with 321 victims. One too many. Ruin the symbolism. Everyone would laugh at you.”

Taylor smiled.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “My guys will sit you in the bath, first. Your blood will just trickle away down the drain like watered-down cranberry juice. No one will know. Except you, obviously. If you force us down that road.”