Even (7 page)

And all the men in the photos looked as if they were dead.

I sat right at the rear of the booth. Lavine had pushed my chair all the way in, so my back was literally against the wall. The agents sat facing me. They were shoulder to shoulder, pressing forward, blocking me in, trying to make me uncomfortable.

No one spoke for eleven, maybe twelve minutes. Then the fingers on Lavine’s left hand started to drum against his thigh. He fought it for another minute, and then his mouth got the better of him.

“How’re your veins?” he said. “Good?”

“Hope they’re not,” Weston said. “Hope they have to really dig around in there, trying to find one big enough.”

“You know you’re looking at the needle,” Lavine said. “New York’s a death penalty state. Being English won’t save you.”

“But hey,” Weston said. “That’s what you get when you start snapping people’s necks.”

I allowed myself a little smile.

“Snapping necks?” I said. “Didn’t the NYPD tell you? The guy I found in the alley had been shot.”

“The guy in the alley had been,” Lavine said. “But the other five guys all had their necks broken.”

“What five guys?” I said. “The NYPD were only trying to frame me for one. What is this? Rollover week at the bureau?”

“The guys who were found by the railroad tracks,” Lavine said. “I saw you looking at their pictures, outside.”

“I’ve never been near one of your railroads.”

“Don’t waste my time. We’re not here for a confession. Forensics will take care of that. We’re here for something else.”

“Truth is, we don’t know when things started going wrong for you,” Weston said. “We don’t even know for sure if they did. Maybe you just killed those guys ’cause you liked it.”

“But either way, we don’t care,” Lavine said.

“So why are we talking?” I said.

“Because you have something we want,” Weston said.

“A name,” Lavine said. “Help us with that, and we can take the death penalty off the table.”

“We can save your skin,” Weston said. “And we’re the only ones who can.”

“The only ones,” Lavine said. “You need to understand that. You need to be real clear. Take a moment. Think about it.”

He leaned back, his fingers moving faster now.

“You want help with a name?” I said. “Why? Is one of you expecting a baby?”

“Michael Raab,” Lavine said. “Who gave him up to you?”

“Who told you how to contact him?” Weston said. “Who he was? How to recognize him?”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” I said.

“You’re not thinking straight,” Weston said. “We have you. We can bring the hammer down any time we like.”

“And believe me, we would like to,” Lavine said. “The only thing we want more than you is the name. Who gave Michael Raab away?”

“Are we on to weddings, now?” I said.

“He went to that alley specifically to meet someone,” Weston said.

“The alley where you were found,” Lavine said.

“Someone with an English accent,” Weston said.

I shrugged.

“You called him,” Lavine said. “You set the meeting up.”

“Wasn’t me,” I said.

“We heard the 911 tape,” Lavine said. “You didn’t pick him at random. You targeted him. Why? How did you know who he was?”

“Someone gave him away,” Weston said. “Who?”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” I said. “The only people in that alley were me, and the tramp. And he was already—”

“Not ‘the tramp,’ ” Lavine said. “Mike Raab.”

“No,” I said. “The tramp’s name was Alan McNeil. I saw his Social Security card. His number was—”

“No idea where that came from,” Lavine said. “Something he must have picked up. We’ll look into it. But get this straight. His name wasn’t McNeil. It was Michael Raab.”

“And he was no tramp,” Weston said.

“He looked like a tramp,” I said. “Smelled like one, too.”

“Because he was undercover,” Weston said.

“Michael Raab was a Special Agent,” Lavine said. “I knew him for twelve years. He was my partner. And my friend.”

One year my father organized a fete at the local community center.

That would have been OK, except that he made me help. It meant he wouldn’t let me buy anything until the customers had finished picking over the stalls, leaving behind only mangled piles of worthless rubbish. He didn’t believe in gambling, so the raffles and lotteries were out of the question. The only thing I could do, apart from wander around spotting thieves and pickpockets, was the single game in the place that involved skill rather than chance. And even that was stretching the point. All you had to do was throw Ping-Pong balls into empty toilet bowls. You got three shots for five pence. I remember wondering why they bothered. It would have been easier just to hand over the prizes at the start.

I had a go anyway, and went home with three goldfish. They spent the next few months cooped up in a bowl in the kitchen, between the sink and the toaster. None of them did anything. They just floated aimlessly around while people stared in at them through the glass.

I never really gave them much thought, once they were home.

But after the next hour, I knew how their lives must have felt.

The agents withdrew from the booth without saying another word and for fully sixty minutes they hung around outside, observing me. Some
of the time they were sitting, tinkering with their PCs or muttering to each other. Some of the time they were on their feet, standing still or wandering about aimlessly. But all the time, at least one of them had his eyes glued to me, watching me waste even more of my time.

Eventually Lavine’s cell phone rang. He answered quickly, as if he’d been expecting the call. He talked for a minute, gesturing with his free hand even though it was obvious the other person couldn’t see him, and then spun abruptly around to look at me. His face seemed to turn a shade paler, and as he listened I could see his expression change from surprise to bewilderment and finally something close to disgust.

Weston just looked angry when Lavine spoke to him after the call ended. They talked for another minute, then drew their handguns and Lavine stepped cautiously toward the booth. He pushed the door open with his free hand, keeping to the side so that his body was never between Weston and me.

“Stand up,” he said. “Get out.”

This time they did everything by the book. It was as though their actions were being scrutinized by a hidden assessor and they were determined not to get a bad score. We went back through the main office, around to the elevator lobby, and across to a door in the far corner. It led to a staircase. There was no corporate decor, here. Just a gray floor, gray walls, gray handrails, and a gray ceiling. Different sizes of gray pipes were attached to the walls by plain, functional brackets. The place was cold and it echoed, a little like the inside of a battleship.

We went up one level, to the top floor. Two men were waiting for us. They were wearing neat gray suits like Weston and Lavine, and both were holding guns. As we approached they backed off through a door at the top of the stairs and took up defensive positions on the far side.

This floor had the same basic layout as the one below, but instead of passing through an open plan area, the corridor led us between two groups of more modest-sized rooms. There were individual offices on the right, and meeting rooms on the left. Several of the office doors still had name plates. I saw
PETER MOULDS
,
NIGEL GOWER
,
DEREK WOODS
. That one was open. I looked inside. The furniture was gone, but the carpet
was a different class and there were outlines on the wall where pictures would have hung.

We continued along the corridor until we reached a pair of wide doors at the far end. The pale veneer was richly polished, and a plaque on the right-hand side read
PRINCIPAL BOARDROOM
. Lavine knocked lightly, twice, just below it.

“Come,” a male voice said.

Lavine pushed the door halfway open and Weston bundled me through the gap into a large, square room. It was the full width of the building, and all three external walls were floor-to-ceiling glass. There were no blinds, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the tiny people milling around, far below. We were so high there was no sense that the building could be rooted in the same streets. It felt more as if we 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 for you. Help you straighten out your situation. I’ll deal. You tell me when to stop.”

“Stop,” I said.

He carried on shuffling, then laid the pack facedown on the table.

“Ready?” he said.

I didn’t answer.

“OK, here we go,” he said, turning over the top card. It was the two of clubs. “Lavine and Weston told you about the bodies. We’ve found five, male, near railroad tracks, their necks broken.”

The second card was the four of diamonds.

“I assigned Mike after the second one was found,” he said. “It was slow, but he was getting somewhere. He followed the trail to New York City. Set up in here, to stay under the radar while he was undercover.”

Next was the two of hearts.

“Yesterday morning, he missed a regular contact.”

Two of spades.

“We followed protocol. Spoke to the local police, emergency rooms, everyone else. At midday we heard the NYPD had found Mike’s body.”

Three of clubs.

“And they also had his killer in custody.”

Three of diamonds.

“With eyewitness testimony on tape.”

Four of spades.

“Which indicated a leak inside the bureau.”

Rosser leaned back and gestured to the line of cards.

“So, how are we doing?” he said.

“How should I know?” I said. “I told you. I don’t play.”

“Just look at the cards. Add them up.”

“Seven.”

“Don’t count them,” he said, after a moment. “Add up the values.”

“Twenty,” I said.

“Twenty, that’s right. A good hand. Almost unbeatable. The guy who killed an FBI agent, served up on a silver platter. A lot of people would stick with a hand like that.”

“But you’re not going to.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s think about it. Break the puzzle down a little more,” he said, splitting the cards into three piles. “See, I think we actually have three problems here. You follow?”