by David Caris
He glanced down at Kovac, then immediately doubled back and started picking his way down the other side.
‘No you don’t.’ Kovac circled around the pile of rubble and rolled himself up and over the chain-link fence again. The man got tangled in electrical wiring and almost tripped. He paused, pulled himself free, then retreated back up to the summit – perhaps to rethink things.
He was bleeding pretty bad now.
Kovac waited at the fence, not wanting to climb it again but knowing he would need to – and knowing also that this could go on all damned night.
He was confident the man didn’t have any kind of weapon. It was the sort of situation where somebody would show off a weapon, and this man hadn’t produced so much as a pocketknife.
Kovac considered his Glock again, as a way of bringing things to a speedy conclusion. There was no one around, no one watching. Most of the buildings were in various stages of demolition. Everything was overgrown with weeds, the paint peeling, dark masses of vine strangling each and every vertical surface. Spooky, in other words, despite being floodlit.
Kovac knew why the lighting was so good. It wasn’t an attempt to reduce squatting, violence or drug use, but to prevent theft. There were trucks and bulldozers, along with other heavy machinery, stored in a makeshift, chain-link parking lot. Kovac counted no less than five “No Trespassing” signs. The parking lot had cameras, but all were focused on the expensive machinery, not on this pile of rubble.
A round to a leg or shoulder…? Kovac was sorely tempted, but that wasn’t who he was anymore. Yes, this man could fight. Yes, he would probably do real damage. But Kovac wasn’t going to shoot him just to save himself a beating. If he got a beating tonight, he deserved it. ‘Happy just to talk,’ Kovac said, without much optimism in his voice.
His words didn’t have any impact. The man stared down malevolently, but kept his mouth tightly shut. He started digging through the rubble, then came up with two small chunks of shattered concrete. Each was about the size of a baseball, though more jagged and probably heavier. Kovac groaned. He understood the plan. The man would come down the pile of debris as fast as he could, as fast as he dared. And if Kovac got in his way, he would hurl the two concrete baseballs to clear a path.
Kovac considered the Glock again. But if he pulled it out, he would have to use it. The man wouldn’t charge him if he was armed.
He looked around and realized there was no shortage of shields on offer. He picked up a section of plywood and held it in one hand. There was no way to grip it from behind, so he had to grip it from the top. But that worked. He gave the man a shrug, as if to say “okay, let’s do this”.
The man began his charge down the pile of rubble, screaming as he went. Annoyingly, he went the other way. Kovac had to go over the chain-link fence again, but he was getting better at it now. He threw his shield over, scaled the fence, gingerly jumped down, then plucked up the shield again and sprinted.
Whatever gods had cursed Kovac until this point now began to smile on him. As the man galloped down the mountain of building trash, his body back, his hands out with two concrete baseballs, like a rodeo rider, something went wrong. He tripped again and hit the flat ground with too much speed. He managed to throw one concrete baseball before he became too overbalanced, but the shot went wide and Kovac didn’t even need his shield.
The man looked certain to fall, but once again managed the impossible. Kovac positioned himself where he expected the collision with dirt, but the man stabilized himself and instead came swinging in at Kovac with the other lump of concrete. Thankfully, he had lost a lot of momentum. Nevertheless, Kovac felt the concrete lump hit his plywood shield, and he saw an indent appear in the wood.
Kovac pushed hard into the shield, hoping to drive the man back towards the pile of debris, but he was outmatched. The man didn’t come to a stop but instead glanced off the shield before managing to grab it and rip it free from Kovac.
The man came to a stop and threw Kovac’s shield aside. He looked around for his rocks and, not finding them within easy reach, raised his fists.
Kovac was exposed again, so he stepped up with his right leg to give the illusion of a low kick before closing the distance and attempting a vicious hook punch. It missed, and the man clobbered Kovac around what turned out to be his shoulders, one blow glancing into his neck.
Kovac shook the pain off and charged, and the man – perhaps deciding he didn’t have time to brace for this attack – sidestepped, spun and ran.
The two of them cleared the floodlights and plunged headlong into relative darkness.
Kovac was relieved to see that the man was limping. He found he could close on him fast now, and he eventually ran him down on the edge of what had once been a children’s playground. He crash-tackled his target, sending him headlong into a bizarre, broken seesaw on a heavy-duty metal spring.
It was a poor choice of location. The seesaw and its spring absorbed a lot of the impact, and the man slid off it and rolled free. The seesaw snapped back and almost struck Kovac in the forehead before he too rolled and struggled back onto his feet.
The fight had gone out of Kovac’s Neanderthal, though. His fists didn’t come up this time. Instead, he started running again: on all fours to begin with, then straightening a little and resuming the strange limping gait Kovac had seen a moment ago. Kovac crash-tackled him for what felt like the tenth time, irritated by his own clumsiness until a triangle choke helped him accomplish some semblance of control.
Kovac had brought the man down just in front of a slide, and he could feel the edge of the slide’s metal stairs hard against his own back. He was on his side, more or less. The ground smelled musty, almost like foxes, and his own face was far too close to it. He had dirt in his nostrils, mouth and teeth, and he was spitting in an attempt to keep his airway clear while maintaining the triangle choke. He felt like he was trying to wrestle an alligator. The man just wouldn’t let up. He was elbowing Kovac repeatedly in the thigh and was almost onto his hands and knees.
Kovac made a snap decision. He released the triangle choke and started punching the man hard in the temple. Once, twice, three times. It was like punching a cinder block, but the fourth and fifth blows did the trick. The man slumped in the dirt, out cold or close to it.
‘Freak,’ Kovac grumbled, standing and picking grit from his teeth. He checked his pistol was still where it was supposed to be, along with his spare magazine, and was relieved to see both were in place. He plonked himself down on the horizontal end section of the metal kid’s slide, his knees almost at his shoulders, and dropped his head back. Staring up at the few miserable stars London had on offer, he fought for breath.
For a long time, the man didn’t move. Then he grunted sharply and flipped over. He tried to get up onto his hands and knees again, gasping. Kovac stood, no longer willing to take any chances. ‘First question,’ he said, stomping hard on the man’s kidneys and putting him flat on the dirt again. ‘The bags of cash in your attic, the packaged euros. He started kicking the man in his side with each word. ‘Who – what – where – when – why.’ He delivered another vicious blow to the kidneys, grunting as he did it. ‘And don’t skimp on why.’
Chapter 22
Virat Kapoor surveyed his office. Old bank statements still in their envelopes, unopened. Water and electricity bills, also unopened. Pens that didn’t work, crammed into a jar that his daughter had made in elementary school – a jar which never sat flat on any surface, and which routinely toppled over on his desk. There was even a note from his wife, written back in Wandsworth when they were still young. It asked him to buy new bike parts and had been doing so for thirty years now. Kapoor had never been able to throw anything out and he knew why. Time.
He put on his reading glasses and opened his desk drawer. He took out the revolver, another item which should have gone out years ago, but which at least he now had a use for.
It was his father’s gun, bought in a black market deal in Lahor
e and smuggled into England back when such things were possible. Kapoor loaded it, his fingers trembling, his mind lingering on the millions of lives he could’ve lived besides this one.
What if his father had not emigrated to London from Lahore?
What if he had not encouraged Kapoor’s interest in computing?
But Kapoor had devoted his life to computing. He had started with languages like FORTRAN, LISP and BASIC, and they had put him on the path to this.
He weighed the gun in his hand. All those long, bleary hours spent coding. For what? Kapoor had expected more. He was no Gates, but things had been promising for a while there. He had done everything he was supposed to do. He had found a girlfriend, convinced her to become his wife, even worked his way through a Bachelor of Computer Science.
And then Luther Curzon.
He straightened the journalist’s business card on the desk, positioning it where she couldn’t miss it, where she would see it and snatch it up. Then he opened his mouth and put the revolver inside. The metal tasted almost salty, and it clacked loudly against his teeth. His breathing became rapid and shallow and he felt the muscles in his neck tense and lock. Moment of truth.
His cell phone buzzed.
Kapoor’s eyes rolled down to it and he blinked, momentarily thrown.
What did it matter who it was?
Or was it his wife?
She would get his time of death and know he had ignored the call.
He took the pistol out and checked the name.
His journalist.
But it was late for her to be calling.
Surely whatever it was, it could wait until their morning meeting?
Unless of course she was calling to cancel.
This last thought rattled him.
He needed the journalist to find his body before his wife and daughter arrived back in London. He had set it all up, with the front door slightly ajar, depending on the journalist’s professional nosiness to draw her up the stairs. And now this.
He snatched up the phone and took the call. ‘Kapoor.’
‘Mr. Virat Kapoor?’ she said in her irritating, lilting accent.
‘Yes.’
‘We were scheduled to meet tomorrow morning. Unfortunately it’s going to need to be a phone interview. Is now okay?’
No, it damn well wasn’t.
‘It’s very late,’ he said.
‘I know, and I apologize for that, but unfortunately I’m on a deadline.’ She ran straight on into her first question. ‘Did you detect the hack on your own servers?’
‘You’re really not coming here? I’d much rather do this in person.’
‘I would, but you’re turning out to be a small part of my story.’
A small part of the story. He almost laughed at that.
He could give her a story, one that went all the way back to the late 1980s. He could serve Luther Curzon up on a platter.
But then she would have no reason to visit.
No, he had to bait the hook.
Kapoor had looked this woman up online after she first reached out. She was young, her hair cut like a boy’s, but every photograph showing off that same ensemble: tight slacks and an equally tight white shirt. A warrior for justice, her bio said. And God knew, Luther deserved her special brand of justice.
Kapoor said: ‘I have all the evidence you want here. Documents, photographs, spreadsheets. Luther Curzon told me I’d be working on bespoke accounting software, but that was just a front.’
‘Luther Curzon? You know Luther Curzon personally?’
‘I’ve put it all on a sold-state drive for you. I’ll leave my front door unlocked. You’ll find the drive in my office, in my desk drawer. No one will bother you. No one will even see you. My family’s out of town.’
He looked at his door. So often, he had guided his daughter back out of this room when she interrupted. Why hadn’t he welcomed her in, embraced her while he had the chance…?
‘What did Luther Curzon have you working on exactly, Mr. Kapoor? What’s on the drive?’
But of course, his daughter was all grown up now.
He felt himself relax a little. ‘Tomorrow morning. My house.’
‘Fine. Tomorrow. Stay at the house, though. We’ll meet, and I’ll bring our photographer.’
‘I look forward to it.’ Kapoor ended the call and put down the phone. He didn’t hesitate. He knew he wouldn’t be able to do it if let himself think. Instead, he raised the pistol straight to his temple and pulled the trigger.
Chapter 23
Kovac checked his watch. Closing in on 1:00 a.m.
His Neanderthal was Marcus Malone. Kovac knew this because he had dragged a defeated Marcus back to the apartment with the cardboard windows, tying him to the same heater as Griffin. He had found a wallet deep in Malone’s duffel bag. It had contained ID and twenty pounds, as well as a business card for Wilson Software Solutions. This latter item had an address in German and the word “DELPHI” scribbled on it.
Kovac was now sitting on the fetid carpet, his back to the wall, thumbing at one end of this business card like it was a guitar string. It had been an hour since Megan last called him, which meant she was likely asleep. He didn’t want to wake her, but this business card perhaps warranted it…? He was certain this was the same Wilson Software Solutions Megan had told him about. As he recalled, Curzon’s Aurelius was a reworking of Wilson’s product, AccountMe.
But what was DELPHI?
He had Googled it, only to end up with a whole pile of information on ancient oracles.
He tossed the card out into the middle of the room and picked up the golf club again. He had found this putter in a closet and was using it to wake up Malone every time he spaced out. This was happening every few minutes, which was why Kovac had gone in search of something long and unyielding. It saved him having to stand up to nudge Malone. He could just bang the heater with it, beside Malone’s little ears, or jab him in either beady eye.
The man clearly had a concussion, a bad one, but so what? Kovac had no interest in getting him to a hospital – not until he cooperated. Malone had made choices: choices which had left Kovac stiff and sore. The way Kovac saw it, Malone could’ve made things a lot easier for both of them. Now Kovac’s head hurt. His ribs hurt. Even his pride had taken a pummeling. ‘The cash,’ he said, banging the metal heater with the club.
Both his prisoners stirred. They looked at him with a mix of fatigue and resentment. And, in Malone’s case, confusion. Perhaps they had been hoping for police, but kicking a door in didn’t bring the cavalry in this part of London. This was especially true when the apartment downstairs was empty – as Kovac had determined it was tonight.
‘Can you hear me, Malone? Let me guess, bit of a headache?’
Malone dragged his eyes up, but frowned, like he had no idea who Kovac was.
‘Do you know much about concussion?’ Kovac asked Griffin.
She shook her head.
‘I do. When I was a teen, I played some rugby. One of the kids on my team was taken off after a knock to the head. They told him to rest. He was sleepy like Malone here.’ Kovac woke Malone again by raising his jaw with the putter. ‘He left it too long. He went to hospital the next morning, but by then his brain had swollen. Herniated, they said. Most people don’t realize a brain can herniate, but it can. And not like a back, either. A disk slips out of position in your back, it doesn’t affect essentials like your breathing, your heart rate. You just have trouble sitting. Interesting, right?’
‘What is?’ Griffin asked warily.
‘That you’ve been in a half-seated fetal position like that for hours now without even wincing.’
‘Why is that interesting?’
‘Because you can’t sit. At least, that’s what you told Megan Curzon.’ He shifted his focus to the groggy Malone again, addressing him directly. ‘You’re going to die unless you get medical help, Malone, you hear me? Can you even remember me punching you?’
Ma
lone’s eyes were already shutting again, against his will. Kovac banged on the heater with the putter. ‘You listening,? I’m trying to save your life here.’ He looked back to Griffin. ‘Why would he jump off a roof?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Ask him.’
‘Who is he? How do you know him?’
‘I don’t know him.’
‘Okay. Let’s go with a question you can answer. Why would you lie about your back?’
‘What?’
‘Are you one of those people who lie compulsively?’
‘No.’
‘So it’s a scam of some kind, for cash?’
She scowled at him, clearly not appreciating the accusation.
‘Don’t want to talk about your back,’ Kovac said to himself. ‘Okay. How about this?’ He reached across for the bag of euros. He took out one of the plastic-wrapped stacks and used it to point towards the ceiling. ‘My guess is you have six million euros stashed up there in the crawlspace. But it’s hard to tell because the notes vary. You’ve got everything from five euro notes through to five-hundred euro notes. I had to go through every shopping bag, just so I could estimate a total value.’
‘I don’t know anything about it.’
‘Like Malone jumping off a roof. Like your back.’
She nodded.
‘Six million euros, in notes of every denomination, tending smaller rather than larger. What does that make you think of?’
‘Like I said, I –’
‘– don’t know anything about it.’
Griffin was facing the heater and she twisted her head around even further to look at him. Kovac pointed at her spine with the putter. ‘You’re not going to get six million euros for your fake herniation scam, I know that much. And it’s clear you haven’t put a single euro into the décor here, so…’ He waved the putter across the room, bringing it to a stop on the neat corner. ‘Although there is that area there. You look as if you’ve put some money into that corner. What’s that for, anyway? What are you filming over there?’
