The Last Minute

by Jeff Abbott

  “I’m not much of a killer,” I said to Leonie. “But I will be.”

  18

  Flight 903, Las Vegas to New York

  IN FIRST CLASS WE GOT A DECENT DINNER: shrimp salad and steak medallions, a potato galette, and a wannabe crème brûlée.

  “So. It’s up to you to find our guy. Where do you start, beyond knowing he’s in New York City?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll keep some secrets to myself.”

  “I think we need to discuss our options if they betray us.”

  “If I lose Taylor, it’s over for me anyway. I’m not continuing to breathe, Sam. I’m not existing then.”

  There was nothing more to say; the flight attendant stopped and asked us if we wanted coffee. We both declined. Leonie announced she would sleep the rest of the flight. I closed my eyes and thought about a plan of action.

  One thing I did do: I surreptitiously snapped a picture of Leonie while she dozed. I thought, for some reason, that it might be valuable to have a photo of her. She was a woman with a lot of secrets, and I might need to know more about who she was.

  We landed at LaGuardia late, delayed by dodging a goliath of an early summer storm raging over Kentucky and Ohio. We rented a car—no way I was trusting cabs and the subway during a manhunt—and drove to a midtown Manhattan hotel, the Claiborne, where Leonie had already booked us rooms across the hall from each other. The rest of the hotel seemed ready to rouse, the city stirring awake, but I was already dead on my feet. My energy was gone because we had no clue where Jin Ming was.

  “Go sleep,” Leonie said at our doors.

  “I can’t.”

  “I can’t have you hovering over me.”

  “How are you going to find him?”

  She patted the laptop, raised the cell phone. “It’s what I do, bullet.” She tried a smile but it was an awful, desperate thing and she knew it. “Sorry. Just trying to stay sane.”

  “Jin Ming vanished from Holland, no trace.”

  “There is always a trace,” she said. “Always.”

  19

  New York City

  JACK HAD A WINDOW SEAT on the flight from Brussels; no way he was going to fly from Amsterdam—Novem Soles would be watching, he thought, the train stations and the airports. Ricki drove him to Brussels and left him at the airport. He went into a bathroom stall and shut the door. Then he oiled and combed down his hair to look like his new passport picture. He stuck in a thin, bulbous piece of plastic in each cheek, to subtly change the shape of his face. He put in the false teeth; they slid over his own teeth. This meant he could not eat during the flight but he didn’t care. He put on a pair of slightly tinted glasses. They were not to change his eye color but Ricki said that every bit that made him look less like himself, or hid him, helped. She’d almost cried as she slipped the glasses on his face.

  He exited the stall and gave himself a short, quick glance in the mirror. He couldn’t stand and preen or adjust the implants. He still looked like Jack Ming but not exactly, and with any of the biometric scans at customs in the United States, if he was on a watch list, perhaps this would give him a cushion. He wore a white shirt and jeans and sneakers and looked anonymous.

  He had no trouble in the Brussels airport. He tried not to watch everyone, for fear of looking paranoid, but he kept scanning faces, looking for another face looking back at him. He took his seat. An older lady sat next to him, immediately produced a thick novel with a swordsman and a dragon on the cover and opened it at the first page, almost defying him to try and make conversation with her. He sighed in relief. He cocooned himself with his iPod and wrapped himself in Beatles music. He closed his eyes then woke up with a start, one of the cheek implants almost half out of his mouth. I could have swallowed this, he thought. Not awesome if he choked on his own disguise in the middle of a transatlantic flight. He tongued the implant back into place and glanced at his traveling companion. She was lost in her own world, paying him no heed.

  New York, shrouded in cloud, opened up beneath him and he stared down. Home. Never thought he’d see it again. Never thought he’d come back. But what choice did he have?

  He walked through customs, the new burgundy passport identifying him as Philippe Lin, a Belgian national, remembered to breathe while the customs agent inspected it, scanned it, asked him his business in the country. He was here to visit family. She asked for the address where he would be staying; he gave her one provided by Ricki’s friend. She asked if he was traveling anywhere else other than New York. He said he was only visiting New York because no other city could compare. She looked hard at him, as though his affable tone were an affront to the seriousness of the moment. He thought: What the hell are you doing, trying to make a joke? His stomach twisted, dropped. She was a big-built, older lady who did not seem at all bored by her work. She glanced at her computer screen, glanced at him. He willed himself toward calm.

  In Amsterdam, Ricki sat with her hands on the keyboard. She had pierced the main database for Belgian passport information, kept in the Federal Public Service Foreign Affairs department in Brussels. The database was accessed if there was a question about any Belgian passport from a friendly nation. The imprinted number could be scanned via a watermark or entered into the host country’s passport inquiry database. The confirmation was sent, a returning ping of approval coming back to the country’s host system.

  She had made a few phone calls past midnight, and found a hacker in Antwerp who was willing to help her.

  “All I need,” she said, “is for you to trick the system into approving every Belgian passport in a time window.”

  “I can do thirty minutes. I don’t want to leave an open feed into the system longer than that, and I don’t want to leave code behind,” the hacker said.

  “Thirty minutes.” And if it took Jin Ming longer than thirty minutes to get through customs…

  “Now,” she said into the phone.

  The hacker pressed the button.

  According to the airline’s website, the flight from Brussels had landed. Don’t be in the back of the line, she thought.

  Ricki heard a knock on her door. She stood up. Then she leaned down, typed a code into the program. The system logged out, encrypting itself to await further instructions.

  Ricki put her eye up to the keyhole to see who was there, and the door smashed inward.

  The customs agent glanced back toward her terminal screen.

  Oh dear God, Jack thought. I’m sunk. The irony that he was an American trying to get into America under a false name and flag hit him hard. My face. How much is my face like what might be in their database? What if Ricki’s scheme hadn’t worked? And if he was arrested, what deal could he cut? I’m here to give the CIA proof that they need to bust a crime ring. Yes, you’re welcome, let me go now.

  Then the customs agent stamped the passport, slid it back to him. “Thank you, Mr. Lin, enjoy your visit in the United States.”

  He nodded and he walked on, the agent’s eyes already turning toward the next arrival in line.

  He kept the implants in place. The customs agents searched his bag and waved him through. He kept his head down as much as he could, navigating through the rest of the terminal, sure that he was being photographed on security cameras, just as everyone else had been. Novem Soles had already shown that they could pluck data from police and government, and he knew from the printouts in the notebook that they owned people inside several governments; maybe they were looking for him even here. He took the AirTrain to the Howard Beach station and boarded the subway to take him into Manhattan. No one glanced at him, no one paid him any attention. As the subway chugged toward Manhattan, he ducked his head down and spat the teeth and the implants into his palm. Then he slid them into his bag.

  He needed to be Jack Ming again, just for ten minutes. Just long enough to say goodbye.

  Thank you, Ricki, he thought. You got me here, you’re the best.

  20

  Amsterdam

&nb
sp; YOU KNOW, a friend is a good thing to have.” The Watcher sat down across from Ricki; she perched on the edge of the couch, shivering. He had forced his way in, the gun steady on her.

  “You don’t need to be afraid.” He smiled. “All I want is information and then I’ll leave.” And to prove it he put the gun down. “We have a mutual friend. Pierre in Brussels, who just rushed creating documentation for a friend of yours. A Chinese boy.”

  She said nothing.

  “Pierre found out that we were looking for your friend after he overnighted you the false IDs.”

  “Pierre doesn’t work for you.”

  “He doesn’t have to work for me. He’s just afraid of me.” As soon as the Watcher had received the tip that someone using an Amsterdam exchange dial-up had contacted the CIA with crucial information on Novem Soles, he had known it must be the Chinese boy, the one their hireling had failed to kill. He was the only remaining loose end from the spring offensive. And now he was a real danger.

  “I don’t know anything about Ming’s business.”

  The Watcher smiled at her. She was lovely. He’d spent a lot of time in Italy, where many of the women in his former line of work were African. He had not taken one in a long time. So much for past pleasures.

  He studied her wall of bootlegging machines. “You knew my friend Nic, too?”

  “Yes. Slightly.”

  “Of course. You worked in film… and he worked in film. I guess content is really what computers are all about now. Remember when they used to be about solving problems? Thinking more creatively?”

  Ricki stared at him.

  The Watcher put on his warmest smile. It was a very cold flexing of the mouth but he was unaware of this; he thought it looked like a real smile. He smoothed a hand along his thin mohawk. “So you steal and copy movies and he made nasty ones.”

  “I didn’t know about that. I just knew him because he sold me software to crack the copyright codes.”

  “Nic was generous. And now you are generous to his friend Ming.”

  Ricki ran her palms along her jeans. “Ming wanted to get out of the country. All I did was give him some names of people who could help him.” She raised her gaze to his, her eyes defiant.

  Oh, a bit of spark. He used to know how to stomp out that flicker of individual flame. “I want to know where Jin Ming is, and what evidence he has about the people Nic worked with.”

  “I don’t know the answer to either of those questions.”

  “He is eventually going to New York. I have someone trying to crack the flight reservations database to find out if he’s flying from here or another city. But I’m guessing you can just tell me and save me the money and effort.” His steely gray eyes looked at her, then at the gun, then at her again.

  She didn’t speak.

  “It’s really best that you help me.” He stood up. “How much is this equipment worth to you?” He pulled a weight from his pocket. A magnet, a large one, the kind you’d find in a factory. Pierre in Brussels had told him what kind of work Ricki did and so he’d decided to take it away from her. He began to run the magnet along the shelf.

  “Stop it, you’ll ruin them!” She stood up, horror on her face.

  “Yes. I’ll erase”—and he laughed at the idea of it—“about several thousand euros’ worth of business in about five minutes if you don’t answer my question.”

  He thought he saw one more flash of anger in her dark eyes. Then she gave in. “He flew to Dublin,” she said quietly. “Then a direct flight to Boston. Then a train to New York. He was trying not to be obvious.”

  “Thank you. He is meeting the CIA there.”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”

  He believed her.

  “He has some evidence against me. What is it?”

  Now her fear—and he knew it was there, under the surface of her false confidence—showed itself. “I really don’t know. He didn’t show me any evidence. He wouldn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask. Better I don’t know.”

  “Better, of course. Did he have a computer?”

  “Not when he got here. I gave him a spare laptop.”

  “What about a disc? Or a flash drive?”

  “I didn’t see one, but he could have hidden it.”

  “How can I reach him on the phone?”

  “He didn’t take a phone with him. I don’t have a way to call him. He didn’t want to implicate me if he got caught.”

  Once again he believed her. “He has evidence I want. You know it.” He slid the barrel of his gun along her jaw. “You have such a good bone structure, Frédérique.”

  She paused. “He… He…”

  “What?”

  She trembled. “He left today. Before he left, he got dressed… and when he was putting on his shirt I saw he had an envelope taped to his back. He lied and said it was a bandage but I could see it wasn’t.”

  “How big?”

  She made a rectangle with her hands. Maybe a bit smaller than a sheet of paper.

  “What was inside the envelope?”

  She bit her lip. It made her look gentle, pretty. Oh, he thought. The hunger, it never went away. Ever.

  “Ricki. I’ll make sure your business is safe if you tell me. I’ll give you the equipment to grow it, young lady. Or I’ll destroy it. Your choice.” He could tell by her hesitation that she knew. She knew. Maybe she’d looked at it when Jin Ming was in the shower, or while he slept.

  “It was a notebook,” she said. “Like a journal. A red moleskin cover.”

  “And what was in this notebook?”

  “Photos. Emails. Screen captures. Spreadsheets. Printed out and pasted in. But I didn’t understand any of it, I didn’t. He said it was stuff Nic had stolen from people you were blackmailing.”

  The Watcher’s mouth twitched. “Did he digitize the notebook?”

  “Not here. It would have taken a while.”

  Her equipment would have to be taken or kept, analyzed, checked to see what actions had been performed. Jin Ming might have left a trace to follow. The Watcher decided he had to get to New York, now.

  “Excuse me, please, Ricki.” He opened up his phone, ordered the person who answered to come around to Ricki’s address. He said, “Hold on one moment,” cupped his hand over the receiver, and said, “Here’s what I can offer you, Ricki, and I’m sorry it’s not a better deal for you. My group is taking over your business. You will continue to run it, but we will take fifty percent of your profits. Do well and we’ll help you take over other operations in Brussels, Antwerp, and you can run them. I’m going to have some people in here soon to go through your computers to make sure you’re telling me the truth. Then we’ll leave you alone.”

  “You can’t,” she said, shock in her tone.

  “I certainly can. Now, if you decline or you betray us, what we’ll do is I’ll have one of my employees load you up with heroin, hand you over to a dealer in whores who will rape you and sell you, probably to a brothel in Nigeria or Morocco or South East Asia. You might have an easier time of it in Asia; a girl from Senegal would be considered more exotic, and would be treated better.”

  She stared at him, speechless, jaw quivering.

  He gestured to the phone. “I’m waiting.”

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  He stood up and he slapped her, hard. She fell across a stack of counterfeit SpongeBob DVDs, scattering them to the floor.

  “Hostile takeover or heroin and whoring, bitch, decide. I don’t have all day.”

  She looked up at him, her mouth trembling. “Hostile takeover.”

  “That’s the right decision. You’ll see I treat my employees very well. Unless you betray me. If that happens you’ll be dreaming up chances of suicide, because you’ll see death as the least of all evils.”

  He opened his phone, made another call.

  “Bring someone who knows computers. I want to know what photos have been scanned here, what emails sent, even if they’ve deleted the
photos or the emails. Keep Ricki off the systems.” He listened. “No, man, you don’t get to rape her when you’re done. Behave, all right?” He winked at Ricki. “She’s one of us now.”

  He clicked off the phone. “I think Jin Ming will know when we find him that you must have squealed on him. Let him think you cared about him, until then. He calls you, you say nothing. You warn him, our deal changes.” He patted the top of her head; she flinched.

  He headed for Schipol airport to catch the next flight to New York.

  A notebook. Of all the things to be afraid of. Of all the things that could destroy him.

  21

  Claiborne Hotel, Manhattan

  I AWOKE WITH A START. I’d fallen asleep with my clothes on, on the bed, exhaustion piercing past the feverish high I’d had running for hours. I hate sleeping in my clothes; it always feels like the sleep has seeped into the fabric. I heard the knock on the door again, insistent. I’d put out the Do Not Disturb sign. I reached for my gun and then remembered I didn’t have one. There was so much paperwork involved in transporting a gun; I’d get one from my bar, The Last Minute, later.

  “Sam. It’s me.” Leonie.

  I glanced at the clock. Ten in the morning. I got to my feet and opened the door.

  “I want you to order coffee and breakfast for us, to your room. I don’t want the maid to see my room right now.”

  “Why not?”

  Leonie rolled her eyes. “Do what I tell you. Coffee, two pots, French roast. Breakfast, make it big, I don’t know when we’ll eat again. Come get me when the food is here.” She turned and went back into her room.

  I obeyed her, ordering us a spread and two pots of coffee. I showered like a man running late, pulled on jeans and a fresh shirt that I could wear untucked. I checked my personal phone, where Mila would call me. There was no message. Maybe she’d keep her distance. There was no message on the phone Anna had given me.