The Last Minute

by Jeff Abbott

  I tried to scramble to my feet.

  Jack hammered that sand truck through the traffic, leaving a swath. I saw him barrel through a red light, turn, and he was gone. I pulled myself out of the sand heap. I saw the cab that nearly hit me was empty and so I kicked the sand heap smooth.

  Back toward the building where we’d fallen there were multiple police units and officers racing down the sidewalk.

  I felt certain someone was going to point at me at any moment. I did not care to have a discussion with the police. So I got into the cab. There was no one in the back seat.

  “Hi,” I said to the cabbie. “Are you for hire?”

  He stared at my sandy self, turned around in the seat, gaping. My once-sleek Burberry suit was a ruin; I was bloodied and holding my arm awkwardly, and I still had that black eye.

  I glanced at his name on the cab permit. Vasily Antonov. Russian. So I said to Vasily, in Russian, “Can you take me where I need to go?”

  Speaking Russian must have reassured him. Cars behind him were honking so he inched forward, over and through the sand. The cops stormed past us, toward the intersection where Jack had turned. “Where do you need to go?” he asked me back in Russian.

  We pulled up to the intersection where Jack had turned with the truck. “Turn right, please.” Still in Russian.

  “You want me to follow the sand truck?” he answered.

  “That would be great.”

  “This man stole your truck?”

  “Yes.” Sounded as good a reason as any.

  “You look like you put up a good fight for your truck.”

  “I tried,” I said.

  Six blocks down the truck was pulled over. The door stood open, the cab empty.

  Jack Ming was gone. My arm was broken. He knew my face. He knew I was hunting him and intended to kill him. And the police swarmed everywhere. I had to retreat. Daniel, I’m sorry. Dad is so sorry, baby, wherever you are.

  “Take me here.” I gave him The Last Minute’s address. I had to hope Leonie had made it there as well.

  “Nice bar, yes, I’ve gotten fares there.” He glanced at me. “So. Where in Russia are you from?” I guess I had no accent he could detect.

  “I once lived in Moscow.” It was easier to lie than to explain my globetrotting childhood, salted with a dozen languages before I was even sixteen.

  “Ah, I did not know a Russian speaker owned that bar. I will recommend it to the tourists.”

  “And you are always welcome to come in for a drink. When off duty.”

  “Ah, thank you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, and leaned back against the upholstery. The cabbie slid in a CD of Russian pop music to pass the time. Electro-style, sounded like Tatiana Bulanova. So thoughtful. It had a beat and you could dance to it.

  I did my best not to pass out.

  54

  Brooklyn

  YOU HAVE TO LOOK NORMAL. Slapping the sand off his clothes and from his hair, Jack ran down to the Marcy Avenue subway station. The luck he’d wheedled from the world shone on him for the last time for a while: a train pulled in just as he reached the track. He didn’t care where it was bound; he joined the press of people.

  He sank down into one of the hard plastic seats. The shock of what he had survived made him shiver. No one sat next to him and that didn’t surprise him. He was filthy from having hit the sand. His wrist hurt where Sam Capra had grabbed it when the lunatic, the absolute fricking crazy-ass lunatic, had thrown them both off the side of the building. He leaned forward, clutched his elbows with his palms. The gun he’d taken from his mother’s apartment was gone; dropped on the roof before the fall. The clip was empty anyway. He should have shot the man dead when he had the chance but he didn’t know if he could fire a gun into another human being’s face at point-blank range and he’d taken the chance to run. But that Sam Capra bastard was crazy.

  He had thrown the two of them off a building.

  The notebook. A cold terror seized him. If he’d lost that he had nothing to bargain with for his life. He felt its cool weight in the back of his pants. The red leather had slipped farther down, caught in his boxers, one strip of the tape torn loose, the other still, thank God, in place. He pulled out the notebook, ignoring the momentary stares from the women sitting across from him. Not much in New York rated more than a momentary stare, including producing a notebook out of your underwear. He brushed the gritty sand away from the red leather, hugged the volume close to his chest.

  He couldn’t go home. His own mother had betrayed him; the CIA had failed him; Novem Soles had sent Sam Capra and that redheaded woman to the rendezvous point to kill him.

  Novem Soles had infiltrated August’s group. They knew about the meeting.

  What do I do now? he thought. Where do I go? And for the first time, Jack Ming didn’t know an answer, or have an idea. He pulled up his knees and he rode the train under the great beating heart of the city, the only way at the moment he knew how to hide.

  What do I do?

  The notebook’s weight in his hands, like gold. All he had. He’d lost his knapsack, his laptop.

  Sam Capra’s odd words rattled in Jack’s head. I have to. They’ll kill my kid if I don’t. I’m sorry. What did that mean? And the redhead: I’m sorry. I’m sorry you have to die.

  Why the hell were Novem Soles flunkies apologizing to him? It made no sense.

  But he was willing to die to kill you. He apologized for having to kill you. That’s not the act of a hired killer. That’s not the action of a CIA agent gone bad.

  That’s the act of a truly desperate man.

  They’ll kill my kid.

  Jack ran his fingers along the edge of the notebook.

  Well, I’m sorry for that, Sam Capra, he thought, but I’m not dying for your kid. Sorry.

  His first impulse was to run and keep running, maybe until he hit the Pacific Ocean, or the Andes. Sounded like a masterful plan. But you can’t run forever. Running is what they expect you to do. You have to stop them or you’ll never breathe free. Look where running has gotten you. Nowhere, nearly dead, alone. Fight back, do what they don’t expect. Which means using the two weapons you have. Your brain, and this notebook.

  Not weapons. Bait. Bait to lure them in at the time and place of his choosing.

  He started to think about a plan. And he wondered that if someone would be nice enough to turn on his lost laptop, he could remotely access it and he could set his burgeoning plan into motion.

  55

  The Last Minute Bar, Manhattan

  SANDY AND TORN-SUITED AND ARM-BUSTED, I entered The Last Minute, looking like the sort of guy I myself would throw out. Fortunately I still had the black eye to make me look even more respectable. I saw Leonie sitting alone at a corner table, a barely touched pint of Guinness in front of her. Her eyes widened when she saw me.

  The bartender on duty—a guy I didn’t know—actually started coming around from the bar to hurry me out. A few patrons stared at me, just to see how long and how noisy the ejection would take.

  “Uh, sir, do you need help?” the bartender asked. This was the polite first volley, second volley to be now get out.

  “I’m Sam Capra. I own the bar. Is Bertrand here?”

  “Uh, no, Mr. Capra, he’s not on duty today.” At least the bartender recognized my name.

  “I’ve been in an accident.”

  “Yes, sir, um, do you want me to take you to the hospital?”

  I could feel the heat of Leonie’s gaze on me. Wanting to ask: Is it done? Is Jack Ming dead?

  “No. I want to go to the office upstairs and I want you to call Bertrand and have him get here now. Immediately. Then please bring me two martinis, each with two olives. Made with Plymouth gin.”

  “Yes, Mr. Capra.”

  “That lady in the corner, drinking the Guinness, she’s a friend of mine, comp her tab.”

  The bartender nodded. Eyes of customers were still on us. I didn’t like that. “Are you sure
you’re okay, Mr. Capra?”

  “Yes. I’ll be okay.”

  “You’re, um, hurt.”

  “Yes, I know. Call Bertrand, make the martinis. What’s your name?”

  “Clark.”

  “Thank you, Clark.”

  I walked past Leonie, gestured slightly with my head to follow me. She scooped up her backpack and her pint. She waited until we were up the stairs and the door was closed behind me.

  “My God, what happened?” she said.

  “My arm is fractured. At best.” I emptied my pockets: rental car keys, wallet, phone.

  “No, Sam, what happened to Jack Ming?”

  I looked at her; the weight of my failure suddenly felt heavier than my bad arm. “He got away, Leonie. We underestimated him.”

  “You were going to kill him.” She said this to me in the same tone as one might say you were going to pick up the milk or you were going to mail the bills. Her mouth trembled. “Sam. The kids. They will kill our kids…”

  A knock sounded on the door.

  I put a finger to her lips. Clark came in, two martinis on the tray. I thanked him. He handed one to me and one to Leonie, who started to shake her head.

  “Those are both mine,” I said. My voice sounded thick. Leonie set the martini back on the tray.

  “Anything else for you, ma’am?” Clark asked Leonie. Give him credit: he was trying to act like this was an everyday duty. She shook her head, hardly looking at him, fighting for control. He blinked at her, embarrassed, and turned back to me. “I called Bertrand, Mr. Capra, and he’ll be here in fifteen minutes. I told him that you were hurt and he said a doctor will be here shortly.” If he thought it unusual that a physician would make an emergency call to a bar, he said nothing. Times are tough and I figured young Clark valued his job. I realized that I might be in shock. I sat down.

  “Thank you, Clark.” I took a sip of the martini. It was perfect, like chilled steel. “If you make all martinis like this one, you will always have a job here if you want it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You better get back downstairs.”

  “Yes, sir.” He glanced at me and Leonie and shut the door behind him.

  “Nice kid,” I said.

  Leonie’s mouth worked, as if she fished for her words. “You failed to kill him,” she said, “and you’re going to sit there and drink a martini?”

  “Two martinis. I don’t have any painkillers.” James Bond drank martinis when he was in a tux and moving in for the kill. I drank them because my arm was broken and I had badly messed up and I had to stop and think about what to do next. I fought the urge to gulp the cocktail down. “Yesterday I speared a man through the gut and held a woman’s hand while she died. Today I fought and killed two crazy mercenaries who came within inches of killing me and I beat up my best friend and I jumped on top of a moving bus and I crashed a motorcycle through a window and I threw myself and another human being who never hurt me off a building.” I raised my eyebrows at her. “So, yes, Leonie, I’m gonna drink this martini right now.”

  Leonie sat down in front of me. “Tell me what happened.”

  I drank the first martini and then I told her.

  Leonie folded her hands together, as if in awkward prayer. “We have to tell Anna that Jack Ming is dead.”

  “Lying to her is a death sentence for the kids. But he didn’t meet with the CIA, and now he’ll be afraid to deal with them. We ruined his trust in them. That’s the best news.”

  “That’s not as good as killing him. That’s what you said you would do. You promised.”

  “I’m so sorry I’ve let you down. After all, you were supposed to find him, and I found him, not you, and I kept my mouth shut about your failures.” My words came out like a cruel stab. “You could have shot him in the alley and you missed. So, don’t judge me.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.

  I reached for her hand. She let me take it. “I’m sorry. I’m frustrated. Because you’re right. I failed.”

  I took a long sip of the second martini.

  “I’m sorry, Sam, I know you tried. I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t cry, we’re going to get them back. We will.”

  She pushed her barely touched pint toward me, like a peace offering. “You are crazy.”

  “Crazy does not equal efficient. We would have had him if he’d come and August and his men wouldn’t have been there.” I gulped the ice-cold martini. It wasn’t really killing the pain in my arm. “Are you okay?”

  “I will be.”

  “How’d you get away?”

  She licked her lips. “I stole Jack’s knapsack and I ran. His laptop was inside; I thought maybe his notebook was in there, too. I don’t think I was followed.”

  “I saw the notebook. He had it taped to his back. It’s red.” I ate the olives and I took a long sip of her Guinness. I know it should have tasted great but I don’t recommend drinking one right after two martinis.

  “Let’s review. Novem Soles blackmails us into finding and killing Ming. But suddenly, we’re getting hirelings interfering. The sisters tried to tell me we’re on the same side. But that makes no sense for Novem Soles to interfere with us.”

  “Maybe they thought we couldn’t do the job,” Leonie said.

  “I don’t think that’s it. There’s a third party here. And that party is inside the CIA, serving Novem Soles, or with his own agenda. I think it’s this Ray Brewster. Tell me about him.”

  Leonie massaged her temple. “He… he found people who could be useful—let’s say people who had a natural talent for killing, or for theft—and instead of them being bound for jail, he got them to work for him.”

  “Was he in government?”

  “I don’t think so. Why would he need me to give them new identities? The government would be better at that than me.”

  “Did he find you?”

  “Yes. I’d gotten involved with a forgery ring. They were about to get busted. He made a deal with me to shield me if I worked for him.”

  I stood, I paced. Ray Brewster might not be CIA but he had a resource in Special Projects. Or he could be part of Special Projects. The question was, why would August believe anything I told him now?

  “Do you think Ray Brewster is part of Novem Soles?”

  “If he is, then he’s operating without Anna’s approval. Maybe he’s named in the notebook. Maybe Jack Ming has really damaging goods on him. Maybe the goods that he doesn’t want anyone, CIA or Novem Soles, to know.”

  “So do you know his secrets, Leonie?”

  “No.”

  “What was he to you?”

  She didn’t look at me now. “We were together for a while, then we weren’t.”

  “And he didn’t like that. Since you created a new life for yourself in Vegas.”

  “I thought it better to start fresh.”

  “Is he Taylor’s father?”

  “No. He’s not. Don’t ever suggest that he is.”

  I watched her. I needed to know her secrets while keeping my own. No way I could let her know the sisters had an interest in Mila. If she knew there was a bounty on Mila, and that Ray Brewster wanted it, then Leonie had a bargaining chip. One I could not allow her to use.

  “You knew that CIA contact. August. He’s your friend,” she said.

  “We used to work together. We… we used to be friends.” Were we anymore? I didn’t know. It might be a friendship too expensive for either of us.

  “What exactly did you do in the CIA?”

  I took another sip of the martini. “I worked for a small, secret branch called Special Projects. August and I worked on transnational criminal rings. They often have ties to intelligence groups or to terrorism. Very much a black ops group. I think we’re actually hidden in the budget under ‘vending machine contracts.’ ” I was in a confessional mode. Thank you, martini, and blinding pain radiating up my arm. “That was a joke, Leonie.”

  “August
saw me.”

  “You?”

  “Yes. I stole Ming’s knapsack. At gunpoint. Before your friend could get it.”

  “So he knows both our faces now.”

  Leonie put her face in her hands, and maybe she freaked out or she mourned or worried but she only did it for twenty seconds. Then she stood up. “Okay. Regroup. We have to figure out where Jack will go next. Is there a place where I can work on his computer without interruption?”

  “Yes. In there, there’s a bedroom.”

  “Then why didn’t we just stay here?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to know my business. That I own this bar.”

  “Don’t you trust me?” she said. “Well, I guess I answered my own question.”

  “It was need-to-know. The situation has worsened. I have resources here.”

  “Resources.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, another secret. Fine.” She stood.

  “Hey. Do we tell Anna we have Jack’s computer? You know she’s going to want all the data in it.”

  “Yes,” Leonie said without hesitation. “Maybe it’s enough. Maybe they’ll trade us the kids for the laptop. They could know what he knows then.”

  “Or the laptop could give us weapons to use against them. Information on who and where they are.”

  “No. We give it to them.” Fear creased her voice.

  “No. We don’t,” I said. “We use it against them. We have no guarantees they’ll give us our kids back, Leonie. We need every ounce of leverage we can get.”

  “If they know we have it, and we withheld it, they’ll kill the kids. We have to do what they say. Exactly. I won’t risk any other action.”

  “Then they don’t ever know we have it. This is our guarantee, Leonie. That we can get the kids back.”

  “They want his notebook.”

  “Yes. Maybe the laptop has the same info on it.”

  “I don’t get why a hacker would keep a paper record of the most important information. It doesn’t exactly fit his psychology.”

  “I don’t care. That’s what they want. We can use Jack Ming’s laptop to find where he might go next, to see who he could turn to. Go work. Delve. Figure out where he’ll go.”