The Last Minute

by Jeff Abbott

  “If my child dies because you failed…”

  “What, Leonie? You’ll kill me?”

  “No. I’ll just never forgive…” But she knew what I would lose as well, and she choked on her words. “Okay. What’s done is done. We have to find him.” She paused at the door. “This Special Projects group at the CIA will be hunting us now?”

  “Oh, definitely.” I thought it best not to mention that August and I had had a drink here at The Last Minute a few days ago, and he knew I owned the bar.

  “Well, at least you’re not dead.”

  “There is that,” I said. The phone I’d been given by the lovely snake Anna rang. Leonie sucked in breath.

  “Is he dead?” Anna said by way of hello.

  “No.”

  “I am very disappointed.”

  “He’s hurt. He was meeting the CIA. I screwed up the meeting for him. Hopefully he will not trust them enough to make another approach.”

  “And where is he?”

  “He’s running.”

  “You failed me.”

  “Technically. But I also kept him from surrendering to the CIA and pretty much ruined their relationship.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “I probably would have killed him by now if you didn’t have people interfering.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ray Brewster has sent three people on us.”

  “Who the hell is Ray Brewster?”

  “One of your people inside the CIA.”

  “Sam. I know you are not inclined to believe me on any point, but I do not know a Ray Brewster.”

  “You have an ally inside the CIA. Reel him in. Or you don’t get Jack Ming dead, or his notebook of goodies.”

  “Who… who are these people?”

  I told her what I knew.

  “And you dispatched them?”

  “They won’t be troubling us anymore.”

  Anna was silent. “This isn’t our doing. At all. It’s your problem. Put Leonie on the line.”

  I gave the phone to Leonie. “Anna. Is Taylor all right? Can I listen… listen to…” Her voice broke. I don’t know if she listened to her child or to Anna but she said all right and she handed me back the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “The next time we talk and you tell me that Jack Ming isn’t dead, your child will suffer.”

  The phone clicked off.

  56

  LEONIE HELPED ME SHOWER IN the apartment’s small bathroom. The blood and sand rinsed from me. I sported cuts and bruises and a nice slice across my chest, blood caked on my belly. She washed my hair for me in silence, soaping out the grains of sand. She helped me dry off and I found boxers to put on for the doctor’s arrival.

  I didn’t tell her Anna’s threat against Daniel. The idea would unnerve her, and we had to keep our focus. I was horrified enough for the both of us.

  She closed the door behind her. My arm was a dull ache. My whole body was a dull ache. But if I was hurt, then so was Ming and he couldn’t run as far, or as fast. We might have clipped each other’s wings.

  I drank the rest of Leonie’s Guinness. It felt good to be alive. I wanted to keep the kids alive. The past two days made me very tired of death. I could hear the hustle of Manhattan traffic outside the windows. I closed my eyes and I only opened them again when the door opened.

  Bertrand stood there. He wore a tailored, subtly pinstriped suit on his tall frame, gray, with a sky-blue tie. He muttered something in French when he saw me, which I couldn’t quite hear. He shook his head as he closed the door. I raised my arm, which screamed in protest.

  “The doctor will arrive soon, Sam.”

  “We could be in trouble. Where is Mila?”

  He shrugged. “There was a man here. Asking for you.”

  “Blond?” I thought it might be August.

  “No, dark-haired. He asked how often you came by the bar. I said about once a week, and you had been here yesterday. He wanted to know where you lived. I told him I didn’t know that, all I had for you was a phone number. I gave him a fake one. I don’t think it occurred to him that you have an apartment here.”

  August would send someone; the bar might be under surveillance. Or it might not be. They cared about finding Jack Ming more than they cared about me. Special Projects did not have an inexhaustible supply of resources. Eight people in the New York office. If they needed more feet on the ground they’d have to call Langley.

  I told Bertrand what happened. He took away the martini glasses and the pint glass and brought me ibuprofen. I swallowed four.

  “I suspect,” he said, “you aren’t going to find this Jack Ming again.”

  “We have his computer. Leonie is going through the files.”

  “Alone? You trust her?”

  “I have to.”

  A knock on the door. The doctor. There are all sorts of medical professionals who are willing to practice on the side to not require you make a trip to an emergency room. Usually they’re doctors or nurses who have been bankrupted by a lawsuit or they have a prescription med monkey on their backs. This doctor was a woman, fiftyish, and seemed delightfully sober. She had a backpack on and blue jeans and inside the backpack was an army field medical kit.

  “Doctor Smith,” Bertrand said.

  “Smith,” I said, “I hope I can remember.”

  “Doctor I’m Not Going to Say Your Real Name doesn’t quite trip off the tongue,” Bertrand said.

  The doctor said nothing to me except “Tell me what happened” and “Does this hurt? Does this?” She did not blink when I described getting hit in the arm with a flowerpot, or throwing myself off a building, or landing in a sand truck. She ran fingertips along my arm, tested it, watched me wince. “At worst a simple break.”

  “Can’t you tell?”

  “The kryptonite is interfering with my x-ray vision,” she said dryly. “I can equip you with a fiberglass cast. You need to rest the arm, though. No more jumping off buildings.”

  “Okay,” I said. She set about her work of setting and casting my arm. Bertrand went and turned on a television to a local twenty-four-hour news station. After a weather update, and a political scandal out of Albany involving a state senator and a prostitute, the gun chase through the streets of Brooklyn and us falling off the building were the top stories. But they hadn’t caught me, and they hadn’t caught Jack Ming.

  “I need you to move into fast gear, Doctor, because I got places to be.”

  Bertrand said, “Inspect his head for concussion, please.”

  “I don’t have a concussion.”

  Bertrand brought me black slacks and a black shirt. The doctor assembled a bandage around my arm and put on the cast. I got dressed. She said hardly a word. She left me instructions and a large bottle of illicit painkillers. Bertrand stuck a wad of cash into her hand and she was gone.

  “What is it you want me to do?” Bertrand crossed his arms. He looked like he should be in charge, not me.

  “Special Projects will be working to find him. But they won’t go to the police because they don’t want to explain why they’re causing gunfire in the streets. Now I just have to figure out where Jack will go.”

  “Sam!” Leonie screamed. “Sam, come here!”

  I hurried into the room where Leonie sat. A messaging window was open on the screen. Leonie pointed and I leaned down and read the words you will never find me losers.

  “Jack?”

  “Yes. He’s got a remote access program. He’s got control of the system.”

  Damn. He could format the hard drive remotely; he could wipe out all the information on the system.

  I leaned down and typed I want to make a deal with you. We have a common enemy in Nine Suns.

  The words stood alone until another sentence appeared below them: Is this Sam Capra?

  Yes.

  “Don’t tell him anything. Don’t,” Leonie said.

  You say you want me dead to save your kid. I know. But you kn
ow even if you kill me, your kid is dead.

  “He’s lying,” Leonie said. “He’s lying just to protect himself. To scare us.”

  Give us the notebook and we’ll tell them you’re dead, I wrote. You can hide or surrender to the CIA or whatever.

  I have no reason to trust you, he wrote. You threw me off a building.

  I’m sorry. We have a common enemy. You know I’m being forced to work for them. We can both be free.

  This is a trap and I’m not stupid.

  Why are you even talking to me then? I wrote.

  I want you to know you’ve lost. You will never, ever find me. I’m sorry about your kid.

  We could fool them together. Give them a fake notebook. Tell them you’re dead, they’re not looking for you. We get our kids back. We all win.

  No. I won’t risk it.

  I took a deep breath and typed: I’m sorry, Jack. They killed your mother. I’m sorry to tell you this.

  Long silence. Then: You’re lying.

  No. I’m not. We tried to save her. They took her and they killed her. At a house in Morris County, on River Run Road. Only house on the street.

  I expected then that he would cut off the communication. He would reformat the drive, he would steal our hope from us, he would snap the link.

  I offered the sparest of olive branches: I killed the man who killed her. If that’s consolation. The words just felt so empty.

  How did they? The letters appeared one at a time, typed slowly, as though his hands were shaking.

  They shot her. We tried to help her.

  Sure you did. Sure you did.

  Will you listen to me? I wrote. Please.

  Silence again.

  I wrote: They will kill you, Jack. Our only hope is to help each other. We fake your death, you’re free of them and we get our kids back.

  That requires me to trust you, and that’s not going to happen, Sam. They’re going to want proof. A body.

  I will give them proof that satisfies. I have an idea on how we can do it. They care more about the notebook.

  “What the hell are you promising him?” Leonie said. “Anna won’t believe us.”

  “We’re not delivering a body to them. Just proof. She wants that notebook more than she wants anything else.”

  I’ve read the notebook, so I’m a dead man. So are you if you read it. They’ll draw you in to give you back your kid and then they’ll kill you. There is no way out of this that works for you. If you let me go I can use the information in the notebook to bring them down. That’s the best I can do for you.

  No, I wrote.

  The CIA is going to find you before you find me, Sam.

  Leonie said, “I feel sick.”

  Is there mention of a man named Ray Brewster in the notebook?

  A pause. No.

  That’s the name of the man who’s after you, we think.

  I don’t know that name.

  I know you don’t trust me. I know. All I’m trying to do is save my son.

  We waited for Jack’s words to appear.

  “If they find him first and they tell him that you offered him a deal…” Leonie started then stopped.

  I waited, fingers poised above the keyboard for him to answer. He didn’t. I typed into the void: Please don’t let my son die. He’s never had a chance at life. He’s only a few months old. Please.

  They won’t let Daniel live. I feel certain. You don’t know how bad these people are.

  Daniel. He knew my child’s name. A cold fear struck me: Is there something in the notebook about my son?

  Yes.

  Behind me, Leonie sucked in breath.

  What?

  No. I won’t tell you.

  That was his insurance then, to stay alive at my hands.

  All right. But then you know I’ve told you the truth. This is our only chance, for both of us. Let’s meet.

  Silence for the thirty longest seconds of my life. What do you propose?

  We meet. You give me the notebook. We pose you in some photos to appear dead, which I take. I deliver the notebook and proof of your death. I get my son back. Nine Suns thinks you’re dead and they never touch you again.

  I have to have money.

  That was why he went to the CIA, I realized. He wanted to sell the notebook. I can get you money, I wrote.

  How much?

  A half-million. And a new name, and a place to hide.

  Thirty long seconds. All right, meet tomorrow at the Statue of Liberty. 3 p.m.

  Then the machine whirred, the hard drive reformatting. He seized remote control of the system and he blanked out all the files. Leonie hit keystroke combinations, but nothing worked. The screen went gray and blue and a reformat progress window appeared. “I can’t stop it,” Leonie said. “Damn it to hell.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “I can’t believe he agreed to meet us.” She sounded stunned.

  “Oh, he didn’t,” I said. “It’s completely a trap. He’s going to tell August that’s where we will be. He knows we’re after him, and so is August. This ties up both sides as pursuers. Maybe if someone inside Nine Suns tries to warn us it’s a trap, Jack will tell August that information will ID who the mole is. Everyone who’s chasing him tangles and then Jack’s running and gone.”

  “But he needs money.”

  “The one thing we know about Nine Suns is that it’s global. So he didn’t sell the information to the Americans. He can sell it to the British, the French, the Chinese. Someone will pay. And then Jack hides, and our kids are gone.” I leaned back. “The only trump I had was his mother.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He might really want justice for his mom. That might make him take a risk.”

  “But you said he wasn’t close to his mom.”

  “She’s still his mom. Don’t you think one day Taylor would do anything to save you?”

  Leonie swallowed. “I would hope.”

  “Mrs. Ming died and he’s going to feel responsible. He wants to set a trap for us; we have to set one for him. One where we can grab him and get the notebook and then draw in Anna.”

  “Kill him and take the notebook. Why is this so hard?”

  “They will not just hand us back our kids, Leonie. That notebook is our leverage. We have to have it to guarantee a safe exchange for the children.”

  “I do not like this.”

  We were at an impasse.

  “I’ve told you what I’m doing. Either you want to help me or you don’t. If you think you can track Jack and kill him, then, please, by all means.”

  The silence grew uncomfortable. “Fine,” she finally said. “We’ll do it your way. Not that you’re leaving me much choice.”

  “I told you we will get our kids back.”

  She nodded. “I’d like to eat.”

  “I’ll have food sent up. There’s a menu over there. Order whatever you like.”

  Leonie got up. She stretched hands above her head. She studied the menu. “High-end bar fare. A calamari panini? Mini caviar sliders? Yuck.”

  “Bertrand likes to experiment. I can recommend the Kobe beef burger and the fish and chips.”

  She put the menu down. “I hope they’re feeding our babies okay.”

  “Leonie, hold it together.”

  “I am. I have been.” She steadied her voice. “I’ll go downstairs and order us some food. What would you like?”

  “You order for us both, I like everything on the menu. Perks of being the owner.” I tried to give her a reassuring smile. I supposed she might take her revenge on me by bringing back that questionable calamari panini.

  She went downstairs. And I wondered what was her limit, would she break under the pressure, would she decide that my way was the wrong way?

  What would she do to save her child?

  57

  Special Projects headquarters, Manhattan

  RICARDO BRAUN HELD THREE DIFFERENT CELL PHONES; what he was not holding was his temper
. “Go find out who we’re dealing with beyond Capra,” he said to August, “while I do my damnedest to help you keep your job.” His normally cordial, calm voice trembled with barely contained anger.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “You should be,” he snapped. “Do as I told you and when you’ve got some information, come see me. I have to be on the phone with the gods in Langley, explaining how our inability to secure our informant caused a gunfight in the streets of Brooklyn and ended up on the national news.”

  August tried to swallow and couldn’t. He turned.

  “August. There’s a shoot-on-sight order on Capra. You should know. No one is expecting you to shoot your friend. But he attacked you and two other officers and nearly killed Ming. We’re not chitchatting with him again. He’s going down, dead or alive. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  August went back to the conference room next to his office, where the team, restless and angry, waited.

  August still commanded the Novem Soles task force. So he put all remaining six agents in the Manhattan Special Projects office on the search for Ming and Capra. Agents headed for the Ming apartment; the Ming Properties building; and one for The Last Minute, where he had an unproductive talk with Bertrand. Another agent monitored all incoming traffic on the emergency rooms in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens. Just as Jack Ming tapped the cameras of a toy store and a traffic light, Special Projects had a bird’s-eye into the emergency room entrances, feeding off security cameras. Monitoring software scanned flight reservations and train ticket purchases.

  The shoot order meant August knew he had to find Sam before any of the other agents in Special Projects did.

  Okay, first figure out who these women were—the dead and the living. The redhead with the gun who was intent on grabbing Ming’s gear. Who was she? Who were the dead pair in the building? Special Projects was not exactly equipped to work a crime scene; they had possession of the building (thanks to Beth Marley, who canceled the security service after being assured her family would be protected) and the bodies; a forensic team, and backup agents who were willing to overlook the fact that the CIA is not supposed to operate on American soil, were flying from Langley to work the scene.