He had been thinking about the three people who had gone up in the elevator. The fifth floor was taken up by the offices of a partnership of lawyers. Richard had decided against following them up. He’d have stuck out even more among the sharks in suits than he did already. Then again, Gordy Lister’s appearance—leather jacket and cowboy boots—didn’t exactly conform. The woman in her plain suit was more like it, but she was young—he reckoned she couldn’t be much more than thirty. Maybe she was a call girl whose job it was to service Lister and the tall man.
Richard shook his head. There was more to the woman than that. She was attractive enough to be a hooker, but too serious. The same went for the older guy—he wasn’t out for a sexual jaunt. His eyes had strayed toward Richard once and they had made him avert his gaze immediately: they were pale blue and ice-cold. Who was the guy? He didn’t look much like a lawyer, either.
Then it struck him that the three might go their separate ways when they came out. Which would he tail? Lister was the one who knew about the twins, but he didn’t seem to be giving the orders. He didn’t know anything about the woman. That left the tall man. Yes, he was the one, Richard decided. He’d wasted enough time with Gordy Lister. He fingered the screwdriver he’d bought earlier. As a weapon, it was better than nothing and, when he was young, he’d been trained how to kill with whatever was to hand. His gut flipped. He thought of the twins and pressed his lips together. He was ready to do what it took to get them back.
Twenty minutes later, the woman came out. She looked up and down the street before walking away to the left. Richard was in a darkened doorway, so she didn’t spot him. A few minutes afterward, Gordy Lister appeared. He headed to the right, his head down. Richard’s heart started to pound. The tall man was next.
He finished buttoning his coat, then adjusted his hat. He didn’t pay any attention to the street, concentrating on taking a cigarette from a silver case and firing up with a matching lighter. Richard was struck by how self-assured the man looked, as if he owned the place. Maybe he did. After inhaling deeply several times, he strode away to the left. Richard gave him fifteen seconds, then slipped out of the doorway. He stayed on the opposite side of the road, his head bowed.
The tall man turned left at the next junction and walked with measured, long strides, never looking round. After he took another turn, Richard realized he was heading for the lot that Lister used. That was bad news. Once he’d got into his car, the tail would be over. Richard slowed down, wondering what to do. The best he could come up with was to continue tailing the guy. Maybe he would meet someone, or make a call that gave something away. He knew he was clutching at straws. This was bullshit. He should have gone to the cops. Tomorrow he would do that. He needed professional help.
The man dropped his cigarette outside the parking lot entrance and crushed the butt with a highly polished shoe. He still didn’t look around. It struck Richard, out-of-towner that he was, that this guy wasn’t exactly streetwise. A stoned mugger could have crept up on him. Richard timed another fifteen seconds and then followed. He was in luck. The tall man was still on street-level, moving toward the far corner of the parking area. Now it was easy. Richard bent over and used the vehicles to shield his approach. His target was standing next to a top-of-the-line BMW.
Richard got to within ten yards and was behind a dark blue Japanese SUV when he felt cold steel on the back of his neck.
“Hands on the floor.” The voice was low and menacing. Strong fingers gripped his body and he realized that there was more than one man to deal with. The screwdriver was taken from his pocket and tossed away.
“That’s it,” said a second voice gruffly. “Get up, asshole.”
Richard raised himself slowly, preparing to go into action as soon as the barrel moved away even slightly. Then he felt a sharp pain in his lower back.
“We heard what you did last time,” the first man said. “We aren’t scared of ex-marines, pal. In case you’re wondering, this is a combat knife and I’ve used it to gut twelve people.”
Richard knew immediately that the man was telling the truth. He let himself go slack. Then he took a heavy blow to the head and crashed to the concrete. The last thing he knew was another hit. It cracked his skull from one side to the other.
The twins hadn’t died in the wreckage of the Italian sports car in the Catskills back in 1972. They instead watched as two unconscious young people of matching gender and build were taken from an eighteen-wheeler loaded with lumber. Their bodies were doused with petrol and then the car pushed through the crash barrier by the lumber truck. Men were already waiting in the gorge below to check that the bodies were burned beyond recognition. The twins climbed into the rig and went on to their new lives.
In later years they sometimes talked about whether their deaths had really been necessary. Larry, as the male now called himself, tended to think they’d been overcautious, but reinventing himself as a rich man’s son from Colorado had given him the opportunity for much creative thinking. His sister, now Jane, was less concerned with external appearances. She spent most of her time in the lab, developing drugs and treatments that brought in millions and had impressed several government agencies. Of course, their father would have been impressed by their daring and their subsequent achievements. They hadn’t told the old man that they were going to start their lives again, so he had been forced to mourn their deaths before facing his own. It wasn’t in them to regret his passing.
The twins trusted each other implicitly. Indeed, their interests were closely connected, both intellectually and businesswise. But they didn’t often meet. They didn’t feel any danger of their true identities being uncovered, even though there were people in the country’s deep establishment, those who had real power in their adopted country, who were aware of what had happened in the Catskills. Rather, the twins felt at ease living apart. They met once a year, each time in a different place. Other than that, they spent their time in their chosen locations—Jane in her research facility in northern New England, Larry close to the seat of power in Washington, D.C.
Even the events of recent weeks hadn’t brought about any change in the twins’ activities. It would take more than a breach of security and the deaths of some insignificant people to worry them.
Twenty-Nine
I stepped back from the window and checked my weapons. I had the two pistols and the combat knife in my belt, and extra clips in my pockets. The M16 would make the cops keep their distance, even if I ran out of ammunition. I didn’t want to get into a firefight; I was pretty sure that wouldn’t be up to me, but I wouldn’t shoot first. I looked through the slats of the blind again, screwing up my eyes. I could make out officers with rifles crouching behind the vehicles. Mary Upson was no longer on the boardwalk. It was time I made a move.
I went to the bathroom, keeping the light off. There was a small window that I reckoned I could get through. I opened it and looked out. There was very little light at the rear of the building. If the local commander knew what he was doing, he’d have deployed men at the rear. I sincerely hoped the FBI had not been called in yet. They would have covered all the angles.
“Matt Wells?” The loudspeaker distorted the man’s voice. “Come out with your hands up! Leave all your weapons in the room!”
Obviously Mary had told them about my mini-armory. I couldn’t blame her. If I had any self-control, I wouldn’t have let myself succumb to her charms. As it was, I had done the worst thing that a man could do to a woman—reject her at the moment of sex. Never mind “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”—hell hath no fury like a woman unfulfilled.
“Matt Wells! This is your final warning! Come out with your hands up now!”
I forced myself to concentrate on the siege. I had to give escaping a try. I was no use to Karen and our unborn son in a cell. They were alive—I had to believe that. They were alive.
Then there was a rattle of automatic rifle fire and the window disintegrated. The blinds flew about the
room in small pieces. At least that saved me breaking the window. From the back of the room, I aimed my rifle above the roofs of the cruisers and loosed a sustained burst. That emptied one of my clips. I slapped in the last one, ducking down as more rounds blasted into the room. I took a deep breath and fired off half of the clip. Then I ran back to the bathroom, bending double as another hail of fire came in. Plaster dust filled the air and made breathing difficult.
I flicked on the M16’s safety and threw it out of the window. To my intense relief, no one fired from the back of the motel. I stuck my head and shoulders out. For a few seconds I panicked, unable to get a grip on the window frame. Then I succeeded, propelling myself into the chill air. I hit the ground awkwardly and winded myself. The butt of the assault rifle was by my face. Gasping for breath, I got to my feet, picked up the M16 and stumbled forward. The ground was covered in some kind of prickly bush that tugged at my trousers. I drove my knees up and down, getting a flash of rugby training. Then the vegetation cleared and I found myself in a dip, the ground ahead sloping up to a fence. To my rear, the firing had finally stopped. Any second now, the cops would be in the room and would find me gone. My time was running out.
I clambered over the wooden fence. There was an asphalt road beyond, not much wider than a track and without traffic on it. I peered through the dawn mist and made out a barn about a hundred yards to my right. I slung the rifle over my shoulder and sprinted down the road, feeling the pistol grips jab into my belly. I slowed as I approached the building. A cow was by the fence. It stopped chewing, its large wet eyes on me.
Looking round the corner of the barn, I saw a two-story house close by. There were lights on inside, people round a table. The farming folk had got up early, but they either hadn’t heard the gunfire or it somehow passed for normal around here. I glanced back and saw no sign of pursuit; an ominous silence hung in the damp air. I unslung the M16 and headed toward the building. There was a pickup parked beyond the front door. I would be in full view of the family, but I had no option. I kept to the dark spots in the yard as much as I could and made it to the vehicle without attracting attention.
I saw that the passenger-side door lock was up, but the keys weren’t in the ignition. I opened the door quietly, sliding the rifle to the floor. Then I moved over to the driver’s seat. My American friend Andy’s face swam up in front of me. He’d been in a gang in New Jersey when he was kid and he’d learned all sorts of useful tricks, one of which was hot-wiring cars. I remembered some lessons he’d given me back in London, but it was one thing hot-wiring your own car with no pressure and an expert beside you, quite another a few yards from where the owner was eating and a posse of armed police about to come down the road.
I felt beneath the steering wheel and wrenched out the wires. I could make out the colors in the lights that were shining out from the house, but I wasn’t sure they were the same in the U.S. Shit, my fingers were twitching like a kid’s on a first date. I took a deep breath and tried to remember what Andy had shown me. Fortunately, that strand of my memory seemed to be working perfectly. I stripped the ends of the wires with my fingernails, then twisted a few together. The starter motor gave a dull hum and then the engine turned over. I hit the gas, engaged Reverse, and shot away from the farmhouse. As I moved toward the road, I saw an elderly man in a plaid shirt come out of the farmhouse, waving and shouting.
Looking to the right, I saw a group of police officers in Kevlar jackets, carrying a mixture of rifles, shotguns and pistols. They were about fifty yards away but didn’t seem to notice I was the truck’s driver. I swerved to the left and floored the gas pedal, keeping my pursuers in sight in the mirror. It struck me that a smart operator would have blocked the road in both directions. Then again, a smart operator would have stationed personnel at the rear of the motel.
As I drove, I fumbled under the seats for a road map. No such luck. The farmer would have known his way around blindfolded. Then I remembered the compass. I took it out of my shirt pocket and oriented myself. As soon as possible, I needed to head south, or better, southwest. That much my memory was capable of supplying. There was another junction ahead, with a sign to Interstate 87. I decided to take the smaller road that hugged it for a while and then go for a vehicle upgrade.
A few minutes later, I reckoned the time had come. There was a clump of trees to the right of the road, with a narrow track leading there. I made the turn and drove up the rough surface. There was good cover in the trees and I left the pickup in the most out of sight place I could find. If the farmer found it before the cops did, he could have the M16 with my compliments, though I threw away the half-empty ammunition clip. I made sure the pistols were secure under my belt and jogged back to the road. There was very little traffic and no sign of pursuit yet. I ran onward to the right, the interstate entrance ramp about half a mile ahead in the rapidly brightening dawn. It was touch and go. If an obliging driver passed, maybe I had a chance.
I got to the road that led to the interstate, my lungs straining and my knee beginning to protest. I stuck out my thumb and, to my amazement, the first vehicle slowed and then stopped. It was an eighteen-wheeler carrying a forty-foot container. I stepped up and grabbed the door handle on the nearside.
“’Morning,” said the bearded figure at the wheel. “Cold enough to break a polar bear’s balls.” He grinned at me, running his eyes over me. “You one of those jogger assholes?” He engaged first gear and hauled the load up the incline toward the interstate.
“Uh…no,” I said, putting on an accent that I hoped would pass for Canadian. “Just in a hurry.”
“Where you heading, man?”
I decided to go for broke. “Washington.”
“Well, I can take you as far as Baltimore. That do?”
“Certainly will.” I remembered taking a day trip to the city from D.C. when I was at the crime conference. Joe Greenbaum and I had ended up in a waterside restaurant, eating crab and drinking a ridiculous amount of beer. Which reminded me. I needed to get in touch with Joe.
The driver extended a huge hand and grinned. “Name’s Derek. But you can call me Bo.”
“A perfect ten,” I said, with a laugh, remembering the movie. My memory was behaving more strangely by the minute.
“You got it.”
I decided to play safe in case he tuned into the local radio-station news. “I’m Pete,” I said, suddenly having a glimpse of a completely bald man—my gay friend Peter Satterthwaite.
“You a Canuck?”
“Yeah,” I said, taken aback that my attempt at an accent had hit gold.
“So you gotta like Neil Young.” Bo’s expression had turned grave. There were some things you didn’t joke about.
“Oh, yeah,” I replied.
“Gimme your top five songs.”
This guy was serious about his music. I thought I was going to have to kick-start my memory, but it had things well under control.
“Let’s see. ‘Thrasher,’ ‘Cortez the Killer,’ ‘Ohio,’ ‘Powderfinger’ and ‘Heart of Gold.’”
“Yeah!” Bo shouted, holding up an open hand. “Four out of five ain’t bad.”
I made the high five and grinned. “No points for ‘Heart of Gold,’ eh?”
He grunted. “Middle-of-the-road bullshit.”
I thought of the blonde woman called Karen. “The girlfriend likes it,” I said.
“Oh, that’s all right, then,” Bo said with a grin. “Whatever the little lady wants…”
I swallowed a laugh. If Karen had heard herself described in those terms, the bearded man would have been wondering where his reproductive organs had suddenly gone.
“So,” he said, passing another container truck, “what you got on in D.C.?”
I shrugged. “Meeting up with some friends.”
“What is it you do, Pete?”
I went with what made the real Pete his first million. “Computers.”
Bo glanced at me. “Is that right? I hate the fucking things.
”
That was good. He wasn’t going to catch me out on techie particulars. “Yeah, well, I guess you don’t have much call for them in your line of work.”
“True,” he said, almost wistfully. “I just sit here all day driving other people’s stuff, a slave to the machine.”
I looked at him. I hadn’t expected to come across a revolutionary in the cab. He deserved encouragement. “You need to make a stand, Bo. What’s in the box?”
“Lobsters,” he said, shaking his head. “Rich folks’ chow.”
“You could always turn the heating up.”
He laughed bitterly.
I smiled. When he slid a CD into the player, I sat back in the comfortable seat as the unmistakable chords of Neil’s Rust Never Sleeps rang out. In a few seconds, I was miles away. Way across the Atlantic, in fact….
…watching Gavin Burdett as he comes out of the investment bank where he works in the City of London and heads to Bank underground station. He’s wearing one of those deeply untrendy gray coats with a black collar. The heels of his highly polished and doubtlessly ridiculously expensive shoes ring out on the pavement. I take up position about five yards behind him and start the tail.
I’m doing it for two reasons. The first is that effective tailing requires regular practice. Ever since Sara’s first threat, I’ve acquired as many useful skills as I can. The second is that Gavin Burdett is the chief suspect in Karen’s current major case—but she’s run up against the buffers with him, stymied by his lawyers and the care he’s taken to obscure his activities. I’ve been writing articles on transnational financial crime, so I have my own interest in nailing him. But I want to help my lover out, too. She’s confined by the parameters within which the police have to work. I have no such problem. Of course, if I do anything to bring Karen’s case into jeopardy, she’ll tie my intestines round my neck. That adds to the challenge.
Maps of Hell Page 20
