Night Watch--A Novel

by Iris Johansen

  Yet that response had been a little strange, Kendra thought. “I meant it as a compliment.”

  “Then that’s how I’ll take it.” Jessie threw her leg over the bike and started it. “Stay in touch. I accepted that you might have not had time to contact me this time. Next time remember we’re working together.”

  Jessie revved the bike and roared away.

  * * *

  HUTCHINSON ENTERED THE HOSPITAL room and closed the door behind him. He walked over to the bed, where the extremely banged-up and bruised Powers was handcuffed to the side rail.

  “We don’t have much time,” Hutchinson said. “They’ve gone, but the police will be here anytime now.”

  Powers nervously adjusted himself on the bed. “So what’s the play? I don’t think they have any real proof.”

  “They say they have DNA.”

  “No way. I was careful. Incredibly careful. I did just as I was told.”

  “DNA can be left behind in many ways. A finger on a touch screen. Perspiration on a shirt. A sneeze on a window. Or…” Hutchinson placed his fingertips on Powers’s left temple and turned his head to reveal the scratches on his neck. “… skin under a fingernail. Did Michaels give you those scratches?”

  “Shit,” Powers whispered.

  “This clearly puts you in that building as her attacker. So you see, there’s careful, then there’s careful.” Hutchinson moved Powers’s head back with slightly more force than was necessary. “You have the right to remain silent. You’re going to avail yourself of that right, do you understand me? When the police come, don’t say a word.”

  “What if they—”

  “Not a word. You mustn’t even listen to them. Everything that comes out of their mouths will be only to trick you. Understand? When they begin talking, you just think of your favorite song and mentally sing it to yourself over and over again. Don’t try to strategize. That’s my job, and I guarantee I’m a hell of a lot better at it than you could ever be. Not one word must pass your lips, do you understand?”

  “Okay, I got it. You didn’t have to tell me this. I’ve already gone through a hell of a lot of pain and didn’t tell them anything.”

  “That’s good. Because you and the others were incredibly clumsy, and Jaden is not pleased.”

  Powers’s eyes widened in alarm. “You’re not sending Jaden after me?”

  “That’s not my call. I just take orders like you do. I’m only telling you that Jaden is a perfectionist and would be happy to clean up loose ends.” He stared him in the eye. “If you prove to be a problem.”

  “I won’t be a problem,” Powers said quickly. “We did everything we were told. It should have gone smooth as glass.”

  “But it didn’t, and now we’re faced with a very delicate situation we have to solve.”

  “Not by using Jaden.”

  Hutchinson shook his head. “That would cause ripples. Ripples are discouraged in this matter. Which is your good fortune. Our mutual employer appreciates your cooperation. He has at great expense employed one of the world’s greatest legal minds—that’s me—to fight on your behalf. If he senses that you do not appreciate the extent of his concern, he will cut off all contact, all assistance. Do you understand what that means?”

  Powers turned and stared out the window. “It means I’ll die.”

  “I’m accustomed to a fair bit of melodrama from my clients, but in your case, your concern is warranted.” Hutchinson reached into his jacket and produced two foil packets.

  Powers tensed. “What are those?”

  “A token of appreciation.” Hutchinson grabbed two plastic cups from a countertop and set them on the small serving table next to the bed. He tore open the packets and emptied their gooey contents into the cups. He then picked up a pitcher, filled both cups with water, then stirred each with a straw.

  Powers stared at the cups. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Yes. It’s your medicine. Something that no hospital can provide you. You need it, don’t you? Less efficient than the type you inject, but I’ve been told it’s just as effective. The officer on duty searched me before I came in and I never would have been allowed to bring a syringe and needle in here. Drink the one on the right first, then the left.”

  Powers picked up the right cup and examined it for a long moment. “No offense, but … how do I know this isn’t poison?”

  Hutchinson smiled. “Poison? Is that why you think I came here?”

  “I think you came here to make sure I keep my mouth shut. Okay, you won’t use Jaden. But two packets of fast-acting poison would do the job, wouldn’t it?”

  “If that’s what they really wanted, then all they had to do was absolutely nothing. Correct?” His voice lowered. “Why are you being difficult? It’s a little incentive to keep you doing what we want you to do. You know you need it.”

  Powers looked at the cup for a moment longer, then downed it.

  Hutchinson tapped the other cup. “Now this one. I’m not to leave until I’ve seen you drink both.”

  Powers drank the other one in one long gulp. He wiped his lips. “Sour.”

  Hutchinson folded the foil packets and placed them back into his pocket. “Now remember our discussion. Cooperation is everything. Not one single word.”

  “I won’t forget.” His lips twisted bitterly. “How could I? I’m just wondering something.” Powers leaned back in his bed. “Would you have given me those packets if I hadn’t agreed to keep quiet?”

  Hutchinson brushed his hands together and straightened his jacket. “See you soon, Mr. Powers.

  He left the hospital room and closed the door behind him.

  * * *

  “POWERS IS SCARED SHITLESS and he’s not talking,” Hutchinson said when Jaden answered the phone. “You won’t be needed … yet.”

  Jaden muttered a curse. “And when you make that call, it might be too late. It should be done now.”

  “The job was fumbled. Michaels got away, and now we have a situation. I’m not going to have to answer for it. It’s in your court.”

  “I set it up, but you sent inefficient bumblers to grab her. I should have done it myself. I won’t make that mistake again,” he said. “He should have let me take care of her a long time ago.”

  “I don’t advise you to tell him that.” He hung up.

  Jaden took a deep breath and tried to smother his rage. Hutchinson wasn’t important. He was only a high-priced mouthpiece who was afraid to get his hands dirty. But he didn’t mind relaying orders to him to do it. But this time Jaden would have welcomed that order. He’d only remained safe during his career by leaving no evidence of his passing. Now the Michaels woman was starting to shine a spotlight on Powers, and Powers might be a weak link that might lead to him.

  Not to be tolerated.

  So find a way to stop Kendra Michaels once and for all.

  Croyden, England

  Middlesex Lane

  Rye walked down the main drag of the depressed industrial town sixty-five kilometers north of London. He had no reason to go there since he was a boy, and it looked almost nothing like how he remembered it. More than half of the shops had been shuttered, and those that remained were mostly secondhand stores, pawnshops, and the occasional Laundromat. At the end of the street he saw the reason for the financial despair—the closed clothing factory, which he’d just learned had supplied many of England’s military uniforms for two world wars. Now, however, the gray brick buildings towered above the wrought-iron gates, silently taunting the town that had once so depended on it.

  He walked to the factory entrance and looked through the gate’s iron bars. It looked as if no one had been there in years.

  Except …

  High on the stone flanking, there was a relatively new opening mechanism with an articulated arm attached to the gate. A tiny red light beamed down from the apparatus, indicating that it was on and receiving power.

  Nothing else about the grounds indicated that anyone had be
en there in years. No sound emanated from the factory and no exhaust was emitted from the twin smokestacks and numerous vents.

  He turned back toward the street. Dapper Dan’s Pub was on the corner next to the tiny sundries store that probably made most of its sales from lottery tickets. He crossed the street and walked into the dark pub.

  A curling match, of all things, was on all three televisions above the narrow bar. Two elderly men, obviously regulars, stared absently at their beers.

  The bartender, a plump woman in her seventies, was wiping off the stools. She didn’t acknowledge him even after he sat down on one of them.

  “A pint of Pride,” he said.

  Still no acknowledgment.

  After a few moments, she walked behind the bar and pulled his beer from a well-worn tap. She placed it in front of him.

  “Appreciate it,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here. My uncle used to work at that factory.”

  The bartender snorted. “Everybody’s uncle used to work at that factory. At least around here.”

  Rye smiled. “How long’s it been shut down?”

  A patron with a Santa Claus beard spoke up. “Twenty-three years last March. But most of the workers were let go five or six years before that.”

  “And the place has been empty ever since?”

  The bartender nodded. “There was talk about building computers there, but it never came to anything. The local government bent over backward to make it happen, but the company went to Taiwan instead.”

  He shrugged. “Well, someone’s been going in and out of there lately.”

  The bartender and her patrons stared at him. He’d tried to make it sound casual, but his tone had probably been a bit too insistent, he realized. “I mean, the gates look like they’ve been automated. Recently. I thought it might mean the factory was opening again.”

  The second bar patron shook his head. “No such luck. There have been some people coming and going from there, but no one local.”

  “I don’t think they’re workers,” the bartender said. “The cars are too nice. A couple Bentleys, a Mercedes, Range Rovers, those kind.”

  “I think they’re stripping the place for parts,” the Santa Claus look-alike offered. “Or maybe there’s a crew in there designing a remodel.”

  The bartender shook her head. “The only remodeling that’s gonna be done there is to level it to the ground.”

  “Those cars come every day?” Rye asked.

  “Yeah,” the bartender said. “Saturday and Sunday, too.”

  “Huh. Just cars? No trucks or construction equipment?”

  “A few trucks last year. Lately, just cars.”

  Rye turned in his stool and looked out the front windows toward the factory. “It’s right across the street. I’m sure they must stop in for a pint once in a while.”

  “Never, and they don’t go next door for chewing gum or a pack of smokes. Me and Alfie, the owner there, were just talking about it. Those people are too snooty to bother with the locals.”

  “Huh.” Rye stared at the factory for a moment longer. “They’re there right now?”

  “Sure. I’m pretty sure there are always people there around the clock.”

  “Strange.” He downed the rest of his beer and stood. “Well, good day to you all.”

  He’d just the reached the door when he was aware that the bartender had followed him.

  “Drug dealers or spies?” she suddenly asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You ask too many questions. I figured you’re maybe Scotland Yard or maybe Mi6.” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling with eagerness. “We’re not fools here, you know.”

  He smiled. “I’m sure you’re not. But I assure you that I don’t belong to either of those august organizations. I’m only guilty of having an insatiable curiosity.”

  “You wouldn’t admit it if you were.” But she still looked disappointed. “I was getting excited. You saw how boring it is in this town. Like I was telling Alfie, it’s pretty sad when it takes people running back and forth into an old factory to cause us to perk up and have something to talk about. It wasn’t like that when we were younger. Maybe our minds are going as dead and rotting as this town.”

  “I believe you have a very sharp mind,” he said gently. “You just made a bad guess.”

  She shrugged. “You still asked too many questions. I could be on the right track.” She turned away. “By the way, my name is Dorothy Jenkins. Drop in anytime. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open, and maybe we’ll have another chat.”

  “Ryan Malone.” He nodded and smiled as he opened the door. “And maybe we will, Dorothy.”

  * * *

  “AN OLD UNIFORM FACTORY?” Lynch’s voice was incredulous on the phone.

  Rye climbed into his car and closed the door. “Yes. According to Dr. Porter Shaw’s vehicle navigation system, this was one of his most frequent destinations.”

  “No hint of what’s going on there?”

  “None. The locals are clueless. I traced ownership records for the factory, and it was purchased by an overseas holding company, a couple of years ago.”

  “What holding company?”

  Rye glanced at his tablet computer. “An outfit called Schyler Investments, Ltd.”

  “A brokerage firm?”

  “You’d think so from the name, but the entity seems to have had no business other than owning this one abandoned factory.”

  “Sounds like a cover.”

  “Definitely a cover. I already have someone tracing ownership. Following the money, as they say.”

  “Good. That’s also what we’re doing on this end. We found one of the thugs who tried to snatch Kendra the other night.”

  “Excellent. I hope you gave him a good punch in the gut from me.”

  “Don’t worry, I made sure he felt some pain. So what’s your next move?”

  Rye put down his tablet. “As much value as I place on old-fashioned research, sometimes you just have to get your hands dirty. Filthy dirty.”

  Lynch chuckled. “That sounds ominous, Rye.”

  “Come now. It’s why you called me, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Then let me do what I do best.”

  “You mean cause trouble, raise hell, and make the world safe for democracy?”

  “Something like that. But I have to call your attention to the fact that I’m a Socialist. Parliament would much prefer I choose to make our little corner of the world safe. Say hello to beautiful Kendra for me.”

  “Will do, Rye. Thanks.”

  11:40 P.M.

  Rye crouched next to the factory’s east wall, which he’d identified as the spot least likely to be equipped with cameras or motion sensors.

  He looked around. The town was dead. The pub was the last of the businesses to close for the evening, and he hadn’t seen a soul in over an hour.

  He unzipped his black canvas duffel and pulled out a grappling hook and twenty-five feet of canvas rope. He’d sprayed the rope with adhesive that afternoon, and it was reassuringly tacky to the touch.

  One … Two … Three!

  Rye tossed the hook over the wall and it took hold immediately. He climbed hand over hand over the twenty-foot wall, and it was difficult enough that he was reminded how long it had been since he’d been in the field. Damn. Need to get out more often.

  He straddled the top of the wall, reversed the hook, and surveyed the factory yard. Quiet, like any other sad, old factory that had been closed for decades. Had those people at the bar been pulling his leg?

  Only one way to tell.

  Rye rappelled down the inside of the wall, finally letting go and dropping the last few feet. He adjusted his black turtleneck shirt and slacks. He’d felt slightly silly when he donned the outfit—this wasn’t the Kremlin, after all—but he was now happy to be as invisible as humanly possible.

  He crept around the side of the building until he ap
proached a cracked, peeling wooden door that had practically rotted off its hinges. Close enough to the target area. Might as well give it a shot.

  He slid his fingers behind the hinges and tugged on the crumbling door. It pulled away easily. He slid in through the opening and switched on his tiny flashlight. He was in a machinist’s work area, where oily, dusty assembly-line parts littered the floor. He took a photo. He’d take photos throughout the entire factory and examine them later. You could never tell when the ordinary could become extraordinary on close inspection. He stepped over the gear and made his way to a door on the far side. He opened it and peered out.

  Darkness.

  Silence.

  Not completely dark, he realized. There was something down the corridor to the right.

  Exactly where the heat signature had shown up in his scan.

  He took another photo. Then he moved toward the dim glow, keeping his eyes and ears peeled for any sign of activity.

  The light was coming from a doorway at the end of the hallway. As he drew closer, he was aware of a low hum coming from the same place.

  He stopped and listened. Still no sounds of footsteps or other movements.

  He moved through the doorway, amazed that the dark, dusty factory abruptly gave way to an antiseptic, white-tiled room bathed in purple-tinged light.

  What in the bloody hell …

  Two modern, tripod-mounted cameras leaned against a wall on the other side of four desks equipped with laptop computers. The room faced a glass door and a wall of double-paned windows that looked into a much larger room illuminated by the same purplish glow.

  He stepped past the desks and looked through the windows. More antiseptic white walls and white tile. But this room was outfitted with row upon row of small stations, approximately three feet wide. Each station was in use, but he wasn’t entirely sure how. It looked almost as if …

  Holy shit.

  The stations were topped by glass domes. Underneath the glass, something appeared to undulate in the purplish glow.

  Could this be…?

  He stared, squinted at the stations. As if that would suddenly help it to make sense.

  There was no sense to be made here. None.

  Holy shit.

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and squeezed off a series of photos. Now to transmit them to Lynch and Kendra. He hoped they would know what to do with them once they arrived in their—