Even dt-1

by Andrew Grant

  “Anything you’d like to share with us, David?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “I think I will have a word with my lawyer, after all.”

  Harris looked irritated. He shot a sour glance at Gibson, and dropped back into his chair.

  “You can do that, David, if you want,” Gibson said slowly, as though he were talking to an imbecile. “But if you do, we can’t help you. We can’t even talk to you. You’ll stay in jail while we check into all the unsolved homicides from while you were in New York. And in D.C. It’ll take months, if you go that way.”

  “But it’s not too late to talk to us,” Harris said. “Help us now, and we’ll try to keep you out of the system. Get this thing cleared up real quick. That’s what you said you wanted.”

  “Not anymore,” I said. “Now I want to speak to my lawyer.”

  “David, calm down,” Gibson said. “All we’re saying is, we’ve heard the caller’s side of the story. Why not tell us yours?”

  “I’ve told you already,” I said. “You didn’t listen. Now I want my lawyer.”

  “Let’s not be hasty, here, David,” Gibson said. “Look at it from our side. Think how this thing looks.”

  “It looks like a frame,” I said. “It looks like you can’t be bothered to do your jobs. Now-my lawyer. Fourth time. I won’t ask again.”

  “At least tell us why you moved the body,” Gibson said.

  I folded my arms and kept quiet.

  “When that guy called 911, the body was at the back of the alley,” Gibson said. “That was at 23:57.”

  “Four minutes later, when the uniforms arrived, it had moved to the front,” Harris said.

  “You were the only one at the scene,” Gibson said.

  “So it had to be you who moved it,” Harris said.

  “Only question is, why?” Gibson said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Like we said before, David, we don’t think you’re a bad guy,” Harris said. “We think you felt bad about what happened. We think you dragged that body nearer the street ’cause you wanted it to be found. You wanted to put things right.”

  “That shows remorse, David,” Gibson said. “Remorse is good. Remorse could really help you. But you have to tell us.”

  “Your lawyer will tell you to keep quiet,” Harris said. “But he doesn’t have to live with this thing. You do.”

  “So, if you were sorry, if you were trying to put things right-tell us about it,” Gibson said. “You’ll feel a whole lot better.”

  “And save yourself a whole lot of jail time,” Harris said.

  “Because if you don’t talk to us, we’ll have to pull in that witness,” Gibson said. “And with a description of you like he gave on the phone, he’ll pull you out of a lineup in a second.”

  “And that would change the game, David,” Harris said. “Big-time.”

  “Make what you did look premeditated,” Gibson said.

  “Self-defense would be out of the window,” Harris said.

  “Manslaughter would be out,” Gibson said.

  “We’d be talking about murder,” Harris said. “Think about that.”

  Gibson slid his pen and a pad of paper toward me.

  “Write what happened, the way we told you,” he said. “Or write your lawyer’s number. Your choice.”

  I wrote down a number.

  FIVE

  The first thing I do in the morning, if I’m not in jail, is read the papers.

  I enjoy them well enough from Monday to Saturday. Sundays aren’t so good, though. There’s too little news. Too much opinion. And a huge sheaf of magazines to deal with. Like the ones I picked up at Charles-de-Gaulle on my way over to start this last job. There was a whole supplement about people’s attitudes to work. Why had they taken their jobs? What did they like about them? What did they not like? What would make them leave? The answers had been spun out into four pages of bar graphs and diagrams and pie charts. All the usual reasons were there-money, status, promotion, hours, travel. But according to the journalists, the biggest factor was “interaction with colleagues.”

  Not something you’d expect to see in my profession.

  Although, just once, I met someone who made me wish it was.

  Tanya Wilson looked pretty much the same as the day I first met her in Madrid, three years ago. She was five feet eight, slim, with an elegant blue suit that combined perfectly with her plain white blouse and low-heeled navy shoes. Her dark shoulder-length hair was pulled back from her face, as usual. She’d always preferred that style, despite the way it emphasized the sharpness of her features. I remember thinking at our original meeting that she looked like a lawyer, and today, with a battered leather briefcase and narrow metal-framed glasses, the impression was stronger still.

  For a moment neither of us spoke.

  In our profession, when it comes to relationships, there’s a line you don’t cross. Or at least, you don’t if you have any sense. Tanya and I both understood, but we’d come close to crossing it anyway that spring. Perilously close. Maybe a couple of toes had actually crept over to the other side. I’m pretty sure mine had. I think hers had, too. But before we could abandon reason altogether and leap right across with both feet, fate intervened. I was sent to Morocco, to collect someone.

  It should have been a routine trip. Four days, maximum, there and back. Tanya was handling the arrangements so I had no reason to worry. And as you’d expect, the job started flawlessly. Travel documents, flights, currency, accommodation, vehicles. Everything went exactly according to plan. There wasn’t even the slightest hint of a hitch until the end of day two. Then, when we were thirty minutes away from our rendezvous, that all changed. There was an incident with our Jeep. It was caught in an explosion. Some sort of improvised roadside device, I assume, but there was no proper investigation into what kind. I never found out who planted it. How it was triggered. What happened to our contact. Who cleaned up the mess. Or how the remains of the driver-someone I’d known for ten years-ended up back in Scotland for a memorial service I couldn’t attend. All I can remember is waking up in a hospital in Rabat, two days later. It was a dismal place. The lights were down low and I thought I’d been left there alone, but as I drifted back into consciousness I realized that someone else was with me. It was Tanya. She was standing at the end of my bed, silently watching me, with a single tear glistening in the corner of her right eye.

  Tanya visited me every day after that. First in Morocco, then in Spain when I was sent back to recuperate. Some days she could only grab a few minutes. Others she was with me for hours on end. But however long we were together, all we could think about was getting some real time to ourselves. Alone. Away from doctors and nurses and squeaky hospital furniture. It was becoming an obsession. Rules and conventions and protocols wouldn’t have stood a chance. Nothing would, if fate hadn’t showed its hand a second time.

  The same day I was discharged from the hospital, Tanya was transferred. I never heard where to. She was just there one day, gone the next. That’s the way it goes in our world. There was nothing either of us could do. But she’s been on my mind a lot since then. I often wondered, if our paths crossed again, would I feel the same? And that old question was just raising its head when Tanya broke eye contact and turned to close the interview room door. She checked it had latched and then came over toward the chair Gibson had been using. A subtle hint of sandalwood and bergamot drifted over to me as she moved and I felt a tiny shiver ripple the skin between my shoulder blades.

  I guess I had my answer.

  “Sorry, David,” she said as she sat down. “I got here as quickly as I could. Have you been waiting long?”

  “One thousand and forty-nine days,” I said.

  Tanya looked blank for a moment, then broke into a shy smile.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I only flew in yesterday. Started here this morning. Didn’t know you were even in town till I heard the call come in from the detectives. Then I had to check a coup
le of things. It’s been a while since I crossed swords in the American courts.”

  “You’re fresh in and they gave you the case?” I said.

  “I took it. I didn’t give them a choice. My stock’s risen a little, these last couple of years. And I couldn’t leave it to anyone else. Not once I realized they were talking about you. I’m the only here who knows what you’re really like.”

  “What am I really like?”

  “Oh, no. I’m not answering that one. So. I haven’t seen you for a while. How’ve you been?”

  “Can’t complain. Still in one piece. You?”

  “Fine. Or I will be, once I get you out of here.”

  “Heard the latest?”

  “Think so. I spoke to the detectives before I came in. They have one dead body and a pretty strong impression you’re responsible for it. Plus lots of circumstantial evidence. And a recording from an eyewitness. It sounds like a mess, David, quite frankly.”

  “It’s bogus, is what it is.”

  “I know that. But the point is, we’ll have to work a lot harder. Knowing they have that kind of testimony will make you more of a flight risk. And with you being a foreign national, it could be a problem.”

  “Flight risk? What do you mean?”

  “When we ask for bail. The judge won’t agree if it looks like you could run.”

  “Sorry, Tanya-what bail?”

  “To get you out of here. Oh, hold on. Wait a minute. You weren’t going to ask London for…?”

  “Tanya,” I said, nodding toward the observation mirror.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “They can watch us, but not listen. Not while I’m present. They wouldn’t risk it. So, tell me you weren’t about to mention the d-word?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You were, weren’t you?” she said. “You were going to ask to be hooked out. From the U.S.A. Are you mad?”

  “Is that a problem?” I said.

  “Don’t you get operational bulletins anymore, David?”

  “Of course.”

  “And do you read them?”

  “Absolutely. Whenever I’m in an office, with nothing better to do.”

  “You don’t, do you? Our people make the effort to put out useful updates so you know what’s what, but do you take any notice? No. You’re still ignoring our advice. Until you’re in trouble. Then you expect us to wave a magic wand.”

  “What’s magic about getting me pulled out? Embarrassing-yes. Heavy on paperwork-yes. But hardly out of the ordinary. I worked with a fellow in Nairobi who got dip-exed from three jobs in a row. Admittedly, he did get canned after the last one, but this is my first time. What’s the problem?”

  “Diplomatic exfiltration may have been common practice in the past. It isn’t now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Does the name David Robinson mean anything to you?”

  “Should it?”

  “Surely you’ve been briefed on this. Didn’t you read… Oh, all right, I’ll spell it out. Robinson was a U.S. Marine. He was posted to Grosvenor Square. Last year, just before Christmas, he was picked up by the Met. Charged with indecently assaulting a female student in the toilets of a nightclub in Soho, somewhere. Washington came through. Wanted him pulled out. London refused. Said it was a civilian offense, in civilian premises, while he was off duty. Insisted he stay in the U.K. to stand trial like anyone else.”

  “Seems fair. Did they nail him for it?”

  “It never went to court. Robinson killed himself in jail the night before the hearing.”

  “Good result.”

  “Maybe. But that’s not the point.”

  “What is?”

  “The liaison protocols. Washington tore them up.”

  “But that’s not workable. How can you-”

  “Officially sanctioned operations are still covered. But that’s all.”

  “Problem solved, then. Tell them I was sanctioned.”

  “I can’t do that, David. These guys aren’t fools.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Go for bail, like I said.”

  “Don’t know. How long will it take?”

  “Depends when your arraignment is. The DA will argue you should stay in custody. We’ll argue you should get bail. Then it’s up to the judge.”

  “What’s the earliest it could be? I’m due back in London tomorrow. I’m on a flight out this afternoon.”

  “David, it’s time for you to face facts. You’re not going to be on that plane. And being late home is the least of your worries. First we have to get you out of here. Then we go to work on your defense. As for the arraignment, I’ll push for an early hearing. Otherwise they’ll move you.”

  “Where to?”

  “A regular jail. They only have holding facilities here.”

  I looked at Tanya, and it was obvious she could tell what I was thinking. We both knew what kind of place she was talking about. Outdated. Overcrowded. Unsanitary. Crawling with degenerate criminals.

  “David, think about this,” she said, reaching across and placing her hand over mine. “Don’t do anything stupid. Ever since this Robinson thing, Washington has been looking for payback. They want their pound of flesh. Give them the chance, and they’ll take it from you.”

  The droplets of blood from the Nazi’s face had congealed on the bench legs and turned a dirty brown, like specks of rust. Harris spotted them when the detectives returned me to my cell. He went straight over for a closer look. Maybe word of the incident had spread around the building while we’d been upstairs.

  “Know anything about this?” he said.

  “Absolutely nothing,” I said.

  “Nothing, huh? Just like you know nothing about the guy in the alley? Well, we do know something, David. We know you killed that guy. So what you need to do is stop lying and tell us what happened, while we can still help you.”

  “What I need to do is sit here and wait for my lawyer to get me released.”

  “You can try,” Harris said. “But trust me. You’ll have a long wait.”

  Harris was wrong. I only had to wait forty minutes. At dead-on one o’clock he was back with Gibson, standing outside my cell, waiting for Cauldwell to work the lock. Only this time, he had his handcuffs ready.

  “On your feet,” he said. “Turn around. Show me your hands.”

  He fastened the cuffs and gave each one an extra squeeze, making sure they were clamped really tight around my wrists.

  “Ms. Wilson works fast, doesn’t she?” I said.

  “What?” Harris said.

  “Ms. Wilson. My lawyer. Works fast, to get me released already.”

  “You’re not being released, jackass. And this has nothing to do with your lawyer.”

  “No? So where are we going?”

  “We’re not going anywhere. You are. The FBI is here.”

  “Why? What do they want?”

  “Like you don’t know.”

  “I don’t know. Why is the FBI involved?”

  “Enough. Shut your mouth. Not one more word, or you’re going to take a beating right here.”

  Three men were waiting for us near the reception desk. I’d never seen any of them before. The little glass gate swung open as we approached and the oldest of the group stepped forward. He had short, graying hair and a bulging stomach that hung down over his belt.

  “My name is Lieutenant Hendersen, NYPD,” he said. “I’m here to inform you that at 12:05 P.M. today, jurisdiction in your case was assumed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. These gentlemen are agents. We’ve completed the paperwork. They’ll take it from here.”

  “I’m Special Agent Lavine,” the taller of the other two men said, stepping up alongside Hendersen. He was a shade over six feet tall, slim, with broad shoulders and short blond hair. His gray single-breasted suit was well cut, and his white shirt looked crisp and new next to his dark, striped tie. Cuff links peeped out from under the sleeves of his jacket, and I caught sight of initials emb
roidered onto his shirt pocket when he moved. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in a tailor’s window, other than for his face. It looked tired and drawn, with deep lines etched into the skin around both eyes. The third guy looked much more awake, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. His clothes were similar, but he was an inch taller, six inches wider, and a good ten years younger. He stepped into line a moment later, moving slowly as if working hard to resist the urge to reach out and grab me.

  “This is Special Agent Weston,” Lavine said. “You’re with us, now. Come on. Time to go.”

  “The FBI are taking over?” I said to Hendersen. “Why?”

  He ignored me.

  “What about my arraignment?” I said. “Does my attorney know about this?”

  Hendersen sneered at me.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Trevellyan,” he said, and turned to walk away.

  Gibson handed my bag of possessions to Agent Weston, and Harris removed his cuffs from behind my back. I went to rub my wrists, but before I could get the circulation going again Lavine had grabbed them and snapped on his own cuffs. They were of a slightly different design, but every bit as uncomfortable.

  Weston took my arm and guided me out through the main door. He led me along the sidewalk to a plain white van parked at the end of the line of vehicles. Lavine opened the rear doors and Weston bundled me inside. The load space was empty apart from an old gray blanket like the kind moving companies use to protect furniture. It was crumpled and stained, and smelled of mildew. I pushed it away with my foot. I didn’t like to think what it might have been used for.

  I don’t know which agent took the wheel, but whoever it was had a heavy right foot. The rear tires screeched as we lurched forward, and the van crunched into every pothole and swerved around every corner after that. The interior was pitch-dark, and as I bounced helplessly around, banging and bruising myself on the hard metal surfaces, it reminded me of a story I’d once heard. Something an old-time U.S. Army intelligence guy had told me. About the CIA in Vietnam. He said they used to load Vietcong suspects onto helicopters, put sacks over their heads, and fly them around for a while before taking them in for questioning. They got the most drugged-up, whacked-out pilots they could lay their hands on and just let them go crazy for a couple of hours. Then the prisoners would come staggering out, sick to their stomachs, totally disoriented. Much more likely to talk. Apparently a couple of times the poor guys were so out of it they actually believed they’d landed in the United States, and gave it all up straightaway.