Even dt-1

by Andrew Grant

  I saw no one in the corridors or elevators on my way up to Tanya’s floor. And no sign of the police doing any canvassing. Maybe they’d already finished, and found nothing. Or maybe they hadn’t started yet. Either way, I wasn’t encouraged.

  There was a fresh scratch in the gray paint around the lock on Tanya’s door. It was half an inch long and roughly curved, as if someone had been careless with their key. I couldn’t say it was significant. But equally, I couldn’t rule it out. Tanya could have done it herself. Or the previous resident. Or the kidnappers. Or even the police. Without equipment and people and time to run tests, there was just no way of knowing.

  I’ve lost count of the number of offices and houses and flats I’ve rifled through in my career. I’d lost count before the end of my first year. It’s the kind of thing that feels alien the first few times but quickly becomes tediously routine. The fear of being disturbed or leaving some telltale sign of your presence soon passes, and instinct and training take over. You learn to anticipate the likely places where people try to conceal things, thinking they’re clever. Mundane, scattered items form patterns before your eyes, revealing your suspect’s true character and habits. Normally I wouldn’t turn a hair, walking in uninvited through someone’s front door while they were out. But stepping into Tanya’s apartment felt very different. Partly because what I was searching for was so intangible-signs of who had ambushed her and where they might have gone after the clinic-but mostly because this time the job wasn’t professional.

  It was personal.

  Tanya had only been at that address for five days and she’d hardly had time to scratch the surface of making it her home. The kitchen drawers and cupboards were empty except for one box of imported tea bags. A carton of milk stood on its own in the cavernous fridge. Two takeaway Thai food containers lay in the trash, accompanied by plastic cutlery and a couple of diet Coke cans. Five heavy cardboard boxes were lined up against a pair of bookshelves in the main room. They were still sealed up with wide strips of packing tape. There was no sofa. No chairs. No TV or stereo. No pictures on the walls or blinds at the windows. But more unhelpfully, no signs of a struggle. No cryptic messages. And nothing left for me to interpret or decode.

  I’d imagined walking into Tanya’s bedroom a thousand times, but never under these circumstances. Pulling back her duvet felt intrusive, not intimate. I moved on to her wardrobe, then her bathroom. I felt like a pervert, rooting through her personal things, but I carried on anyway. And turned up absolutely nothing. I kept on looking until I was absolutely certain there was nothing there to work with. Nothing I could uncover on my own, anyway. Maybe a forensics team could take things further, but with the facilities at my disposal I’d hit a dead end. Again. And now, I was out of ideas.

  I could only hope Tanya wasn’t out of time.

  I moved back into the main room, perched on the windowsill, and called Lavine.

  “I’ve scoured her place,” I said. “No luck at all. How about the NYPD. Anything?”

  “Kyle’s talking to them now,” he said. “I should know in a minute. Hold on.”

  I swiveled around and looked out of the window, just for something to do. There wasn’t much of a view. The apartment was in the wrong part of the building for that. All I could see was other people’s light spilling out and throwing shadows down to the courtyard, seven floors below.

  “Have you thought about my idea?” I said. “About the drug implants?”

  “We’ve been kicking it around,” he said.

  “And?”

  “Varley’s not convinced. He thinks it’s not spectacular enough.”

  “But that’s the whole point. Spectacular’s out of fashion. No one can top 9/11, so attacks are becoming more personal, now.”

  “I don’t know. Varley thinks it lacks impact.”

  “He didn’t see Taylor’s body, though, did he? Neither did you.”

  “No.”

  “Well, picture this. You go to bed with your wife, everything perfectly normal. You wake up in the morning and she’s dead. But that’s not all. The bed is soaked with her blood. Saturated with it. So are you. Like you’ve bathed in it. The room stinks. It’s all over the floor. It’s flooded out of the door and down the stairs and filled half the hallway. It’s dripping through the ceiling of the room below-”

  “Stop it, now. You’re exaggerating.”

  “Or it could be your parents. Your kids. Neighbors. Friends…”

  “OK. I’m getting the picture.”

  “It’s about taking terror out of the public space and bringing it into people’s homes. Taking their sanctuary away. No one would feel safe. Anywhere. At any time. Tell me that doesn’t have impact.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Let me talk to him again.”

  “You don’t need to talk about it. You need to find a way to stop it happening. What about patient lists? Client records from the clinics?”

  “That’s a nonstarter. Maher told me there was no paperwork recovered at all. From any of the sites. And all their computers were wiped, as well.”

  “Computers? Wait a minute. Didn’t Maher say the devices were rigged for Wi-Fi, not cell phones?”

  “Yes. That’s his theory.”

  “Then that’s the answer. Talk to the phone companies. And whoever pipes in the cable TV. Shut down the broadband at source. That way, you’d stop the signal getting through. Whether they’re bombs or drug implants or anything else we haven’t thought of.”

  “Shut down the Internet? We could do that, I suppose. We’ve done it before. But here’s the problem. What if the devices work the other way around, like burglar alarms? It might be stopping the signal that sets them off. Whatever they are.”

  “So. We’re no further forward.”

  “No. Oh, hang on. Kyle’s off the phone. Let me talk to him. Give me a second.”

  I could see that quite a few rooms were still lit up, all around the courtyard. Maybe seven out of every ten. Quite a few people must still have been awake. They must have been awake earlier, when Tanya was taken. I thought about going around and knocking on their doors. The police might have drawn a blank before, if they’d even tried, but jogging memories is a gift of mine.

  “OK, I’m back,” Lavine said. “This is how we stand. The NYPD is throwing everything they have into finding Lesley. They’ve brought in all their specialist squads. Organized Crime. Vice. Narcotics. Major Case. Computer Crime. Everyone. A bunch of our own guys are backing them up. Varley’s even reached out to the DEA, to see if they know anything.”

  “When will we hear?”

  “I don’t know. Lesley’s a slippery customer.”

  “So basically no one has made any progress.”

  “No.”

  The light went out in one of the apartments, opposite. Then another, almost immediately. I would have to get moving if I wanted to talk to people, tonight.

  “Look, thanks anyway,” I said. “But I’ve had an idea at this end. A long shot, but I’m going to give it a try. Call me if anything breaks.”

  “Will do,” he said.

  Two more lights went out, away to my left. The useless, lazy bastards. People who’d just been sitting around in their snug little apartments, paying no attention to anyone else’s problems, when all Tanya needed was for one person to have opened their eyes. Now they were heading off for a cozy night’s sleep without a care in the world. Maybe there was a case for jogging memories a little more vigorously than usual. I pushed back from the windowsill and started toward the kitchen. I’d only taken four steps when my phone rang again. Lavine’s number flashed up on the screen. But when I answered, it was Varley’s voice I heard.

  “Listen to this,” he said. “Hot off the press. The body you found at the clinic? It wasn’t Taylor. Maher’s come up with a new ID.”

  “Who was it?” I said.

  “No one we’ve heard of before. A guy called Darius Metcalf.”

  “What’s his connection with Tungsten?”
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br />   “There isn’t one. He does have a sheet, though. Small-time stuff. He’s just some junkie asshole. They probably picked him because he was scrawny enough to pass for Taylor. The weedy little runt.”

  “So Taylor is still alive?”

  “As far as we can tell.”

  “Where is he?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Why the elaborate cover? Why not just slip away with the others on Monday, before anyone was even looking for him?”

  “We’re thinking he wasn’t looking to run. He was looking to stay, under the radar.”

  “What for?”

  “We’re thinking he’s the trigger man. Or he knows who is. Which means he’s the way we’re going to stop these explosions.”

  Forget that, I thought. He’s the way I’m going to find Tanya.

  We already knew someone at Tungsten had made Tanya call me. To lure us to the clinic. To find their video. And now, it appeared, to set up Taylor’s cover at the same time. That was a neat move. We hadn’t seen it coming. But the key is what happened next. They didn’t just kill Tanya, or even let her go. They gave her to Lesley. And that didn’t happen on its own. Taylor and Lesley must have been in contact, to arrange the handover. They must have spoken today. This evening. In the last few hours. Taylor could get in touch with Lesley when it suited his own ends. So he could get in touch with her for me.

  If I could put my hands on him.

  “Let me help you find him,” I said. “You’ve tried his apartment? His office?”

  “They’re the first places we looked,” Varley said. “We’re still sitting on them.”

  “No fruit?”

  “Nothing from his work, but a neighbor saw him leave his building. Yesterday afternoon. Less than an hour after he was released. Two big guys were with him, in some kind of desert uniform. He was carrying a satchel. Like a laptop bag. But no other luggage.”

  “Any idea where he was going?”

  “No. That’s why I’m calling you. You spent the most time with him. Any thoughts about where he might run?”

  “Nothing comes to mind.”

  “You were at his apartment. Anything there that could help? Pictures of holiday cabins? Ski equipment? Scuba stuff? Anything at all?”

  “No. The place was sterile. Immaculate.”

  “You spoke to him. Any idea how we could contact him?”

  I checked my pocket before giving him an answer. I did have one idea. But I wasn’t sure if it was the kind of thing I could share. The FBI is too conventional. Taylor was the last strand in Tanya’s lifeline. It was frayed enough, already.

  Smoking him out was going to need a different approach.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  In training, the emphasis is all on preparation.

  The instructors are constantly asking, What’s your situation? What’s your objective? What’s your exposure? What’s your time frame? It’s a relentless process. You’re always being pushed to plan, check, adapt, implement, and review. Then go again, if necessary.

  In the field, the emphasis is all on speed. The ability to think on your feet. To react. Improvise. Make it up as you go along. For some jobs, you’re on the road or in the air before the background reports have even been opened, to make sure you’re in the right place when you’re needed.

  That’s the kind of reality that drives the instructors crazy.

  But for the agents, it’s what gives you your edge.

  I perched back on Tanya’s windowsill and switched the SIM card in my phone with the one I’d taken from Mansell’s. Then I started to type a message. hi I sent to Taylor.

  No reply. guess who’s back?

  No reply. got a game 4 u. want 2 play?

  No reply.

  3 questions. guess how i got my phone back? guess where i am? guess how much $ i want

  This time Taylor did respond. He sent a single character.

  ? am working with fbi. fun! but not 4 u if u don’t answer my qs ok. where r u?

  " 66 – TH ST. INSIDE CLINIC. TAKEN MORE PHOTOS. HAVEN’T SHOWN FBI. YET $? 50K. TONIGHT 2 HRS

  I checked my watch. I couldn’t wait two hours. It would be too agonizing. And more to the point, neither could Tanya.

  I sent. "30 MINS NEED 2 HRS 2 GET $ CANT STALL FOR 2 HRS. CALLING FBI NOW WAIT. 1 HR?"

  I thought about it. One hour would be hell, but I couldn’t afford to overplay my hand. Taylor was Tanya’s last chance. If I scared him off, that would be the end of the game. And I did have some arrangements to make.

  OK 1 HR I SENT. WHERE WILL U BE? WILL SEND CASH WHO WITH? MECHANIC, LIKE LAST TIME? NO THX. I’LL COLLECT. WHERE? SWAN HOTEL. E 12 ^ TH. RM 1012. COME ALONE NO. WILL SEND 2 GUYS. 1 STAYS WITH U, 1 BRINGS BACK THE $. THEN HE BRINGS U THE PHOTOS amp; U LET BOTH GO OK. BUT WANT PHONE AS WELL, NOT JUST PHOTOS DEAL. Varley said he knew the Swan Hotel. He remembered it from a surveillance assignment, early in his career. And he agreed with me when I said we should send more than two agents. Taylor had caved in far too easily. I’d barely made a single threat. He was clearly in no mind to roll over and pay Mansell off. More likely he had something up his sleeve. Something nasty. Which made this one occasion when it would pay to go in mob-handed.

  My approach to his sole remaining witness hadn’t boosted my popularity any, in Varley’s eyes. He had cut me some slack, given the outcome, but there were still severe limits to his spirit of cooperation.

  “One last point, Commander,” he said, once the logistics were squared away. “Where are you planning to be when my guys take Taylor down, tonight?”

  “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead, to be honest,” I said. “Where would you like me to be?”

  “I don’t care. Be wherever you like. Just make sure it’s not within half a mile of the Swan.”

  “You don’t want my help? In a purely supportive, backup-type capacity?”

  “How can I put this so there’s no room for ambiguity? No. Every step of the way you’ve been reckless, irresponsible, insubordinate, and rash. We cannot afford to fail at this point. There are no more second chances. Hundreds of lives are at stake.”

  “I understand.”

  “So. Where are you planning to be?”

  “I’ll stay here. At Tanya’s apartment. I’ll wait by the phone.”

  “Good. I’ll call you back when we have him.”

  Old habits die hard. As soon as Varley had cleared the line I called information and asked for a number at the Swan.

  A sleepy receptionist answered on the fourteenth ring.

  “Swan,” he said. “Help you?”

  “Hope so,” I said. “I need a room. For tonight.”

  “How many people?”

  “One.”

  “How many nights?”

  “One.”

  “Two hundred and forty-eight dollars. Need a card number.”

  “No problem. But while we’re talking, could you see if room 1012 is free? I’m sure I had that one last time.”

  “I’ll have a look. No. It’s taken.”

  “That’s a shame. Never mind. Oh, hang on a minute. Let me think. Ten twelve. Does it look out the back of the hotel?”

  “No. Over the street.”

  “Really? Oh, wait. You know what I’ve done? Confused it with the one my brother had. I was in the one opposite. Any chance that’s free?”

  “Ten eleven? Sure. No one in there. You want it?”

  “Yeah, why not. It’s as good as any. I’ll be over in ten.”

  The reception area at the Swan was made up of two intersecting ovals. They were on different levels, and a pair of elliptical steps was formed where the shapes joined. The door from the street brought you in at the higher level, to the side of a long curved counter. It was made of heavily grained wood, and had been finished with a pale blue wash to match the carpet and walls. The lower area was a mess of orange. It was overstuffed with furniture. There were five ocher chesterfield sofas. Mounds of contrasting scatter cushions. Clusters of stained wooden co
ffee tables. A forest of stylized artificial potted plants, the color of virulent carrots. And one man.

  I’d never seen him before, which simplified things. He was in his late thirties, with beige Timberland boots, loose jeans, and a tan leather jacket. His face was rough and weathered, and his fine blond hair was cropped close to his skull, betraying a smattering of gray. He was sitting on the center sofa, leaning back comfortably as if he were expecting to be there a while. An open newspaper was spread out on his lap. But he wasn’t reading it. His eyes were fixed on me. They’d locked on the moment I walked in, so I took a moment to check that Tanya’s Yankees cap was properly pulled down over the back of my head before approaching the check-in area, wheeling her travel-scarred Rimowa suitcase behind me for cover.

  There was no sign of anyone behind the desk. I waited a moment, then rang the bell. It was made of heavy brass, eight inches in diameter, with a well-worn disk at the top to press down on. It made a deep, reverberating sound like the striking of an old-fashioned clock. I waited for the note to die down and then gently pushed against its base with the tips of my fingers. It moved slightly. Which meant it wasn’t fixed down.

  It took a full minute for the receptionist to drag himself away from his back room and shuffle out to help me. His hair was brushed forward over his left eye, his tightly stretched skin was almost transparent, and his crumpled blue shirt was a couple of sizes too large for his scrawny arms and neck. He crept forward cautiously until he got to the counter. Then he stood and rubbed his tiny, beady eyes for a moment as if he were having trouble focusing.

  “You the guy on the phone?” he said.

  I nodded, and he reached down to pull a registration card from a drawer. I leaned forward, placed my forearms flat on the countertop, and watched as he struggled to fill it in. He took a print of my credit card and checked a computer screen. Then finally he took a fresh card key, ran it through the validator, and handed it to me.

  “Here you go,” he said. “Enjoy.”

  I turned away, and swept the bell off the countertop with my right hand as I went. It clanged down onto the floor and began to roll toward the steps. The guy on the sofa heard it. He didn’t react until I was approaching the elevators. Then his hand went for his jacket pocket. But he wasn’t reaching for a gun. I was watching. He was going for his phone.