by Bill Granger
“That’s agreeable. How are you going to do it?”
“The bomb? That was simple. He gets a suitcase and he gets his money in it. He goes into the little boys’ room and opens the case. That arms the bomb. He takes out the money and closes the case. That triggers the bomb on a six-hour fuse. He checks in his baggage, goes to the departure gate, gets aboard. The plane takes off. The trigger and timer are in the brass locks on top of the case and the explosive is in the lining. Fuckin’ brilliant, don’t you think?”
“And he suspects nothing?”
“He suspects everything, so what? He’ll see his cut in front and cream.”
“How much is it?”
“A hundred grand total, counting the first payout.”
“My God, you’re going to blow up a hundred thousand dollars?”
“Pounds. And yes, I am. You gotta spend money to make money. It’s the way to get Matthew on the plane. And by the time it goes off, you’ll be back at the office and I’ll be someplace where you can’t get second thoughts about me.”
“Who is Devereaux?”
“A man who should be dead. He’s nothing to you, Trevor.”
“He fucking came to me, Henry. He knows I’ve seen you. He’s after you.”
“I know that. I knew that the minute you said his name. The point is, he can’t get me.”
“Is that true? Should I put this thing on hold? Should I go to the authorities instead?”
“Listen, Trevor, there’s nothing you can do now. You got your stock at eighty today and Carl Greengold is making his move in New York. All you got to do is hold on for a few days, a week, and you got enough to bail out, pay your creditors, and have enough to retire on. You could afford to pay taxes with the money you’re going to make out of this.”
Trevor nodded into the receiver.
“Trevor.”
“Yes.”
“Believe me.”
“I believe you.”
“Or believe this. If you get chickenshit on me, I’ll do to you what I told Matthew I would do to him.”
“I’m tired of threats.”
“I’m tired of making them. Especially when people don’t believe me the first time. Still believe in me, Trevor?”
“Yes,” Trevor Armstrong said.
“Good. Then don’t sweat Devereaux. He can’t do anything to you because he can’t do anything to me. And thanks for the warning, Trevor. I owe you one.”
45
Devereaux worked at the clothesline binding his left hand. It had seemed the most promising when he started.
That had been two hours ago.
The flat was silent. They were gone or sleeping.
The line had rubbed his wrist raw and each act of trying to slip the bond was accompanied by pain. But he thought it was working. It was difficult to tell because he couldn’t see his hand.
He strained and then relaxed; strained; relaxed. The principle was that all cloth ropes and strings have play in them if you can work at the play and have the time and patience. Each time he felt the line edge higher to the ridge formed by the back of his hand.
And then he was free, just like that.
He snatched the blindfold away and reached for the line binding his right hand. He managed to untie the simple knot and then sat up on the bed and reached for the ropes on his legs.
He crept out of bed and slipped into his clothes, which lay on the floor.
The next part was harder. Two murderous women with guns were in the house.
He went into the hallway. The flat was perfectly still in the darkness. He stepped on a floorboard and it creaked. He went down the hallway to the kitchen.
Sullen moonlight filled the room and made shadows on the white walls.
He went to the back door and studied the locks. There were two of them, one a deadbolt. He carefully turned the locks and they clicked and he thought the noise was too loud.
He heard a sound from another part of the flat. He opened a drawer and took out a knife. He went back to the kitchen entry and waited, his back pressed against the kitchen wall.
In a moment, he saw Maureen in the moonlight. She was naked, except for the pistol in her hand. She pushed open the door of the room where he had been tied up.
“Shit,” she said. “Fookin’ gone, he is.”
She passed down the hall toward the kitchen and Devereaux jumped her as she entered it. He grabbed her from behind, one hand on her right arm pushing the pistol forward, the other drawing the knife against her throat.
Maureen turned to struggle and the razor edge cut a line of blood across her throat.
“Don’t,” he said.
She stopped struggling. She held the pistol still but her aim and control were immobilized by Devereaux’s hand.
“Drop the pistol.”
“Then you’ll kill me—”
“Drop the pistol.”
She dropped the pistol, which clattered on the kitchen tiles. In that moment, Devereaux kicked her away from him and knelt to retrieve the gun. She came back at him with a snarl but now he had the gun.
“We shoulda killed ya, ya bastard.”
“Where is she?”
“Right here, love, right behind you.”
He turned and Marie had a pistol aimed at his chest. She was wearing a sleeping gown of white cotton that was too large for her. Her hair was tousled. Her eyes were very bright in the moonlight.
He held his pistol steady and looked at her. Maureen stood less than six feet away, her hands away from her body as though she were about to leap.
“I’ll shoot you,” Devereaux said in a calm, detached voice.
“Oh, yes, lamb, I believe that. I believe you’d never hold a gun unless you intended to use it. But it doesn’t matter what you intend. The gun isn’t loaded.”
The pistol was an automatic and there was no way to tell if Marie was lying or not. He stared at her. The gamine turned to Maureen and smiled. “You see, love, I don’t trust you either.”
“You fookin’ bitch, you and him are in something together—”
“I’m in everything for me, alone for me. I sent you to fetch Trevor Armstrong and you bring me back the wrong man. Should I trust you to do the right thing next time, dear? But maybe you’d think to do the wrong thing the next time. Why should I trust you, any more than Matthew O’Day should trust you?”
Maureen saw the way it was. Her tone changed. She took a step toward Marie. She held out her hand. “Look, you and I want the same thing.”
Marie turned the pistol toward Maureen. “Do we? What do you want, Maureen? You want the money for yourself, don’t you?”
Devereaux did not make a move. The two women had the scene.
“Come on. If the pistol’s not loaded, then off the fuckin’ pig. Do it now.”
Marie stared at Maureen.
“You’re absolutely right. There’s no point in waiting any longer.”
Maureen smiled at Devereaux.
Marie raised the pistol.
Devereaux pulled the trigger.
They all heard the sharp, short click of a hammer coming down on an empty chamber.
Marie fired once.
The bullet caught Maureen between her breasts and drove her backward, off her feet. Her eyes were simply amazed and they remained wide open after the moment of death. Her head struck the kitchen table but she didn’t feel a thing. She fell onto the floor.
Devereaux stood still.
Marie turned to him. A little smoke came from the barrel.
She said, “Henry wanted to kill me. He didn’t have to do that.”
“He wanted to kill me.”
“Yes. Henry likes bombs. I’ve come to learn that. He wanted to kill me and her and now I’ve done it to her because there was no other way. You see that?”
Devereaux said nothing.
“You have to see that,” Marie said.
“If you say so.”
“She was a terrorist. She would have killed you when sh
e brought you back. I saved your life then, lamb.”
“I know.”
“And what should I do with it now?”
Devereaux waited.
“I could kill you. Oh, yes, I’m not afraid to do that. But then it would remind me that you saved my life. I should show how grateful I am. Would you like me? Would you like me to do things for you? I can do anything, you know.” Marie smiled.
“Including murder. How are you going to kill Henry?” Devereaux said.
“The quickest way I can. And get the money he’s cheating out of Trevor Armstrong.”
“I don’t care about the money. I want to get Henry McGee,” Devereaux said.
“Because of what he did to you.”
“Because of what he did to a woman.”
Marie caught her breath in surprise. Then she smiled. “What did he do to a woman? Some woman you liked?”
“He shot her.”
“Is she dead?”
“No.”
“Then you got a girl, lamb? Could you spare a little of yourself for me?”
“I want Henry McGee.”
“What do you want to do with him?”
“I think I know now,” Devereaux said. He still held the empty pistol and he was staring straight into her mad eyes.
And it was enough.
She took a step back and slowly folded her arms across her chest and still held the pistol but not pointed at him. She leaned against the wall and cocked her head and they stared at each other for a long moment.
Then she said, smiling, “Tell me.”
46
Why was this so easy?
It was the only question that still bothered Henry McGee as he took the elevator to the sixth floor of the Hilton Hotel in west central London.
In his right pocket was a pistol but he didn’t expect to use the Walther. In the left jacket pocket were the makings of a bomb.
Second time lucky, he thought. And he smiled at the thought while facing a drab American man with travel-tired eyes and bags in his hands and under his eyes. The man did not understand the smile and did not respond to it; his mind had been dulled by days of business and incessant travel to the point where every hotel was the same, every airport was really one big airport, and the taste of food was even gone.
Henry would never feel such tiredness. He had traveled everywhere in the world, eaten every food, slept with every kind of woman, pretended to be on one side and then the other, and the zest of living every moment was enough to keep his eyes shining, even during the deliberate grind of the nearly two years he had been forced to spend in prison. In prison. Because of that bastard, Devereaux. That was why he came back and would come back and back and back until Devereaux was meat for dogs.
Devereaux had registered here under the name of Dever. That was easy enough to get out of the store of memory in London Station. The trouble with R Section was that it was so fucking penetrable, especially by a former agent turned traitor named Henry McGee.
The Hilton would be right. It was the kind of place—big, anonymous, American to the core—where Section would put its agents on missions abroad. The mission was fairly obvious. To get Henry McGee. A wet contract of the sort that the United States was never supposed to put out.
Henry smiled at that thought, too. He stepped off the elevator at the sixth floor, leaving the tired salesman still in the cage. He went down the hallway to the door of the room.
It was almost too easy, he thought. So he also thought it might be some kind of a setup.
He knocked at the door and waited. He had not expected an answer.
A long moment passed. He used a thin piece of steel shaped like a credit card with various edges cut out of it to pull open the lock. The card was his own invention, something he had learned to make in the prison machine shop. It opened bottles, cans, and doors. Clever old Henry; he’d have to get a patent for it someday if he ever needed money again. Call it the Real McGee, tell people don’t leave home without it.
The room contained a suitcase on a sideboard. The case was open. Henry went through it with considerable efficiency. The second case was on a writing desk. He recognized it for what it was; hadn’t he used such cases when he was in Section, let alone when he was traveling for KGB? It was the case of a killer on a mission that was deniable from the beginning.
“Fuckin’ R Section,” he muttered. He touched the extra rounds banded in automatic clips. They had exploding tips that blew apart the hollow aluminum on contact and shredded into the body of the person contacted. Tips for murder most extreme, no matter where they hit you.
Henry realized he was working himself up. He didn’t care. He enjoyed it the way he enjoyed everything, even killing Maureen and Marie with that gas device in the flat.
He took the makings of a bomb out of his left pocket. The bomb was simple Plastique. You could form it in your hand like clay. It was malleable and patient.
The second part of the bomb was the wire that led to the triggering device. The triggering device was actually plastic and aluminum. Once the parts were together, the device was armed. When Devereaux opened the door of the room, he would pull the trigger on his own bomb and send himself to his own death. It had not worked in that room in Washington but Henry McGee didn’t have time to fool around with Devereaux, time to stalk him and shoot him down. This was going to have to do. It would do. Even a cat runs out of lives; Devereaux wouldn’t survive again.
And the beauty part was that Devereaux wouldn’t expect it again. Not twice. Not from the same man.
Henry McGee began to hum as he worked in the half darkness of the anonymous hotel room. Great London was mute beyond the double-paned windows and the throb of traffic stilled.
Arming the trigger was like operating a money clip that has a spring to hold the money against the metal side. Once the spring is pushed down, the tension holds the paper currency tight; and once the spring is released, the money slips away.
He was humming “Amazing Grace,” he realized. What dim time in memory of childhood had the song been retrieved from? The Methodist church in the village in the bleak Alaskan tundra where he was raised?
“… that saved a wretch like me?
I once was lost, but now I’m found,
Was blind but now I see…”
There. It was finished. He got up from the chair and went to the door.
He paused at the knock.
Who the hell was knocking at the door? Devereaux wasn’t knocking at the door of his own room. The bed was made, it was late morning, it couldn’t be the maid again.
He listened to the knock again. And then he heard the voice.
“Dev.”
Jesus Christ. He smiled. A fucking girl. Devereaux was nearly as much of a cocksman as he was.
He went to the door and opened it.
It was her.
The girl in the parking lot. The girlfriend. Rita Macklin. They both fucking didn’t die. He had killed them both and they both didn’t die.
She just stared at him because she had never seen him before but she knew—knew right to her heart—exactly who he was. She was before the beast and it took her breath away for a moment and then she realized the beast could move.
He reached for her arm just as she had decided to turn and run down the hall.
He pulled her into the room and slammed the door with his foot. She started to scream and he slapped her very hard across the face and the blow stunned her to silence. He pushed her down on the bed and knelt over her and grinned down at her.
“You got more than one life, too, huh, honey? You know I was the one shot you. You went down easy enough, you must be a late kill, huh? You and Devereaux. What’s Devereaux’s girlfriend look like under those clothes?”
He had knelt on her arms and all she could do was shake her head back and forth in struggle. Henry grinned at her helplessness and then he thought about it. He really didn’t know how much time he had and the girl was a complication.
Damn
, he nearly said aloud.
Slowly, he crawled off her. He could use the sheets, he decided, and pulled a knife out of his pocket. She gasped and thought it was meant for her.
Henry smiled. “No, honey, I ain’t got time for folderol today. After tomorrow, I’ll have plenty of time and money but you won’t be around after tomorrow. So why don’t we just end it here, what do you say?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
He grabbed the top sheet and started a tear with the knife. She was dressed for travel—jeans, sweater, flat jogging shoes—and she started to get up from the bed.
“Nah,” he said. “Get back in on your back and spread out your arms, honey. There. There and there.”
The bonds were brutally tight. When he had finished trussing her to the bed, she began to feel her hands grow numb.
“They’re too tight,” she started to say.
“So your hands and feet are going to get numb. You think this is some sex game? You’re tied down to stay down until your lover man comes to get you. And you won’t like this gag either.”
When he was finished, Henry said, “Now, see the way it is, you and loverboy are going to get killed together. Isn’t that romantic? You and him going off to eternity, hand in hand. Sort of.” He was working on the bomb again on the front door, positioning the triggering device in the jamb. He opened the door after applying the Plastique to the doorframe at eye level.
“Now, honey, adieu. When your friend comes tripping down the hall to find the love of his life in his bed, he’s gonna have about a quarter of a second to appreciate the gift I wrapped for him before you and him are history. Understand what I’m saying, honey? This is a bomb and this time, it’s gonna take both of you out. I like bombs, always have, always like to use them for the delayed effect. I know I won’t be there when it goes but I can read all about it in the papers next day. Read all about the grievin’ widows and perplexed police and all the rest of that good shit. So, so long, honey, you got time to think about it while you wait for him. Too bad I ain’t got time to give you a good one but that’s the way it goes.” And he blew her a kiss at the door and slowly closed it on the triggering device.
