McCall smashed into it. The chain split apart and the gate swung open. He gunned the vehicle out of the compound. More bullets hit the back of it. McCall could not hear over the rush of wind, but he knew some of the soldiers were running for other jeeps and trucks that had transported them to the isolated facility.
There was a last fusillade of bullets. The jeep swerved violently. McCall plunged off the road into the dense forest surrounding the factory. He bounced over a dirt track for a quarter of a mile, then one of the tires blew as it hit an obstruction in the road.
Going too fast.
The jeep sailed up into the air and flipped over.
It crashed down and cartwheeled into some heavy bushes and a tree trunk tore apart the front of the vehicle.
It lay there with smoke pouring out of the hood and the sound of wrenching metal faded away into the silence of the forest.
CHAPTER 29
Twilight gathered the city in its arms.
McCall had picked up his iPhone from Brahms who’d told him it would chirp if Jeff Carlson walked up to Karen Armstrong’s apartment building. He’d thought about making it chime a Brahms waltz, but had decided a simple electronic beep would suffice. McCall had walked from the electronics store to Fifty-ninth Street and bought a hot dog from a vendor outside the Plaza Hotel in front of Central Park. He liked it with diced onions and mustard, no ketchup or sauerkraut. He walked into the park and found a bench on one of the paths. On one of the other benches was a family who’d been to the zoo and were trying to figure out how to carry shopping bags and balloons and small children and ice-cream cones and large pretzels with mustard at the same time. McCall needed to regroup. Something was not right. He was missing something. Or there was something he simply didn’t know.
Margaret was on a Greyhound bus back to Minnesota. Karen Armstrong was being stalked, but McCall could not give her surveillance 24/7. If Carlson was going to go after her, he’d have to make his move and McCall had to hope he’d be close.
That left the gang at Dolls nightclub. Yes, they’d flexed their muscles with one of their cocktail waitresses. Wanted her to be a dancer. Wanted her to sleep with certain high-profile clients of the club. Collect what could be valuable information. Set up blackmail. But they weren’t running a prostitution ring in the neighborhood. They were working protection on the merchants, but it was almost like they had to do that if they were going to have any standing in the community.
So what was special about Katia Rossovkaya? They had wanted to intimidate her. They had kidnapped her teenage daughter to show they meant business. McCall had rescued her. Without a shot being fired or anyone really getting hurt. That was a humiliation for the Chechens that might not be tolerated. But humiliating enough for Borislav Kirov to send his enforcers to the Liberty Belle Hotel to murder McCall and anyone who was with him?
McCall ate some more of the hot dog. It was a cliché to say there were no hot dogs you could get in any other American city as good as the ones in New York, but he had to give it some credence.
This wasn’t just about Katia Rossovkaya.
It was about him.
The same thin icy dread he’d felt when he stepped into the alleyway to stop J.T. from beating Margaret to death—the same dread he’d felt when he didn’t think he could save Serena Johanssen in that forest surrounding the abandoned automobile factory—took hold of him.
McCall had come into Borislav Kirov’s world and it shouldn’t have made him break into a sweat. McCall was Bobby Maclain, a bartender at Bentleys restaurant. And even if Kirov was savvy and perceptive enough to sense a past, to feel the threat of violence that could wrap itself around McCall, he was still a stranger and would have stayed that way. And yet Kirov had sent his pit bull Bakar Daudov with ten armed assassins to kill him. Kirov didn’t know McCall had been with Danil Gershon in Grand Central Station. McCall might’ve been spotted with him on one of the station’s surveillance cameras, but Kirov would have no access to any of those tapes. He’d sent his enforcers after Gershon because The Company man’s cover had been blown. It could not have just been McCall’s fleeting visit. They must have been suspicious of him for some time.
At least, that’s what McCall wanted to believe.
So Robert McCall was dangerous to Borislav Kirov and Kirov’s operation. And that operation wasn’t running the Dolls nightclub in Manhattan.
So what was it?
McCall ate the last two bites of the hot dog, wiped his fingers on a napkin, dropped it into a wastebasket, stood up, and walked down the path.
When in doubt, he thought.…
Go to a Broadway show.
* * *
It was the opening night of the revival of Les Misérables on Broadway at the Imperial Theater on West Forty-fifth Street. McCall was glad to see that some people still dressed up to go to the theater, at least to an opening night. There were men in business suits, even a few tuxes here and there. Women were dressed in cocktail attire with lots of jewellery. And then there were the appliance salesmen from Ohio in shapeless corduroy pants and loud sport coats that even Paul Drake on Perry Mason wouldn’t have worn and the sweatshirt-and-jeans women who needed to be comfortable more than they needed to make a fashion statement.
McCall himself was dressed in a dark blue suit. It was the only one he owned and it didn’t see much use. There had been a small photograph in one of the pockets that had been dry-cleaned along with the suit. It was of Elena Petrov, in a restaurant somewhere, holding a glass of wine and toasting the camera, or rather, the cameraman, her face radiant in the candlelight. He had stared down at it for a long time. I’d tell you he feels badly about what happened, Kostmayer had said, but with Control you never know. Cologne in his veins. She died in his arms.
McCall had taken the photo and put it into a shoebox in the top drawer of the dresser in his bedroom. There wasn’t much in the shoebox. Some photos, some letters. He hadn’t looked at anything else in it. He’d closed the top of the shoebox and shut the dresser drawer.
Then he’d gone to the theater.
The lobby of the Imperial Theater was packed. People milled around, drinks in hand, five deep at the bar, a general sense of excitement in the air. It was an exhilarating show and this was a big Broadway revival. Les Miz was McCall’s favorite musical. Its high emotions and sense of humanity resonated with him on a very visceral level. Not that he tried to analyze his feelings about it.
It was just one hell of a good show.
McCall knew Borislav Kirov was going to be at the opening night because he’d listened in on the bug under his alcove table. Kirov had called his wife and promised he wouldn’t be late to pick her up. He was standing near the bar, drinking a vodka-and-tonic. He was dressed in a black suit with a dark crimson tie held in place with a gold tie clip. Rings sparkled on his fingers. Beside him was a very attractive American woman, early forties. Kostmayer had found out her name was Kristine, with a K, she came from Swedish stock, her folks had owned half of the Upper East Side and she was an interior decorator who Trump called in the middle of the night. She was blond and a little raucous and laughed a lot. When her husband motioned that he was stepping outside onto the street to smoke, she nodded and smiled lovingly at him. She would allow him one vice. McCall wondered if she knew he was a man who ordered people killed. Or maybe she did and had long since compartmentalized it somewhere she could not access it. Her husband was a good man. He was the father of their two teenage sons. He loved life and embraced it in a big way.
McCall followed Kirov out of the theater. The Chechen took out a package of Sobranie of London Cocktail cigarette 100’s, took the silver lighter with his initials on it from his pocket, shook out a cigarette, and lit it. He took his iPhone out of the right-hand pocket of his suit coat and checked for messages. There didn’t seem to be anything urgent. He dropped it back into his coat pocket with the lighter. He looked down Forty-fifth Street, smoking, lost in thought. His body language showed no tension. If anything, a little resignation about
the waste of an evening.
He was too isolated out here in the street. McCall would have to wait until he was back inside the lobby.
But that didn’t work out, either. Kirov smoked three cigarettes in quick succession and then the lights were flashing in the lobby and a polite but somewhat urgent voice was telling the theatergoers to take their seats as the performance would begin in five minutes. Kirov walked back into the theater and moved over to his wife. They were with another couple, a balding man in his forties in a gray suit with a much younger woman who looked like she’d just stepped out of a Playmate calendar and had rushed to join him, throwing on a beige silk handkerchief to cover her serious endowments and wearing beige high heels. McCall recognized the man’s face, but couldn’t remember his name. A high-powered criminal attorney. Probably Kirov’s.
McCall might have had a shot with the crowd surging toward the auditorium doors, but they weren’t doing it like the place was on fire. It was kind of leisurely, even though the ominous voice told them the performance would begin in three minutes and the lights kept flashing. Plenty of time. These shows always went up late, particularly on opening night.
McCall followed Kirov and his wife and his lawyer and his date into the theater. He stood at the back, waiting to see where Kirov and his wife were sitting. They were in the A section, even numbers, to the right, row F. The attorney and the Playmate were sitting beside them. McCall’s seat was in the center section, but row V, the last row, on the aisle. People found their seats. The lights came down and the overture started and the sense of anticipation was electric.
McCall sat for the first twenty minutes of the show. Then he got up. He told one of the ushers that he had sciatica and had to stand periodically, which was why he’d chosen an aisle seat in the back row. The usher nodded. He didn’t care. From this vantage point, McCall could get a better view of Kirov and his wife. Kristine Kirov was absolutely enchanted. Her face was radiant as she watched the show. It was the big “Master of the House” scene where Thénardier, the “best innkeeper in town,” was explaining that nothing gets you nothing, everything has got a little price.…
“Charge ’em for the lice, extra for the mice, two percent for looking in the mirror twice.…”
And that: “How it all increases, all them bits and pieces, Jesus it’s amazing how it grows.…”
The innkeeper’s wife, Madame Thénardier, told the audience “God knows how I’ve lasted, living with this bastard in the house,” and when the chorus wanted to toast the master of the house and sang, “Everybody raise a glass,” and she sang, “Raise it up the Master’s arse,” McCall laughed out loud.
It seemed a long time since he’d done that.
Quickly they were at the rousing finale of the First Act, “One Day More,” Jean Valjean’s voice magnificent and rousing, before the barricades of freedom go up and the lovers and rebels wonder what their God in Heaven has in store for them. This brought the audience to their feet. McCall looked over at Borislav Kirov. He didn’t stand. He looked bored. McCall walked out into the lobby. The doors to the auditorium opened and the theatergoes poured out and within seconds the bar area was like last call at an Irish pub in Dublin.
Perfect.
Kirov had ordered drinks ahead. McCall timed it so that he drew parallel with Kirov as he turned to hand his wife and attorney their drinks. Bumped into him in the crowd. McCall thrust his hand into the right-hand pocket of Kirov’s suit coat, came out with his iPhone, jostled him, and murmured an apology, which was completely lost in the overall ambiance. By the time Kirov turned around, McCall was gone, swallowed up in the seething mass of people.
Kirov never felt a thing.
It was the same coat pocket in which he carried his lighter. The loss of weight should not register with him.
McCall walked outside. There were lots of people on the sidewalk, smoking, talking on their cell phones. McCall walked down the street to an outdoor café where there was an empty table. He took out his own iPhone, plugged in a small device Brahms had given him earlier in the day, connected it to Kirov’s iPhone, and started downloading Kirov’s documents and e-mails.
It took longer than he thought it would. He kept an eye on the time and finally had to get to his feet and rejoin the crowd outside the theater. It was sparser. The lights in the lobby were flashing and people were moving toward the auditorium doors. End of intermission. McCall walked back into the theater lobby. He had both phones in the pocket of his suit coat, the transfer of data continuing.
Kirov was just knocking back the last of his fourth gin-and-tonic. Kristine was urging him to come on! They’d be late back to their seats! Kirov threw off her arm and McCall saw, for the first time, a flicker of fear in her eyes. Now he got it. She loved him and she tolerated him and she turned a blind eye to his business.
Because she was afraid of him.
They moved to the auditorium doors. McCall followed, watching Kirov’s right hand, feeling tension coiling inside him. But the Chechen’s hand did not move to his right-hand coat pocket. You could not use your cell phone once you were in the theater. He had already checked for messages just over an hour before.
Inside the auditorium Kirov and his wife took their seats. His attorney and his Playboy date joined them soon afterward. The hubbub in the theater died down as the lights went out. The orchestra started the overture for the Second Act of the musical. Lots of applause. The lights went up on the stage and Enjolras brought his band of freedom fighters downstage and McCall went back out into the lobby. He walked to the men’s room and into an empty stall. Sat on the top of the toilet and brought out the two iPhones. It took another ten minutes to complete the download. Then he put his own iPhone back into his pocket, strode across the lobby, and opened one of the doors to the theater. He motioned to the usher who was standing at the back, enjoying the show. Onstage, Gavroche had just turned in Javert as a traitor. McCall handed the usher Kirov’s iPhone.
“I found this in the lobby,” McCall whispered. “The man who dropped it is sitting in section A, row F, right on the aisle. I didn’t want to go down there myself with the show already started, but I have to leave. My leg is really hurting me. Can you give this to him? I’ll wait right here and make sure you give it to the right guy.”
“It’ll have to wait until the end of the performance,” the usher whispered.
“It can’t. I need to know he’s got it back. I don’t want to be accused of stealing it. It’ll only take you a few seconds. Look, people are still finding their way back to their seats.”
It was true. The last intermission stragglers were coming down both aisles, apologizing in whispers, sliding into seats. The usher took the iPhone from McCall and moved quickly down the right-hand aisle. McCall watched as he knelt beside Kirov at row F and whispered to him. He handed him the iPhone. Instinctively Kirov felt his right-hand coat pocket. His heavy silver lighter was in there. McCall nodded. He’d mistaken the weight for both the lighter and the iPhone. Kirov took the iPhone and thanked the usher, looking up the aisle. McCall knew what he was saying without having to hear the words. Who handed it in? The usher must’ve told him it was one of the theatergoers. Found it on the lobby floor. The usher said something else, probably to warn Kirov not to turn on the iPhone while the show was in progress. Kirov nodded and put the iPhone into his pocket.
McCall stayed long enough to see Éponine’s death scene with Marius. The actress was Samantha Barks, who had played the role in the London stage production, and also in the terrific movie. McCall wanted to see her performance again. It had moved him both times. She didn’t disappoint him. She was poignant and believable and had the voice of an angel. At the end of the song, most of the audience rose to its feet and cheered. It stopped the show.
Kirov remained seated. He looked back up the aisle. In the darkness at the back of the theater, McCall gave him an ironic wave, even though he knew he would not be able to see it.
Then he walked out of the auditorium, t
hrough the lobby, and out of the theater.
In the kitchen of his apartment, McCall plugged his iPhone into his laptop on the square kitchen table and started the process of transferring Kirov’s documents onto the computer. Brahms had already been to his apartment while he’d been at Les Misérables. He didn’t need a key. Brahms could break any lock on the planet. He had installed software onto McCall’s laptop that would bypass encrypted files and firewalls and passwords. Highly sophisticated and illegal. He’d left a note for McCall on the coffee table in the living room: “Nice place. Too tidy. Live in it!”
McCall had smiled. But his mind was in a different time and place. Seeing that actress as Éponine in the musical had touched off another sense memory within him.
She looked very much like a younger Serena Johanssen.
McCall looked out at the darkened rooftops outside the kitchen window and was drawn back to her.
CHAPTER 30
He had to get her out of the jeep. The insistent thought burned through the pain. He felt the night air on his face. His eyes were like slits. His left leg was pinned beneath the steering wheel. His left arm was wedged under his body, but his right arm was free. He pushed on the crumpled dashboard and dragged himself up a few inches. He twisted his body a little more and wrenched his left leg toward him.
A couple of inches.
Again.
Two more inches.
He managed to free his left arm and put both hands on the steering wheel and pushed hard against it. His left leg moved farther along the seat.
One more heave.
McCall could not hear her breathing or moving. He felt exposed, as if he was no longer inside the jeep, which he knew he was. He opened his eyes further, swimming up through the layers of hurt toward a light just out of his reach. It was not bright, but it beckoned him.
He opened his eyes fully.
Half of the UAZ jeep had been torn away by the tree trunk. The driver’s door had been thrown to the ground, most of the windshield was buckled and the left-hand front-side of the vehicle was crushed. The roof had been torn off completely. Blood streamed down the left-hand side of McCall’s face. He was able to raise his right hand and wipe it away. He twisted in the crumpled front seat and looked at the back. It was caved in. From this angle there was no sign of Serena at all.
The Equalizer Page 32
