by Andrew Grant
This time they did everything by the book. It was as though their actions were being scrutinized by a hidden assessor and they were determined not to get a bad score. We went back through the main office, around to the elevator lobby, and across to a door in the far corner. It led to a staircase. There was no corporate decor, here. Just a gray floor, gray walls, gray handrails, and a gray ceiling. Different sizes of gray pipes were attached to the walls by plain, functional brackets. The place was cold and it echoed, a little like the inside of a battleship.
We went up one level, to the top floor. Two men were waiting for us. They were wearing neat gray suits like Weston and Lavine, and both were holding guns. As we approached they backed off through a door at the top of the stairs and took up defensive positions on the far side.
This floor had the same basic layout as the one below, but instead of passing through an open plan area, the corridor led us between two groups of more modest-sized rooms. There were individual offices on the right, and meeting rooms on the left. Several of the office doors still had name plates. I saw PETER MOULDS, NIGEL GOWER, DEREK WOODS. That one was open. I looked inside. The furniture was gone, but the carpet was a different class and there were outlines on the wall where pictures would have hung.
We continued along the corridor until we reached a pair of wide doors at the far end. The pale veneer was richly polished, and a plaque on the right-hand side read PRINCIPAL BOARDROOM. Lavine knocked lightly, twice, just below it.
“Come,” a male voice said.
Lavine pushed the door halfway open and Weston bundled me through the gap into a large, square room. It was the full width of the building, and all three external walls were floor-to-ceiling glass. There were no blinds, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the tiny people milling around, far below. We were so high there was no sense that the building could be rooted in the same streets. It felt more as if we were floating above them, completely disconnected from everyday life.
Inside, the room was dominated by an enormous table. It was easily thirty feet long by ten feet wide. The surface was made from black granite, so highly polished it looked as if it were wet. I ran my eye all the way along, but I couldn’t see any joins. It seemed to be a single slab. That would explain why it was still there. The partition walls must have been built around it. There would be no way to get it out now—it was too big.
Three men were sitting at the far side of the table, facing me. They appeared to be in their mid-fifties, and had the pallid complexion of people who don’t see enough sunshine. Their suits were plain and nondescript. They had crisp white shirts and sober ties, and each wore his graying hair in a neat, conservative style.
The man in the center of the trio wore narrow, wire-rimmed glasses. He was looking down at a folder on the table in front of him. It held a half-inch stack of papers, but I could only see part of the top sheet. It was a computer-generated form. A photograph was clipped to the top, obscuring a quarter of the page. It showed a man’s face. It was clean shaven, and the hair was tidier and shorter, but there was no doubt I’d seen the person before. Less than twenty-four hours ago.
Dressed as a tramp.
_______
Weston put his hand on my shoulder and guided me toward a broken-down typist’s chair. It was on its own on our side of the table, lined up opposite the three older men. Its blue cloth covers were badly torn. Clumps of stuffing were poking out of the holes, and various levers and handles were dangling from its base. I looked at Lavine as I lowered myself gingerly onto the seat, but he wouldn’t make eye contact. He just turned his head away and shuffled farther along the table to my left. Weston removed his hand and slunk away to my right, leaving me isolated. On the other side of the table the man with the glasses closed his folder and pressed his fingertips against his temples for a moment. Then he dropped his hands and began to speak.
“Forgive me,” he said. “Closing a personnel file for the last time is never easy. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Bruce Rosser, deputy director of Special Operations with the FBI.”
“I’m David Trevellyan,” I said. “But you knew that already.”
“I did,” he said, solemnly nodding his head. “Now—my colleagues. On my left, Louis Breuer. On my right, Mitchell Varley, also with Special Operations. Agents Lavine and Weston, you’ve already met.”
I looked at each of them, but didn’t say anything.
“Mike Raab was a good agent,” Rosser said. “He’ll be missed.”
“Yeah, well, everyone’s a saint, once they’re dead,” I said.
“No. Mike really was one of the good guys. I knew him pretty well. Mentored him, his first couple of cases, back when I was in the field. We used to play cards. Any chance we could find. All night, sometimes.”
“Beats working, I suppose.”
“How about you, Mr. Trevellyan? Do you play?”
“No.”
“Shame. You should. You really get to know someone, that way. How they think. How they plan. How they adapt. How they bluff. How they lie. You know, if I had to get the measure of someone right now, given a regular interview or one hand of cards, I’d go with the cards.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, sir, it is. And you know what else I use them for?”
“I could suggest something.”
“Problem solving. Ever gathered all the facts, but just can’t see how they fit together? Cards can give you the answer. Help you put the pieces in place, one at a time.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“You know what? Let’s do more than that. Let’s play right now,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pack. They were white with a gold band around the edge and a large, ornate eagle design embossed in the center. They looked well used. “One hand of blackjack. For Mike. And for you. Help you straighten out your situation. I’ll deal. You tell me when to stop.”
“Stop,” I said.
He carried on shuffling, then laid the pack facedown on the table.
“Ready?” he said.
I didn’t answer.
“OK, here we go,” he said, turning over the top card. It was the two of clubs. “Lavine and Weston told you about the bodies. We’ve found five, male, near railroad tracks, their necks broken.”
The second card was the four of diamonds.
“I assigned Mike after the second one was found,” he said. “It was slow, but he was getting somewhere. He followed the trail to New York City. Set up in here, to stay under the radar while he was undercover.”
Next was the two of hearts.
“Yesterday morning, he missed a regular contact.”
Two of spades.
“We followed protocol. Spoke to the local police, emergency rooms, everyone else. At midday we heard the NYPD had found Mike’s body.”
Three of clubs.
“And they also had his killer in custody.”
Three of diamonds.
“With eyewitness testimony on tape.”
Four of spades.
“Which indicated a leak inside the bureau.”
Rosser leaned back and gestured to the line of cards.
“So, how are we doing?” he said.
“How should I know?” I said. “I told you. I don’t play.”
“Just look at the cards. Add them up.”
“Seven.”
“Don’t count them,” he said, after a moment. “Add up the values.”
“Twenty,” I said.
“Twenty, that’s right. A good hand. Almost unbeatable. The guy who killed an FBI agent, served up on a silver platter. A lot of people would stick with a hand like that.”
“But you’re not going to.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s think about it. Break the puzzle down a little more,” he said, splitting the cards into three piles. “See, I think we actually have three problems here. You follow?”
“You have a dead agent,” I said. “You have someone killing railway passengers. And you think you have a lea
k in the bureau.”
“Good. We’re on the same page. And these problems—separate, or connected?”
“Can’t say. I don’t know enough about the case to connect them, but if they’re not connected, that would be a pretty big coincidence.”
“And I guess we both feel the same way about coincidences, right? So let’s start at the beginning. The railroad guys. They weren’t passengers, the victims.”
“So who where they? Employees? People living near railroad lines?”
“No. Free riders.”
“Who?”
“People who hitch rides on freight trains.”
“They still do that? I thought leaping onto moving trains went out with the Depression.”
“Most people think that. It suits us. And we don’t go out of our way to correct them. The fewer know about it, the fewer start doing it.”
“Maybe. I just wouldn’t have thought it was such a big deal.”
“It’s not al-Qaeda, granted. But it’s big, and it’s getting bigger. Try this. Right now, this moment, guess how many free riders are out there?”
“I don’t know. Twelve?”
“No. Any given time, around two thousand. And a group that size, it needs to be managed.”
“Really? Sure you’re not exaggerating? There’s not a bit of budget padding going on here?”
“We’re certain.”
“How do you know? About the numbers. Do you have people standing on bridges with clipboards, counting?”
“Not exactly. But we do keep a close eye.”
“How?”
“Not your business.”
“OK. So why do people do it? To save the price of a ticket?”
“It started that way, years ago. But now it’s a way of life. Bums, with nowhere else to live. Illegal immigrants, sneaking into the country. Vets, from Nam. And lately Iraq, obviously. And Afghanistan. It’s the closest to peace some of those guys are ever going to get, now.”
“It doesn’t sound very peaceful to me.”
“I don’t know. Riding around, alone, in an empty boxcar. That rhythm you get, with the wheels on the rails. It lulls crazy people into a kind of trance. Or lying under the stars, on an open trailer, winding slowly through the mountains. It’s like being on vacation, for them.”
“So what do you think happened? Did some vet start taking out his post-traumatic stress on these bums?”
“No. We don’t get much trouble with the vets. They’re mostly pacifists, now. They just want to be left alone.”
“Who then?”
“Another kind of person altogether. Someone who doesn’t need to ride the rails. Someone who wants to.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s against the law. Because it’s fun. The greater the danger, the greater the thrill. People get all romantic about it. They think they’re modern-day cowboys, riding the last freedom trail around America.”
“Oh, please.”
“They do. It’s true. Or how about this? Because it’s a great place to kill people no one will miss, and then disappear before the bodies are found. It’s like a recurring stain.”
“It’s happened before?”
“Many times. Four years ago, a guy killed eleven. The last guy, thirteen.”
“You caught them?”
“Raab’s team did. Eventually. But there’s over a hundred and seventy thousand miles of track in the major routes alone. That’s a lot of places to hide. Or you can run. One side of the country to the other in three days flat. Or cross into Mexico. Or Canada.”
“And wherever you go, you don’t leave any records.”
“You got it. No tickets. No credit cards. No hotels. Nothing.”
“So if the guy’s still in the wind after five murders, what changed? Why would he suddenly think the net was closing? Late-onset paranoia?”
“Someone told him. Warned him. That’s the only answer.”
“Now you’re being paranoid. It’s more likely Raab just showed his hand somehow. He probably screwed things up himself.”
“No. For two reasons. One, we’ve traced every step he took. He didn’t give himself away. We know that. And two, this guy didn’t just spot some anonymous cop breathing down his neck. He had specifics. Who was running the investigation. Where they’d be. When.”
“But that’s high-level information. How would a bum or a vet get access to it?”
“You’ve got to understand the kind of guys we’re talking about. They’re not garden-variety lawbreakers. There’s a whole subculture building up around this. There’s a lot of juice involved.”
“You said they were bums and vets.”
“I did. And they’re still there, sure. But now we’ve got movie stars doing it. Rock stars. Tycoons. Guys who are used to getting what they want, when they want it, regardless.”
“So?”
“I’m talking about powerful guys. People with contacts. Especially the business guys. They all have politicians and public officials in their pockets. One of them must have a hook in the bureau, as well. It’s not good, but it happens.”
“So the guy who killed these riders was tipped by his buddy in the bureau?”
“Yes.”
“And then he took Raab out to save his own skin?”
“Yes.”
“It was the same guy?”
“That’s how we saw it.”
“What do you need to complete your hand?”
“An ace.”
“Then go ahead. Deal your last card.”
“If it is an ace, we’re going to start the paperwork on you,” Rosser said, his hand hovering just above the pack. “You still want me to do it?”
I nodded.
Rosser flipped the top card over and covered it with his hand. He moved so fast all I saw was a blur of red, blue, and yellow against the white background. There was no sign of any numbers. Then he looked straight at me and raised his hand.
It was a grotesque character in a harlequin suit, standing on the north pole and showering the globe with dozens of tiny cards.
“Oh, my,” Rosser said. “Would you look at that.”
“The joker,” I said. “How appropriate. Nice meeting you.”
“Wow, slow down. Maybe we need to look at this thing again. If the train killer and Raab’s killer are different people after all,” he said, separating the three piles of cards, “maybe they’re still connected some other way. What do you think?”
I didn’t answer.
“Let’s talk about this guy on the trains,” Rosser said. “He’s some kind of maverick entrepreneur. He’s rich. More than rich. Loaded. Would he be the kind of guy to, say, wash his own shirts?”
“I doubt it,” I said.
“Do his own ironing?”
“No.”
“Drive his own limousine?”
“Unlikely.”
“So, would he be the type of guy to go up against a federal agent on his own?”
“You think he killed five other people.”
“They were spaced-out vets. That’s a whole different ballgame. Plus, they were a hobby. This is business.”
“So?”
“He’d approach it the same way he approaches everything else. He has the money, the contacts, the established pattern of behavior. He’d hire someone to do it for him.”
“Maybe.”
“No. Definitely. Now the question is, if you were hiring someone for a job like this, what kind of person would you choose?”
“No idea. Never had a problem I couldn’t solve on my own.”
“But if you did, what would you think of this as a résumé?”
Rosser pulled a sheaf of papers from under Raab’s file and tossed it across the table toward me. I scrabbled it up from the shiny surface and looked at the top sheet. It was the printout of an e-mail.
The following information is for research and analysis purposes only. It should not be used as the basis for overt or covert action against Lieutenant Comma
nder Trevellyan or any other Legation Resource Unit personnel.
So Headquarters wouldn’t help me, but they were quick enough to roll over for the FBI—weasel words or not.
“Legation Resource Unit,” Rosser said. “Used to be plain old Royal Navy Intelligence. Am I right?”
I didn’t answer.
“Which section?” he said. “C?”
I shrugged.
“Corporate rebranding meets diplomatic security,” he said. “Wow. Do the men in bow ties feel any safer?”
I stayed silent.
“You’re really a sailor, then?” he said.
“Of course I am,” I said. “A world record holder, me.”
“What for?”
“Solo global circumnavigation. In the dark. Backward.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“No, thought not. Bet you can’t even swim.”
“Amazing. No one’s ever said that to me before. Royal Navy. Water jokes. You made that jump pretty fast. But if you’re going to ask me where I left my battleship, you know what? Don’t bother.”
“OK. I won’t. Smart move, by the way, giving the NYPD an unlisted consulate phone number. First thing we checked, when they gave us your file. Your bosses in London were real impressed. Shows a lot of strategic awareness, for a guy who’s supposed to be covertly guarding the place.”
“That’s not relevant,” I said, turning back to the wad of papers. “The contact was unscheduled. I followed standard procedure. They know that.”
The first part of the report was a summary of my service record. It started with my initial assignment to Hong Kong and carried on with an entry for most of the places I’d been sent to since then. I scanned the next seven pages and saw Washington, Canberra, Moscow, Paris, Lagos, St. Petersburg, Berlin, Tel Aviv, La Paz, Vienna, and half a dozen others. It covered the last fourteen years of my life, going all the way up to the mission I’d just completed here in New York. Nine weeks’ work, four people’s lives, and twelve stitches in the back of my head, all boiled down to fifty sterile words.
“Here we are,” I said, pointing to the paragraph as well as the handcuffs would allow. “This proves it. I couldn’t have been involved with this train thing.”
“We know that now,” Rosser said. “But keep going. It gets more interesting.”
