Even

by Andrew Grant

  “What’s a lie-in? What are we lying about? Who to?”

  “No. Lie in bed. Stay asleep. I’ll see you around lunchtime.”

  “You want me to sleep in? Why? What will you be doing?”

  “Helping Patrick with something.”

  “What you agreed with those people? To make them let us go?”

  “Right.”

  “Are you OK with it, what they want you to do?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Is it something bad?”

  “Not entirely. Neutral, overall, I’d say.”

  “But something big? It must be big, to trade for our lives.”

  “Just something they can’t do on their own.”

  “David, this feels wrong. I don’t know what they want, but they’re bad people. You had a gun to your head, back then. Now it’s different. No one would blame you if you didn’t go through with it.”

  “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. It’ll come out fine.”

  “Are you sure? We could make a run for it. You and me. Ditch these guys and hide out somewhere, till we figure out how to make it right with the police.”

  “Sorry, Julianne. It wouldn’t work, with the police. It has to be done this way. But trust me. By lunchtime tomorrow, it’ll all be over.”

  The automatic announcements in the elevator had also reverted to German, which did nothing to improve Patrick’s mood. He stood in the corner and muttered to himself for the few seconds it took us to reach the ground floor. The doors hadn’t even fully opened before he pushed past me and veered away to the right, heading for the reception desk. Julianne and the other guys moved more slowly, taking a moment to adjust to their new surroundings. Stepping into such a bright, uncluttered space was quite a change after the cramped elevator car.

  A row of abstract tapestries hung below the high windows to our left. They provided the only color or texture in the place, standing out vividly against the smooth white marble walls and floors. They were also the only things in there that weren’t strictly necessary. It was a large area, but everything else in it had a practical purpose—the counter where Patrick was standing, a second bank of elevators ahead of us serving the bedrooms, glass double doors on either side leading to the bar and restaurant, and an exit to the street farther down on the right. No space had been wasted on seating areas or display cabinets or porters’ stations. The result obviously wasn’t to Julianne’s taste—I felt her shiver as she took it all in—but I liked it. It made the place seem focused and purposeful.

  It also meant that covert surveillance was out of the question.

  For Lesley’s people, or the FBI.

  Two clerks were on duty that night. Neither had been there when I last visited, a couple of years ago, so there was no danger of them recognizing me. The one on the left was sitting down, hunched over a keyboard. It looked as if he were processing a pile of papers stacked up on the desk beside him. His hands were moving—robotically pressing the keys and sorting through the forms—but the rest of his body was absolutely still. He was completely absorbed by his work. Patrick was close enough to touch him but he had no idea that anyone was even near. You could have brushed the thin flakes of dandruff off the shoulders of his navy blue blazer and I doubt he’d have missed a beat.

  The second clerk was younger and a little more animated. She was shuffling around behind the counter, gathering some documents and chatting to Patrick as they waited for us to catch up. A badge clipped to her blazer said she was Maxine, the shift manager. Her eyes did occasionally stray in our direction, but she didn’t seem unduly suspicious. She clearly wasn’t checking anyone against a wanted photograph or trying to match us to a description. More that she was just idly curious, and as we got closer she did nothing more sinister than fan out the wad of forms she’d collected, hand them to Patrick, and reach down for a pot of pens.

  The registration forms were preprinted with the details George had given over the Net so all that was left for us to do was sign them. There were three spaces, clearly outlined in black. Even so, it turned out to be a major exercise for the guys from the Jeep. Maybe they had particularly difficult names, but they were still scratching away with the cheap hotel ballpoints long after Julianne and I had finished with ours.

  George had booked me in as David Van Der Wahl from Ossining, New York. He had some idea that a Dutch-sounding name might misdirect the clerk if she heard my accent and was questioned later about English guests. I wasn’t so sure. I preferred my usual approach—not speaking to anyone—but I supposed his little subterfuge wouldn’t do any harm. At least he’d come up with a more imaginative name than the ones the navy usually gave me.

  Maxine handed out our keys one at a time, and even though the elevators and restaurant were in plain sight, she obstinately ran through how to reach the bedrooms and where to go for breakfast with each of us in turn. She issued my key last, and by the time I’d listened to her instructions for the seventh time Patrick and the others had already started to drift away from the counter.

  Our rooms were on the tenth floor. Mine was the last on the left, at the far end of the corridor. Patrick’s was next door. Julianne’s was directly opposite.

  “See you bright and early,” Patrick said, working the lock on his door and disappearing inside.

  “Early, anyway,” I said.

  “What about lunch, tomorrow?” Julianne said when he’d gone. She was standing in the middle of the corridor, looking a little lost. “I’m worried. Will you really come back?”

  “Of course,” I said, sliding my key card into its slot. “Sleep well.”

  The door closed solidly behind me and for a moment I felt a slight pang of regret about leaving Julianne outside, on her own. She looked so forlorn, with her head tipped anxiously to one side and her big brown eyes stretched wide and fearful. Maybe I felt a little bad about lying to her, as well. After what I was planning for tomorrow there was no way they were going to let me out for lunch. I was never going to see her again, and part of me was wondering what other possibilities I was turning my back on. It was a long time since I’d been in a hotel with a woman, voluntarily, and not felt some official eye looking over my shoulder. Tomorrow’s plan wasn’t complex. How much sleep could I need?

  But deep down, I knew I was right. If I was going down that road with anyone, it had to be Tanya. Especially now we were back in touch. And tomorrow was about more than the basic ability to stumble through a plan. It was about more than the professional pride of doing a job right. Or even the satisfaction of wiping the smile off Rosser’s smug face.

  Tomorrow was about redemption.

  Another man’s life would be taken. Mine would be reclaimed.

  It deserved my full attention.

  SIXTEEN

  Mitchell Varley and his colleagues had seemed innocuous enough when I first met them in their abandoned office building. Devious, certainly, but not physically dangerous. Not like the Nazi from the police cell. You didn’t get the feeling they were going to leap across the table and tear your head off. But with guys like these, superficial impressions don’t count for much. You could say the same for lots of unpleasant species. Spiders, for example. The deadliest ones are always the most harmless looking.

  Which is why I changed the plan.

  I didn’t call Tanya at nine the next morning, as I’d promised.

  I called her at eight.

  Tanya answered on the first ring.

  “David?” she said. “What’s wrong? You’re an hour early. Is there a problem?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve just brought the schedule forward a little. Are the FBI guys with you yet?”

  “But are you OK?”

  “Absolutely fine. Are they there?”

  There was a pause before she answered.

  “Yes,” she said. “All three are here.”

  “Good,” I said. “Because here’s some good news for them. They won’t be needing their copter after all. They can save some gas mone
y. We’re going to meet in the city.”

  “Oh. OK. Where exactly?”

  “The same building they took me to yesterday. Room 3H3. It’s on the first floor, for some reason, not the third like you’d think. End of the corridor. Last room but one, left-hand side.”

  “Got that. What time?”

  “Eight-twenty. But listen. Tell them I’m set up in the neighborhood with a clear view of the room. If I don’t see Rosser, Varley, and Breuer enter before that time—I walk away. If I see anyone else come in with them, or positioned in the building, I walk away.”

  “Got that. What about their guy?”

  “He’s stashed somewhere safe. When I’m happy, I’ll lead them to him.”

  “Got that. Stand by . . .”

  The phone was silent for forty seconds.

  “Confirmed,” Tanya said, coming back to me. “All three are en route. ETA ten minutes. Conditions understood. And David—good luck. I want you back in one piece at the end of this.”

  “As always,” I said, hanging up the phone and shifting my position to get a better view of the garage entrance.

  It took eight minutes for the first vehicles to arrive. There were five of them. Two black Fords, the Cadillac I’d seen yesterday, then two more black Fords. They swept around the corner, moving fast, only a couple of feet between each one. Then the lead car swung the other way and the others followed it into the garage, disappearing like a snake slithering into a hole.

  Two minutes later a white van appeared from the opposite direction, traveling much more sedately. It trundled three-quarters of the length of the street, then drifted to the side and stopped in the same space the backup van had used yesterday. From my position, almost directly above, I couldn’t see any markings on its sides but there was a picture of an engine component—a carburetor?—painted on the hood.

  After another two minutes I heard activity in the hallway outside. Footsteps were approaching. It sounded like five sets, but I couldn’t be sure. There was a pause, then the door was flung open. I caught a glimpse of a hand and a gray sleeve, but nothing else.

  The door started to close. It was almost back in its frame when someone rammed it with their shoulder and stepped into the room. It was Varley. He was holding a Glock out in front of him, two-handed. He checked both corners to his left and then moved forward. The gun was swinging across to his right when he saw me, standing to the side of the window. He stopped instantly and snapped the weapon back, lining up perfectly on the bridge of my nose.

  “Stand still,” he said unnecessarily, as I showed no sign of moving. “Hands on your head.”

  I kept my hands down by my sides. There was no chance of him shooting me. Not yet, anyway.

  Louis Breuer was next into the room. He was much shorter than I’d realized from seeing him sitting down, and he walked stiffly with a stick in his left hand. He moved to Varley’s right, stopping a couple of feet from the closet where I’d found the shelves, yesterday. It was a perfect spot to triangulate on me, but he didn’t draw his gun. I didn’t know whether to be reassured or offended.

  Bruce Rosser came in last. He saw me—I caught his eye for a moment—but pretended not to notice I was there. Then he moved between the others to the center of the room and slowly turned a full circle, like a prospective buyer assessing a new home.

  “Coffee stain,” he said, poking a mark on the carpet with his toe.

  “Carpet’s damaged,” he said, examining the depressions left in the pile where the desk would have been.

  “Place needs cleaning,” he said, running his finger through the layer of dust on the windowsill.

  “And you know what else?” he said, turning to look at me. “Something doesn’t smell good. You. Three hours after you escape, wounding another of my men, you’re on the phone wanting a deal. Now you’re ambushing me. What kind of game are you playing?”

  “What can I tell you?” I said. “If your people had done their jobs . . .”

  “I want to see this guy, who you say is the real shooter.”

  “No problem.”

  “Something else you should know. We’re going to take a good look at him. A real good look. You better be on the level. So had he.”

  “I am. I can give you the guy, where I found him, full background.”

  “Good. Then let’s go.”

  “Not with a gun on me.”

  “Mitchell,” Rosser said, shaking his head.

  Varley lowered the Glock, but didn’t holster it.

  “Now let’s hurry it up,” Rosser said. “We can use my car.”

  “Quicker to walk,” I said, moving across to the closet and opening the double doors.

  Patrick stepped out. He was wearing the same coat as last night but had swapped his soccer clothes for a gray herringbone suit, white shirt, and black shoes. His arms were in front of him, fastened with a cable tie. He glanced at the three FBI men and then dropped his gaze to the floor. He looked genuinely ashamed of himself. Lesley hadn’t told me he was a bit of an actor.

  “This is the guy?” Rosser said. “Who is he?”

  “Ask him,” I said.

  “Well?” Rosser said, looking at Patrick. “Talk to me.”

  Patrick stood in silence for a moment, then shuffled around to face the wall. His head tipped farther forward and his arms started to quiver, as if he were straining to free his wrists. I checked the others. They didn’t seem too concerned. FBI agents had used cable ties themselves, all the time, before flexicuffs were invented. They work the same way. Once they’re on, the only way to remove them is to cut them off. Pull against them and the little plastic teeth just lock together and the sharp edges bite into your skin.

  Only, the tie around Patrick’s wrists didn’t have any plastic teeth. Not anymore. I’d sat in my hotel room and carefully removed them with the knife Lesley had given me. So when Patrick turned back around, his wrists were no longer secured. His left hand was gripping the flap that covered the buttonholes on his coat, rolling it back to expose the stitching. His right hand was hidden from view. It was reaching inside an opening concealed in the seam, and when he pulled it back out, a small gun was nestling in his palm. A Smith & Wesson 2213.

  Twenty-two caliber, as promised.

  Patrick stepped to his left and grabbed Louis Breuer by the hair, jerking his head back and locking his spine. Then he jammed the pistol under Louis’s jaw and flicked the safety down with his thumb.

  “Your weapons, please, gentlemen,” he said. “Two fingers only. On the floor in front of you. Do it now.”

  Varley let go of his Glock and it fell to the carpet with a muffled thud. Rosser drew his from a holster on his belt and carefully placed it on the ground, its barrel pointing straight at Patrick.

  “And you,” Patrick said to Louis.

  Louis fumbled and the gun slipped through his fingers, landing between Patrick’s feet.

  “You, too, English,” Patrick said, turning to me. “I know you took one from the house.”

  I took Cyril’s Springfield out of my jacket, held it at arm’s length and let it drop.

  “Easy come, easy go,” I said.

  “Now, kick them away,” he said.

  Varley’s didn’t travel very far, but Patrick didn’t complain.

  “Now, back up against the wall,” he said.

  Rosser and Varley shuffled slowly backward, exchanging worried glances. I went across and stood between them.

  “Good,” Patrick said. “Now, Mitchell Varley—two steps forward.”

  Varley didn’t move.

  “Do you want to get your friend killed?” Patrick said, savagely tugging Louis’s hair.

  The cane slipped from Louis’s fingers and its metal handle fell down and rattled against the barrel of Rosser’s discarded gun.

  Varley took two small, reluctant steps.

  “Now, on your knees,” Patrick said.

  Varley flopped down onto all fours, throwing his left hand out so it landed eighteen inches from
his Glock.

  “Hands off the floor,” Patrick said. “Don’t lean forward.”

  Varley straightened himself up.

  “Now, hands behind your head,” Patrick said. “Fingers laced together.”

  Varley did as he was told, and Patrick suddenly dropped his left hand to Louis’s shoulder and started to propel him across the room. Louis half walked, half stumbled in front of Patrick until they were six feet away from us. Then Patrick launched Louis at the wall and stepped sideways, bringing the little .22 down and ramming the barrel into Varley’s temple.

  “Your other guy, in the alley?” he said, looking at Rosser. “That was a mistake. We didn’t mean it. I apologize. But this, I’m going to enjoy.”

  The sound of the shot was uncomfortably loud in such a small, enclosed space. I normally use a silencer for close-range indoor work, but needs must. Rosser and Breuer flinched. Varley flopped down to his left. And Patrick was knocked backward, off his feet. He landed awkwardly, half on his side, with his right arm trapped underneath him. Blood was draining steadily from the hole in the center of his chest. It was seeping out faster than the carpet could absorb it. I had to be careful not to step in it as I moved in closer. Then I lowered the .45 I’d inherited from Lesley’s guy and put two more rounds in Patrick’s head.

  They probably weren’t necessary, but it pays to be thorough.

  SEVENTEEN

  MEETINGS. A PRACTICAL ALTERNATIVE TO WORK.

  I’ve seen that slogan in offices from Mumbai to Montreal and Moscow to Melbourne. It’s a simple observation. And it’s absolutely true. People all over the world build whole careers out of sitting around, talking, secretly looking for ways to steal credit or avoid blame.

  And of course, the worst offenders are always the bosses. . . .

  Rosser, Varley, and Breuer had set themselves up in the boardroom, leaving me on the twenty-third floor with only Weston for company. They were busy raking over the fallout from the Patrick incident. Searching for connections. Assessing the consequences. Reviewing their procedures. Debating corrective actions. It must have been a complex operation because they’d had to summon more guys from their main New York office to lend a hand. Then they’d spread the net to include the NYPD. Even Tanya Wilson had been dragged in. That meant London would be involved. It would be after lunch in the U.K., but that wouldn’t be a problem. The desk jockeys would still be all fired up, eagerly chipping in over the spider phone and adding their slice of nonsense for the bureaucratic parasites to feast on.