“I appreciate that, Ms. Hunter.”
“I’m here to serve you.” She smiled and slid down from his desk. She straightened her skirt.
His phone rang. As before, he hesitated and then answered.
“Don’t bother with Hanover,” a voice said. It was the same caller as before. “Revis—”
“Revis is gone,” Coe said. “I’m here now.”
The caller snorted. “Fine. We’ll deal with you then.”
He looked at Ms. Hunter. “Maybe I don’t want to deal. Maybe I’m loyal to Quantum.”
“You haven’t even heard the arrangement yet.”
“ I don’t need to hear the deal.”
Coe motioned to Ms. Hunter to come closer. He held the phone out so she could hear as well. She leaned in. Her cheek was nearly touching his.
“Meet with our man,” the voice said. “Hear what he has to say. You can walk away.”
Coe could feel Ms. Hunter’s hot breath on his face.
“Revis was loyal, too...until he heard our offer.”
“You’re from Steele then,” Coe said.
The caller snorted again. “That’s what they told you? That he was a mole for Steele?”
“It’s common knowledge—”
“Whose?”
“Who are you then? Who do you represent?”
“There’s more than just two players in the game, Mr. Coe.”
“Who?”
“Meet our man and find out.”
Ms. Hunter drew away from the phone. She nodded.
“Okay,” Coe said. “Where?”
Ms. Hunter leaned in again and listened. She picked up Coe’s silver pen and waited to write down the location.
“On the corner of Bleicherweg and Leftwich Abbey—overlooking the canal—there’s a pub. The East India Pub. Are you familiar with it?”
Coe looked at Ms. Hunter who nodded.
“Yes.”
“There’s a bank of vid-phones along the side of the pub. Be at the third vid-phone booth from the corner at exactly 17:00 GMT.”
“Your man will meet me there?”
“I will call you with further instructions. Come alone. You’ll be watched.”
Coe asked, “What if I—”
The phone clicked. Coe listened for a moment, anyway, before hanging up.
Ms. Hunter had written down the instructions for him and was already folding it neatly in a tri-fold as if she were about to mail it.
“How exciting,” she said. “You are certainly making a splash, Mr. Coe.”
Coe nervously agreed.
“Who do you think they represent? Steele?”
Coe shrugged. “They deny it.”
“But everyone knows Revis turned. He admitted that much under interrogation. He was selling secrets to Steele.”
“I guess we’ll know more after today.”
She placed her hand atop his. “This could be a big score for you, Mr. Coe. This is the type of case that can make a career for an auditor at Quantum. I’ve seen it happen before.”
Coe looked at his watch. “I better inform Mitchell of this—”
She squeezed his hand and said, “No.”
“Wait. What?”
She shook her head. “No. This is your case.”
“But Mitchell is my superior—”
“You don’t know who else might have turned.”
“Mitchell?”
She shushed him.
“Mitchell?” he said again, softer.
“I’m just saying we don’t know. Tell him after the meeting.” She’d begun stroking the top of his hand with her thumb.
“But Mitchell, Lyme...they’ll think I went—”
“I’ll think you went where?” Mitchell said, appearing at the doorway to the cubicle.
Ms. Hunter quickly withdrew her hand.
“You’ll think I’ve went crazy,” Coe said.
“Crazy?”
“I offered to rerun all of the intel on the Bruges file for him,” Ms. Hunter said, with a quick glance to Coe.
“See? It’s crazy, right?” Coe asked Mitchell.
“That could take days,” Mitchell said.
“That’s my point,” said Coe.
“But can we trust the integrity of the data in the file now that we know Revis was a spy?” she asked.
Mitchell thought about it. “Good point. Better to be safe.” To Coe he said, “Crazy? Our Ms. Hunter? She’s crazy all right...like a doornail.”
Coe did not understand the remark.
Mitchell said, “Ms. Hunter...if you’ll excuse us, I need to have a word with Mr. Coe.”
“I was just leaving,” Ms. Hunter said, smiling.
When she was gone, it was Mitchell’s turn to lean against his desk. He picked up Coe’s pen and note pad and began writing. “How’s your unpacking?” he asked pleasantly.
“I’m unpacked,” Coe said.
“Good...good.” He held up the note pad to Coe. It read in all capital letters: THERE’S A MOLE IN OUR SECTION. He put his head down and wrote some more. “How’s the neighborhood? Quiet?”
Coe said, “Quiet...it was only my second night—”
“Good...good.” He held up the note pad: OUR PEOPLE INSIDE STEELE CONFIRMED THEY’VE TURNED ANOTHER OF OUR AUDITORS.
Coe’s pulse quickened. He looked past Mitchell. He could probably get by him with a burst of speed—especially if he lowered his shoulder. The problem lied in the confusing configuration of cubicles. He’d still not had a good grasp of the place.
“You’re in Chadwick Heights, right?” Mitchell said. “I lived there when my wife and I first moved to the city.” He wrote some more. “Had a nice apartment—pre-smart apt—over on Libertine...right above a Greek deli. I don’t have to tell you about the smell.” He held up the note pad. It said: Copley WANTS YOU TO HANDLE THIS.
Coe went to speak; Mitchell shoved the note pad and pen toward him.
Coe hesitated. He grasped the pen and wrote, WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO? and passed the pen and pad back to Mitchell.
Mitchell said, “There’s a great cafe on the square. Zattoro’s. Really excellent pastries. All real ingredients,” and wrote: YOU’RE NEW. NO ONE WILL BECOME SUSPICIOUS IF YOU ASK QUESTIONS. Copley SEEMS TO THINK YOU ARE THE BEST MAN FOR THE JOB. YOU’LL REPORT DIRECTLY TO ME. DO NOT TALK TO ANYONE ELSE ABOUT THIS.
Coe said, “Zattoro’s, you say?” and took the pen and pad. He wrote, WHAT ABOUT MS. HUNTER?
Mitchell took the pen swiftly from his grasp, nudged his hand to the side and wrote, ONLY ME.
Coe took the pen back. WHEN SHOULD I START? he wrote.
Mitchell grabbed the pen. With force, he wrote, FIVE MINUTES AGO. “That’s right,” he said. “Zattoro’s. Across the street from the bank. Got it?” Mitchell tore out the sheet of used paper.
“Got it,” Coe said.
“Good,” Mitchell said, stuffing the paper with their communication into his mouth before he walked away.
“You heard what they said,” Coe told Ms. Hunter.
“But what if they intend to harm you?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you have at least someone there, shadowing you...from a distance?”
Coe put on his raincoat. It was 1600 hours GMT. “I don’t want to take the risk.”
“But don’t you see?” she said. “Going alone is taking a risk.”
Coe lightly grasped her arms and said, “I can’t risk your safety, Ms. Hunter.”
She blushed. “I suppose you’re right. I get caught up in all the cloak-and-dagger from time to time. I forget that you auditors carry weapons and are well-prepared for this kind of thing.” She bit her lip. “You’ll phone me the minute it’s over to let me know you’re fine?”
He agreed. She gave him her phon
e number which he entered into his portable communicator. Without Ms. Hunter tagging along, he’d have a minute to stop by another vid phone on the way and brief his handler at Steele.
“Be careful, Mr. Coe,” she said.
Four.
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He switched trains multiple times as before. Not only did he have to dodge any potential Quantum people—but now some unknown third interlocutor as well. He went to a different vid phone this time; it was on Barge Avenue in what had one time been a meat packing district—back when real meat was plentiful. Now it was comprised mostly of abandoned brick buildings with crumbling facades and a burgeoning homeless population. The vid phone was on the side of a Korean market. He dialed the number and waited. He was surprised it was still in working order.
The shadowy form of his Steele handler materialized on the screen.
“They know about me,” Coe said.
“Quantum?”
“They’ve got someone on your end,” Coe said.
“Impossible.”
“I was informed of the mole today,” he said. “By my own boss.”
“Do they suspect it’s you?”
“I’m okay for now,” he said. “In fact, I’ve been assigned to find the mole.”
“That’s quite an existential quandary, Mr. Coe.”
“It’s a real hoot,” he said without enthusiasm.
“Can you throw someone to them?”
Coe thought for a moment. “There is a guy,” he said. “Seems to be out of favor with management.”
“Auditor?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect,” the handler said. “We’ll find out who the mole is here. Anything else?”
Coe decided not tell him about the meeting. “No.”
Without saying goodbye, the vid screen turned dark. Coe looked around. He felt as though he were being watched. There was no one. But the feeling persisted.
He caught the next train down to the Canal District. He stepped down from the train platform. The rain needled his face. He first noticed a vagrant in a long black over coat and wearing a red hood over his head. He lay in the fetal position across a bench. He was facing the platform. Coe thought he could feel him watching. The vagrant made no effort to follow him. Coe opened his umbrella and pushed his way into the pedestrians clogging the walkway who were staring down into the canal or photographing the Neo-Classic facades of the buildings. A man in a trench coat and fedora made eye contact with him as he passed. Coe suspected he might have turned around and begun to follow him. He saw the outline of an elephant—the East India Pub sign—just ahead in the distance. With some difficulty, he was able to elbow his way to the pub, and around to the corner where he found the bank of vid phones. He checked his watch. He had five minutes to spare. His vid phone booth was unoccupied. He stepped in.
Without warning, a man appeared at the booth door. It was the man in the trench coat. He knocked on the glass and said, “Excuse me.”
“What do you want?”
He smiled. “Can I use this booth? It’s an emergency.”
Coe shook his head. “I’m using it.”
“You’re just sitting there, looking at the screen.”
“I’m waiting for a call,” Coe said.
“It’ll only take a moment,” the man said.
“Use one of the other vid phones.”
The man looked apologetic. “They’re all out of order.”
Coe looked at him.
“Please,” the man said. “My wife. She’s pregnant. It’ll only take a second. I just need to call home.”
Coe glanced down at his watch. He had two minutes. He told the man.
“Thank you,” he said, opening the door.
Coe stepped out and the man stepped in. He closed the door behind him. The rain was persistent. Coe stood under the canopy of the pub and waited. He watched the endless stream of humanity push by and repeatedly checked his watch. Ninety seconds letter the man exited.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.” He grasped Coe’s hand and vigorously shook it. “It’s going to be a boy...a boy!”
Coe pulled his hand away and slipped back into the vid phone booth. The man lingered outside the booth for a moment, smiling and staring into the booth at Coe, before being swept away by the passers by.
The vid phone illuminated at that moment. Coe turned his attention to the screen. A face—a silhouette in profile—said, in an electronically altered voice: “Go into the pub, approach the bar, and order an extra-dry Gibson with four olives.”
“Gibson?”
The screen went black.
Coe went around to the front of the pub and entered. It was crowded. Coe squeezed inside. The place had the smell of wet fabric and stale beer and the acrid stink of too many people. He pushed his way through. A woman—Coe guessed she were a prostitute—asked him if he liked to party. He ignored her. Piano music played somewhere. He couldn’t tell if it were live or piped in. He found the bar and wedged himself in sideways between an overweight man and a woman in a white fur that Coe was certain was synthetic. He leaned in, caught the bartender’s attention. He was a short, squat, balding man with a sour expression and small mouth.
“Can you make a Gibson, extra-dry, with four olives?” Coe asked and held up four fingers for emphasis.
The bartender paused. His expression changed. “A Gibson? Four olives, you say?”
“Extra-dry.”
“You don’t want the drink, right?”
“I’ve never ordered it before—”
“You’re not going to believe this,” the bartender said, “but another guy just ordered that drink not a minute before.”
“What guy?”
The bartender looked beyond Coe, into the crowd. After a moment of craning his neck, he said, “That guy,” and pointed toward the exit.
“Where?”
“That one...the one with the fedora—”
“What did you do?” Coe asked. “When the guy ordered the Gibson?”
“Gave him the envelope like I was instructed.”
“What envelope?”
The bartender shrugged. “Guy came in—not one of the regulars. Gray suit like you. Gave me an envelope and told me a guy ordering an extra-dry Gibson with four olives would come by to pick it up—”
“What was in it?”
“A letter, I guess. It was sealed—”
Coe immediately started pushing his way through the crowd. He saw the door open ahead, the brief flash of daylight—the fedora—and then it closed.
“Excuse me,” Coe said, shoving people out of his way.
“Hey!” a man in a black suit said.
“You’re spilling my drink,” a woman said.
“What’s your problem—”
Coe supplanted a couple by the door and pushed it open. He was temporarily immobilized by the sudden rush of natural light. At the corner, he saw the man in the fedora—the same man who had used the vid phone booth. He had opened the envelope and was reading the note.
“Hey,” Coe cried. “Hey! That was meant for me!”
The man stuffed the note into his mouth and began to chew it. Coe ran toward him; the man lowered his head and ran off with Coe giving chase. “Stop!” Coe called after him
.
The man left a wake of angry bystanders. Coe ran behind him, elbowing people, knocking them over—completely turning them around—in pursuit of the man in the fedora. He knew about the Gibson, but how—
The vid phone—he must have bugged it.
Coe ran out onto the street, zigzagging between cars idling in traffic that seemed forever-gridlocked. He found it easier to run around the stopped cars rather than to move his way through the crowded sidewalk. He could see the fedora just ahead. Coe slid across the hood of a stopped cab.
“What the—” a mustachioed cabbie cried.
The fedora was parallel with him now. Coe cut into the flow of people, grasped the man by his arm , turned him around, and—
It was a vagrant.
“Your hat,” Coe said.
The vagrant smiled a toothless grin. “A man gave it to me. Just slapped it right down on my head...”
Coe looked ahead. He could see the now hatless man running away. He still wore his trench coat. Coe ran back onto the street, nearly being struck by a black sedan. An angry horn sounded. He ignored it and continued through the streets.
The man turned down an alleyway. Coe knifed his way through a family nearly knocking over a child. He stumbled into the alley, glimpsed the man scale a wooden privacy fence and disappear behind it. Clotheslines of laundry crisscrossed the alley above, hanging heavy with rain like forgotten prayer flags. He leapt toward the fence, grasping onto the top edge. With his feet he propelled himself over and saw the back of the man, his long coat trailing behind him, hurtle an overturned trash can. He jumped on top of a dumpster, reached the retracted ladder of a fire escape, and pulled it down. He climbed onto the fire escape and begun to ascend.
Coe did the same. He had little trouble with the dumpster or the fire escape ladder. As his shoes slapped the rusty metal of the fire escape he looked up and saw the man ascending to the roof. He loosened the pistol from his ankle holster, held it awkwardly in his hand, and rushed up the steps. He reached the rooftop and found the man standing there motionless, his arms held down at his side—the ridiculous smile on his face.
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