Dance with the Enemy (The Enemy Series)

by Rob Sinclair

  ‘Is there anything else I need to know?’ Logan asked.

  ‘Yeah, actually there is. We’ve got another angle to look at,’ Mackie said. ‘Have you come across the name Jimmy Kennedy?’

  Logan racked his brain but he hadn’t. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, if we’re looking for a name here, that one might be it. Jimmy Kennedy used to be a henchman for Carlucci. He turned state’s witness and was one of the biggest assets the prosecution had in Carlucci’s conviction.’

  ‘And he’s now in witness protection,’ Logan said, putting the pieces together. He had wondered what name Modena could know that would be so valuable and that of someone with a new identity was an obvious answer. ‘Carlucci was paying for Jimmy Kennedy’s new identity.’

  ‘That’s the conclusion we’re coming to. Although it all sounds pretty elaborate that they would snatch Modena, one of the most powerful men in the country, for something like that.’

  ‘I guess to Carlucci ten million dollars probably isn’t that much to off the man who put him inside.’

  ‘Yeah, you can pretty much believe it.’

  ‘Something that still doesn’t add up, though,’ Logan said, pulling the car to a stop at a red light before turning right onto 3rd Avenue. ‘What I still don’t like is the missing two million dollars. If Carlucci paid ten, but only eight found its way to Blakemore, then where did the rest go? It’s like there’s a middle-man bringing it altogether, linking Carlucci to Blakemore.’

  ‘I agree with where you’re going. We’re still looking into it. And hopefully the answer will become clear when you’ve been through Rosenberg’s files.’

  ‘And what about Kennedy? He’s either already dead or he soon will be. Do you know his new identity and where he lives?’

  ‘We’re working on it,’ Mackie said. ‘When I get anything you can use, you’ll be the first to know.’

  Logan ended the call. Two minutes later he pulled up to the kerb on Park Avenue, just a few buildings down from the offices that housed Rosenberg Associates. Logan got out of the car and battled his way across the bustling pavement where throngs of tourists were travelling in force in each and every direction. On the road yellow taxis darted over lanes and pulled in and out of cross streets. Skyscrapers loomed all around, windows lit up high into the sky. Even with Logan’s mind focused on the task at hand, it was hard not to feel the buzz of the city.

  The busy street was a stark contrast to the building itself, which from the outside Logan could tell was relatively empty given the general lack of lit windows. Whether that was because some of the offices were untenanted or because it was quiet with it being the weekend, he didn’t know. The building had eight storeys. Not a big structure, at least not by New York standards, but what it lacked in size it certainly made up for in extravagance. Logan walked in through the single set of revolving doors which opened out into an expanse of gold, marble and chandeliers.

  There was a security desk at the far end of the lobby, next to two lifts. As he walked towards the desk he spotted a large notice board behind which were displayed the names of the building’s occupants. Rosenberg Associates was one of two firms that took up the eighth floor.

  The only problem now was how to get up there and into the office. Not only would he have to contend with the security guard sitting at the desk in the lobby but he needed a way to access the doors on the eighth floor, which he had to assume were in some way secured.

  Logan reached the desk and smiled at the security guard. He was an overweight man, middle-aged, with thinning grey hair and puffy red cheeks. He had a protruding belly that hung over and completely hid the top of his trousers. Logan wasn’t sure exactly what this guy would be good at keeping secure. He certainly wouldn’t be a fast mover.

  ‘I’m visiting Alan Rosenberg,’ Logan said.

  The man stood up, eyeballing Logan suspiciously.

  ‘Are you? I don’t remember seeing him here today. Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘Actually I do. Henry Foster is my name. Maybe the appointment was with one of his other lawyers. It was set up by my assistant.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ the guard said in a manner which told Logan that he wasn’t buying the story. ‘Just wait there while I call up.’

  The guard picked up the phone. Logan smiled at him, trying his best to appear unflustered by the situation. He really didn’t want to hurt the guard, but he knew that there might not be another option. At least his calling first would tell Logan whether anyone was there or not.

  The guard put the phone down without having spoken at all.

  ‘There’s no-one answering,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ve actually seen anyone from that office today. It’s probably best if you rearrange your appointment and come back during the week.’

  ‘Look. I’ve travelled a really long way to get here. England, actually. I really need to get up there.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. But I’m not going to let you do that.’ The guard puffed out his chest as he spoke. ‘Unless you want to leave a message of some sort I suggest you leave now.’

  ‘I tell you what: you let me go up and I’ll give you a hundred dollars. If you don’t let me go up then I’ll just go up anyway and you won’t get anything.’

  ‘Last chance, sir!’ the guard hollered, voice raised. He moved around from behind the desk so that he was directly in front of Logan. His hand reached to his holstered pistol, but he didn’t pick it up. It was definitely a signal of intent, though.

  ‘Don’t make this into a scene,’ the guard said.

  Logan really hadn’t wanted to do this, but he wasn’t sure he was left with much choice. He stepped towards the guard, who, on sensing that the situation was about to go awry, began to draw his weapon. Logan reached out and grabbed the guard’s hand, which was wrapped around his still-holstered gun. With his other hand, Logan threw a straight forearm at the man’s throat. He let go of the guard’s hand and he stumbled backwards, hands up to his neck, gasping for air. Losing his footing, he fell to the ground, slumping against the desk.

  Logan reached down and took the man’s walkie-talkie and gun.

  ‘I … I can’t breathe!’

  Logan put the walkie-talkie in his pocket, took the gun in his left hand and pointed it towards the man. He left the safety on; he had no intention of shooting him.

  ‘You’ll be fine. Unless you want any more, that is.’ Logan reached out for the guard with his free hand, pulling him up to his feet. ‘Come on. Let’s get you over to the lift.’

  The guard shuffled along, coughing and spluttering, unsteady on his feet. Logan had to take most of his considerable weight as he dragged him along. Taking the guard with him wasn’t ideal, but he couldn’t leave him downstairs in the lobby. Hopefully the guard wouldn’t try to be a hero as Logan really didn’t want to have to hurt him any further.

  When they reached the lifts, Logan pressed the up button. He heard the tinkle of the left-hand lift, dragged the guard towards the opening doors and dumped him inside. He pressed the button for the eighth floor but nothing happened. He pressed it again, but still there was no movement.

  ‘Why won’t it go?’ Logan said.

  ‘You need a card.’

  Logan bent down and took the man’s ID card from around his neck. He inserted it into the slot in the lift wall and pressed for floor eight again. The doors closed and they were on their way.

  When they reached the eighth floor, Logan lifted guard man again and began to drag him out of the lift. But the guard surprised Logan with a show of strength, flailing his arms at Logan and trying to reach for the gun that he had lost. Tired of the man’s resistance, Logan took out his own gun – a Glock which had been handed to him outside the airport by a courier arranged by Mackie – and with one sweeping move he smacked the guard in the head with the metal butt. He went down in a heap. A line of red began to trickle down from the guard’s thinning hair onto his face. He was going to have a pretty sore head in the morning but Logan knew i
t wouldn’t be serious. Logan hadn’t wanted to hurt him, but some people just didn’t know when to give up.

  He pulled the guard out of the lift and looked left and right to find the direction of Rosenberg’s office. The lift bank opened up into a short corridor. There were toilet facilities in the middle, a door leading to the stairwell and a single set of double doors at each end, one for each of the floor’s occupants.

  A sign on the door off to his right told Logan that was where Rosenberg Associates was located. He began to pull the guard over to the door. When he reached it, he saw that there was another card slot and he used the security guard’s card again to unlock the doors before dragging him inside.

  The lights in the office turned on automatically to reveal a room just as spectacular as the downstairs lobby. There was marble flooring, big leather sofas, oversized paintings on the walls and bizarre coffee tables that looked more like modern art sculptures than something you would rest a hot beverage on.

  Logan dragged the guard over to the reception desk and handcuffed him to the railing that ran along its top. Disarmed, restrained and out of sight, he posed no threat.

  The office, which was at the front of the building, adjacent to Park Avenue, wasn’t particularly big. There were just a handful of rooms off the main reception area. All but one of them were glass-fronted and contained small, open-plan spaces with modern but expensive-looking desks. The one exception was the room at the far end, which was the only room that had frosted glass. That must be Rosenberg’s, Logan thought.

  He went over to the door. It had a key card slot. He pushed in the guard’s card, but nothing happened. It was definitely Rosenberg’s office. He was a cautious old weasel. Not even building security had access.

  But Logan didn’t have time to sit around thinking about how he was going to get in. He walked back to the reception area, picked up the receptionist’s chair and carried it to Rosenberg’s office. He swivelled his hips sideways and flung the chair into the glass door. There was a loud bang as the chair hit and rebounded off the door. It bounced a good couple of feet away from the door, which wobbled some, but didn’t smash or even crack.

  Maybe all he needed was a bit more oomph.

  Logan tried again, this time with a bit more venom. The door came crashing down in thousands of evenly sized pieces. He was in.

  But the door had also been security-enabled. No sooner had the chair hit the ground than a deafening alarm began to wail.

  Cursing under his breath, Logan hurried on into the room and began his search.

  It was hard to know how much time he would have, but he had to be strict about this. The temptation would be to keep on giving himself extra seconds each time he got close to his limit. Go on, just a few more seconds won’t do any harm. But he couldn’t allow that. He would give himself three minutes only. Then he was out of there. No ifs and no buts.

  The room he was now in had a large mahogany desk at its centre and a matching shelving unit that covered one entire end of the office, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, mostly filled with photo frames and fancy ornaments rather than files or books. What Logan wanted was at the opposite end of the room where there was a plain-looking gun-metal-grey filing cabinet.

  He opened each of the drawers in turn, quickly filing through the contents and trying to figure what documents were in there and what kind of order they were in. There appeared to be various client files, arranged alphabetically. He went through the Cs, found one labelled Carlucci, a brown paper folder, and took it out. It was only about half an inch thick, so it couldn’t possibly contain everything on Carlucci’s relationship with Rosenberg. But Logan didn’t need everything. He just needed something.

  He checked his watch. Shit. Time was almost up. Only twenty-one seconds to go.

  He opened up the file. It contained various correspondence: invoices, payment details, letters, emails. He would have to hope that this file was enough.

  But as he headed back to the door, he had another thought. He looked at his watch. Three seconds to go. Shit, he thought – just one last look.

  Pushing the screaming voice, the one telling him to just get the hell out of there, to the back of his head, he rushed back over to the filing cabinet. He flipped through the other drawers. No. There was nothing for Kennedy or Modena.

  It had been worth a shot. Or at least he hoped it had. It had cost him an extra minute.

  He glanced out of the floor-to-ceiling windows which overlooked Park Avenue and saw police cars already pulling up outside, their lights flashing.

  It was time to go.

  With the Carlucci file in his hand, he raced back out to the main doors. The guard was still by the desk, still out cold. Logan went right past him with barely a glance, swiped the card at the door and exited into the corridor.

  He noticed that the alarm wasn’t sounding out here. It must have been localised to Rosenberg’s offices. Not that it helped the situation much, but at least it meant the whole building wasn’t on lockdown. At least not yet. In any case, the stairs would be a better option than the lifts now. They would at least give him a chance to plan his approach once he reached the lower floors.

  Logan headed to the stairwell and started his descent. He took the steps as quickly as he could, one hand holding the file, the other holding onto the handrail. His own gun was in his waistband, the other dumped back next to the security guard. There was no need to carry both.

  As he approached the third floor, he heard voices and footsteps coming from down below him. Looking over the banister, he saw policemen heading up the stairs. Using the security guard’s key card to unlock the door, he dived back inside on the third floor. He just had to hope that with the noise they were making, they wouldn’t have heard him.

  The corridor here was much the same as it had been on the eighth floor. Rosenberg Associates had occupied the front half of the top floor and he was pretty sure there hadn’t been any other exits within that office area. But there was a good chance there would be one at the back end of the building.

  There were no signs of people here, but he drew his gun anyway, out of instinct more than anything. He ran over to the doors to Gresham LLP, put the security guard’s card into the slot and opened the door. There were already lights on in these offices.

  As Logan rushed through, he nearly barged into a smartly dressed lady, probably in her forties, coming around a corner, carrying a cup of coffee. She screamed as he narrowly avoided knocking her over.

  ‘Where’s the exit?!’ he shouted at her.

  Her eyes focused in on his gun, which he was holding down at his side. In his adrenaline-fuelled state, face red, eyes bulging, chest heaving, gun drawn, the poor woman must have thought he was a crazed psychopath. She meekly pointed in the direction she had just come from. Without time for explanation or apology, Logan raced off in that direction, leaving the bemused woman dumbstruck.

  He exited through another set of security doors and came to a service lift. Beyond that there was another stairwell. He went down the two flights of stairs to the first floor and debated for a second whether to go out there or continue. In the end he kept on going, down to the basement, which he hoped would be a car park.

  His luck was in. He was right. It was only a small garage, about fifty or so spaces on a single floor. He ran over to the exit ramp, which was at the back of the building. He slowed his pace and began to walk up it, cautiously, casually, trying his hardest to temper his breathing which was racing from having run down the stairs. He couldn’t see or hear any signs of the police.

  When he reached the top he stooped low, underneath the barrier, out onto the busy New York street. Quickly he glanced up and down, and then smiled as realised he was in the clear.

  Chapter 59

  With the file in hand, Logan walked calmly back to his rented Saturn, ignoring the police lights and sirens that were still blaring outside the office block. He got into the car and pulled out into the road, then began to push his way through t
he ever-busy New York traffic.

  When he was a safe distance away, he pulled over to the side of the road, just shy of 110th Street, and began to sift through the file. Within minutes he had a new destination in mind.

  His luck really was in. As well as containing various apparently legitimate items related to Carlucci, the file also included two pieces of paper which were of great interest to Logan. The first was a series of what looked like bank account numbers. The second was similar, but it also had a name and address on it. A name and address Logan had not come across before.

  Not wanting to waste any time, he plugged the address details straight into the GPS unit which he had rented and hit the road again. He intended to call Mackie on the way to give an update, but before he got the chance to call his boss, his phone chirped.

  He got a strange feeling when he saw who was calling him: Grainger.

  It had been a fast and furious day – one thing to the next. Waking up this morning in a hotel room in Paris with Grainger seemed a lifetime ago. And then there was the whole question of whether she had been keeping information from him about Carlucci. But since he’d landed in New York just a few hours ago, he’d barely even had a second to think about Grainger.

  Looking at his phone now, he felt pretty lousy about that. If he’d meant what he said to her this morning, about her being so important to him, about him needing her, then why had he not even been thinking about her? Missing her?

  ‘Hi,’ he answered, trying to sound more excited than he really was.

  ‘Hi, Carl.’

  ‘I called you this morning,’ he said. ‘Before I left.’

  There was a moment’s silence before she answered.

  ‘Yeah, my phone was dead. Sorry about that. I’m just calling to see how you are.’