by Harlan Coben
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Downstairs. Win wants to talk to me."
"I can't go?"
"He said alone."
"I'm not really sure I like that idea," Terese said.
"Neither am I, but I find it's better not to question him."
"How crazy is he?"
"Win is sane. He is just overly rational. He sees things in black and white." Then I added: "He tends to be more of an ends-justify-means sort of guy."
"His means can be pretty extreme," she said.
"Yes."
"I remember that from when I helped you find that donor."
I said nothing.
"Win isn't trying to spare my feelings, is he?"
"Win and sparing a woman's feelings," I said, making a scale with my hands. "I don't think that's a factor."
"You better go."
"Yep."
"Will you tell me what happens?"
"Probably not. If Win wants to keep something from you, it's for the best. You have to trust that, I guess."
She nodded and stood. "I'm going to wash up and then hit the Internet."
"Okay."
She started for the bedroom. I reached for the door to the corridor.
"Myron?"
I turned toward her. She stood facing me full. She was beautiful and vulnerable and strong and she stood like she was readying to take a blow and I wanted to jump in the way and protect her.
"What?" I asked.
"I love you," Terese said.
She said it just like that. Facing me full, beautiful and vulnerable and strong. Something in my chest rose and took flight. I stood there, frozen, the gift of speech temporarily taken away from me.
"I know the timing sucks and I don't want it to interfere with what we're doing now. But either way, if Miriam is alive or if this is all some horrible practical joke, I want you to know: I love you. And when this is over, however it turns out, I want more than anything to give you and me a try."
I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again. "I'm kinda with someone."
"I know. I guess my timing double-sucks. But that's okay. If you love her, then that's that. If you don't, I'm here."
Terese didn't wait for a response. She turned and opened the bedroom door and vanished inside.
18
I staggered to the elevator.
How had that Snow Patrol song put it a couple of years back? Those three words, they say so much, they're not enough.
Baloney. They were enough.
I thought about Ali in Arizona. I thought about Terese standing there and telling me that she loved me. Terese was probably right--the best response was to not let it interfere. But it was there. And it was gnawing at me.
The blinds were drawn in room 118.
I reached for the light switch and then thought better of it. Win sat in a plush chair. I could hear the clink of ice in whatever he was drinking. Alcohol never seemed to affect Win, but this was awfully early.
I sat across from him. We have been friends for a very long time. We met as college students at Duke University. I remember seeing his photograph in the freshman face book the first day I arrived on campus. The entry listed him as Windsor Horne Lockwood III from some obnoxious-sounding prep school on the Main Line in Philadelphia. He had the perfect hair and the haughty expression. My father and I had just lugged up all my stuff to my fourth-floor walk-up. Typical of my father. He drove me to North Carolina from New Jersey, never bitching once, insisting on carrying the heaviest items himself, and we sat down and took a break and I started paging through the face book and I pointed to Win's picture and said, "Hey, Dad, look at this guy. I bet I never even see him in my four years."
I was wrong, of course.
For a long time I felt Win was indestructible. He had killed many, but none that didn't seem to deserve it, and yes, I know how disturbing it is to say that. But age has a way of creeping up on all of us. What seems eccentric and edgy when you're in your twenties or thirties turns into something closer to pathetic at forty.
"It will be difficult to get permission to exhume the body," Win began. "We have no cause of action."
"How about the DNA test?"
"The French authorities won't release the results. I also tried the most direct route--a bribe."
"No takers?"
"Not yet. There will be, but it will take some time, which it seems we don't have."
I thought about it. "You have a suggestion?"
"I do."
"I'm listening."
"We bribe gravediggers. We do it ourselves tonight under the cover of darkness. We only need a small sample. We send it to our lab, compare the DNA with Terese's"--he raised his glass--"and we're done."
"Ghoulish," I said.
"And effective."
"Do you think there's a point?"
"Meaning?"
"We know how the result is going to turn out."
"Do tell."
"I heard the tone in Berleand's voice. He may have talked about premature and inconclusive, but we both know. And I saw that girl on that surveillance video. Okay, not her face and it was at a distance. But she had her mother's walk, if you know what I mean."
"How about her mother's derriere?" Win asked. "Now that would be solid evidence."
I just looked at him.
He sighed. "Mannerisms are often more of a tell than facial features or even height," he said. "I get it."
"Yes."
"You and your son have that," Win said. "When he sits down, he shakes his leg like you do. He has your motion--the way your fingertips come off the ball--on the jump shot, if not your result."
I don't think Win had ever mentioned my son before.
"We still need to do this," I said. I thought again about that Sherlock Holmes axiom about eliminating the impossible. "At the end of the day, the most obvious answer is still some kind of mistake in Berleand's DNA test. We need to know for certain."
"Agreed."
I hated the idea of violating a grave, of course, especially of someone who'd been taken so young. I would run it by Terese, but she had made it pretty clear how she felt about ashes to ashes. I told Win to go ahead.
"Is that why you wanted to see me alone?" I asked.
"No."
Win took a deep sip, rose, filled his glass. He didn't bother offering me any. He knew I couldn't handle hard liquor. Though I'm six four and nearly 220 pounds, I handle booze about as well as a sixteen-year-old girl sneaking into her first mixer.
"You saw the video of the blond girl at the airport," he said.
"Yes."
"And she was with the man who attacked you. The one in the photograph."
"You know this."
"I do."
"So what's wrong?"
Win pressed a button on his cell phone and raised it to his ear. "Please join us."
The door from the connecting room opened. A tall woman in a dark blue power suit entered. She had raven black hair and big shoulders. She blinked, put a hand to her eyes, and said, "Why are the lights so low?"
She had a British accent. This being Win, I figured that the woman was, well, Mee-like, if you will. But that wasn't the case. She moved across the room and took the open seat.
"This," Win said, "is Lucy Probert. She works at Interpol here in London."
I said something inane, like nice to meet you. She nodded and studied my face as though it were a modern painting she didn't quite get.
"Tell him," Win said.
"Win forwarded me the photograph of the man whom you assaulted."
"I didn't assault him," I said. "He pulled a gun on me."
Lucy Probert waved that away as if it were so much flotsam. "My division at Interpol works international child trafficking. You probably think it's a pretty sick world out there, but trust me, it's sicker than you can imagine. The crimes that I deal with--well, it boggles the mind what people can dream up to do to the most vulnerable. In our battles against this deprav
ity, your friend Win has been an invaluable ally."
I looked over at said friend and as usual his face gave away nothing. For a long time, Win had been--for lack of a better term--a vigilante. He would go out late at night and walk the most dangerous streets of New York or Philadelphia in hopes of being attacked so that he could maim those who would prey on the perceived weak. He would read about a pervert who'd gotten off on a technicality or some wife beater who'd gotten his wife to clam up, and he would pay them what we called "Night Visits." There was one case of a pedophile the police knew had kidnapped a girl but couldn't get to talk. They were forced to release him. Win paid him a Night Visit. He talked. The girl was found, already dead. No one knows where the pedophile is now.
I thought that maybe Win had stopped or at least slowed down, but now I realized that hadn't been the case. He had started taking more overseas trips. He had been an "invaluable ally" in the fight against child trafficking.
"So when Win asked me for a favor," Lucy went on, "I did it. This seemed like a pretty innocuous request anyway--to run the photo Captain Berleand sent you through the system and come up with an ID. Routine, right?"
"Right."
"It was not. We have plenty of ways at Interpol to identify people from photographs. There's facial recognition software, for example."
"Miss Probert?"
"Yes."
"I don't really need a technology lesson."
"Wonderful, because I have neither the time nor inclination to give you one. My point is, such requests are fairly routine at Interpol. I put the photograph into the system before I left for the day, figuring the computer would work on it overnight and spew out an answer. Is that simplifying matters enough for you?"
I nodded, realizing that I'd be wrong to interrupt. She was clearly agitated and I hadn't helped.
"So when I arrived at work this morning, I expected to have an identity to report back to you. But that wasn't the case. Instead--how shall I put this politely?--all forms of intestinal waste hit the proverbial fan. Someone had gone through my desk. My computer had been accessed and searched. Don't ask me how I know--I know."
She stopped and started searching through her bag. She found a cigarette and put it in her mouth. "You damn Americans and your antismoking crusade. If one of you says anything about no-smoking rules . . ."
Neither of us did.
She lit up, took a deep breath, let it go.
"In short, that photograph was classified or top secret or fill in your own terminology."
"Do you know why?"
"Why it was classified?"
"Yes."
"No. I am fairly high up on the Interpol food chain. If it was over my head, it is ultra-sensitive. Your photograph sent warning bells right to the top. I was summoned to Mickey Walker's office--the big boss in London. I haven't been honored by an audience with Mickey in two years. He called me in and sat me down and wanted to know where I'd got the photograph and why I'd made this request."
"What did you tell him?"
She looked over at Win, and I knew the answer.
"That I'd received a tip from a reliable source that the man in the photograph might be involved in trafficking."
"And he asked you for the name of the source?"
"Of course."
"And you gave it to him?"
Win said, "I would have insisted."
"There was no choice," she said. "They would have found out anyway. If they went through my e-mails or phone records, they might have been able to track it down."
I looked at Win. Again no reaction. She was wrong--they wouldn't have been able to track it down, but I understood where she was coming from. This was clearly something big. To not cooperate would be career suicide and maybe worse. Win would have been right to insist she put it on us.
"So now what?"
"They wish to talk to me," Win said.
"Do they know where you are?"
"Not yet, no. My solicitor informed them I would voluntarily come in within the hour. We are checked in here under an assumed name, but if they try hard enough they will find us here."
She looked at her watch. "I better head back."
I thought about the Sunglasses Man who'd set off my Spidey senses. "Is there any chance one of your people is following me?"
"I would doubt it."
"You're under heavy suspicion," I said. "How do you know they didn't follow you here?"
She looked at Win. "Is he a dope or just a sexist?"
Win considered that. "A sexist."
"I'm an agent for Interpol. I took precautions."
But not enough precautions so as not to get caught in the first place. I kept that thought to myself. It wasn't fair. She couldn't have known how putting that picture in the system would blow up.
We all rose. She shook my hand and kissed Win's cheek. Win and I settled back into our seats after she left.
"What are you going to tell Interpol?" I asked.
"Is there any reason to lie?"
"Not that I can see."
"So I tell them the truth--for the most part. My dear friend--that would be you--was attacked by this man in Paris. I wanted to know who he was. We cover for Lucy by saying I lied to her and said the man was involved in child trafficking."
"Which for all we know is a possibility."
"True."
"Do you mind if I tell Terese about this?"
"As long as you leave Lucy's name out of it."
I nodded. "We need to get an ID on this guy."
I walked Win down to the Claridge's rather spectacular lobby. No violin quartet played concertos in the foyer, but they should have. The decor was modern British Upper Crust, which is to say a hybrid of Old English and art deco, done in a style both relaxed enough for jean-clad tourists and yet haughty enough to imagine that certain chairs and maybe the molding on the ceiling were snubbing their collective nose at you. I liked it. After Win left, I started for the elevator when something made me pull up.
Black Chuck Taylor high-tops.
I moved toward the elevators, stopped, and patted my pockets. I turned back with a confused expression on my face, as though I had just realized that I had misplaced something. Myron Bolitar, Method Actor. I used the opportunity to glance surreptitiously at the man with the black Chuck Taylor high-tops.
No sunglasses. Blue windbreaker now. A baseball cap that hadn't been there at the cemetery. But I knew. It was my guy. And he was good. People have a tendency to remember very little. Guy with sunglasses and close-cropped hair. Throw a cap on, a windbreaker over your T-shirt--no one will notice you unless they're looking hard.
I had almost missed it, but now I knew for sure: I was being followed. My boy from the graveyard was back.
There were several ways to play this, but I was not in the mood to be coy. I walked down a narrow corridor toward the rooms they used for meetings and conferences. It was a Sunday so they were empty. I folded my arms, leaned against the coatroom, and waited for my man to make an appearance.
When he did--five minutes later--I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him into the coatroom. "Why are you following me?"
He looked at me confused.
"Is it my strong chin? My hypnotic blue eyes? My shapely ass? By the way, do these pants make me look fat? Tell me the truth."
The man stared for another second, maybe two, and then he did what I had done earlier: He just attacked.
He led with a palm strike toward my face. I blocked it. He spun and threw an elbow. Fast. Faster than I'd anticipated. The blow landed on the left side of my chin. I turned my head to lesson the impact, but I could still feel my teeth rattle. He kept the attack going, throwing another blow, then a side kick, then a fist to the body. The body shot landed the hardest, on the bottom of the rib cage. It would hurt. If you ever watch boxing on TV, even casually, you will hear every announcer say the same things: Body shots accumulate. The opponent will feel them in the late rounds. That's true and it's not. Body shots also hu
rt right now. They make you cringe and lower your defenses.
I was in trouble.
Part of my brain started berating myself--stupid to do this without a weapon or Win as backup. Most of my brain, however, had kicked into survival mode. Even the most seemingly innocent fight--at a bar, a sporting event, whatever--will make your adrenaline go haywire because your body knows what maybe your mind doesn't want to accept: This is about survival. You could very well die.
I fell to the ground and rolled away. The coatroom was small. This guy knew what he was doing. He stayed on me, trying to rain down foot stomps, chasing me. He landed a kick to my head; stars exploded like something out of a cartoon. I debated yelling for help, anything to get him to stop.
I rolled a second or so more, noticed his timing. I left my gut open, hoping he would go for it with a kick. He did. As he started to cock his knee, I reverse-rolled toward him, bent at the waist, got my hands ready. The kick landed in ye olde bread basket, but I was ready for it. I clamped his foot against my body with both hands and rolled hard. He had two choices. Fall quickly to the ground or have his ankle bone snap like a dried twig.
He knew to throw blows as he fell, but for the most part they were ineffective.
We were both on the ground. I was hurt and dazed, but I had two major advantages now. One, I still had his foot, though I could feel that grip loosening. Two, now that we were on the ground, well, size became important--and I mean that in a clean way. I was holding his leg with both hands. He tried to punch his way through. I moved closer to him, ducking my head into his chest. When an opponent is throwing punches, most people think that they should give the guy some distance. But it's just the opposite. You put your face into his chest and smother his power. That was what I did here.
He tried to box my ears, but that required both hands, leaving him vulnerable. I lifted my head hard and fast and caught him under the chin. He reeled back. I fell on top of him.
Now the fight was about leverage and technique and size. I had him beat right now in two of the three--leverage and size. I was still dizzy from the initial attack but the head butt had helped. I still had his leg. I gave it a vicious twist. He rolled with it and that was when he made the big mistake.
He turned his back to me, exposing it.
I let go and jumped on him, my legs snaking around his waist, my right arm around his neck. He knew what was coming. Panic made him start bucking. He dropped his chin to block my elbow. I whacked him in the back of the head with a palm strike. That weakened him just enough. I quickly gripped his forehead and tugged back. He tried to fight it, but I raised his chin just enough. My elbow sneaked underneath the opening and reached his throat. The choke hold was set.
