by Mark Dawson
He took the money and put it in the till. When he returned to them with their change, they had both taken sips of their drinks. He put the change on the bar and had to clasp his hands together to stop them from shaking. He expected them to comment on an unusual taste and then to ask him what he had done with their drinks, but they didn’t seem to notice the powder. Perhaps it was tasteless, as Logan had suggested.
Another customer signalled that he wanted to order drinks. The distraction was a relief. Rodrigo left them as they took another sip of the drinks, and went to take the new order.
LOGAN LOOKED at his watch.
Fifteen minutes had passed. He had no idea whether he had frightened the barman enough to have him go through with what he needed him to do. That unpredictability was the only weakness in Logan’s plan. If he didn’t, Milton would gain a reprieve. Logan’s instructions were very precise. It would have been easy to take Milton out now, just as it would have been in London or at the hotel earlier. But that was not what he had been ordered to do. His task was more complicated, and it relied upon the behaviour of others that was impossible to guarantee.
His phone buzzed. He took it out of his pocket and opened the messaging app. He read the message, deleted it, and put the phone back into his pocket again. He instinctively reached up to check the holstered pistol beneath his armpit and, reassured, opened the door and stepped outside into the muggy night.
RODRIGO DIDN’T know what to do.
Thirty minutes had passed. The man and the woman were both still at the bar, but they were incapacitated. It was as if they had gone from being sober to utterly drunk without having to take another drink. The man, Smith, was slumped forward, seemingly unaware that his elbows were resting in a pool of spilt beer. He wore a look of confusion on his face, his eyes closed and his brow wrinkled from frowning. His friend, Jessica, was faring no better. She had slipped from her stool and now she was standing next to Smith, her hand clutching his elbow as her knees buckled.
Rodrigo looked at the other customers. This was the kind of place where people came to get wasted, but it was early, and no one else was nearly as drunk as they appeared to be. They stood out. He felt bad for what he had done to them. Logan had promised him that they wouldn’t be harmed, but now he worried that he had been lying. He wondered whether he should call someone for help. Perhaps he should call for an ambulance.
He opened the hatch and had just stepped out from behind the bar when he saw a man and a woman sitting in a booth at the back. It was dark, and they had positioned themselves there so that they could watch what was happening in the room via the mirror that Rodrigo had installed to make the dance floor look bigger than it really was. They stood now and stepped into the chequers of light that swirled down from the disco ball above the dance floor.
And then Rodrigo saw Logan, too. He was wearing the same neat suit, the glitter of the lights sparkling off the lenses of his glasses.
The other man and the woman headed toward the bar. The man was dressed similar to Logan, although his suit was not as well fitted. He was bigger, too, his jacket a little too tight around muscular shoulders. The woman was compact but plainly fit and strong, with a hardened look to her face that suggested it would be foolish to annoy her.
Logan came up to him.
“Well done,” he said.
The man and the woman arrived behind him.
“Who are they?” Rodrigo said to Logan, gesturing to the other two.
“They’re here to help me.”
“To do what?”
“We’re going to take them with us.”
“You didn’t say—”
“I’m not asking for your approval. I’m telling you what’s going to happen.”
“You said they wouldn’t be hurt.”
“And they won’t.”
The second man ducked down and looped Smith’s arm over his shoulders. He put his arm around Smith’s waist, straightened up, and then carefully helped him slide off the stool. Smith had no strength in his legs, and he almost collapsed. The man was strong, though, and he was able to hold him upright. He pretended to say something to Smith, laughing as if they were old friends and he had made a joke about the condition that he had found him in. Smith tried to speak, but the effort was too much for him, his mouth curling around the words as if he had forgotten how to speak.
Logan stood aside as the man helped Smith to the exit. “If anyone asks, you don’t know who they are.”
“I don’t know who they are.”
The woman put her arm around the woman’s torso and half-carried her in the same direction.
“They got drunk, their friends arrived, they left. That’s it.”
“I don’t know about this,” Rodrigo said before he could think to be silent.
“Do you want your debt to be paid, or do I have to look at collecting it another way?”
“No. It’s fine. Just go.”
Logan nodded, and, without another word, he turned and followed the others out the door and into the street beyond.
13
MILTON HAD a key in his pocket. It was attached to a fob inscribed with a notice that requested that if the key was lost, it should be returned to the Makabat Guesthouse in Leveriza Street, Malate. Logan put the address into his satnav, pocketed the key, and drove there. It was a cheap place, down at heel, the sort of dive where you could pay by the hour if that was what you wanted. Logan let the engine idle as he glanced around. There were other cars in the lot, but there was no one else here.
Milton and Sanchez were in the back of the car. They were awake, but neither of them was aware where they were. Sanchez was whimpering, her words unintelligible. Milton was breathing deeply, almost asleep. The man and the woman from the surveillance detail were in the car, too. Their names were du Plessis and Faraday, and they had been loaned to him by the British government. The man, du Plessis, sat between Milton and the door, and Faraday was in the passenger seat next to Logan.
Logan reversed into the space nearest the door to Milton’s room. He stepped out, crossed the narrow veranda, and examined his surroundings carefully. He saw two small cameras fixed to the underside of the veranda roof.
“Wait here,” he said into the car.
He followed the cables that led from the cameras along the ceiling of the veranda. They reached the end of the building before crossing the gap to a freestanding building five metres away. Logan approached it. There was a sign reading OFFICE next to the door.
He stood by the door for a moment and listened carefully. Nothing. He reached into his pocket and took out the box of powdered green nitrile gloves that he had purchased earlier that afternoon. He pulled out a pair and put them on, the elasticated openings snapping against the skin of his wrists. He tried the door handle. It was unlocked. He opened the door slowly and stepped into a small office. Logan saw a PC, an old-fashioned screensaver sending colourful pipes around the screen in isometric patterns. There was a cash box, a row of shelves with lever arch and box files, and piles of paper.
It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. He looked up at the ceiling and saw the point where the cables that led to the cameras—clipped together now in a thick bundle with additional cables—entered the room. They descended along the join between two walls into a cupboard next to the door. Logan opened the cupboard. There was an old-fashioned D-Link digital video recorder on a shelf. Logan pulled it out, yanked the cables from the back, and, after satisfying himself that there was no one who might see him outside, he took it back to the car and dropped it in the trunk.
Logan crossed back beneath the now-defunct cameras, unlocked the door to Milton’s room and pushed it open.
He checked: the room beyond was empty.
He signalled to du Plessis and Faraday. They opened their doors and stepped outside. Milton was first, Faraday on one side of him and du Plessis on the other as they dragged him across the lot. Milton’s toes caught on the edge of the veranda and then scraped
along the wood as they brought him inside. They hauled him to the bed, turned him around and then let him fall back onto the mattress. Milton groaned, then started to mumble something that Logan couldn’t understand. It didn’t matter. He was too far gone to go anywhere or do anything.
Logan followed du Plessis and Faraday back to the car. Sanchez was asleep, her head turned to face the door, snoring gently. They reached down and eased her out. There was no point in trying to help her to walk, so du Plessis scooped her up in his arms and crossed the short distance back to the veranda and the room.
He laid her in a chair.
Faraday paused at the door. “What do you want us to do now?”
“You’re done,” Logan said. “You can go.”
They didn’t question him, nor ask what the rest of his plan would entail. They would be able to join the dots if they read the news tomorrow, but Logan was unconcerned. They were paid well and loyal to the government. They had no idea who either of the people on the bed were, nor the reasons for Logan’s attention to them. For all they were concerned, they might be enemies of the state, deserving of whatever might come next.
Logan waited for them to go and then went back outside to the car. He opened the door and took out the plastic bag with the items that he had purchased earlier that afternoon. He took the bag inside, closed the door, turned the key and fitted the safety chain. He did not want to be disturbed.
Milton hadn’t moved. Logan crossed the room to the bed and looked down at him: he was breathing easily, in and out, his eyes closed. It looked as if he was asleep. The roofies contained flunitrazepam and were ten times more powerful than the diazepam found in Valium. It relaxed the muscles, reduced anxiety, and had a strong sedative effect. It also produced a strong amnesia, which was one of the reasons Logan had chosen it over the alternatives.
Logan addressed the room.
He had things to do.
He took off his jacket, hung it on the edge of a chair, and swept his hand down it, straightening out the creases. He went over to the suitcase and opened it, carefully rifling through the clothes that Milton had brought with him. A spare pair of trousers, a crumpled T-shirt, underwear; he was travelling light. There was a book inside the suitcase. Logan took it out. It was dog-eared and bore the signs of being well thumbed. It had a deep blue cover, with the words Alcoholics Anonymous written across it in bold white type. Logan flipped through the pages. There were words written in the margins and passages that had been picked out in faded yellow highlighter. He glanced over at Milton and thought of his pitiful existence in London, his minimum-wage job and the meetings with other drunks, where they would open their hearts and wallow in self-pity.
He still couldn’t connect the reality of what John Milton had become to the details of the exploits that he had read in his file. Why had he been so nervous? Milton was a husk of a man. Hollowed out. Weak. Pathetic. Perhaps Logan was what Milton had been ten years ago. One thing was sure: he was more than his match now, and he had proven it.
Logan took the bottles and cans from the bag and stood them all out on the table.
Twelve cans of Red Horse.
Two bottles of Grasovka Bison Grass vodka.
He took one of the six-packs into the bathroom, pulled the ring pull on each of them and poured the contents down the sink. He took the empties into the bedroom and dumped them in and around the bin.
He collected one of the bottles of vodka, cranked off the lid and poured it out over the bed. He tipped a little over Milton’s chest and then rested the bottle on the edge of the bed, allowing it to glug out onto the floor until it was half empty.
Milton did not stir.
He took the other bottle and dropped it on the tile, the liquid splashing everywhere, rivulets that ran around the shards of freshly razored glass.
One more thing to do.
He turned to Sanchez. She was still asleep. Her head had fallen back, exposing her long and shapely neck. He crossed the room until he was standing over her. She had been useful to him. Her desperation for money and her previous closeness to Milton had combined in a fortunate intersection, but her utility was coming to an end. She had done well, but she had one last role to play. It was unfortunate for her, but necessary. Bad luck. Logan didn’t care.
A strand of hair had fallen over her face. Logan reached down and gently pushed it away with one gloved finger.
He leaned down and eased the girl onto the floor. She stirred a little, snuffling in her sleep, but she did not wake. Logan knelt down on either side of her body, her loose arms pinned to her sides by his knees. He reached for her throat with both hands, his fingers on either side and his thumbs meeting over her larynx.
And then he squeezed.
Her eyes opened, bulging with panic, but there was nothing that she could do. He was too strong and her body was deadened by the sedative.
Logan pressed down hard until the muscles in his arms locked.
It didn’t take long. Her weakness meant that he could be precise, placing his thumbs to ensure that he cut off the flow of blood to her brain.
Ten seconds.
She stopped her gentle struggling and lay still.
Logan kept pressing down for another ten seconds and then he relaxed his grip.
He stood.
He took the girl by the wrists and dragged her body across the room. He left her in the tiny bathroom. He inspected her throat: red shadows from his fingers were already evident, darkening as the bruises slowly started to form.
Milton had not stirred. He was snoring more loudly now. Logan looked at him and thought how easy it would be to kill him now. He was as helpless as a baby. Logan’s profession usually required the death of his target, but Logan had not been paid to kill Milton.
Quite the opposite.
He checked the room one final time and, satisfied with his work, he opened the door and stepped out onto the veranda. He pulled the door to, not quite closing it, and then crossed the lot to his waiting car.
Part II
14
POLICE OFFICER Josie Hernandez watched as the suspect was loaded into the back of the squad car. Her partner, Manuel Dalisay, shut the door and went around to the front. Ideally, she would have gone back to the station with the suspect, but manpower within the department was a serious issue and she knew that she would have to take care of the crime scene until the lab technicians arrived.
“Put him in the cells until I get back,” she called out to Dalisay.
“No problem.”
It was a hot morning, already up in the high nineties with stifling humidity. It had been hot last night, too, and Josie’s two-year-old son had been unable to sleep. Josie had lain on the floor next to his crib until the boy finally drifted away, but she had found it difficult to sleep herself after that and had eventually given up, taking a shower and getting into the department two hours earlier than usual.
Her career had taken a turn for the better over the course of the last month. She had been promoted from Police Officer 1 to Police Officer 2. She was a good cop, but she knew that the promotion was as much about expediency as about her talent. The streets of the capital had been swamped with vigilantes tempted by the promise of bounties if they prosecuted the president’s war on drugs, murdering the men and women who had been put on semi-official kill lists for their alleged involvement in the drug trade. Those slayings all needed investigating, even if they were almost always signed off without the killers being brought to justice. Duterte had vowed to clean the streets with the same brand of outlaw justice that he had unleashed in the twenty-two years he had served as the mayor of Davao. They said that his death squads were responsible for nearly fifteen hundred killings in the once-lawless southern city, and his hard-line attitude had been responsible for his election. They called him ‘Duterte Harry,’ and it was an appropriate sobriquet. He could back it up.
She took out her handkerchief and mopped the sweat from her face. The door to the hotel room was still open an
d she went back inside. The room stank of alcohol. She saw the bottle on the table and the broken bottle on the floor, and, as she made her way farther inside, her boots squelched through the sticky residue on the floor. There must have been some party here last night.
There was a small suitcase parked at the side of the room. She took a pair of latex gloves from her pocket, pulled them on, and went over to it. The lid was unzipped, and she opened it. There were clothes inside: a pair of jeans, a pair of shorts, two plain T-shirts and a plain black shirt. She left them as they were.
There was a thick blue book titled Alcoholics Anonymous with a subtitle that announced “This is the Third Edition of the Big Book, New and Revised. The Basic Text for Alcoholics Anonymous.” Josie riffled the pages, noticing that the corners of several had been folded back and that inked annotations had been made in the margins.
Whoever owned that book had fallen off the wagon in a big way.
She turned to the bed. There was a pack of cigarettes on the bedside table and a vintage black cigarette lighter that looked expensive. There was a scattering of banknotes and a cigarette that was floating in a finger of vodka.
There was little to go on. There was nothing to identify the man who had been arrested. He would be searched when he reached the station; he was a westerner, and the suitcase suggested that he was here for a visit, so they ought to find a passport at the very least.
She stood and went over to the bathroom.
She guessed that the victim was in her early thirties. She had been beautiful, but her beauty had been marred by the obscene red welts around her throat.
Josie wasn’t in the habit of leaping to conclusions, but it was difficult to look past the obvious explanation for what had happened in the room last night. There had been drink, too much drink, and an argument had become physical, and then, eventually, deadly. She looked down at the body again and then turned to gaze out the door as Dalisay put the car into gear and set off.
