Invisible

by Andrew Grant

  Carrick put his case on the floor and massaged his hand. “They might.”

  “Come on, George. You know they would. And whatever you decide, you’re getting a steal.” Robson gestured to the table, which was the only piece of furniture in the building. “What do you say? Time to put this baby to bed?”

  Carrick was silent for a moment. He bounced on the balls of his feet. Then he lifted his case onto the table and pulled out a copy of the contract. “Here you go.” He passed Robson a pen with his company logo on the side. “You can keep that, once you’ve signed. And the case. Everything’s in it for the deposit.”

  Robson took the pen. “Five million, cash, as agreed?”

  “Five million.” Carrick nodded. “Right.”

  “Why am I not hearing the word cash?”

  Carrick sighed. “It’s not all cash, actually. Some of it’s made up with other things. Deeds for other buildings. Like that.”

  “We agreed on cash.” Robson gripped the pen so savagely, his knuckles shone white. “I need cash.”

  “Don’t we all. But listen. The timescale was just too tight. I could only lay my hands on two hundred grand. The rest my lawyer pulled together. It’s totally legit. He wasn’t happy about the work, I can tell you, it was such a rush.”

  “And I would care about your lawyer’s happiness because…?” Robson’s eyes narrowed.

  “OK. Fair point. Screw my lawyer. He’s a miserable bastard, anyway. But look. Let’s just do this. It’s still five million dollars. You won’t regret taking it.”

  “I know I won’t.” Robson paused with the pen nib hovering above the signature line, and turned to look Carrick in the eye. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, sir.”

  There was a crash of breaking glass from the front of the house. Almost immediately smoke started to billow through the doorway and into the kitchen. I watched Robson and Carrick trying not to rub their eyes as they started to itch. Then burn. Then water uncontrollably.

  “George Carrick.” The voice sounded harsh and metallic through the megaphone. “This is Detective Atkinson, NYPD. You’re under arrest for the murder of Norman Davies. If you come out now with your hands above your head, you will not be hurt. If you make us come in and get you…”

  “Quick.” Robson grabbed Carrick’s elbow and pulled. “This way. I can get you out. There’s a way into the alley that no one else knows about. Come on! We have to hurry.”

  Carrick blundered after Robson and they both tumbled out of the back door. They helped each other to their feet, then staggered down the stone steps, clinging to each other, their eyes stinging and streaming. And waiting for them at the bottom, though they couldn’t see, was Detective Kanchelskis and two uniformed officers.

  Atkinson and two more uniformed officers slipped on protective masks and began a sweep from the front of the building, for thoroughness’ sake. By the time they reached the kitchen, all that was left on the table was the crumpled, unsigned contract. There was no sign of Carrick’s case. That—and the five million dollars’ worth of paper it contained—was safely in the pantry with me, concealed behind my day-old temporary wall.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The operation wound up with a lot of moving parts. A lot of things that could go wrong…

  Guys from the NYPD, the FBI, the DEA, and the INS were lying in wait for the Caucasus Queen down at the docks.

  Guys from the NYPD and the FBI were set up at Walcott’s building, waiting for Madatov to show up. John Robson was there, too, posing as the doorman. He’d volunteered for the job. All he had to do was sign Madatov in, then follow him up in the elevator. It was a small price to pay for the satisfaction of seeing Walcott, expecting an enormous delivery of cash, getting arrested with Madatov, who thought he was there to buy photos of the trafficked women’s bedrooms.

  My team had drawn the short straw. We had guys from the same agencies that were present at the docks, but all we had to do was watch Madatov’s building. We were divided between an undercover van and a requisitioned apartment, partly as early warning, and partly as backstop. Neither role carried much weight. If we saw Madatov leaving, fine. But he could go to Walcott’s building from elsewhere. Or the rumors of the hidden exit from his place could be true. On top of that, the new batch of women wouldn’t get close to our location. They wouldn’t even make it off the dock. We just had to wait, miles away from the action, in case someone slipped away or a new player emerged. Then, as a hollow consolation, we were supposed to bag Madatov’s security guards at the very end of the operation. They’re such small fish that I was surprised anyone would bother, but I guess the FBI casts a very fine net.

  * * *

  —

  We waited, and waited, until something did go wrong.

  My phone rang.

  “Paul, we have a major problem.” It was John Robson. “Walcott’s dead. He had a heart attack. The asshole!”

  “Wait one.” I checked the app for my Bulgarian bank. “The transfer was made, so I guess he’s not a total asshole. What do you guys want to do?”

  “We’re looking at two options. The first is to bust Madatov when he walks through the door. There are some warrants out for him, but they’re old and the Feds don’t think anything serious will stick. For the second option, I need to check something with you. As far as you know, did Madatov and Walcott ever meet? Or did they do all their business through Madatov’s lawyer?”

  “According to George Carrick, who worked with both of them, Madatov went reclusive before Walcott came back to the States. So they won’t have met. Why?”

  “Because if that’s the case, Madatov doesn’t know what Walcott looks like. Meaning I could sit in for Walcott. I could wear a wire. I know Azerbaijan just as well as he did, in case Madatov wants to shoot the breeze or set any traps. And I have the phone here, with the blackmail photos on it.”

  “What about the doorman? You’re supposed to be him.”

  “I’ll make a sign saying Back in Five Minutes. That’s no problem. The Feds are on board, too. We just need the NYPD to sign off. And I’m told that has to come from Atkinson’s captain.”

  I explained the situation to Atkinson. He put in the call, but his captain was reluctant to make the decision on the spot. He wanted to pass it further up the chain of command. Which for us meant more waiting. And waiting.

  A black town car pulled up outside Madatov’s building. One of his mistresses emerged from the doorway. She was wearing some designer’s take on a motorcycle jacket, paired with a tiny black leather skirt. Despite the height of her heels she seemed to glide along the pathway rather than walk, and she folded herself into the passenger seat with effortless grace. The car pulled away with a squeal of its tires, then Madatov’s garage opened. A shiny blue minivan nosed out and eased up the driveway. I could see Madatov’s second mistress behind the wheel. She had on a tan trench coat and a pair of dark, oversized sunglasses.

  Atkinson’s phone rang six minutes later. It was his captain. He gave the green light for using a ringer in place of Walcott, so I relayed the news to Robson. And went back to waiting. For close to another hour. Until instead of plain wrong, something went weird.

  Atkinson’s phone rang again. He talked for a couple of minutes, then hung up.

  “That was Kanchelskis, at the dock.” Atkinson drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I don’t get what’s going on. The Caucasus Queen came in early because of the tide, or some nautical thing, so they got a jump on the search. They went all over the ship. Twice. There were no women, anywhere. They’re positive. Then a minivan—the one we just saw—showed up. And there were women in it. Six, plus the driver. They’re all arrested, but none of them’s talking. Except the driver, who asked for Madatov’s lawyer.”

  The women had been taken to the dock. Not collected from it. Meaning they weren’t being smuggled in.
They were being smuggled out. And they hadn’t been driven by Madatov. They’d been driven by one of his mistresses. The one who’d gone to take care of that piece of business right after the other had jumped into a town car and taken off. In a hurry. Like she had another burning matter to deal with…

  I dialed Robson’s number. There was no answer.

  “Atkinson, start the engine. Move!”

  “Why?” He reached for the key. “Where are we going?”

  “Walcott’s building.”

  “What about Madatov?”

  “He’s not in the equation anymore. His mistresses have taken over.”

  “What?” Atkinson pulled away fast, but without letting the tires squeal and draw attention. “Where’s this coming from?”

  “I’m just putting the pieces together. It’s why no one’s seen the guy recently. He hasn’t become a recluse. He’s dead. And his recent victims? The reason there were no break-ins? And no defensive wounds? It’s not because they knew Madatov and let him in. It’s because they didn’t perceive the women as a threat. And now that they’re in charge, they’re not bringing new girls to the United States. They’re taking the old ones home, to Azerbaijan. And they think Walcott is threatening their operation with the blackmail demand. They don’t know it’s bogus.”

  “And they don’t know it’s not Walcott who’s at the rendezvous.” Atkinson leaned harder on the gas. “It’s Robson.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The black town car was waiting outside Walcott’s building when we arrived. It was sitting at the curb, its passenger door lined up with the entrance and its engine running. That was a good sign, I thought. The woman must still be on the premises. Maybe there was still time…

  Atkinson sent one cop to arrest the driver and the rest of us ran inside to reception. The lobby was deserted so we went straight for the elevators. I knew from my previous visit that riding up to Walcott’s floor was a non-starter. The corridor was straight and narrow and it only had two doors: one to Walcott’s apartment, and one to his neighbor’s, which had been commandeered for the day for use as a command post by the NYPD and FBI. If the woman was waiting for us with any kind of automatic weapon, things could get very ugly, very fast.

  There wasn’t time for too much fancy planning—Robson, the cop, and the agent were still not answering their phones—so Atkinson and I took the first elevator car that came. We rode to the twenty-ninth floor, which was one below Walcott’s. Then I went straight for the emergency staircase and crept up the last flight. Atkinson stayed and held the elevator for sixty seconds, then reached in and hit the button for thirty. I waited till I heard the muted ting as it arrived, then eased open the fire door and peered into the corridor.

  Our attempt at a diversion hadn’t been necessary. We were too late. The door to Walcott’s neighbor’s apartment was standing open and an arm in a dark blue sleeve, its hand slick with blood, was reaching out into the corridor. I ran forward and looked through the doorway. The police officer was lying on his side, one leg curled under his body, his eyes open but unfocused. A pool of blood the size of a dinner plate had formed under his abdomen. Beyond him, sprawled facedown beneath an archway leading to the living room, I could see another body. A woman’s. I felt a tiny flicker of hope. Then I registered her height. Her shoes. Her clothes. Her hair color. Nothing corresponded with what I’d seen of Madatov’s mistress. Meaning she had to be the federal agent. And she was completely motionless.

  Atkinson caught up to me twenty seconds later. He grabbed hold of the doorframe and froze for a moment, then crouched down and checked the cop’s neck for a pulse. I left him to figure out if there was any point in calling for the medics, and continued down the corridor.

  I kicked Walcott’s door just below the lock and dived through the gap as it flew open, rolling immediately to the side in case the woman was there waiting for me. My acrobatics were greeted by an ironic round of applause. It was coming from Robson, who was sitting on one of the couches in the living room.

  “John?” I picked myself up and hurried along the hallway. “Are you OK?”

  “Of course I am.” He reached for a bottle of Heineken from the side table.

  “Where’s the woman? Madatov’s mistress. Did she get here yet?”

  Robson gestured toward Walcott’s bedroom. I went in and saw a woman lying on the floor. She was definitely the same person I’d watched leaving Madatov’s house, but now she was tied and gagged with strips of torn bedsheet. When she saw me she started struggling to free herself. When that didn’t work she tried to wriggle closer and kick me, so I left her to her futile efforts and returned to the living room.

  “You dodged a bullet there, John.” I sat down on the couch next to Robson. “You resisted her. You might be the only one who ever has.”

  “I didn’t resist her, Paul.” He looked at me and winked. “I’m naturally immune.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I was trying to remember the last time I’d been to a bar for no other reason than to get a beer with some friends.

  To be precise, I didn’t actually get a beer that day. I ordered a coffee, which drew some weird looks from the other patrons. When it arrived it was evident that the barman had taken it upon himself to add some whiskey, which I didn’t complain about. And the people I was with weren’t exactly my friends. I wasn’t there to surveil any of them, though. I didn’t have to squeeze any information out of anyone, or con anybody into trusting me. The situation wasn’t unpleasant in that regard, but it was definitely unfamiliar. It left me feeling a little adrift, like I didn’t have a good enough excuse for being there.

  John Robson showed no signs of struggling to fit in. He was twenty feet away in the thick of a boisterous crowd of off-duty cops, a head or more taller than everyone around him, laughing and exchanging high fives as he recounted his afternoon’s heroics for the twentieth time.

  “So I open the door and this woman’s standing there, OK? Well, no, that’s not true. This goddess is standing there. She waits a moment, to make sure I’ve noticed how low the zipper on her cute little jacket has gotten. Then she stretches up and kisses me. She slides a hand down the front of my pants, and she says, ‘Hey, big boy, this is your lucky day—’ ”

  “She never said that!” One of the cops play-punched Robson in the shoulder.

  “She just meant his height!” One of the others laughed.

  “Oh, she said it.” Robson grinned. “And fellas, trust me. She meant it. Anyway, she squeezes past, into the apartment. She turns to face me. Opens her jacket the rest of the way. Takes a step toward me. Kneels down. Makes like she’s going to undo my pants. But what she actually whips out is…a nasty little switchblade from some secret pocket in her jacket. It was already crusted with someone else’s blood. And she tried to stick it in my gut.”

  “What did you do?” The guy to Robson’s right looked genuinely alarmed.

  “Well, I wasn’t really up for her idea, if you know what I mean.” Robson winked at the guy. “So I kicked her in the head. Tied her up. And helped myself to Walcott’s stash of beer.”

  I finished the last dregs of my coffee, put the cup down on the bar, and was about to slip past the crowd and head for my hotel when Detective Atkinson came up to me. His tie was loose, his top button was undone, and he had a half-finished pint of Guinness in his hand. I guessed it wasn’t his first of the night.

  “Good news, Paul.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “I just heard from the hospital. The cop from Walcott’s building? He’s going to make it. So’s the agent. They’re both out of danger.”

  “That’s great news.” I closed my eyes for a moment. “I’m not going to lie. I was worried about them.”

  “I was, too.” Atkinson planted himself on the stool next to mine. “So what do you think of McGinty’s?”

  I looked around and decided I liked the
place. It was honest and unpretentious. The bar itself was made of polished mahogany, time served and bearing the scars of hard use. The furniture was solid. The floor, clean. The pictures on the walls—old scenes of Dublin and the Irish countryside—inoffensive enough. The prices, reasonable. By Manhattan standards, anyway. If you wanted somewhere to unwind after a stressful day’s work, you could do a lot worse. As long as you didn’t mind the crowd of cops. But then, that was probably the main appeal for most of the people in there. “It’s a lot better than the Green Zebra. Do they serve breakfast?”

  Atkinson grinned and took a swig of his beer. “I nearly said no. Did I tell you that? When you asked me to take your idea for that crazy plan to the lieutenant. There were too many agencies. Too much time on the phone, keeping me off the street. And you know what? I would have said no, if you hadn’t handed me Carrick on a plate for the Davies homicide. I never said thank you for that. I should have. It put a major feather in my cap.”

  The barman brought another coffee without my having to ask. “My pleasure. I was happy to help.”

  “There’s one thing I still don’t understand. How did you put them together, Carrick and Jonny Evans? That wasn’t even on our radar.”

  I shrugged. “Lucky break, I guess. Our paths happened to cross, and we got to talking. People like to confide in me, for some reason. Speaking of Jonny, is there anything you could do to help him? I heard he did well, helping to take down Madatov’s guy inside the department. And I’d hate to see him end up like Norman Davies.”

  “I don’t know.” Atkinson drained his glass. “I guess I could try. But tell me this. How did you know Carrick would go for the brownstone deal? How did you know Walcott would fall for that cash swap idea?”

  “Human nature.” I tasted my coffee. There was even more whiskey in it this time. “Carrick was greedy. Walcott was desperate. It was just a question of putting the right kind of temptation in their paths.”