Flynn sat on a long deep-green sofa. The man in the suit retreated. A grandfather clock ticked in the corner of the room. It reminded Flynn that he had better things to do than sit around in a Manhattan basement pretending to be in Europe. But he had learned long ago that these things had a cadence of their own. And it rarely worked to fight it. Colonel Laporte had taught him that as well. The man returned with a silver tray and a small white cup.
"Double espresso. No milk, no sugar. Yes?"
Flynn nodded. The man bowed and retreated again. The espresso alone was worth the time. It had been years between visits, but the institutional memory was good. Flynn assumed it was all linked to the biometric entry system. His name, his services with them. His beverage preference. He sipped from the quaint cup. Thick and dark and strong. The taste had little in common with American coffee. As if the beans weren't even related. It was tart on his palate. One step short of injecting the caffeine into his veins. He savored it. Despite his internal urgency, he remained patient. His box would be retrieved. He would be escorted to his own smaller room with a chair and a desk. He would not be offered another espresso. It wasn't done. All things in moderation. He would have the room for as long as he wanted it. He didn't want it for long.
It played out exactly that way. Two new men in tailored suits carried the silver box into the small room. Placed it on a heavy-looking side table. The box was one meter long by a half meter wide and a half meter tall. It filled the surface of the table. Which kept the desk free. The two men left. The man who smelled like a perfume department took a golden key from his jacket and unlocked one of two locks. Then he gave Flynn a small black box.
"Would sir like anything?"
"A backpack." The man didn't flinch. He ignored the backpack that Flynn held in his hand.
"What size, sir?"
"Daypack."
The man nodded and closed the door. Flynn waited. Looked at his Timex. It took two minutes. The man knocked and opened the door. Handed Flynn a black daypack wrapped in plastic. Flynn tore the plastic off and held the pack up. Victorinox. Like the Swiss Army knife.
"Perfect," he said. The man bowed and closed the door.
Flynn turned his attention to the small black box the man had left. It was heavy. Like the material that hotel room safes are made from. It had a slide up cover. The slide exposed a glass panel. Flynn placed his right thumb on the glass. The box clicked open. He took out the solitary key inside. It didn’t have ragged teeth like a house key. The sides were smooth, and pinpricks of light shone from its length like tiny stars. Flynn used the key to unlock the second lock on the secure box. Then he took a deep breath and opened the box. He again remembered his commanding officer, Colonel Laporte, and one of his CO’s many mottos. Le seul moyen est en avant de l'avant.
The only way onward is forward.
It was Laporte, as much as events themselves, that had set him on the course his life had taken. The colonel had taken him under his wing when Flynn had needed just that. Had given him knowledge and purpose. Had seen him develop as a soldier and a man. And then, when events had once again turned against him, Flynn had been ready because Laporte had made him prepare. Flynn could never have imagined such a place as that which he stood in now. He could never have imagined a need for it. Laporte had introduced him to a private bank in Paris and then recommended that Flynn make his own connections from there. It was safer that way, he said. And when the whole thing turned bad, the private bank in a basement in New York City was where his life had been deposited. Now things were bad again. It was time for a withdrawal.
The items in the box were all contained in plastic Ziploc bags. Cash in large bags. Dollars. Euros. Pounds. Yuan. Flynn dropped the one full of dollars on the desk. He flipped through other bags, checking the contents. Passports, credit cards, driver’s licenses. Some had other papers. Birth certificates. Social Security cards. There were a variety of passport colors and driver’s licenses issued by numerous states. Each with a name written on the front of the Ziploc bag. Flynn picked one up and looked at the name on it. Jacques Fontaine. The name didn’t seem real to him, as if it was a different person. Which in a way it was. It was a different name from a different life. A life that, had the chips fallen another way, he would never have lived. But live it he had. Then he had left that life behind and found one that still didn’t fit quite right, but felt good all the same. Like a pair of new boots that were only just starting to learn the contours of his feet. And now this old name, this name on the Ziploc bag, was back. Old life running head-on into new life.
Flynn tossed the Ziploc bag back into the secure box and turned his attention to a smaller black box within. It contained a selection of firearms. He selected a Glock 17. Felt the weight in his hand for a moment. It was black and boxy and finely crafted. He placed it on the desk and opened a large carton of 9mm Parabellums. The name Parabellum came from the Latin si vis pacem, para bellum. If you seek peace, prepare for war. Flynn was preparing.
He took out a smaller box of fifty rounds. Overkill. He sat at the desk and unclipped the magazine and loaded seventeen rounds into it. Pushed the magazine back into the weapon with a controlled but firm slap and pulled the slide, slotting a round into the chamber. He put the remaining rounds back into the larger box.
Then he removed a roll of duct tape and opened the new daypack and put the tape and cash in it. Fished around and found a Glauca B1 tactical knife. He slipped it from its plastic sheath. The knife was dull black like the Glock, but the cobalt stainless-steel blade shone in the officious light of the room. The blade had three sharpened edges and plastic cuff cutters along the spine. Flynn flicked the blade closed and put the knife in the daypack, and then dropped the sheath back in the security box. Then he emptied his pockets. His wallet with his driver’s license and Visa card. He put everything except the MetroCard in a Ziploc bag and found a marker pen in the box and wrote John Flynn on the front of the bag. He took Beth’s laptop and tablet from his backpack and slipped them into the new small daypack. Then he stuffed the big backpack into the secure box. For now, for however long, John Flynn would stay here.
He put the MetroCard in his pocket and slipped the Glock carefully down the back of his jeans. He would never carry some weapons that way, but the Glock had three passive safeties, so as long as he made sure the trigger didn’t get snagged as he slid the gun in, it allowed him to carry the weapon ready for action without the risk of blowing a hole in his calf by accident.
Flynn hit the call button on a console on the desk. Locked the large box and returned the key to its own lockbox. Waited for the man who smelled like a department store lobby to return. The three men reappeared and two took the box away. Flynn used their bathroom. It had been a long night and a lot of coffee. More marble and gold fixtures and cotton hand towels. The man waited for him in the lobby and then walked him to the elevator. Wished him a good day.
When he stepped back onto Pearl Street, the city felt different. Clouds had drifted in over Queens. The scent of possible rain was on the air. And he could feel cold steel on his back. He slipped the small daypack over his shoulder and wandered down the street toward the subway to confront his past.
Chapter Six
Flynn took the subway from Wall Street straight up the middle of Manhattan to 14th Street—Union Square. On the way, he practiced what he wanted to say. Nothing sounded right. He wanted to apologize, but wasn't sure an apology was necessary. They had been a long way from home and in need of companionship. It had started as a professional thing and become something more, for a short time. They had both known their orders could take them away at a moment’s notice. And then Flynn had disappeared. He had thought long and hard over whether he should have gone to her. Trusted her. But he hadn’t. He had done what had to be done. And now she was the only person in the lower forty-eight that he could trust.
Flynn walked up to street level and crossed into the park. He stopped by the statue of George Washington. It was an equestrian sta
tue, Washington on horseback on November 25, 1783, the day he led his troops into New York after the British had evacuated. It was a European-style bronze, the likes of which Flynn had seen a thousand times in France. It was surrounded by small hedges. Washington looked triumphant. He knew he was living not just a great day but a day that would lead to greatness. A pack of small dogs yapped in a dog run on the side of the park, their owners each standing, staring at phones, arms crossed from the cold. He glanced back to the east, down 14th Street. A short mile away were the projects where Beth may or may not have been.
Flynn turned away from Washington on his horse, crossed the park and headed toward Park Ave. The building he wanted was a five-story sandstone just north of 15th. Commercial space ran along the street. Beauty products. A magazine shop. In the center of the block were some small steps that led to double doors. Brass-framed glass. The lobby was small with old floor tiles. A directory of white push-in letters stood near a vacant doorman's desk. Flynn found the listing he wanted and called the elevator. The elevator car was also small. Dark marble floor, and mirrors on the walls. He looked at himself in the mirror. He had flown across the country, driven for four hours, and then slept a couple of hours on the subway. Considering that, he thought he looked presentable. He ran his hand over his brown hair. He kept it short, but not quite as short as it had been. The old-fashioned ding of the elevator drew his eyes away from himself and signaled that he had reached the fifth floor. Another small lobby. No furniture. A small gold plaque next to a door: Hutton Hedstrom Associates. The door was locked. He picked up a telephone that hung on the wall. The phone rang itself as he lifted it from the cradle.
"Hutton Hedstrom Associates. How may I help you, sir?” It was a woman's voice. Young. He looked through the column window next to the door. A blond woman sat behind a standard-issue gray reception desk, phone to her ear.
“I’m here to see Laura Hutton.”
"Do you have an appointment?" She said it in a way that meant you do not have an appointment.
"No. I'm an old friend."
"Your name, sir?"
"John—” He stopped himself. “Tell her it’s Jacques Fontaine.”
"One moment, please.“
Flynn hung up the phone and stepped away from the door. He waited for five minutes. He walked tight circles around the small lobby. It was like a chicken run. He turned and went the other way to prevent getting dizzy. Then the door opened. A large man stepped out. He was about 190 centimeters or six-three, and pushing 110 kilograms. A big man. Buzz-cut hair, balding on top. He wore a black suit with a white shirt. He could have been an accountant. Or a wrestler. But he was every inch ex-military.
"Do you have a weapon, sir?" The voice was deep and vanilla.
"Yes."
"May I have it, sir?”
Flynn pulled the Glock out from his trousers. Slowly, by the butt. He slid his hand down so he held the barrel of the gun. Butt facing the man, barrel facing the floor. He handed it over.
"There's one in the chamber."
The man quickly ejected the magazine. Then he opened the slide and dropped the round from the chamber into his palm. Let the slide go and palmed the bullet. He didn't put the magazine back in.
"This will be held in our lockbox for the duration of your visit and will be available for collection from me when you leave. May I?" He gestured at Flynn. Flynn lifted his arms. Held them straight out from the shoulders. He held his daypack in his right hand. The man stepped forward and patted him all over. Front. Rear. Legs. He ran his hands across Flynn's crotch. The man was a professional, and he wasn't going to let some homophobic thought get in the way of doing his job. Flynn knew it was easy enough to hide a snub-nosed pistol in his shorts. The man stepped back and asked for the bag. Flynn handed it to him. The man opened it. Flicked through the contents. Didn't make any facial expressions at the cash inside. He handed the pack back to Flynn. Stepped to the phone and asked to be let in.
Inside it looked like a vanilla office. Gray cubicles. A watercooler near a sofa, where Flynn sat. That morning’s New York Times on the coffee table. Something about the Giants quarterback on the front page. Fanned-out brochures for Hutton Hedstrom. Flynn picked one up. Discerning Security Services. We keep a watchful eye on you. The brochure talked about protective services, investigations, event security. There were photos of serious men in dark suits standing near people who were supposed to be celebrities. Flynn didn’t recognize them.
The woman stepped from behind the reception desk. She smiled and asked him to follow her. He dropped the brochure on the table and they strode down a corridor between cubicles. Turned into a large boardroom. A table stretched its length. There were fourteen chairs. Six either side, one at each end. A large flatscreen was on the wall at the far end. A whiteboard on the wall where Flynn stood. A polycom phone shaped like a fat spider sat in the middle of the table. The woman offered him coffee, and he declined and she walked away. Flynn didn't sit. He wiped his palms down his trousers. The room was in the center of the building. There were taupe walls on three sides. The fourth was glass. Vertical drapes hung in a bunch at one end. He noted hand-drawn diagrams and notes on the whiteboard. He recognized both the handwriting and the thought process.
“They said you were dead."
Flynn spun from the whiteboard. Laura Hutton stood in the doorway. Her light brown hair was longer than he recalled. Just short of shoulder-length. Expensively styled. She wore a white blouse under a dark blue blazer. The blouse was buttoned to show the curve of her breasts and a platinum necklace. Her trousers were gray with a sharp crease down each leg. She hadn't gained any weight in six years. If anything her face was tighter. She held his gaze.
Hutton stood for a moment taking in Flynn, an unashamed up-and-down look, the way law enforcement types do. She moved toward him and a hint of a smile tore at the corner of her mouth. Flynn returned it with a smile of his own. She stepped to him and looked up into his eyes.
Then she punched him in the face.
Hard.
He wore the impact on his cheek, right on the bone. It wasn’t hard enough to break anything, but it was shocking enough to send him staggering back into the boardroom table. He put his hand to his cheek and gathered his balance and watched her close the door and turn to face him again.
“It’s good to know you’re not,” she said.
Flynn touched his hand to his cheek again. “It doesn’t feel like you think it’s good.”
“Don’t be a such a baby. You deserved that.”
“I did?”
“And don’t play dumb with me. Don’t tell me you didn’t look at every angle. You could have told me, whatever it was. But you chose not to.”
Flynn stood and pushed away from the conference table.
“I’m sorry.”
“And don’t apologize. You did what you did because you had to do it—at least that’s how you saw things. You can’t absolve yourself of your choices with apologies.”
“I’m not trying to absolve myself of anything. I made a call, and if I had my time again, I’d make the same call all over.”
“All right, then. I thought you’d gone soft.”
“I’m still sorry.”
Hutton watched him but said nothing for a moment.
“You want some coffee?”
“I’ve had all the coffee I can take this morning.”
“I mean real coffee.”
Flynn frowned.
“Come on,” Hutton said.
Flynn followed her through the thicket of cubicles, straight then right then left. They stopped in a large kitchen. There was a cream linoleum floor and gray cabinets and a stainless-steel refrigerator and dishwasher and microwave. And a massive espresso machine. It took up an entire countertop and looked like something from a cafe in Paris or Marseilles. There was a lot of steel and chrome, and pipes and taps and pressure gauges. Enough technology to fly a man to the moon.
“Impressive,” Flynn said.
&n
bsp; Hutton ran the faucet until it was steaming and took a demitasse from a cupboard and filled it with hot water. Then she brought the contraption to life, and Flynn watched her grind beans and tamp them into the portafilter, and then bang the portafilter into the machine. She moved with the assurance of someone who knew exactly what she was doing. She poured out the hot water from the demitasse and put it under the portafilter, and there was groaning and hissing and steam, and then dark brown liquid oozed down from the portafilter into the cup. Hutton was concentrating like her life depended on it. Her lips moved as if she were counting. He decided she might have gotten a more expensive haircut and much more expensive clothes, but she was still Hutton. And that confirmed his decision to come to her.
There was a final hiss and she slipped the demitasse onto a saucer and handed it to Flynn. She didn’t offer sugar or milk. She watched him over the rim of the cup, waiting for his impression, completely confident that it would be great coffee. He sipped. It was better than great. It was thick but not sludge, creamy with a hint of bitterness on the back palate. It took him across oceans, to small villages and Gallic men and the smell of cigarettes and coffee mixed on the air, and then brought him right back to New York.
“As good as I’ve had,” he said.
Hutton nodded as if she had expected nothing less, and then she turned back to the machine and pulled the portafilter out and discarded the grounds and repeated the process. As she worked, Flynn noticed a Bunn carafe on another counter, half-full of coffee. When Hutton turned back to him with her own drink he nodded at the carafe.
“You can lead a horse to water,” she said. “Let’s go to my office.”
The office wasn't large but must have been worth a mint. A small round meeting table. Four chairs. A whiteboard on the wall. A large heavy desk covered in papers. A dark wood bookshelf. Pictures. Of Hutton and an older man. Maybe Hedstrom. Maybe not. Hutton in a blue FBI jacket at the firing range at Quantico. In a blue suit at the Capitol Building. In desert uniform and flak jacket in Iraq. Flynn's eyes swept past the photos to the window. The office overlooked Union Square Park. He'd once heard a Wall Street wannabe say that green makes green. A view of trees in Manhattan added to the value of any office or apartment. Hutton was obviously doing very well.
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