by Dan O'Shea
“Alderman Riley is a nephew, of course, and he has a family. Sadly, Riley’s son died very young, and his wife is long dead. Stefanski was a bachelor.”
“Heard he sowed his share of wild oats, though. Anything ever come of that?”
“So long ago, young Lynch. Certainly nothing that I recall.”
“OK, well get the word to whomever, and let me know if there’s anything I need to watch.”
“I shall, young Lynch.” Wang rising from behind the desk to show Lynch out. “And now, of course, you must attend the Connemara Ball.”
“Come on, Paddy, you ever going to give up on that?”
“It is the algebra of favors. You have asked for my intervention. Only for the good of my friends, granted. But now I ask that you and your striking new companion grace my festivities tonight. I must insist.”
CHAPTER 45 — CHICAGO
Uri, team leader for Weaver’s lend-lease Israelis, sat in the rented Ford watching the blips for Ferguson’s and Chen’s phones on the nav application that Paravola had uploaded onto his phone. They were booked into adjoining rooms at the Palmer House on State Street. Chen was in her room, or her phone was anyway, and she was online. Paravola was working on hacking her feed, but she was doing some kind of non-standard encryption, backing up what InterGov already had. Paranoid little bitch. Weaver said they were good.
Ferguson had been out since the team arrived, GPS from his phone bouncing around the south side. But now it looked like he was headed back to the hotel. So the Israeli waited. Better to take them both at once.
Uri watched the side mirror, saw Ferguson coming down Wabash on foot. Must have parked in the garage up the street, keeping his transportation separate, not wanting to rely on the valet. Uri let Ferguson pass, let him get to the intersection. Ferguson was stuck, waiting to cross the street, waiting for the light to change. Uri got ready to move, just waiting for a bus to pass the car, give him a little cover.
Uri watched the bus, watched Ferguson, didn’t see the bicycle messenger speeding along the edge of the parked cars, going against the one-way traffic. As Uri swung his door open, the bike messenger slammed into it, bike crashing over, the messenger taking the spill in a roll, popping back up on his feet, coming at the Israeli.
“Fuckin’ tourist,” the messenger yelled, extending his arms, locking them to shove Uri.
Ferguson had just started across the street when he heard a crunch behind him. Didn’t turn his head to look, too many years of tradecraft. Instead he checked the reflection in the big plate-glass windows that lined the arcade of shops on the ground floor of the hotel. In the reflection, he saw the bike on the ground, the open car door, saw the messenger roll up, spring at the guy getting out of the car. The guy slipped the shove easily, quick move, great balance, then an elbow into the bike messenger’s ribs as the momentum of the shove carried him past. Krav Maga move — that home-grown shit the Israelis taught all their guys. Mossad move. Three other guys had gotten out of the car, too. All the right age, right size.
Four Mossad guys popping out of a car behind him? Ferguson didn’t know what it meant, beyond nothing good. Meant they were waiting for him, though. Which meant they knew he was coming. Probably the damn phone. Probably Weaver.
Ferguson continued across the intersection, watching the window. The Mossad guys were spreading out, two heading north up Adams, two continuing after him. Not hurrying, trying to look casual.
Ferguson kept on Wabash and then turned into the retail arcade on the ground floor, below the lobby, saw a guy coming toward him carrying a shopping bag. Face wasn’t a good match for him, but the guy was the right size, was wearing the same type of nondescript raincoat, same color hair. Ferguson dropped his phone into the guy’s shopping bag and then ducked into one of the shops, turned behind a display.
He saw two of the Israelis come through the revolving door into the arcade, scanning. They stopped. The taller one, the one who had dropped the bicycle messenger, pulled a smartphone out of his pocket, checked the screen. Guy scrunched up his brow, nudged the other guy, and they went back out the door. Turned north. Same way shopping bag guy had gone.
That proved it.
“Fuck,” said Ferguson.
“May I help you?” A voice behind him, a little disapproving.
Ferguson turned. Little, nattily dressed guy, maybe five and a half feet, might go one hundred and twenty-five with a pocket full of change. Gelled hair, manicure.
“No,” said Ferguson. “No, I don’t think you can.”
Uri and his wingman were most of the way up the block, Uri splitting his attention between the screen on the phone and the pedestrian traffic. Sidewalks were crammed. Had to get a good look more than a couple of people ahead. Then he saw the guy in the raincoat. Short, salt-and-pepper hair, right size. Could be. Sped up. Drifted left. His wingman knew the drill, drifted right so they’d come at Ferguson from both sides. Only a couple yards back now. Readout on Uri’s screen said he was right on top of Ferguson’s phone and pacing it. But he was close enough to see this guy wasn’t Ferguson. Fucking bike messenger. Should have killed the son of a bitch.
He stopped, punched the team button on the phone. The other two should have been coming in the west end of the arcade just after he left the east.
“You guys see Ferguson go out that way?”
“No. He didn’t come west.”
The Israeli thinking Ferguson was probably gone. Probably got a sniff because of the damn bike messenger, planted his phone on this schmuck for cover and took off. But the Israeli still had numbers and firepower on his side. Attack, always attack. That was the Israeli way. Both at once was better, but one was better than none. Get Chen, then run Ferguson to ground.
“OK, screw Ferguson for now. We take Chen. Cover the arcade, both ends, watch the elevators and escalators. Looks like she’s still in her room.”
The Israeli and his wingman jogged back toward the door.
Ferguson figured the other two would be spreading out to cover the arcade. Best move would be to break contain, get outside, get clear. But only if he wanted to sacrifice Chen. Figured it was time to decide whether he believed his own bullshit. Called out Weaver because he’d lost his moral compass, such as it was. Now he had to decide. Did he throw Chen under the bus to save his own ass or did he stand up?
Big crowd coming, trade show group or something, all in suits, those lanyards with name tags hanging around their necks. Ferguson used them as cover to cross the arcade, got into the knot of suits, went up the staircase to the lobby. He was all in now. Only way back out was through the Israelis. One of the suits split left, texting away on his BlackBerry, heading for the men’s room. Ferguson needed comms, trailed the guy into the john, gave him an elbow across the base of the skull as soon as they cleared the door, dropped him to the floor like a bag of flour. Grabbed the BlackBerry, hoping to hell Chen was online. He knew she used some kind of tech voodoo to keep her connections secure, mostly just to piss off Paravola. Didn’t know whether that would help with an incoming message, but it was the only chance they had. Ferguson started texting.
014. Her room number backwards, that was their emergency identifier, let her know to answer.
Go
Blown 4 Mossad
In house?
Yes
Your 6
Lobby
Roger
All he could do. Ferguson dampened a paper towel, wiped down the BlackBerry, dropped it next to the guy on the floor, the guy just starting to moan. Ferguson slipped back into the lobby.
Good hide in the corner — big ass planter, out of the traffic flow, with a view of the elevators.
Chen worked quickly but knew better than to hurry. She slipped her laptop into her backpack, along with the operational cash — ten thousand dollars in twenties. Then she twisted the silencer onto her.25, dropped that into her right hand pocket, put the 9mm in her shoulder holster, slipped on her jacket, grabbed the backpack, flipped it on, adjusted
the coat so the 9mm didn’t show, made sure the backpack straps were clear in case she needed to draw.
She picked up two small black boxes from the desk, peeled the strips covering the adhesive patches off the back, stuck one on each side of the door, and threw the switches. Next she picked up the landline in her room, dialed the ops desk, and set the phone down, leaving the line open. Went through the connecting door to Ferguson’s room, walked across the hall listening at doors. No sound at the first door, but TV noise from the room directly across from hers. She tapped on the door.
“Yes?” A man’s voice. Good.
Chen remembered to smile, how supposedly people could hear that in your voice.
“Hi, um, this is kind of embarrassing, but I think I left my key down in the locker room after my workout. I called the desk, they said they’d send somebody, but it’s been like fifteen minutes. I’m going to be late for an appointment. I was hoping maybe I could borrow your key? Or you could just run down there with me?”
Heard movement, the guy walking to the door. She looked up at the peephole, made sure to put a little flirt in it. She put her hand in her jacket pocket.
The man’s voice. “Sure.”
The door opened, the guy stepping back, letting Chen in.
“I’ll just grab my key,” he said.
He turned into the room. Chen pulled the.25 from her pocket, shot him through the back of the head. She closed the door behind her and watched through the peephole. The Israelis would be there soon.
Uri knew the Asian woman should still be on the fourth floor. He had one team covering each other up the stairwell and one man watching the elevators. Uri stayed behind to cover the lobby, watching the stairs and escalators, just in case.
Ferguson had to be gone. Only tactical play for him. So get the woman at least.
Beep on his smartphone. He checked the text. Paravola. The landline had just gone active in her room. She was there. Called the guys in the stairwell.
“Her landline just lit up. She’s in the room. You up the stairs?”
“Holding at the fourth-floor door.”
“Three doors down, right hand side. 410. Go, go, go.”
Ferguson watched from his hide as three of the Israelis entered the lobby. One took a covering position, the guy leaning on one of the ornate pillars, straight line of sight to the elevators. The other two went straight to the stairs. Ferguson scanned for the fourth guy, Krav Maga guy, couldn’t see him. Wall to Ferguson’s right blocked his view that way. Guy was probably back there, in front of the stairs and the escalators, covering the exit to the ground level.
Ferguson slipped out the hush puppy. Long way across the lobby with a.22. Had to be thirty yards, lots of crossing traffic. Ferguson braced his hands on the top edge of the planter, sighted, squeezed off one shot, taking pillar-guy right at the base of the skull, pillar-guy crumpling straight down. Then Ferguson heard a muffled explosion. Chen.
Chen watched the hallway through the peephole. The two Israelis edged open the stairway door, eyed the hallway, then stepped out. They stayed to the right against the wall, not wanting to show through the peep hole in 410, just in case. That kept them clearly in Chen’s view. The first one ducked down, below peephole level, went to the far side of the door.
They nodded to each other. The first pulled out an electronic pick, slipped it into the lock, waited for the click, then spun and hit the door, driving the door handle down, the other guy pivoting to follow.
The door opened into the room, crossing the beam between the flashbangs Chen had stuck to the doorframe. She closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears. Lots of noise and light, some smoke, no real damage, but enough to disorient anyone close. Chen stepped into the hall, the.25 already level. The second guy hadn’t been all the way in, hadn’t caught as much of the blast, had enough operational training to be spinning, looking for a target, but his eyesight was shot, his hearing shot. He was just bringing his gun up when Chen shot him twice in the forehead. The first guy was further into the room, still staggering. Chen gave him one to the back of the head, walked across the hall, gave each of them a double tap to be sure. She swapped to a full magazine, then headed for the stairs.
Uri saw his guy drop by the pillar just as he heard the explosion. Son of a bitch. Tried the upstairs team, no answer. Had to assume they were off the board, too. He turned, walked fast down the escalator, headed for the car. Nothing else to do.
Weaver was right. These two were good.
Turning out of the hotel, he saw the bike messenger still holding his ribs, walking his bike up the street, looking down at the ground. Fucker’d screwed this whole thing, cost Uri three men. As the guy passed, Uri said, “Asshole.”
The guy looked up. Uri drove the straightened fingers of his left hand into the man’s neck, felt the trachea go. Quick, close, nothing anybody would see. The bike messenger fell to the ground, grunting out that “ach, ach, ach” noise people make when they can’t breathe.
CHAPTER 46 — CHICAGO
Lynch and Liz Johnson walked into the Connemara Ball shortly after 8pm, the party in full swing, Johnson in a strapless floor-length jade-green silk number, tight to mid-thigh then flaring out, Lynch in a black tux and green tie.
“Any idea how hard it is for a girl to find a green formal on twelve hours’ notice, Lynch?” Johnson said under her breath.
“You found the right one. Every guy in the room is staring at you.”
Johnson smiled. “They are, aren’t they?”
At least one of them was. Rodney “Ramjet” Williams, one of the Chicago Bears still making a living off being a Super Bowl champ more than twenty years earlier, walked up as soon as he saw Lynch.
“Hey, if it ain’t John Lynch, Mr too slow for the show,” Williams said, talking to Lynch but leering at Johnson. “Almost didn’t recognize you with this new haircut of yours. Love the eyepatch. Is it talk like a pirate day again already?”
Williams had been a wideout at Miami when Lynch was at BC. Faster than shit, lots of talk about him being a top-five pick. Middle of Lynch’s senior year, BC played Miami. Word on BC was they were a step slow in the secondary, so, first series, Williams went deep, blew past the corner. Lynch had deep help on that side, cut toward Williams. Decent throw and it would have been an easy six, but the Miami QB put too much air under the ball, and Williams had to slow down to make the catch. Lynch timed his hit perfectly, launching himself from two yards out like a helmet-tipped missile, hitting Williams high just as he tried to bring in the ball. Williams went down like he’d been shot, the ball popped into the air, Lynch rolling to his back, making the grab for the pick.
Williams got back up but, for the rest of the game, he was too busy looking for Lynch to look for the ball, his arms getting a little short every time a ball came downfield. Teams got the message. Rest of the year, first time Williams ran a route, somebody’d put the wood to him, even if it meant picking up a flag. Ramjet’s numbers dropped way off, some of the scouts giving him a new nickname — AA, short for Alligator Arms because he wouldn’t reach for the ball anymore, too afraid of what might be coming, and also because Williams had picked up a couple of DUIs down in Miami. Come draft day, Williams fell down the board into second round, where the Bears finally grabbed him. Still fast as hell, and he grew his balls back eventually, at least outside the hashmarks, turned back into a deep threat. Never could count on him over the middle.
“Rodney,” said Lynch.
“Damn, boy, you finally a player? Look at you, ol’ gumshoe Lynch at the Connemara Ball. And with this fine specimen here.” Williams draping his arm around Johnson’s shoulder. “Ramjet’s just one nickname, my lovely. You get tired of your little-league date, you want to learn some of my private talents, you just look me up.”
Johnson shrugged off Williams’ arm. “I already know your other nickname, AA.”
A little crowd had gathered, watching the show. Williams throwing his hands up, pretending good humor.
Lynch took Johnson’s hand, walked past Williams. “Always good to see you again, Rodney.” Then he leaned in, quieter voice in Williams’ ear. “Don’t make me hit you again.”
The Emerald Pagoda was the same visual feast that Lynch remembered from his childhood, only more so because of the crowd and the ball.
“This place is amazing,” said Johnson.
“Thank you, Ms Johnson.” Paddy Wang sneaking up from the right, Mayor Hurley with him. “Detective Lynch, Elizabeth Johnson, the mayor asked that I introduce you personally.”
Hurley was thick through the shoulders and chest, too much booze in the face, looking a decade older than his thirty-eight years. Green tux jacket, green tie over black pants.
“Detective, I can’t tell you how pleased I am finally to meet you. Your family, your father, they are real heroes to me. Every year, Paddy tells me he’s gonna get you to show up, and every year I’m disappointed.”
Lynch shook Hurley’s hand. “Mayor, nice to meet you. My father was a hero. I’m just a cop. Glad to finally get to the party, though. Quite a show. This is Elizabeth Johnson. She’s a reporter with the Trib.”
Wang interjected, “Don’t worry, your honor. Ms Johnson understands that the ball is off the record, start to finish.”
“Ms Johnson.” Hurley shaking her hand now. “All reporters looked like you, I’d change my opinion of the press.”
“Thank you, your honor.”
Wang started to usher Hurley away, flesh to press, but put his hand out to Lynch.
“Thank you, young Lynch, for coming. You have made my night a success.”
Lynch shook the hand, felt a small square of paper pressed into his palm. Opened it after Wang had walked away.
Stefanski had a daughter. Born March 13, 1964.
“Love note?” Johnson asked.
Lynch stuffed the paper in his pocket. “Something like that. We’ll talk later.”
Lynch knew he could trust Johnson, knew he should level with her, but wanted it straight in his head first. This thing with Stefanski was another free radical. Before he handed anything off, he wanted to be sure she knew where to look. And who to look out for. He took her elbow, turned her toward the dance floor.