by James Abel
Ray was not happy when I actually reached him. “Joe, I thought you said, when you declined to come to Washington, that you’d already told us anything relevant.”
“This just came up.”
“Maybe it would have come up earlier if you sat down for debriefing. But that was not for you, was it?”
“Why don’t we make the best of this new information.”
“Customs is already going through everything coming out of that area, including art. So we’re covered. I’m more concerned with what else you missed. There’s a reason why we have procedures.”
“Ray, this could be important.”
Ray Havlicek swore under his breath, said something like could be. He said he had to go. He’d check out what I’d told him. He clicked off.
SEVENTEEN
“Open the door to your apartment, Cycle,” Greg snapped. “Now!”
It was intolerable—Tom Fargo seethed—that the grand plan’s fate could come down to this; a pompous neighbor and a bored exterminator, a stupid rule about keys. He fought to appear calm outwardly. There had to be a way to keep these people from fumbling their way into his darkroom. He inserted the silver Medeco into the slot and heard the dead bolt slide open under the eyes of Greg and Greg’s mortified girlfriend, Rebeca.
The exterminator needs to leave this building safely. Greg’s cleaning lady comes weekly. Was she here yesterday? Or is she coming tomorrow, meaning bodies would be found?
Tom smelled DEET on the exterminator, a big-bellied man in a brown uniform with his name stitched in beige thread on the chest, LOU. Greg’s musky cologne was cloying. He wore a lemon-colored V-neck sweater against the AC, white tennis shirt, khaki shorts, loafers, and no socks. The lock clicking open snapped like a 9mm slide being cocked.
If I kill Greg I have to kill the others.
Tom feigned a smile as the door swung open. The late-afternoon light was lovely, the enhanced crimson that comes from sunlight steeped in pollution. In slanting beams, dust motes floated, a fly buzzed. Thankfully Tom always kept his Koran, prayer mat, and DVD sermons in the darkroom.
All I need is a day, to receive the airport shipment. Once that happens Tom Fargo disappears.
“I’m off at five,” Lou said, pumping spray along the living room baseboard. The pesticide canister hissed, and the acrid odor filled Tom’s nostrils. It was four fifty-one, only nine minutes before the guy could quit.
I never thought when I didn’t give the doorman an extra key that anyone might actually break into my apartment.
Greg had looked furious when Tom and Rebeca arrived in the taxi; Rebeca remained subdued, fearing an even greater explosion. Now Lou disappeared into the bedroom as Greg muttered, “I warned the board to ban rentals to strangers.”
“Oh, no harm done,” Tom remarked.
Greg was working himself up.
The exterminator moved into the bathroom, and Tom heard cabinets opening. Greg spun on Rebeca, index finger wagging. He was clearly talking to Tom, not his girlfriend. “The board needs to stop sublets! I’m putting it on the agenda next month!”
The exterminator will reach the darkroom in a minute. What would a real New Yorker do to stop him? What is acceptable behavior here?
Tom pushed away fear and considered how people treated one another in this belligerent metropolis. They shouted, cursed, and argued; in taxicabs, subways, shops, bars. Their impotent threats reminded him of the little Amazon anteater, a two-foot-high creature puffing its chest up and hissing to keep enemies at bay, all bluff.
Greg turned on Tom. “You’re not supposed to change a lock without the owner’s permission. Didn’t you read the co-op rules you were given? They’re written out, plain as day.”
“I will after this. Sorry.”
The steel tap on Greg’s right shoe drummed an angry cadence on the concrete floor. Sunlight reddened Greg’s scowl. It was clear to Tom that his neighbor had not forgotten being humiliated earlier. Tom’s threat to call the police—tell them about Greg hitting Rebeca—had worked when there were only two of them talking. But Greg’s need to look important might not withstand more embarrassment, especially in front of his girl.
As the exterminator tried the knob of the darkroom, Tom felt a fist clench inside his stomach.
“Uh, this is locked,” Lou said.
“Oh, that’s just a darkroom,” Tom remarked. “No need to go in there.”
“I’m supposed to spray the whole apartment.”
“It’s sealed. I’m really not comfortable with how that stuff you’re spraying might interact with my chemicals. Why don’t you just go? It’s five o’clock. You look beat, Lou. I bet you had a long day.”
Tom heard Greg’s breathing change beside him, go quicker. The man seemed to pull himself up. “You asked us to wait for you and we did,” he sputtered. “You said you’d open up.”
“Well, I did that, didn’t I? Believe me. There’s no insects in there,” Tom said. “Let the poor guy go home.”
Lou chuckled instead of being appreciative. “You sound like Mrs. Vanderfield in 9A. This apartment is clean! Then I go in the bathroom. Man! Roach city! Like, gimme a break!”
“Open it, Tom,” Greg said in a low voice.
“I’d rather not.” Tom had no choice. Belligerence was the only option left. “I paid for this place. It’s mine until Zhang comes back.” He folded his arms.
Greg stepped back, astounded at the tone, and, in turn, on his face, Tom saw anger and rage. It was now clear to Greg that Tom had never intended to cooperate. Rebeca looked from man to man, sensing explosion. Lou just checked his watch and sighed.
“Either open it or I go, guys,” Lou said.
Greg was unaccustomed to being challenged, in his precious job as co-op board “Captain,” at his firm, or in his home. He demanded of Tom, “What do you have in there anyway?”
Tom jutted his face forward, so his breath would hit Greg’s nose. Bullies respond to threat. Outrage was acceptable in New York, original home of resentment. All I need is another day.
Tom mimicked Greg’s tone. “What’s in there? Who the hell are you? None of your goddamn business. I don’t owe you explanations. This is my apartment as long as I pay.”
“You can’t talk to me like that.”
Tom met the glare full on. “Go to a movie or something. Cool out.”
Greg’s eyes narrowed and his chin thrust forward, like Mussolini’s. He was quivering. “You’re no photographer. I never see you with a camera. What the hell are you doing in that darkroom anyway?”
Lou held up his hands, backing away from the group. “Whoa! I’m not getting in the middle of this. I’m outta here.”
Greg spun on the man, going shrill. “You’re supposed to spray all the apartments! We paid for that! I’ll call your boss! You don’t just walk off a job during an emergency!”
Lou made a face, yeah, yeah, you’re tough . . . and turned to Tom, both palms up in sympathy. You have to deal with this asshole? I feel sorry for you. Lou told them, “On 9/11 I quit at five. The day the Martians attack I’ll quit at five. And my boss is my cousin Bernardo. So good luck.”
Let it go, Greg, Tom thought. Turn around. Walk into your apartment. Shut the door. Save your life.
And then, after a tense moment, he saw that it was going to happen. He saw Greg catch himself, go still, probably trapped by his bottom-line problem, that Tom had threatened to tell the police he hit Rebeca. Did he want everyone in the building to know that? The cops? Greg squeezed his eyes shut. He was digesting shame. He rocked back and forth on his heels. When the eyes opened the combat was gone, replaced by an impotent hatred.
It’s going to work. He’s going to turn around. He’ll probably take it out on her. But that’s her problem.
But then—just at the wrong moment—Rebeca spoke up, trying to make things better. “It’s
just one room, honey. Don’t make a big deal out of it, Greg.”
Tom sighed. It was over.
Lou was gone; probably by now the exterminator had reached the lobby. The three of them were alone. Greg stared into Rebeca’s face and his posture straightened. Tom felt a slow drumbeat of inevitability. He felt as if he watched the scene from the future, and time was catching up to what he knew he must do.
Greg demanded, “What’s in that room anyway?”
“I told you. I take pictures.”
“Pictures my ass. Is it drugs?”
Tom shook his head with an exaggerated grin, as if to dramatize the absurdity of the suggestion, “Sure, Greg. I stashed drugs there. Fifty tons of cocaine.”
Greg smiled thinly, on the hunt now. “Porno? Naked kids on the walls? I never see you with women. Or even guys. Or anyone, actually, except my girlfriend.” He ignored Rebeca’s restraining hand on his arm. He stepped closer, so that his handsome jaw seemed to hang an inch from Tom’s face. Tom smelled tuna fish on his breath. Greg said, “I warned the board what would happen if we let strangers stay here, like we’re some cheap Airbnb.”
Tom Fargo felt a deep calm take hold.
Rebeca managed to draw Greg away, took him by the arm, and practically pulled him into their apartment. Greg looked back with malevolence and calculation as the door shut. Tom sighed, then slammed his door as if he, too, had retired to his residence. But he stayed in the foyer, listening to the arguing behind Greg’s door. He was familiar with the buildup from rage to action. He’d seen it too many times. The language was different here, but the outcome would be the same.
Greg’s voice said, “What’s he doing in there anyway? What’s so secret in that room, Rebeca?”
“It’s about privacy. That’s all.”
“What is it between you and Cycle?”
“Nothing. I keep telling you that.”
“You defend him all the time.”
“He’s my friend, honey. He has a right to privacy. They even teach that in citizenship class, in America! The right to privacy!”
“You’re pathetic.” Tom heard a sudden scrape of a table pushed across a floor, and had a sickening vision of a big man shoving a small woman into it. Greg’s bully voice was drenched with disdain. “You meet someone for ten minutes and suddenly they’re your best friend. You don’t know this guy! He works in a shitty souvenir shop, so how could he pay cash to rent that unit? I ought to call Zhang overseas and tell him what his damn tenant is up to.”
“Greg, don’t make it worse. Please.”
Slap!
Tom heard quiet crying behind the door. The sketches on the foyer walls, the bewigged British barristers, were caught up in their own cases.
Greg was saying, “I ought to call the police! Call 911. Then we’ll find out what’s in there, all right.”
The crying got louder. Tom sighed.
Greg said, “Did you hear what he said to me? How he talked to me? I think he was going to get violent.”
“Honey, he wouldn’t do that. And you’re too nice to call the police.” She had a talent. She really did. She somehow always said the wrong thing at the wrong time.
“Don’t tell me who I am!” Greg said.
“I didn’t mean it that way. I know you make up your own mind. I’m just saying . . . Oh, Greg . . . please . . . please don’t . . . I’m sorry. I won’t talk to him anymore!”
Greg suddenly sounded slightly mollified. Now that someone was hurt, his needs had been soothed. “I didn’t mean to get mad at you, babe. I’ve been working hard and we lost that client. And then Cycle goes and lies and the police really need to . . .” he was saying as Tom turned away, opened the door of his apartment.
The heavy darkroom door swung open. The 9mm lay in the third drawer from the top, the silencer beside it. He stood staring down at it. He liked Rebeca. He really did. She was like a sister.
Tom Fargo quickly walked back across the living room, the heat of the setting sun on the side of his face. The roadways of the Brooklyn Bridge were almost deserted out there. The cold gazes of the British barristers on the foyer walls watched him rapping on Greg’s door. He heard approaching footsteps. From the heavy tread he knew it was Greg, and Greg would know, since no doorman had called up to say he had an outside visitor, that Tom was at the door. Maybe Greg thought that Tom was back to apologize. Greg’s ego was big enough for that to be true.
Tom kept the gun at thigh level in case Greg looked into his peephole. But Greg just swung open the door. Tom looked into a face that had probably always reflected the certainty that the world owed it things.
“Now what?” Greg said.
Tom shot him in the head—spppppt—and Greg fell to the side, flailing, a look of astonishment beginning to reach his eyes but never making it. The big body crumpled into a glass table, knocking a framed photo of Greg and Rebeca—happy nightclub scene—onto his thick pile. Gray ooze pumped from the black, round wound.
Rebeca was not in sight. She was probably in the bedroom, crying, or the bathroom, treating the latest bruise. Tom called out, “Rebeca?” He walked into the rear of the loft. She was not in the bedroom. She was in the bathroom, the door open, and he saw two Rebecas when he stopped outside. The face in the mirror. And the back of the head in front of it. She’d been applying a wet rag to her cheek. To the most recent blow.
She looked confused, making eye contact with him in the vanity mirror. And embarrassed. “What’s the matter?”
He shot her in the head, too, as she was starting to turn.
He never should have befriended her. He never should have done it. The calendar affixed to Greg’s refrigerator told him that the cleaning lady had last come five days ago. Rebeca’s office was closed during the outbreak. Greg often worked from home. With luck days might go by before anyone found out the pair were dead.
Tom dragged the bodies into the bedroom. He stuffed a rag over the crack in the door when he left. That way, when the bodies started to smell, it would take longer for the odor to reach the foyer. He turned the air-conditioning lower all over the apartment. Cold would slow decay.
I had no choice. I’m sorry, Rebeca.
Tom cleaned his prints off surfaces he’d touched and went back to his darkroom. He systematically cleaned away all traces of the insects. The pans and equipment and the smashed, incriminating laptop went into a black garbage bag. He used Clorox wipes to eliminate any chemical traces. He worked diligently, attentive to detail. Two hours later, he used a rear hallway fire exit to take the bag to the basement, and out the side entrance of the building. There were no security cameras down here, and no one saw him exit onto the street.
Anyone opening the bag—a cop, a bum, a garbage man—would find nothing useful or incriminating. On the street, trash was being collected with extra zeal during the emergency, to keep water from backing up.
Tom went back upstairs, smiling at the doorman as if nothing bad had happened. He double-checked his apartment to make sure all traces of illegal activity had been erased. As he worked, he thought back to the old man in Colorado, to Hobart’s nonstop lectures. A voice in his head said, Deception is a key to success. Always make the other guy think you are doing one thing, when you are actually up to something else. In World War Two, the Allies built an entire phony army out of plywood, in England, to make the Germans think that the invasion of Europe would come at Calais. When the invasion came at Normandy, the Germans were not ready and lost the war.
Tom used one of the half dozen remaining encrypted phones to call Cardozo in Brazil. Once again their talk, on the surface, was mundane, about a sick aunt in Oregon. But Oregon was the code word.
Oregon meant, It’s time to divert the FBI away from the East Coast.
As he worked, the words of Hobart Haines came to him, guiding him, but not in the way that Hobart had intended.
M
ake the other side think you are bigger, stronger, smarter than you really are.
Tom knew that someone in Brazil should now be alerting a sleeper somewhere in the United States. Tom would not know where, or who, only that the sleeper was far from New York. The sleeper might be a student, or housewife, or any sympathizer. The sleeper would be directed to make a phone call to Washington, get a message to Kyle Utley, and say words that Tom had written, but the sleeper would not know why. The sleeper could not damage Tom, even if apprehended. He or she was completely expendable.
The diversion will hopefully give me more time.
It was 9 P.M. now.
He was helpless until he got the damn boxes! Maybe they would come tomorrow.
Hobart Haines had said, over and over, If you’re going to do something big, try to make your opponent think you are planning something else.
EIGHTEEN
Izabel Santo knelt and lit another candle, and the flame flickered to life. Saint John the Divine—near Columbia University—is one of my favorite cathedrals in the world. The ceiling is high and magnificent, a Notre Dame in New York. The stone buttresses anchoring the nave stand as thick as California redwoods. The soaring ceiling inspires and awes. The vast interior and events held there—solstice celebrations, New Year’s concerts, student weddings, or Senatorial speeches—offer up the best spirit of a diverse city, and draw people from all religions. Saint John is an inclusive place.
Tonight it was filled with people praying for sick loved ones, or protection for those so far spared.
“Twenty candles,” I counted as she rose and crossed herself. I hoped they did not represent lost love, but who else do you light candles for, if not those who you miss?
“They are for men and women that I killed, Joe.”
I must have looked surprised. She said, in a flat voice, “They were evil. Their souls are not in heaven. When they see the flames they are attracted to a church where God reminds them of what they did, what they lost.”