Mike stood up and, on unsteady legs, headed straight for the door.
“Good choice. Bye, Mike.”
When Mike got outside, he threw up over the faux-flame lighting beside the bar’s door, which earned him a disgusted look from a man walking in. Mike half ran for six blocks in the wrong direction and then stopped and took a very hard look at his life.
Meanwhile, the other man walked into the bar and looked around. He saw her waiting for him and, without a word, slid into the seat opposite her in the booth.
“Hello, Jeremy.”
“What the hell, Victoria? We have guests over at the house tonight. My wife is pissed.”
“My apologies.” She took a piece of paper out of her clutch and slid it across the table. “Name and social security number. To start with, I would like taps on this woman’s phones and those of all family members. Email as well. We’ll be in contact with any others we need.”
He pushed the piece of paper back across the table. “The hell I will. I told you the last time was the last time. The NSA is not your personal Gestapo.”
She gave a slight roll of her eyes. “There’s no need to be melodramatic, Jeremy. And this is not personal; this is related to the fund.”
“Well, that’s – I mean I’d like to help, obviously, but I can’t.”
She nodded. “So, I should go back to those people whose retirements are at stake and explain this?”
“Well, I mean… I… I… I…”
Victoria let him stammer for a while as she got the attention of the passing waitress. She raised her glass. “I’ll have another one of these.” She looked across at Jeremy – his face pale, his eyes wide. A man lost in his own personal hell. “So will he.”
The waitress nodded and departed.
Victoria turned her attention back to her companion. “‘The last time was the last time’? You’re not really naive enough to believe that, are you? We own you. You know it, we know it, so let’s not drag this out.”
Defeat spread across his face, but he kept fighting for the show of the thing. “We can’t… innocent civilians.”
“Well,” said Victoria, calmly raising her glass to her lips to drain the remains of her drink, “if it’s any consolation, the woman in question will be of interest to an awful lot of people by morning.”
Chapter Fifteen
Three quarters of a million people pass through Grand Central Station in a day. Some are at the start or end of a long, globe-spanning journey, but most are just commuting in from the suburbs. As one of the busiest such terminals in the world, studies have been made of the ever-shifting flow of humanity that rushes daily through its doors, although such studies are tricky, because a true New Yorker is never going to stop for someone with a clipboard.
In the midst of the Monday morning rush, a seemingly ordinary woman, dressed in a smart business suit, stopped right in the middle of the station concourse and screamed. It was not some girlish squeal of delight or some slasher movie fakery. No – this was something dredged from the depths of her soul and unleashed into the world. This was a scream because not screaming was not an option. Amy Daniels, as it happened, had been looking in that direction, so she’d seen the well put together middle-aged woman stop for a second, close her eyes and let rip.
This stone being dropped into the rushing flow had caused a splash and some ripples. Nearby people stopped to look for the source and the cause; others walked by oblivious. More than a few pulled out headphones for a moment, unsure what they’d just heard. A couple of transit cops rushed towards the noise only to find nothing when they reached it. The woman, having screamed for a couple of seconds, opened her eyes and resumed walking, disappearing back into the flow. Before she did, an older man with a kindly face tried to talk to her, but she brushed by without making eye contact, as if he were the weird one. Talking to strangers is not something that New Yorkers are particularly known for, the line between stranger and just plain strange often being whether or not they want to chat.
Whatever was behind it, the woman clearly didn’t appear keen to explain her outburst. Maybe perversely, the Grand Central Station rush was the only place in this woman’s day of home, train, office, train, home where she was “alone”. Where she could unleash her frustration at a life that was not going as planned without having to admit it to anyone else.
Amy could sympathise. On Saturday evening, she’d come home after being the last to leave the NYU library only to have a man threaten her because she’d heard something she not only didn’t want to hear but also didn’t understand. Then, the next morning, the same man and his friend had tried to kill her, and probably would have done but for the intervention of fate and a drunken Irish lunatic. Then, she’d had to run once again from a man she’d subsequently found out was with law enforcement. Her life had been turned upside down. She had been so careful to keep her unconventional job and her ultra-conventional life separate. She had few close friends and nobody who knew the truth of her whole life. Well, nobody except the aforementioned drunken lunatic. He was now shaping up to be her only hope of getting out of this mess with any form of life left. She’d worked her ass off to make it on her own and the sheer frustration of finding herself reliant on some man she hardly knew for her salvation was galling. She too felt like screaming.
Amy jumped as a hand was placed on her arm. Bunny pulled back slightly. “Sorry. You alright?”
“Yeah.”
“Right. I’ve double-checked – no cameras directly on them, so we’re good.”
Amy nodded and then took the little black book from the inside pocket of her leather jacket. She had two address books. One was full of old friends, college buddies, a couple of ex-boyfriends. This was the other one.
She flipped to the page with Matt Clarke’s number on it. On Bunny’s insistence, she’d gotten rid of both of her phones the night before, once they’d realised that the man who had chased her towards Central Park was some kind of law enforcement agent. That had changed the game – not that it’d felt like much of a game to begin with.
“Do you want to go through it again?”
“No. For Christ’s sake Bunny, I’m going to be a damn lawyer. I don’t need you to hold my hand through a negotiation.”
Bunny held his hands up in apology. She knew he meant well, but he could be a little overbearing. Amy needed to feel like she had some form of control, that she wasn’t just a passenger in her own life. She walked over to the bank of payphones, four quarters sitting sweaty in her hand. Bunny trailed casually behind her.
They had carefully planned it all out the night before. The reason they were in Grand Central Station was that even if they traced the call, she was one person amidst a mass of humanity and she could be on a train or subway to countless destinations a minute after she had hung up the phone. It told you so much that it really told you nothing.
She would calmly lay out their options, all with the desired goal of Amy’s life returning to what it had been forty-eight hours ago, before all this madness had started. This was the moment she would finally retake control of her life.
Amy dialled the number and held the receiver to her ear, trying to not think about how often it might be cleaned. She looked up at the high ceiling with its mural of zodiac signs then across at Bunny, who was giving her a wonky-eyed smile of encouragement that was quite off-putting. He had a face for belligerence; hope didn’t suit it. She steeled herself, expecting the disappointment of hearing Matt Clarke’s voicemail again, the script for the prepared message she would leave ready to go if required.
The call was answered on the second ring.
“Hello.”
Amy was taken aback. The voice was female. Older.
“Hi… Umm, sorry – I may have misdialled. I was looking for Matt Clarke.”
“Ah yes. Hello, Amy. Do you mind if I call you Amy? I know Daniels is your real second name, though Matt knows you as Ms DeSilva.”
Amy felt a cold icicle of dread in her s
tomach. “Who are you?”
“The who is not important. The what, however…” The voice sounded calm. “You may consider me, for want of a better word, your opponent. If it is any consolation, I share your annoyance at Mr Clarke for dragging you into this. However, I must deal with what is and not what should be. I’m afraid he has made you into a problem for us.”
“A problem? You have no idea, lady. You all need to leave me the hell alone or I’ll tear this whole thing down.”
“No, Amy, I’m afraid you won’t.”
A part of the prepared script popped into Amy’s head. “I’ve left details of what I know with several people who you—”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was relieved to see that you had kept your normal life and your ‘hobby’ so separate. Sensible, I suppose, on your end. It does, however, make things so much easier for us. You see, the people I represent cannot afford to have a wildcard running around, shooting off her mouth about what she thinks she knows. We have elected to seize the initiative. You have considerably bigger problems than us now.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m afraid you went too far, didn’t you? I guess it is understandable, in the heat of the moment. Only, when the authorities find your online private diary, well, it’ll be very hard to make the case that it was an accident. Such dark thoughts you have.”
“What diary? I don’t have a diary.”
By way of an answer, the woman just laughed. “The story will hit the news outlets soon. I’d imagine first reports will be out within the hour. You know how ravenous the press are for titillating angles, and this is undeniably juicy.”
Amy tried hard not to scream. The words came out with a slow calmness she did not feel. “What have you done?”
“Oh, me? Nothing. You, on the other hand – dear oh dear. What will your father say?”
Amy felt like she had been punched in the gut.
“You should get going, Ms Daniels. Very soon, the whole world will be looking for you and nobody will be interested in whatever nonsense the monster has to say. You need to run. Run and hide. The very best of luck to you.”
Then the line went dead.
Chapter Sixteen
Cole lifted his eyes to the rear-view mirror when he heard the sharp intake of breath from the back seat.
They were in an SUV with the rear windows heavily tinted, hence why they were able to drive through downtown Manhattan with two men with black bags over their heads without attracting any undue attention. They had their hands bound too. Neither of those steps was strictly necessary, but it was good practice. Yesterday, Matt Clarke and Brad Bradley had expected the hammer to fall on them and had instead been greeted with a consoling arm around the shoulder. Today was the day that the reality of their situation was to be brought home to them. Standard operating procedure. Disconcert the subject and then assert control once dependence has been established.
When they’d first got into the SUV, the two men had been concerned about their friend Charlie, who hadn’t come home last night. From his research on them, Cole knew that Charlie was a sport fucker of some renown, verging on the pathological, so him having spent the night with one of his several fuckbuddies wasn’t exactly unusual. But still, given the circumstances, his friends were surprised that he wasn’t answering his phone. Once Cole had pulled the gun on them and Lola had taped their mouths, tied their hands and placed the bags over their heads, he imagined they weren’t so worried about Charlie anymore. They’d both be coming to terms with their own mortality in a very private hell inside those bags. Or at least, they would have been, if Lola hadn’t kept interfering. The reality was, they were both required for the next step of the plan and if they were thinking clearly, they’d figure that out. But the whole purpose of the theatrics was to make sure they weren’t thinking clearly. Not right now. Now, the message needed to be reinforced and full and meek compliance ensured. There could be no mixed signals.
“Lola!”
Cole felt ridiculous, like he was the stern parent trying to settle the kids down in the back seat. Lola, being Lola, was seemingly unable to resist toying with Brad.
Cole had been given the tedious job yesterday of bringing Brad to the vet to have his burned “area” dealt with. For a man who didn’t have any pets, Cole had spent too much time in veterinarians’ offices. When you needed someone with access to medical equipment and pharmaceuticals and with a willingness to not report a gunshot wound to the authorities, the veterinarians of America were the unofficial emergency service. What they lacked in an understanding of the finer points of human anatomy they made up for in discretion. Many a veterinarian had paid for a holiday home or a messy divorce by making sure a certain kind of person didn’t die or end up in prison. Having said that, some of them also had their own incinerators, which could prove very handy should their best life-saving efforts be in vain. They were full service.
Brad Bradley, being the whiny little shit he was, had bitched and moaned about where he had been taken. If Cole had been so inclined, he could have explained how lucky he was. Doctor Novachov wasn’t a drinker and his surgery was immaculately clean. Under Cole’s instruction, the vet had put Bradley under general anaesthetic to deal with the burns he’d received from the application of hot coffee to his genital region. He’d not actually needed to be knocked out, but it had served a purpose, and besides, he was such an irritating little whelp that the break from his incessant chatter had been most welcome. He’d been bandaged, given a cream to apply and sent on his merry way. Lola was now using this opportunity to run her hand up his inner thigh, like a cat toying with a helpless mouse. Crazy bitch.
Bradley gave another pitiful whine.
“Lola,” Cole repeated.
She withdrew her hand and gave Cole an OTT pout in the rear-view mirror. He shifted nervously in his seat and looked out the window. He didn’t like to admit it, but she freaked him out. Cole was, by almost anyone’s reckoning, a dangerous man. His CV was impressive. He’d been in the SEALS, then seconded elsewhere – disappeared from the system, an asset for a part of the CIA they don’t much discuss at dinner parties. Their team was “self-funding”, so what Congress doesn’t know… Only, of course, they knew. Not the details – nobody wants those – but anyone with a brain knew that such teams existed. What they wanted was to not definitely know. Deniability was currency in Washington. They wanted to just let them get on with it, doing what needed to be done and, if the shit ever hit the fan, the politicians could cry foul and express outrage at the dark deeds that had been carried out in the name of national security. Meanwhile, those same people would quietly expect that, even while they were busy ripping down what was there, someone somewhere would be equally busy rebuilding it, because the need for the medicine did not go away just because the public didn’t like the taste.
Technically Cole wasn’t on the government’s payroll and hadn’t been for a while – but that depended on where you thought the government stopped and the private contractors took over. The lines were blurry. Still, Cole was a undeniably dangerous man, but he was a professional. Lola, on the other hand, was a stone-cold psycho bitch.
He would never say those words to her face, of course – not if he ever wanted to enjoy a good night’s sleep again. They’d worked together a few times. She was the protégée of the woman Matt Clarke had taken to calling Mrs Miller. Previously, Cole had known her by other names. She seemed to pick a new one for every op. This time, as what he assumed was her own little joke, she’d decided to go with Mrs Miller; she’d seen it being used in the surveillance files on Matt Clarke, Brad Bradley and Charlie Fenton. Cole had worked with Miller three times previously – at least that he knew of. With the kinds of people they answered to, discretion was mandatory. It paid not to ask any questions outside of your area of the op. Nobody liked questions. They’d been in close proximity three times: once had been a three-day thing in West Afric
a, standard extraction; the second had been that thing in Miami, which had been brief if rather bloody; and the other had been two years ago in Mexico. The target had been a difficult one and it had been a long-term gig. They’d been holed up on a ranch outside Puebla with nothing to do in the damned suffocating heat except watch and wait. The target was a drug lord who had gone to ground for very good reasons; they were there to put him in the ground once he finally resurfaced. They always resurfaced. Miller was in charge, but she flew in and out without explanation. Cole was left in operational control in her absence, with Lola and a couple of ex-jarheads for muscle.
Lola was not an easy person to live with, not least because, while she could speak, she chose not to. It wasn’t that Cole didn’t realise she was hot – he was a man, after all – but he also prided himself on thinking with things other than what was in his pants. It paid not to mix work with pleasure, especially when it was clear that Lola took such pleasure in the work. Sure, Cole had killed, but he’d never done it with the gleeful and childlike delight that Lola seemed to take in it. So, they’d lived side by side for six weeks in that compound outside Puebla, like two ghosts inhabiting the same space. Officially, when Lola went out at night it had been to check in with sources for any updates on the target. Then Cole started to notice reports in the papers about men going missing and being found in ways that made an open casket a non-starter. Cole had a sneaky suspicion that Miller knew what her pet got up to and she didn’t seem to care. That shit wasn’t professional, as far as Cole was concerned. He’d known all kinds of people during his time in this line of work, but Lola… He was looking forward to never seeing her again.
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