by Unknown
Penetrate. Deep, deep!
He squeezes the last of the Lidocaine from the chamber and wonders whether the dose will be as effective as he wants.
Or whether it will be too strong, and will kill her.
79
Marine Park, Brooklyn, New York
Jack tried to look as touristy as possible. He grabbed the map book he had been using, put on his shades and got out of Howie’s car. He walked down the side of the road opposite the target house that Fernandez had identified. It stood at a T-junction to a dead-end street. Jack walked straight past on the other side of the road, his face turned away, the shades and map helping him get to the cover of a house that he hoped would serve as an observation post for him. He turned up a narrow driveway to his right and knocked on the door. A small woman in her late sixties answered. She had curly white hair, gold glasses and looked as though she could play the role of grandma in any film you’d care to cast. ‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘I’m not buying anything,’ cackled the woman.
Jack smiled. ‘I’m not selling anything, Ma’am. My name is Jack King and I need your help.’ He reached into his pocket and took out Howie’s business card. ‘I’m a former FBI agent and I’m working with this man, trying to help him solve a very serious crime, and I need to come into your house to do it.’
‘You’re not coming in here,’ said the old lady, pushing the card back at him. ‘You’re one of those confidence tricksters. I know your type.’
Jack’s cell phone rang in his pocket but he ignored it. ‘Please. Please take the card,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m really not one of the bad guys. Take it, and go back inside your house, lock the door and call this man. He’ll tell you why the FBI needs your help. I’ll just wait here.’
The woman lifted her glasses and looked into Jack’s face.
‘Please, Ma’am,’ he said again.
She grabbed the card, went inside and he heard her lock the door. It was painful for Jack to wait, and hard to resist the urge to spin round and check out the house almost directly behind his back, the house that might hold the dying girl. He’d noticed that all the properties around him were big enough to have basements. The area felt right. It was the kind of place a killer like BRK would choose.
The old lady’s door opened and she reappeared. ‘Come in,’ she said, in a far more pleasant tone.
Jack stepped inside and let her close the door. The hall smelled of boiled potatoes and cheap meat.
‘I’m just having some coffee, Mr King, would you like some?’
‘I’d love some,’ said Jack, relieved to be inside, ‘but first I really have to ask you some questions and then I need you to take me upstairs to your bedroom.’
The old lady smiled. It had been a long time since Yoana Grinsberg had let a handsome stranger into her home and he’d been eager to go straight upstairs.
80
San Quirico D’Orcia, Tuscany
Terry McLeod was starting to get pissed off.
Apart from Maria, the dumb but pretty girl on reception, the whole place seemed empty. God damn it! If he really had been from a hotel and restaurant magazine, he’d be giving this place a minus five for service.
Lunch had finished some time back and McLeod found the dining room deserted. It had been fully cleared of all dirty crockery, cutlery and tablecloths.
He pressed on with his search, and came across a laundry cart full of dirty linen by the back stairs, so he guessed the couple of chambermaids they employed were busy on an upper floor, stripping bedding and collecting used towels.
He pushed open the flap-hinged service door to the kitchen. A teenage boy in an apron, red-faced from his labours, looked up from mopping the floor.‘iz?’ he said.
‘Hi there. I’m looking for Mrs King. Any idea where I might find her?’
Giuseppe stopped mopping and shrugged. Then, as an afterthought, he said, ‘Signora King, she may be in the garden with her son.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ said McLeod. ‘Can I go that way?’ he added, pointing at the kitchen door that led into the private gardens.
Giuseppe moved protectively in front of it, holding the mop like a weapon. ‘No, not that way, I’m sorry. That’s private. Wait in reception and I will tell Mrs King you want her.’
McLeod glared at him. God damn it, minus ten was too generous for this place. If he had his way, he’d have the whole friggin’ place shut down.
81
San Quirico D’Orcia, Tuscany
Spider manhandles his prey deeper into the darkness.
He’d spent days stalking the King woman and her child, following them at a safe distance, noticing and timing their movements, studying the way the free-spirited child wandered off from the over-busy mother who was constantly torn between attending to her business and carrying out her maternal duties.
Spider followed their car in the old Fiat motor-home he’d bought for the purposes of abducting, killing and then dismembering the young woman he’d targeted in Livorno. The motor-home meant he did not have to rent villas or check into hotels. It gave him untraceable freedom and the opportunity to spend time with his victims. The girl in Livorno had been killed in there. He smiled as he remembered how well that little escapade had gone. The surprising fun that had come with what was only ever going to be a functional kill. It had been early evening and he’d been parked up on a quiet country lane, doing a recce of the area when, through his rear-view mirror, he had seen her walking, red-faced from jogging, heading towards the back of the van. He was excited by how beautiful she looked.
Just your type. Dark hair, slight build, nice shape. Mother would approve.
He got out, taking a road atlas with him. He could see that there was no one around, no prying eyes to save her. He waved the road atlas and explained that he and his wife were lost, could she show him on the map where they were. He unlocked the back door of the motor-home to get some light, and handed her the atlas. As she traced a finger over the page, he grabbed her from behind, a well chloroformed handkerchief stopping her struggle as he bundled her into the van.
He’d planned to do the same with the King woman, but she was not so foolish. She was never alone. Except at night.
For the past few days, as Nancy and Zack had slept in their beds, Spider had been less than a hundred metres away from them, quietly preparing the underground area in their garden for what he was about to do. Here in the damp, stinking darkness he’s hidden the tools of his trade: some specially customized electronics, several lengths of rope, thick coils of heavy-duty tape, a selection of razor-sharp knives, a sixteen-inch bone saw and a gun. The firearm came from Rome’s Porta Portese. What the locals call mercato delle pulci. It has more than four thousand stalls, most of them trading illegally. It’s not only Europe’s biggest flea market, it’s one of the continent’s best-known one-stop shops for anything from counterfeit clothing to drugs and guns.
Spider shines his flashlight and can see that the Lidocaine is starting to act on King’s wife. Her legs are beginning to buckle beneath her. Soon, the anaesthetic will rob her of the ability to move, let alone walk. He pushes her and the child on, deeper into the blackness of the catacomb, closer to their fate.
82
Marine Park, Brooklyn, New York
Jack stood impatiently in Yoana Grinsberg’s small kitchen, while she insisted on boiling the kettle again.
‘How can I help?’ she said, excited by the idea of being involved with the FBI. Jack was praying she was going to give him the right answers to his questions and give them to him quickly. ‘Do you know the man across the road? The guy in number fifteen?’
‘Can’t say I do. I’ve seen him from time to time. Never spoke to him once, though.’
‘How long has he been living around here?’ asked Jack, sensing he had to play a patient game with the old lady.
Yoana frowned so deeply that her face became completely corrugated with wrinkles. ‘Fifteen, maybe twenty years. Fancy that. All that time and w
e’ve never so much as exchanged the time of day.’
The pieces were coming together. Jack fished a little further. ‘Does he drive a yellow car, a four-door Japanese model, probably about three to four years old?’
Yoana shook her head. ‘No, not him, that wouldn’t be his car.’
‘You sure?’
‘I know my cars,’ said Yoana, smiling as memories flooded back. ‘Cars have fascinated me since I was a child. My husband once had a Buick. An Oldsmobile; beautiful it was. I think the stupid company has stopped making them these days.’
Jack’s heart sank. Still, she was quite old and could be wrong. ‘You really are sure?’ he persisted.
‘Positive,’ said Yoana. ‘The man across the road has a Hyundai, but that’s South Korean not Japanese. And anyway it’s white not yellow. I don’t know of any Japanese cars around here. Mr Cohen had one…’
Jack cut her off. ‘I’m sorry to stop you. But it might be our mistake. It is a Hyundai that we’re looking for. Do you know exactly what type he has?’
Yoana didn’t hesitate. ‘Hyundai Accent SE. Nothing special, not even alloy wheels. I always thought that was a bit odd.’
‘Why?’ asked Jack gently. ‘What was odd?’
‘Well,’ began Yoana hesitantly. ‘Well, like I just said, I don’t know his name, he never seems to be around and I’ve never met him, but he’s always got personalized plates on his car. I used to think he was a car dealer of some sort, but then I noticed that sometimes he even changed the plates before he changed the cars.’
Jack felt a surge of excitement. His phone rang again, but he ignored it once more. Whoever it was, whatever they wanted, it couldn’t be as important as this. ‘Yoana, you don’t know what plate he currently has, do you?’
She smiled. She liked helping the FBI, they asked such easy questions. ‘Don’t be silly. Sure I do. It’s B – 898989.’
83
San Quirico D’Orcia, Tuscany
The entrance floor of the catacomb is covered in soft soil but, after you walk about twenty feet through the narrow gap, the surface underfoot changes into hard rock, cinder and compacted earth. Spider shines his flashlight up the walls. They are damp and green from an underwater stream that dribbles down from the hillside above them. He is searching for the point where the narrow route dog-legs left and opens up into a much wider, high-ceilinged chamber dominated by a raised marble tomb. The air gradually loses its last vestiges of freshness, as they move deeper into the sterile darkness where nothing grows. Spider feels perfectly at home amid the dank smell of infertile land. The smell of death.
He pushes the woman and child to the back of the catacomb and forces them to sit with their backs to the tomb, which contains the remains of a soldier and his family from Medici times.
Little Zack, his hands still bound in front of him, crawls over to his mother and puts his head on her knees, desperate for protection and reassurance. Nancy’s wrists are still tied viciously tight behind her back, but her real pain comes from being unable to comfort or touch her son. She bends her body over the top of him and rubs her face against his back, like an animal nuzzling her injured young.
Spider clicks his laptop off standby. It hums into life and instantly locks in on the hotel’s wi-fihot spot, located almost directly above his head. He glides through Webmail and logs on to his own intranet system.
As the computer monitor fills with an overhead camera shot of Lu Zagalsky’s body, he sees her face and shivers with anticipation. Not long now. Soon all that waiting will be deliciously rewarded. A tingle spreads from his neck, down the sweat forming on his spine.
He pulls Zack’s young body away from his helpless mother, his eyes hardly ever leaving the image on the screen.
Spider senses death in the air.
Multiple death.
84
Marine Park, Brooklyn, New York
898989
The numberplate is the same as the code that BRK had given to Daher to access the video footage. Jack pumps his memory. What does it remind him of?
HA! HA! HA!
That’s what it reminds him of. H is the eighth letter of the alphabet, but the ninth is not A. And then Jack has it.
Hi, Hi, Hi.
BRK was saying hello. Another of his fucking sick jokes.
Jack calls Howie with what he’s just discovered and learns it will take another half an hour for the Strike Team to be fully mobilized and in position at Marine Park. He hopes the delay won’t prove fatal.
Yoana Grinsberg talks all the time, as she guides him upstairs to her front bedroom, from where he hopes to be able to keep a watch on number 15. The room, full of old clothes and magazines, is far too warm. A bowl of stale pot pourri that should have been replaced months ago makes the place smell earthy. Jack notices double locks on the windows and guesses that the ultra-cautious Mrs Grinsberg hasn’t opened them since her husband died years back. He pushes his face to the glass. Even if he unlocked one the view would be useless. A cluster of overgrown trees on both corners blocks the line of sight, there’s no way he could get even a half-decent view of the target house.
‘It’s no good,’ he says, heading out of the room and back down the stairs, ‘but thanks anyway, Ma’am. Your cooperation has been appreciated.’
As she shuts the door, Jack thinks how he might have to use Howie’s car to block the road if it turns out BRK is in the house, gets spooked and suddenly makes a run for it. While he’s working out this endgame scenario, his cell phone rings again.
Nancy’s cell number flashes on the display.
Jack’s in trouble and he knows it. She’s going to go crazy if it turns out that it’s her calls he’s been ignoring.
‘Hello,’ he says, frowning as he braces himself for the eruption.
‘Hello, Jack,’ says a male voice, drawing out the words slowly.
‘Who is this?’ He checks the caller display again.
Spider lets out a short laugh. ‘Oh, I think you know who it is, don’t you?’
A bomb of white-hot pain detonates in Jack’s head. He struggles to think the unthinkable.
‘Your wife’s here with me. Would you like to talk to her?’ Spider rips the sticky tape from Nancy’s mouth, and she gasps loudly for breath. ‘Jack!’ she says weakly. ‘Jack, he’s got Zack and…’
Spider puts his hand across her lips. ‘I’m sorry, Mr King, but your wife’s not at her best at the moment. I’ve shot her full of drugs, so she finds it a little difficult to talk.’ He traps the phone between his ear and shoulder, and replaces the tape around Nancy’s mouth. ‘You know, Jack, you really should take better care of your young family. Shouldn’t you?’
Jack says nothing. His head is pounding and he feels sick. Don’t upset him, one wrong word and they’re both dead. Stay detached, be professional, not emotional.
‘Answer my question!’ demands Spider. ‘I said: shouldn’t you take better care of your family?’
Jack understands the game, and he knows he has no choice but to play along. ‘Yes,’ he says, feigning humility. ‘I should have taken more care of them. My family’s very precious to me. I’ll do whatever you want, but you have to promise me you’re not going to hurt them.’
‘No promises,’ says Spider, ‘but it is good for me to hear that you and I share the same sense of family values.’
Jack squeezes his eyes shut and prays his mind will clear, that he will be able to stay sharp and cope with whatever is about to happen.
‘I see you’re in the road near my house in Brooklyn,’ says Spider, looking at the laptop and its exterior camera views. ‘Well done, you’re a little earlier than I expected. I had planned to lead you there myself, when the time was right. When the world had witnessed another murder that Jack King was powerless to stop.’
Jack’s thrown. He glances across to the nearby house, searching for a camera.
‘In the trees, King. The cameras are wired up in the trees and powered by my outdoor security lights.’ Sp
ider gazes at Nancy and Zack, then back to the image of Jack on his laptop. ‘My plan was that in twenty-four hours’ time that nice Arab news channel would be showing some new material; something of a double scoop. First I would have given them the final fatal instalment in the story of the wretched little Russian hooker that you and the fools in the FBI couldn’t save. And then, Jack, then I had something even juicier in mind.’ Spider laughs darkly and fixes his eyes on Jack’s face, before adding, ‘I thought the next exclusive footage could be the death of your lovely wife.’
Jack’s self-restraint snaps. ‘If you so much as harm…’
‘Tut, tut, Jacky boy. Don’t ruin all your good work, all your professional restraint, by being abusive. You must know that I’m going to kill her, otherwise there would have been no point in bringing you all the way to America, and me coming all the way here to Italy, would there?’
Jack’s heart is beating double-quick time, as he realizes now that he has been the victim of BRK’s carefully orchestrated plan to lure him away from his family and have him stand impotently by as they are slaughtered. But why?
Spider smiles as he watches Jack painfully putting the pieces together. ‘You’ve been played like a sucker, King. The murder in Italy was merely a ruse to drag you out from your cowardly hiding place, and of course you came, like an obedient, scalded dog. Then poor, sweet Sugar needed to rise from her grave just so I could be certain that your dumb-ass buddies in the FBI would have no doubts that I was back at work. And finally, I added some live bait to bring you skulking back to the city you ran away from. So here we are, a little sooner than I anticipated, but almost exactly as I planned.’