by Jason Dean
In this case two million had been set aside just to make Bishop look bad, an amount that would tempt any number of heist men just on its own. Which meant the vault must have held something more than that. A lot more. After all, Brennan must have had the vault built for a good reason. As a highly successful international arms negotiator, he must have had plenty of income lying around he couldn’t afford to declare.
But Bishop wasn’t about to rule out revenge as a motive, either. His team hadn’t been hired as a status symbol to impress the neighbours. The family had been receiving threats. Serious threats. Brennan hadn’t reached the top of his game by playing by the rules and it was entirely possible he’d made a dangerous enemy somewhere along the way. Someone who’d do anything to achieve satisfaction and was more than willing to corrupt one of RoyseCorp’s men to get the job done. But that was always when Bishop hit the wall. Because why involve him?
Even if he was just a diversion, why not somebody else? There had to be a reason good enough to want him locked up for life. It would have been a lot simpler just to add him to the night’s victims. And this was the part that really got him. Not everyone could set up an attack against New York’s top protection firm and bank on Bishop’s getting life for a triple murder charge. Which meant it came down to one of the three survivors from his team. Sam Chaney, Chris Tennison or Martin Thorpe. To influence the night’s events and arrange all the evidence against him, the man needed to be there. On the spot. Without a doubt.
Along with Neary, all three had been a regular part of his team for years. Private security and close protection attracted more than its fair share of disreputable characters, so you tended to keep the ones you could trust close. Which was why Bishop insisted on handpicking his own crew when he was promoted to team leader less than a year into his RoyseCorp service. His immediate supervisor, perhaps sensing he would have walked otherwise, had consented to his wishes. Thorpe was the first to be picked, with Chaney and Neary following close behind. Tennison had just two and a half years on the team, with Oates the most recent addition.
And although he had to sometimes reproach one of them for the occasional lapse, it was never for anything serious or they’d have been out. If anything, he’d gone out of his way to understand their idiosyncrasies. Like red-headed Tennison’s attitude, or Thorpe’s claustrophobia, or Chaney’s wandering eye when it came to little ladies in distress. So after spending his first week inside going through everything he knew about each of his men and getting nowhere, Bishop had decided that maybe he needed to look at it from their point of view.
It was possible a mild rebuke from Bishop had stuck in one of the men’s craws, and grown until the idea of setting him up for murder seemed a fair revenge. Although Bishop hadn’t believed this angle he’d still evaluated every job they’d done together over the past six years. Another week later he was back to square one. Nothing flagged up. And the one thing he could rely on was his power of recall.
Bishop never forgot anything. Never had. Not since school. Photographic or eidetic memory, they called it. Found in less than ten per cent of children and usually gone by the time they reach their teens. Usually, but not always. Bishop was living proof of that.
So, by day fifteen of his sentence, he’d concluded he wasn’t going to find answers by concentrating on Chaney, Tennison or Thorpe. Which just left the guy he’d shot on the landing. The one who’d drugged him. Since the doctors who worked on Bishop had found no trace of any drug in his system, the cops claimed he and the raider had been working together. Which only fuelled Bishop’s anger and made him even more determined to find the guy. And he knew once he found him, he’d be able to trace everything back to the source. To the Judas on his team.
And that was where Bishop had got his first small break. Just before he’d shot the man he’d caught a momentary glimpse of his lower facial features as he’d pulled down the ski mask. Cleft chin, lipless mouth, slightly sunken cheeks and long, almost patrician nose with a ridge along its centre. The image had buzzed around Bishop’s brain like a mosquito and he became certain he’d seen it before. Somewhere. And not too long before the attack.
Unfortunately, a photographic memory wasn’t like accessing a hard drive with everything filed neatly by category or date. The mind didn’t work like that. Everything he’d seen was stored in there, but sometimes it took a while to find the right folder. In this case, it took longer than usual. Much longer. The mental torment of not being able to place the guy had actually been worse than the physical confinement. For months he’d chased the memory through his tour in the Marines, the two years spent in LA, and then the six years with RoyseCorp. But he hadn’t been able to pinpoint that face. It had almost driven him crazy, until finally, six months and two days after he’d been admitted into Greenacres Medium Security Prison in the picturesque south-westerly region of Ulster County, the answer flashed before him at an unexpected moment. He’d just stood there at the urinal, mid-flow, with a dumbstruck expression on his face.
Randall Brennan’s Wall of Fame. That’s where he’d seen him.
Slotted in amongst photographs of Brennan shaking hands with politicians, heads of state, and the odd sports celebrity had been a colour shot taken at a private aircraft hangar showing Brennan with King Saleh of Yajir. On the right-hand side the tail of a small jet just made it into the frame, while a smiling Brennan and the king shook hands in the foreground, surrounded by assorted flunkies. And in the background, partly obscured by the king’s bodyguards, had been a Caucasian face. Brown, wavy hair over a high forehead. Light-coloured eyes. Dark complexion. Small ears set flat against the skull. And the exact same long nose. The same sunken cheeks. Same cleft chin.
It was the man who had chloroformed him at the house. He was certain of it. The killer was someone Brennan had known or worked with before Bishop’s team even entered the picture. He was the link to the traitor who set him up. All Bishop had to do was find him.
Trouble was, his next parole hearing wasn’t for another twenty-seven years.
Bishop glanced over at Jorge, who was reading an old letter and blowing smoke towards the ceiling, stinking the place out even more. Amidst the constant clamour of prison life, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps and knew it was a guard without looking. They were the only ones in here with leather soles.
The footsteps came to a halt a few feet away and a voice said, ‘Visitor.’
Harris, by the sound of it. One of the real mouth-breathers. Continuing to massage the spot on his clavicle where the 9mm Parabellum from Chaney’s Glock had passed through, Bishop watched Jorge put down the letter and crush the cigarette remains in a cup as he prepared to rise.
‘But not for you, Jorgey boy,’ Harris said.
Jorge sank back onto the stool and threw a questioning look at Bishop, who frowned and swung his legs off the bunk. The short, burly guard stood outside the cell, looking down at him with his usual bored expression as he noisily chewed gum.
‘Yeah, you, Bishop,’ he said. ‘On your feet, let’s go.’
THREE
‘The courier company they’re using is Bearer Logistics,’ Miles Pascombe said, facing Bishop across the table in the visitors’ area. ‘They’ll be making the delivery on September eighth. Three Sundays from now.’
Bishop sat with his arms crossed and studied the overweight, badly dressed lawyer. He was surprised at the news. And seventeen days didn’t give him much time.
He leaned back in his seat and cast his eyes around the visitors’ room. Most of the tables were occupied by inmates and their wives, girlfriends, relatives, kids or lawyers. Thanks to the high ceiling, the noise level almost equalled that of his cellblock.
‘They give a time?’ he asked.
Pascombe dipped his head briefly to look at the legal papers in front of him, his chin instantly disappearing into his neck. Bishop studied his slightly shabby grey suit and wondered if he was the guy’s only client. It would explain why he was here when a simple phone
call would have been sufficient. Or maybe he just felt news like this should be delivered in person.
‘Says here it’ll be between midnight and six a.m.,’ Pascombe said, looking back up. He tilted his head slightly at Bishop’s neutral expression. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. We won the suit.’
‘Believe me, I’m smiling on the inside,’ Bishop said. ‘Anything else?’
Pascombe rubbed his upper lip with a forefinger. ‘Well, you’re under a gag order like I guessed, but that’s usual in these early settlement cases.’ He frowned and said, ‘What isn’t usual is how quickly we got a verdict. I still can’t quite believe it. I mean, in my experience these things usually go on for years. I was thinking five or six, maybe. Not two.’
Bishop stroked his beard. He’d been wondering the same thing.
Just two years since he found that weak spot in the system he’d been searching for. Followed by three weeks in the prison library going through the pitiful selection of law books to find the precedents he needed. Finding a lawyer hadn’t been a problem, with Pascombe more than willing to actually file the suit and wait for his fees at the back end. He’d said he knew he was onto a winner, and he’d been proved right yesterday when the judge handed down his verdict. More important to Bishop, however, was the tiny clause he’d insisted on. The one that legally bound the defendants to notify the plaintiff immediately of the exact time and date of delivery.
‘What’s your take on it?’ he asked as Pascombe began putting his papers back in his briefcase.
‘Not sure,’ the lawyer said, pausing. ‘All I can think is maybe our suit caused a few ripples within the system and they wanted it wrapped up quietly.’
‘Before inmates in other prisons started getting ideas.’
‘Could be.’
Bishop nodded. It made as much sense as anything. He rose from his seat and said, ‘Good job, anyway, counsellor. Thanks.’
Pascombe stood up as well and shook the hand Bishop held out with a grin. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said.
Bishop gave him a final nod, then began walking towards the door. The lawyer had done his part and Bishop hoped the success gave him better paid jobs from now on. Enough to buy a new suit anyway. His thoughts then shifted to his preparations and the two weeks he had to work with. It really wasn’t much time. But not impossible. It was just a challenge, that’s all. Probably the first real one since he’d been in here.
FOUR
The warden might call it a library for official purposes, but in reality it was a small, low-ceilinged room with a scant selection of books and old magazines, and few genuine visitors. Nestled in the north-east corner of the main building like a forgotten relative, the area wasn’t even patrolled by the guards very much. Twice a day, they accompanied the state-appointed library supervisor to and from his private office, which took up one side of the room behind its wall of bars. The lights were on and Bishop could hear the amplified sounds of a game coming from inside. Sounded like football highlights on ESPN again. The guy was really earning his pay in there.
Four reading tables filled the space between the bookshelves and the entrance. Two were currently in use as a couple of inmates pretended to read magazines as they listened to the commentary. At the rear, in the alcove nearest the windows, Bishop stood facing a man with dreadlocks. He was an inch taller than Bishop and, at a hundred and sixty, about fifteen pounds lighter. He was slowly going through the stamp books for a second time.
‘Don’t talk much, do you?’ Owen Falstaff said.
‘What’s there to talk about?’ Bishop said, watching as Falstaff flicked through the prison currency. ‘I told you what I need. There’s the money.’
Falstaff finished counting and looked at him. ‘That ain’t what I meant. You got the whole population scratching their heads, you know. Folks here like to know everything ’bout everybody, but you’re still a closed book even after three years. Like, this is the first time you ever called on me, and I supply everyone in here. Even the odd Aryan, believe it or not.’
Bishop shrugged. He should have known Falstaff would be the curious type. ‘So?’
‘So, most of the fools in here I class as bad boys who were just itchin’ for the law to slap cuffs on them. But you don’t fit the profile, man. You don’t belong.’ He started tapping the stamp books against his lips. ‘I had to guess, I’d say somebody screwed you over, big time. Probably someone you trusted, too.’
Bishop hid his surprise. Falstaff was a lot sharper than he looked. But then, to be a successful hustler he probably had to be. ‘All right,’ Bishop said, ‘let’s get it over with.’
‘Get what over with?’
‘You’re building up to a question. I can feel it.’
After a few moments chewing his inner cheek, Falstaff said, ‘Okay, I admit I got curious. A while back one of my sources got me a copy of the trial transcript and the thing kept me up all night. Man, all that evidence they used on you . . .’ Placing the books in his shirt pocket, he leaned forward and used his fingers to count off all the points Bishop knew by heart. The knife. The blueprints. The offshore account. Natalie Brennan. The bullets in Oates.
Bishop only half listened. In his defence, he could have told Falstaff how ballistic fingerprinting was hardly an exact science, especially when it came to the problematic polygonal rifling of a Glock. Or how hard it was to convince a jury you’d been unconscious for the entire duration of the assault when doctors had failed to find any trace of a drug in your system. But he just waited for Falstaff to finish and said, ‘So?’
‘A hell of a lot of work just to get you sent up the river, ain’t it? Expensive, too.’
Bishop sighed. This wasn’t exactly news to him. Although it was the first time he’d heard it come from somebody else’s mouth. ‘That your question?’
‘Uh, uh. My question is, just what did Brennan keep in that vault in the first place? The Ark of the Covenant?’
Bishop shrugged, ‘Hey, your guess is as good as mine.’ The only thing he did know for sure was it had to be more than two million. He arched both eyebrows at Falstaff and said, ‘Anything else I can help you with, or can we get back to business?’
Falstaff grinned and tapped his shirt pocket. ‘I believe we’re good to go.’
‘All right. How long?’
‘Three, three and a half weeks. Maybe more. Depends on availability, you know?’
That meant another twenty-four days. At least. ‘No good. That’s too long.’
Falstaff shrugged. ‘Hey, the Buddha’s a breeze, but the other thing ain’t gonna be easy, even for me. Gonna take a lot of arranging I hadn’t planned on.’
And at that moment, a big, shaven-headed Aryan with a face full of hate pushed open the entrance doors and stared straight at Falstaff.
FIVE
Out the corner of his eye, Bishop watched the two cons at the tables silently get up and walk out. He kept watching as the thug came forward and leaned against the table nearest them, his thick arms folded across his chest, sleeves rolled up to show off the tats. Up close he wasn’t pretty. He had a mass of acne scars that went right down to his neck and a nose too big for his face.
Falstaff followed Bishop’s stare and frowned when he saw the large man.
‘I told you about my refund policy, Alvin,’ he said. ‘And you got what you wanted in the end.’
‘I’m here about something else,’ said Alvin, smiling. It wasn’t a friendly smile. He finally turned to Bishop and tilted his head to indicate the rest was a private matter.
Bishop got the message. He shrugged at Falstaff and sauntered past him towards the gap between the reading tables. In Alvin’s right-hand pocket he saw the irregular shape jutting out. Shiv, he thought, which meant the back-up would be just outside. As he passed between the reading tables he casually picked up the thick, well-thumbed copy of GQ left there by its previous owner and began leafing through it as he walked.
As he approached the door, Bishop raised his eyes to the t
wo cams located in each corner ahead of him. The one covering the right half of the room still had its green indicator light on, but the other had nothing. Not even a red one. Bishop guessed Alvin had known about the camera being out of service before he’d even entered the library. For the moment, Big Brother was definitely not watching. At least, not where it mattered.
He pushed through the door and in the halogen light saw the pale sheen of the back-up’s shaved head. His squat body was leaning against the corridor wall, and he was picking at scabs on his scalp like a chimp. As the door swung shut behind him Bishop took several more steps, stopped and glanced at the empty hallway ahead. He remained stationary as though trying to remember something, casually rolling the magazine up in a tight tube with the squarebound spine facing outwards.
‘Ya waitin’ for, asswipe?’ the back-up said.
Bishop turned back to the Neanderthal. His pig eyes were dull and his mouth hung open as he glared back.
‘Inspiration,’ Bishop said and swung the improvised bat at the man’s face with his full weight behind it.
The spine smashed against the bridge of the man’s nose, and as he slammed back against the wall red spray spattered onto the polished tile at his feet. He dropped to his knees with one hand on the floor for support, the other at his face as he tried to contain the blood and mucus.
Bishop looked down at his clothes to make sure nothing had sprayed on him and saw the thug placing a foot on the floor in an attempt to rise. He rolled the magazine up even tighter and took another swing, catching the guy just above the right ear. His head hit the wall with a satisfying thud. By the time his body collapsed to the floor he was unconscious, breathing noisily through his mouth.