Die Twice

by Andrew Grant

  “No,” he said. “Just one. A professional. Someone who does this kind of thing for a living.”

  I had warned her. She knew I’d be coming.

  “They don’t know that,” I said. “The police are just fishing.”

  “No,” he said. “Look. These guards were killed one at time. Silently, so as not to alarm the others. Or the neighbors. Some had their necks broken. Others were stabbed, neatly, between the ribs. One was suffocated. They were picked off methodically to give . . . someone . . . access to this woman.”

  He was right. It had been methodical. A means to an end. Collateral damage. Nothing more. And no worse than you can expect, if you sign up for the wrong side.

  “That proves nothing,” I said.

  “And there’s the way she was killed,” he said. “Someone physically dragged her out of her panic room. Then shot her in the head. Twice. From close range.”

  I hadn’t wanted to touch her, but there’d been no choice. She wasn’t dignified enough to come out on her own.

  “Probably a mob hit,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “The police think not. She wasn’t on her knees when she was shot, for a start. Mob guys always make their victims kneel, apparently. Whoever did this wanted to look her in the eye when they pulled the trigger.”

  He had it backward, this time. I didn’t want to look at her, particularly. I wanted her to look at me. To know who was pulling the trigger. And to have no doubt as to who was being avenged.

  “Maybe this guy took more pride in his work,” I said.

  “Maybe, but it wasn’t brutal enough,” he said. “There was no sadism. If one outfit was moving in on another, they would have wanted to send a message. Something depraved. Crazy. Psychotic, even. It’s the same the world over. But whoever did this was cold. Calculating. Deliberate. Like a surgeon chopping out something malignant.”

  Now he was back on the money. The woman had been malignant. Like a virulent tumor, corrupting everything she touched. There was no way, in all good conscience, I could have let her survive.

  “Well, we could speculate all day,” I said. “But whoever killed her, I expect she deserved it.”

  “I’m sure she did,” he said. “But the point is, this was personal. This woman was executed. This specific woman. Who you just happened to know. Very well, I understand.”

  “I did?”

  I knew her only too well. And I wish with all my heart that the day I met her had never dawned.

  “You were a recent houseguest of hers, apparently,” he said.

  “Really?” I said. “Who was she? I didn’t see any names in that report.”

  “The police withheld it. My sources could only give me a first name.”

  “Which was?”

  “Lesley. Although I think you knew that.”

  Lesley. An ordinary name before I met her. Now a name I’ll never forget.

  “Lesley?” I said. “That’s pretty common sounding. There must be lots of Lesleys in a city the size of New York.”

  “Come on, David,” he said. “I’ve played along with this for long enough. We all know what you did. And you’re with friends, here.”

  “Nice try. But I’m admitting nothing.”

  “Of course not. That’s the first rule. But you wouldn’t be worthy of the uniform if you’d just stood back, after what this woman did.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “I understand, David,” he said. “I do. Working here isn’t that different from life in the field. The liaison community, well, we’re a pretty tight bunch. I heard about what this Lesley did to Tanya. And I heard you two were close.”

  I wasn’t happy that we’d become fodder for the navy gossip machine. And I had no idea what he’d heard about us. But whatever it was, I could guarantee it fell a long way short of the truth.

  “Besides, Tanya had a lot of friends,” he said. “We’d all have done the same thing. Given the chance.”

  I bit my tongue.

  “Look, David, even London approves,” he said. “Unofficially, of course. That’s why the NYPD were kept at arm’s length for so long. But there’s a limit to what they’ll turn a blind eye to. They were straining at the leash. You dump the worst horror show anyone’s ever seen in the middle of their patch and leave them looking like they can’t catch the perpetrator. The press are slaughtering them ten ways till Christmas. They’re humiliated.”

  “They’ll get over it,” I said, “or they’ll just frame someone. Some lowlife they’ve been trying to rid themselves of for years. It’s happened before. Whoever’s behind this probably did them a favor.”

  “They don’t see it like that. Seriously, we needed you out of there. Pronto. I was genuinely worried we’d left it too late.”

  “I left because I was ready. Nothing else. My only question is, why am I here? I should be back in London. It’s time to get back to work.”

  “It is. And that’s exactly why you’re here. Your next job is here.”

  “It can’t be. You never work the same country twice. It’s a rule. You know that.”

  “Technically, it’s a convention. But that doesn’t matter. The point is, you’re still off the books. Officially, you don’t exist. And that’s what’s important right now.”

  “Why?”

  Fothergill took a moment to reply. He licked his lips, and I saw his eyes track across to a point on the wall in the shadow of the radiator below the left-hand window. To a patch of paint that was slightly lighter than the rest. A recent repair. Around an inch and a half square. The kind of area a bullet could still make a mess of, even after passing through someone’s arm.

  Immediately, that second, I knew what was coming my way. Housecleaning. Again. The most distasteful task there is. And I realized something else at the same moment. That there was another difference between my aunt and me.

  It gives me no pleasure when my premonitions turn out to be right.

  None at all.

  TWO

  Back in the far-off days of basic training, I remember the various exercises we took part in always started with a full, formal briefing.

  In the early days of the course, the administrators made a point of giving us plenty of notice. They gave out printed timetables, and posted any amendments on the huge notice board that dominated the training school foyer. That way, if something went wrong with someone’s performance, the instructors knew the person’s underlying skills were to blame, rather than wondering if they’d just misunderstood their instructions. As time went on, though, things became less reliable. We’d find ourselves being dragged into a conference room at the end of a run or hauled out of bed in the middle of the night, when we were too tired to concentrate properly. We were given less time to absorb the information. And details that were always bang-on accurate at the start became increasingly vague and unreliable with each passing week.

  At the time I thought this was all done to boost our powers of initiative and self-reliance. It certainly did that. And whether this was an intended consequence or not, it taught us something else.

  That however bleak things look at the outset, there’s a pretty high chance they’re going to get a whole lot worse.

  Fothergill fetched some coffee, closed the door behind him, and told me how a man he’d known for ten years had tried to kill him.

  “So who is this guy?” I said.

  “His name’s Tony McIntyre,” he said. “He’s Scottish. A lieutenant commander, just like you. Five years’ less service, but a good man all the same. Or so I thought.”

  “You worked with him in the past?”

  “Four times. On four different continents. Plus another stint when we were instructors together. It’s funny how people’s paths keep crossing like that.”

  “And he was recently posted here?”

  “No. He was AWOL. Made it here under his own steam. Sought me out. Told me he’d gone off the rails—blamed some other people for it, of course—but said that he wanted to come clean
.”

  “Really? He just came out and told you that?”

  “Yes. You’ve got to understand something. I’ve been around a while. People hear about me. And they’re only human. Sometimes they slip. This wasn’t the first time I’d been asked to help someone get back on his feet.”

  “So what was it that tripped him up?”

  “Weapons. The urge to steal them. Then sell them. To all sorts of shady characters, he said. For large sums of money.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “Actually, it was worse than just weapons. He’d got his hands on something really filthy. A canister of some kind of poison gas. Awful stuff, apparently.”

  “Only one?”

  “That’s more than enough.”

  “Above the counter? Or below?”

  “What do you think?”

  “How did he come across it?”

  “Goodness knows. But he’d been in Afghanistan for more than two years. Have you ever been there?”

  “I can’t recall.”

  “Well, I’ve been. Twice. And I can tell you—it’s crazy there. Absolute insanity. I’m not surprised by anything that finds its way over there. Or back out again.”

  “So what was he planning to do with this stuff?”

  “Ha. Here’s where everything went pear-shaped. He told me he was scared of it. He’d found out what it can do. Realized it was too dangerous to put in the hands of random terrorists. So, he wanted some kind of a deal. He wanted me to broker one for him. Because of our history. Said I was the only person he could trust. He thought he could just hand in the gas and squeal on his buyers in return for immunity.”

  “And you went along with this? Were you smoking crack, at the time?”

  “Look, I liked him. I knew him. I thought I could trust him.”

  “But you found out the hard way?”

  “I saw through him. Do you know what he was trying to do?”

  “Let me guess. Sell the gas. Collect the money. Leave you to take the fall.”

  “Right, right, and right. Unfortunately.”

  “And?”

  “He realized that I was onto him. We both drew down. We both took a round. I got a new rug to hide the bloodstains. He got out of the building and vanished. London tore me a new one for my troubles. Then sent you, to dig us all out of the mire. Now that you’re the blue-eyed boy again.”

  “I doubt that’ll last—but anyway. Where’s the gas now?”

  “He told me he’d brought it with him, to Chicago. To sell. We think it’s still in the city somewhere. Only we don’t know where.”

  “Excellent. You can’t beat solid intelligence. And the guy? McIntyre?”

  “Better news, there. We have a firm lead on him. We know where he went to get patched up.”

  “Where?”

  “To a cosmetic surgery clinic, of all places.”

  “No chance. That’s too obvious. He wouldn’t go anywhere listed in the yellow pages. He’d find some other way. However badly hurt he was.”

  “No. The police recovered surgical instruments from the place. The blood matched the samples he left behind on my floor. He was definitely there. And because of the way they organize things for hygiene, we even know which doctor treated him.”

  “It’s got to be a setup. It’s got red herring written all over it.”

  “Normally, I’d agree. But we didn’t stumble on this clinic by chance. It’s part of a chain. Here and in Europe. Remember McIntyre blamed other people for turning him dirty? Well, one of them runs mercenaries out of Prague. A bloke called Gary Young. He’s ex–Royal Marines, just like McIntyre. We’ve been watching him for years. And he uses these clinics whenever one of his men needs attention, away from the public eye. He may even own a slice of them.”

  “I’m still not convinced.”

  “It flies, David. We’ve checked. It was definitely McIntyre’s blood. And based on what the police recovered from the place, we know he had surgery. That means his wounds were serious. So his options were limited. He couldn’t wander the city indefinitely, leaking everywhere. He’d have been spotted.”

  “OK. Maybe he was there. But how does that help?”

  “Our doctors say he’ll need follow-up treatment. He’ll have to come back. Probably tomorrow. Possibly the day after. London want you to be there. To lift him when he appears.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Why?”

  “One, he won’t show. Even if he risked it before, no way will he go to the same place twice. And two, even if he does appear, you don’t need me to nick him. The local plod’s already on board. They can pick him up.”

  “We can’t let the police any further into this, David. We have to close it down in-house.”

  “Why?”

  “Two reasons. First, there’s the gas. The bottom line is, it has to be recovered.”

  “I’m sure it does. But not by me. This has nothing to do with embassy or consulate security.”

  “McIntyre tried to kill me, remember.”

  “That’s a shame. And it’s something for Internal Security to sort out. Not me.”

  “These are London’s orders, David. I’m not calling the shots, here.”

  “Then you should have challenged them. Because whether it’s me you’re talking about or someone else, giving it to an individual is crazy. They should put a team on a job like this.”

  “For what it’s worth, I agree. I asked for a team, in fact. But London said no. They’re adamant. They want things taken care of discreetly. Too many cooks can cause a scene, and no civilians can hear anything about this. And no one from the U.S. authorities, either. One of our people has left lethal chemical agents lying around in our major ally’s second city, for goodness sake. And the prospective buyers may be here, too. Think of the consequences.”

  “Think of the consequences if the job goes wrong, because we’re shorthanded. This better not be a budget thing.”

  “I understand your concern, David. But you’re looking at things from the wrong angle. After New York, it’s fair to say you’re not flavor of the month, back home. Yes? So this is your chance to put that right. Get your career back on track. The situation’s serious. It’s on the verge of humiliating several senior people. Taking care of it will buy you a lot of forgiveness. Moaning about resources? That’ll do the opposite.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Something else to think about,” he said. “I’m still pretty well plugged in. Make this go away with the minimum of fuss, and I can put in a good word for you. Directly into some very influential ears.”

  “That’s an interesting angle,” I said, sensing the inevitable. “Suppose I give it a shot. Is there anyone in-house who could help? Specialists, to handle the chemicals, at least?”

  “Don’t worry about the gas. It’s completely safe. As long as it stays in its container.”

  “Sounds like a big if to me. And the second thing?”

  “London want a hard arrest. And you know those are always carried out solo.”

  A hard arrest. The kind that involves body bags rather than handcuffs. They’re usually reserved for known terrorists and hostage takers who somehow slip every other kind of net. But they’re also applied to our own people, gone bad. Cases like that were rare. Which was lucky, because carrying them out was never straightforward. They put you up against a highly motivated individual with the same background and training as yourself, but generally with an added dose of craziness. They’re not easy. And they’re not fun.

  “Hard?” I said. “Is that definite?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry. I triple-checked. But it shouldn’t be a problem for a guy like you, surely?”

  “I’ll need secondary confirmation, before I even consider it. I need to hear the words.”

  “Understood. I thought you’d say that. I’ve got a call already set up, with my control.”

  “And McIntyre’s mug shot. The most up-to-date we’ve got.”

/>   “Already prepared.”

  “Details of this gas. And whatever kind of container it’s kept in.”

  “I’ve got pictures of the canister. It’s fairly standard, apparently. But information on the gas itself is a bit thin on the ground. That might take a little longer.”

  “What about the doctor? Do we know his name? What he looks like?”

  “We do. He’s called Alvin Rollins. His picture’s all over the clinic’s Web site. I’ve printed you a copy. Anything else?”

  “A cell phone.”

  “You don’t have one?”

  “No.”

  “Well, we’ll have to put that right. I’m going to need regular updates from you, David, whenever you’re outside this building. I can’t help you if I don’t know where you are. Luckily I have a couple of spare handsets right here. Personally, I think staying close and tight is key. You can’t overestimate the importance of communication on an operation like this.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you posted. But on top of the phone, I’ll need a weapon. Something clean. The old one accidentally fell into the East River.”

  “We’ve got the usual to pick from, downstairs.”

  “I’m fine with a Beretta.”

  “That’s easy, then. I’ll get them sent up. Anything else? Or does that wrap things up?”

  “One other thing. Transport. I’ll need a car.”

  “I’ll call the motor pool. It’s over near O’Hare. They should have something available.”

  “Thanks. But I don’t think that’s going to work. I’ve got something fairly specific in mind. And I doubt it’s in our usual stable.”

  THREE

  Ten years is a key milestone in Royal Navy Intelligence. Reach it, and you get an extra week’s annual leave. Enhanced death in service benefits. And you find that all kinds of alternative career paths can start to open up. If you last that long. And you want them to.

  One of the most popular options is to become an IOR, or instructor on rotation. The accreditation process isn’t all that arduous, and once you’re certified, you keep one foot in the field and one in the classroom. It averages out to around an eighty/twenty split in terms of time throughout a whole year, and there are many advantages to this way of working. It adds some variety to your everyday life. Takes you away from the sharp end for a few weeks at a time, like another kind of paid vacation. And ensures that the new recruits are taught by people with up-to-date, real-world skills.