by Andrew Grant
“Oh. Was he dead?”
“Apparently so.”
“What was he doing? How come he was there?”
“It’s a long story. But forget him. The point is, I didn’t see where Tony went. And I need to know where else he could be. I guess we both do.”
Young didn’t answer.
“Wake up,” I said. “People are trying to kill your friend. I can’t help him if I don’t know where he is. The shed was a blank. So think. Where else would he have gone?”
“How many guys busted in?” he said. “Two?”
“You know him. What was his MO.? Back against the wall, what would he do?”
“ ’Cause if there were two guys, we’re screwed. Were there two?”
“Where would he run to?”
“I don’t know. But please. How many? You said two?”
“Two. Obviously. Else there’d have been more bloodstains.”
Young didn’t reply.
“Don’t go all coy on me, now,” I said. “And why are you so bothered with the head count?”
“Because you don’t know how these guys work,” he said. “They’re not like us. They don’t have budgets to worry about. I’m talking unlimited resources. What weapons were they carrying? Nothing cheap, right?”
“MP5s.”
“Right. New clothes?”
“Yes.”
“I could go on. And I can guarantee, they never just travel in pairs. There’d have been six of them, on a job like this. Minimum. You burned two, so that’s four more outside. Tony’s good, but there’s no way he’s getting past four guys, while he’s wounded. It’s time to face facts. They’ve got him.”
“OK. Supposing you’re right, where would they take him?”
“No idea.”
“Think.”
“No point. I have absolutely no idea.”
“And if he did somehow get past them? How could we find him?”
“No idea.”
“No? What do you have an idea about?”
Young scowled at me, but said nothing.
“Then wait there a minute,” I said. “And keep your mouth shut till you’ve got something useful to say.”
Fothergill answered the phone on the first ring. He was disappointed, but not exactly surprised. He’d never expected my time with Young to turn up anything of value. And he was less than encouraging when it came to sketching out our next steps.
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “Young is ex–Royal Marines, after all. So you better get yourself ready. London will be ordering another hard arrest. They’re still deliberating, but I can’t see another outcome. I’d put money on it coming through.”
I looked across at Young. He was skulking next to the compound fence, hands in his pockets, kicking his toes into the dusty ground and trying to avoid catching my eye. I could almost see the tidemarks on his clothes. He was up to his neck in McIntyre’s cesspool of a scheme. That’s what I’d put my money on.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Que sera, sera. Let’s just not drag things out, eh? McIntyre’s in the wind, and I’m not going to find him if I’m bogged down in this other mess.”
“Agreed,” he said. “I’ll confirm directly. In the meantime, take him somewhere safe and sit on him. And I’ll keep you posted if anything else breaks, this end.”
My first thought was that if I had to waste time on this guy, I might as well do it somewhere with room service. I was tempted to head up to Clark Street, grab us a cab, and stash him away at my hotel for as long as necessary. But the snag with that plan was, if Fothergill’s hunch played out and I did have to dispatch Young anytime soon, there’d be nowhere convenient to do it. I needed somewhere with more privacy. Somewhere with disposal facilities. And certainly somewhere with no housekeepers who could stumble across the body.
A picture of the tramp he’d just killed floated into my head. McIntyre’s building was close. I knew I’d spent too much time in it recently, but I couldn’t think of a more appropriate place to run down the clock on Young. And because I’d been outside, chasing after his red herring, I still needed to have a thorough look for any traces the police had missed.
Young seemed tense and distant as we made our way back along Fullerton. He stared at the ground as we walked and made no attempt to speak, which was fine by me. He grew more anxious the closer we got to the building, but didn’t break his silence till the moment we entered the apartment.
“When he left, he must have been in one hell of a hurry, yes?” he said.
I pushed past him and kept going toward the end of the corridor. I wanted to see the room where McIntyre had been waiting before going to answer the door.
“What I mean is, was he carrying anything?” he said. “McIntyre? Did he have time to stop and collect anything?”
Three items of furniture had been left in the living room. An air mattress, slashed, gaping, and discarded in the far corner. A mountaineering-style sleeping bag, dull and green, three feet from it on the floor. And a bentwood chair, battered but still standing, in the center of the room.
“No,” I said. “His hands were empty.”
“So if Tony wasn’t carrying the stuff when he ran, it might still be here,” he said, following me through the door. “We should look for it.”
“Do you think?”
“Wait. Something’s changed. The Maggot. It’s moved.”
Green Maggot was army slang for sleeping bag, as far as I could recall. But I wished he’d just speak in plain English.
“You sure?” I said.
“Certain,” he said. “I was here earlier. Just before you turned up. I looked in all the rooms. The bag was on the mattress. I guarantee it. Hobos must have got in. Trying to steal it, I guess.”
“Go and check,” I said, pulling back to the corridor. “See if there’s any other reason.”
Young walked all the way round the sleeping bag. Twice. Slowly. He pulled back the top layer and peered inside. Then he rolled the whole thing over, looked underneath, and called me over to see what he’d found.
“Run your finger over that,” he said, pointing to the join between two floorboards.
It wasn’t certain by eye, but you could feel that one of the boards was definitely proud of its neighbor. I traced the raised joint along and around, and found that it formed a rectangular section about two feet square.
“Open it,” I said, stepping backward again.
“Empty,” he said, after scrabbling at the edges of the trapdoor for a few seconds. “Oh, no, wait a minute. Come and look at this.”
Young was right. There was nothing hidden under the floor. But something had been roughly scratched on the underneath of the removable panel. Two numbers. One above the other, like a fraction. A four. And a five.
“They must have brought Tony back here,” Young said. “To pick up the stuff. He must have had it stashed.”
“If anyone even has him,” I said. “He could have come back on his own. After you’d conveniently made sure the place was deserted with all that shed bullshit.”
“No. If he was alone, he’d have just answered his phone. I called him enough times. Or he’d have texted me. Or got a new phone, if the old one was unserviceable.”
“I’m not convinced.”
“Think about it. This is the fourth place out of five. On the list that I wrote. No one else knew about that. The message was for me. It tells me he was back here, and he’s in trouble.”
“Maybe.”
“And think about where he wrote it. That was no accident. It was to show me the people who have him, have the stuff too. They won’t need him anymore. Which means next time your phone rings, it’ll be someone telling you where his body’s been found.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“And then we’re going to be reading about the worst civilian massacre of the twenty-first century, soon after. The worst to date, anyway. Unless we can stop them from taking the stuff out of the country.”
&nb
sp; “You think so?”
“You can count on it.”
“Then it’s time to stop talking, and start looking. Just in case you’re right. ’Cause we’re going to need more than a pair of numbers to tell us where to find them.”
We started in the main room, and as I worked my way back toward the corridor I tried to piece together what must have happened in there. Young believed McIntyre had been dragged back to collect the canister of gas. He’d taken quite a risk, leaving a message. I admired him for that. But the more I thought about it, the less it made sense to me.
“Young?” I said. “Tell me something. McIntyre’s message. Why didn’t he say who’d taken him?”
“No idea,” he said.
“Or how many of them? Their disposition? Or location?”
“He probably didn’t have time.”
“See, here’s the thing. If I was risking everything to leave a message, I’d make sure it said something really important. Like where the bad guys were holding me, or how you could find them.”
“It’s a miracle he left anything at all. And it’s churlish to start criticizing now.”
“I think there’s another reason for skipping the critical part. The person he left the message for already knew.”
Young was silent for a moment too long before replying.
“That’s crazy,” he said. “He was leaving the message for me.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Because you already know who these guys are. And you know how to contact them. Don’t you?”
“No.”
“OK, it’s time to turn your cards face up. All of them. I’m not looking to cause you any trouble over this. We can keep everything unofficial. But your friend’s life is on the line here. And, if you’re right, a load of innocent Africans, too.”
Young didn’t answer
“I’m going to find McIntyre,” I said. “That’s the job I’ve been given. One way or another, I’m going to do it. The only question is, will I be bringing back a person? Or a corpse? And here’s the thing. If it turns out a coffin’s needed, it’ll be down to you. And I’ll make sure it says so on his gravestone.”
Fothergill didn’t believe Young’s claims of innocence any more than I did when I called him. He was happy to know I had a phone number for the people who’d snatched McIntyre. But annoyingly, he didn’t see eye to eye about how we should use it.
“It’s easy,” I said. “I’ll get Young to call the buyers. He can set up a meeting. And I’ll go to it with him.”
“On what grounds?” Fothergill said. “Why would they see you?”
“To buy more of this gas.”
“There isn’t any more.”
“I know that. But they don’t.”
“What if they want a sample?”
“You know what the containers look like. You could get a mock-up made for me.”
“What if they rumble you?”
“How? What are they going to do? Open the lid and take a sniff”
“No. But still, it’s too risky.”
“Letting them take the stuff out of the country is what’s risky.”
“OK. Suppose you met these guys. What would you do?”
“Let them lead me to McIntyre. Retrieve the canister. And him too, if he’s still alive at that point.”
“How?”
“No idea. It’s too early to say. But I’ll find a way. I do this for a living, remember.”
“The plan’s too vague. Too complicated. There’s too much to go wrong.”
“Have you got a better idea?”
Fothergill didn’t reply.
“I’m telling Young to make the call,” I said.
“Not yet,” Fothergill said. “Please. Wait. Young’s got quite a past behind him. At least let me run some more background. See how far we can trust him. You can’t build a mission around untested intel. That would be suicide.”
I agreed, and this time I did head back to the hotel. Young was quieter and more preoccupied than before, not saying a word except to tell me what food he wanted brought up. His mood didn’t even improve when Fothergill finally called back, two hours later. The sting was on, but on one condition. We still had no backup, so the meeting with the buyers had to be at a specific bar. The Commissariat, on State and Rush. The owners were friendly, Fothergill said. And very discreet. No one would pay attention to what we were doing there. No one would remember seeing us. No questions would be asked if violence happened to break out. And whether it did or not, a CCTV recording of the whole proceedings could be on Fothergill’s desk inside the hour.
Young’s contact said he’d be able to find the Commissariat. He was suspicious to start with, but as soon as Young’s hints about the availability of additional merchandise had sunk in, he quickly softened up. We agreed to meet at a quarter after four. That only gave us two hours, but the guy was determined. He wouldn’t budge. The situation was far from ideal, but we were low on options. It would just have to do.
Fothergill picked us up from the hotel at two forty-five, as agreed. He was using the undercover taxi I’d borrowed from the police yesterday. It was a good choice, blending in perfectly with the traffic as he weaved his way through the city. Fothergill drove with one eye on Young, and the other on the rearview mirror. The route he took was crazy, dodging down an endless variety of alleyways and backstreets, avoiding the worst of the delays and making it hard for any potential tails to latch onto us. It was so effective we hardly stopped until we were within two blocks of the rendezvous. Then Fothergill rolled the car over to the curb. But instead of just letting us out he switched of the engine, pulled his Beretta out of his shoulder holster and began to rapidly check it over.
“Richard?” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Old superstition. Always have to check my weapon one last time. Can’t move, otherwise.”
“But why? Move where? You’re not coming in with us.”
“I have to. Who are these guys you’re meeting? They’re a completely unknown quantity. And they’re not the only threat,” he said, nodding discreetly at Young. “You need someone in there with you. Someone to watch your back.”
“You can watch our backs,” I said, handing him both guns, my wallet, and the hotel room key. “But you can’t come in. We can’t take weapons with us. And I don’t want to carry ID. They’re bound to search us. So if things go south, we’ll need to bail in a hurry. We need you outside, engine running, ready to get us out of Dodge.”
Young and I walked past the bar three times before we went inside. Once to identify the alternative exits, and twice to scope out the security. The main entrance was set at an angle at the corner of the two streets. A bloated guy in a dinner suit was standing by the door the first time we strolled by, but he’d moved to perch on a flimsy-looking bar stool in an alcove to the right by the time we returned. Two smaller, lighter guys in similar clothes were loitering just inside the building. One was pressing buttons on his cell phone. And neither of them seemed particularly alert, hardly turning a hair as we pushed past and made our way down a set of carpeted stairs to the main bar area.
We had forty-five minutes to kill before Young’s contacts were due to arrive, so we ordered a couple of beers and settled down to wait at a round table near the back of the room. There were seven other people in the place. Three were working. One guy was behind the bar, leaning listlessly against the wall, waiting in vain for someone else to want a drink. Another was halfheartedly clearing martini glasses from a large rectangular table in the center. A girl was jammed into a tiny DJ booth to our left, fiddling with an iPod. And the four customers—all men in their fifties—were huddled over some paperwork in a booth at the foot of the stairs.
Fifty minutes gradually ticked away. We sipped our Peronis. The busboy wandered back and dawdled over wiping the long table. The DJ churned out one dire eighties hit after another. The barman looked like he was asleep. The older guys wrapped up their meeting and left, all togethe
r. But no one new came into the bar. I began to feel like we were frozen in time. The gloomy lighting, the lack of movement, the outdated music—they made it feel like the world had forgotten we were there. I had to check my watch to make sure the hands were still moving. I saw them creep around another five minutes. And another. Then there was a pause between songs. And I finally heard footsteps on the stairs.
Four people entered the room. They were all fairly tall—three men between six one and six three, one woman around five nine—and they were wearing identical clothes. Black trainers, with no discernible branding. Stiff, new jeans. Dark blue chicago hoodies, pulled up high to conceal their faces, and baggy enough to give easy access to the obvious bulges on their hips.
The new arrivals fanned out, six feet from the stairs, and scanned the room. Then they strode straight up to our table, spreading out and penning us in against the wall.
“Gentlemen,” said the tallest of the group. “I apologize for our timekeeping. I fear our knowledge of this fair city, and its traffic issues in particular, is not as encyclopedic as I would wish it to be. But still, we are here now. As are you. So, shall we get down to business?”
“By all means,” Young said. “Let’s get started.”
“Excellent,” the guy said. “However, before we commence, a couple of precautions would be welcome. Would you mind accompanying my associates for a moment? Perhaps the privacy of the restrooms would be appropriate?”
The guys each took a step back, and the one who’d been speaking gestured for us to stand and follow them. I looked across at Young.
“It’s OK,” he said. “This is standard with these guys. Nothing to worry about. Best to just get it over with.”
I nodded, and squeezed out from behind the table. The woman was standing nearest to me so she took my arm and we started to walk. Young slid out from the other side and immediately overtook us, heading toward the toilets. The next guy in line quickly fell into step, grabbing Young’s shoulder and steering him left toward the ladies’ room. The woman guided me to the right, and into the men’s.
The restroom was small and basic. The walls and floor were covered with white tiles. There were three urinals. Three stalls. Two basins. And one hand dryer. The woman motioned for me to stand next to it while she checked that no one else was in the place. Then she shook the hood off her head and turned back to face me.