Die Twice

by Andrew Grant

  For a moment she stood in front of me, silently, without moving. Then she raised both hands, palms together, and pressed her fingers against me, just below my collarbone. She looked me in the eye and began to move her hands slowly down my body, crossing my chest, then my stomach. She reached my belt, paused, moved her hands apart slightly, and kept going till she reached my thighs. Then she stepped back, tipped her head to one side, and pursed her lips.

  “No,” she said. “That just doesn’t tell me what I need to know. Give me your shoes.”

  I leaned down and unzipped my boots.

  “Give them to me,” she said.

  I set them on the floor between us. She rolled her eyes, picked up the boots, examined the insides, then tossed them into the corner of the room.

  “Now, your shirt,” she said.

  I pulled my T-shirt over my head, paused, and dropped it in front of me. She ground it into the tiles with the sole of her foot, then kicked it aside.

  “Your pants,” she said.

  I unfastened my belt, let my jeans fall, and stepped out of them. She pulled the waistband closer with her toe and leaned down to grab them, leaving the back of her neck temporarily exposed. She was only in that position for a fraction of a second, but that would have been all I needed. Still, it wasn’t too big a sacrifice to let the chance go begging. Something told me her time was going to come. And soon.

  “Now, the rest,” she said, letting go of my jeans.

  I slipped my shorts off and held them out, level with her face. She stared back, then slowly and deliberately lowered her gaze.

  “It’s OK,” I said. “Go ahead. You can touch.”

  She let ten seconds pass, then slowly reached toward my groin.

  “I meant the underwear,” I said. “It was fresh on this morning.”

  She snorted, snatched the shorts, and crammed them into her pocket.

  “Come and see me later,” she said, opening the door. “You can get them back, then. If you’re still breathing.”

  The woman was sitting in my place when I came back out into the bar. The men were with her, plus a guy I hadn’t seen before, and all five had glasses of sparkling water lined up on the table in front of them. Someone had dragged over one extra chair. I took hold of another one and had started to move it when the man who’d spoken to us before looked up and caught my eye.

  “That’s very kind,” he said. “But we won’t be needing it.”

  “What about Young?” I said.

  “Who?”

  “The bloke I came here with.”

  “He doesn’t need it. He won’t be working with us after all.”

  “Why not?”

  The guy shrugged.

  “We’re very particular about who we accept as colleagues,” he said.

  “Where is he?” I said.

  “That’s an interesting question. I expect it depends on your religious outlook.”

  I started for the stairs, but changed tack after three steps and headed for the ladies’ room instead. None of the men moved from the table. The bartender looked the other way. The woman winked at me. I covered the ground quickly and pushed the door open with my foot. The layout inside was just like the men’s, except that two extra stalls took the place of the urinals. They filled in the space all the way to the far corner. My eye was drawn to the last one in line. It was the only one with a closed door. But that wasn’t what worried me. I was more concerned about the red stream snaking its way under the side wall and flowing along the joins in the floor tiles.

  Fresh blood.

  It was already halfway to the basins, and showed no signs of slowing down.

  The navigation exercise all those years ago showed that you can use a fake rendezvous to flush out your enemy. You can even use a real one.

  But it’s only once they’re in the open that you see what they’re truly capable of.

  EIGHT

  Ask a sane person to commit suicide, and the answer will be, “No.” Every time.

  That’s not to say people will never give their lives for a cause. Sometimes, things are worth dying for. For parents, their children. For soldiers, their comrades. For some people, a flag. Or a country. Or a concept, such as freedom or honor. For them, it can be a choice. And for others, it can just happen. Rational decision making doesn’t stand up well in the heat of the moment. Like for the Battle of Britain pilot my father remembered watching in a dogfight over London. Out of ammunition, desperate not to let the invaders through, he ploughed his Hurricane straight into the side of a Ju88. In a sense, his desperate plan worked. The bomber broke in half and went down in flames. But it was the British pilot’s last action, too. ’Cause he went down with the four Germans.

  Everyone in the navy knows that lives can be lost. At our level, we accept it. There’s no room for soft hearts in our line of work. It’s a different equation for the senior ranks, though. To them, it’s just another example of cost versus benefit. Operatives are expensive assets. Training takes time and money. Experience is worth even more. If you die while getting the job done, there’s a chance the result will be worth the sacrifice. But if you sense that you’re falling short, it’s better to pull the plug right away. There’s no merit in almost. The top brass always take the same view. He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day. Or more importantly, doesn’t have to be replaced at great expense, another day.

  That’s why you’ll never leave an operational briefing without one critical piece of information.

  A number to call for emergency exfiltration.

  I looked back at the door that led from the bar. No one came through after me. I didn’t realistically expect anyone to. If they’d wanted to try anything, their moment would have been in the men’s room when I was getting undressed. But still, I was disappointed. A bathroom floor is a poor place to take your last breath. Even Young didn’t deserve that. Part of me wanted to settle the score there and then, before his blood so much as had the chance to congeal.

  I moved into the adjacent stall, stood on the edge of the bowl, and looked over the dividing wall. Young’s body had fallen backward, blocking the door. His throat had been cut. The gash was so deep his neck was almost severed, and the broad crimson arcs that bridged all three walls were already turning brown. His legs were partly covered with a balled-up set of coveralls. The killer must have brought them to protect his clothes. I could see the handle of a butcher’s knife peeping out from beneath the splattered fabric. That meant there would be a pair of discarded gloves somewhere, too. There was no point searching for them, though. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who’d done the cutting. There were only two suspects. And anyway, as far as I was concerned, all five of the Myenese were in it together. They were equally guilty. And they would all have a price to pay.

  I stepped down from the toilet, moved over to the sinks, and pulled out my phone. Fothergill answered on the first ring and listened in silence until I’d given him the basic facts.

  “Is there a window in there?” he said. “Or are the stairs clear, at least? I can be outside in two minutes.”

  “Good,” I said. “Get over here. But not to pick me up. Young’s contacts will be leaving in a couple of minutes. I need you to follow them. We need to know where they go.”

  “What about you? What will you do?”

  “They might split up,” I said, describing each of them in detail. “If they do, stick with the tallest one. He did all the talking. It’s pretty clear he’s in charge.”

  “Is that safe?” he said. “Killing Young could just be a warning. What if they come after you?”

  “They won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Nothing ever works out that neatly, when I’m involved.”

  The barman was delivering a second round of sparkling water when I got back to the table. I saw that he’d included one for me, this time. I ignored it, took the fresh glass from the woman’s place, and sat down in the empty chair.

&n
bsp; “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “Help yourself.”

  “Not you. And not for the drink.”

  The main guy raised an eyebrow.

  “Not many people would thank us,” he said. “Not in these circumstances.”

  “Then there’s fresh air between their ears,” I said. “You just turned me into Captain Scarlet.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve made me indestructible. I’m the last link to the merchandise. If anything happens to me now, there’ll be no nice goodies for you. Which I’m guessing would make you very unhappy, given the distance you’ve traveled and the trouble you just went to.”

  “A most undesirable outcome, I agree. For both of us.”

  “Then let’s make sure we avoid it. Shall we say, tomorrow? Same time, same place?”

  “That would be satisfactory.”

  “The fee is unchanged.”

  “Of course.”

  “Excellent. And after that, would you be interested in further consignments? If any should find their way into my hands?”

  “The situation would be worth exploring, should it come to pass.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind. If you wish to keep that line open, though, there’s something I need to know.”

  “What would that be?”

  “About Young. One minute he’s a trusted supplier. The next he’s surplus to requirements. How did that happen?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “Actually, it’s very much my concern. Taking Young’s place on your payroll is one thing. Finding myself in his spot on the bathroom floor is entirely different. How can I avoid his mistake, if I don’t know what it was?”

  The guy took a sip of water before replying.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “You may find the episode illuminating. After all, your association with Mr. Young was itself young, I understand?”

  “Droll,” I said. “But accurate.”

  “How did your ill-fated partnership establish itself?”

  “Through a mutual friend. He set up the introduction. I work through word of mouth, just like you, I imagine. In our line of work, it pays not to advertise.”

  “And did this friend explain to you why Mr. Young was seeking a new connection?”

  “No.”

  “You weren’t curious?”

  “What’s the point? Ask no questions—hear no lies.”

  “A very laissez-faire attitude.”

  I shrugged.

  “Not really,” I said. “Just practical. Allegiances shift. People move on. All I care about is finding the opportunities.”

  “This particular opportunity came at a price,” he said. “Mr. Young’s previous partner became indisposed.”

  “An occupational hazard. And this indisposition—it was permanent, I take it?”

  “Not yet. But it soon will be.”

  “Good. Less competition for me. How did it come about?”

  “The idiot attempted to defraud me. Some of my people went to collect him, aiming to iron out our little misunderstanding. Something I have, happily, now accomplished. But before this could happen, Mr. Young interfered. His foolishness cost two of my men their lives.”

  “Sounds like we’re well rid of him, then. Both of us. And I can assure you there’ll be no such trouble with me. I keep my word. When I say I’ll do something, I do it. End of story. I deliver the goods, collect my payment, and stay out of your hair. Unless you decide to do business with me again.”

  The guy seemed to think for a moment, then nodded and got to his feet. His people stood up with him, a second later, like puppets on long strings.

  “That will be satisfactory,” he said. “Till tomorrow. For now, stay here. For fifteen minutes. You are being watched. And I think you’re developing a sense for what happens to those who cross me.”

  My phone rang fifteen seconds after the last of the group disappeared up the stairs. It was Fothergill.

  “Got them,” he said. “They’ve cleared the premises. They’re on the street. Heading for a couple of cars. Two Cadillacs. DTSs. They look new. Both dark blue. Parked at the side of the street. Probably rentals.”

  “I saw one when I arrived,” I said, getting to my feet. “It was already there.”

  The barman glanced up at me as I drew level with the table in the center of the room. He realized I’d noticed him and quickly looked away. I stopped moving.

  “If anyone asks, when did I leave?” I said.

  He didn’t reply.

  “When did I leave?” I said.

  “Oh, you’re asking me?” he said.

  “When did I leave?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “When?” I said, taking a step in his direction.

  “A few minutes after the others.”

  “How many minutes?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I looked at my watch when the other guys split. Again when you did. There was exactly a quarter of an hour in between.”

  “Good,” I said, holding up my phone, switching to camera mode and taking his picture. “I’m sending this to twelve of my friends. Any confusion about the timing, they’ll be paying you a visit. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

  The phone rang again. Fothergill was still outside.

  “They’re in the vehicles,” he said. “The tall guy and the woman in the first. The other three men in the second. OK, they’re pulling off. I’m staying with them. Heading north on Rush. Into State. They’re sticking together. So far, at least.”

  “Good,” I said. “Leave the line open this time. Keep me posted.”

  There were four cabs waiting outside the building when I left the club. I took the first one in line. Another ex-police Crown Vic, with a drooping spotlight still attached to the driver’s door. It was painted dark red and the bodywork was a little worse for wear, but otherwise it was cosmetically similar to the one Fothergill was using, a couple of blocks away.

  I told the driver to start off straight, and that I’d give him directions as we went along.

  “Going left on Schiller,” Fothergill said. “Right on Clark. Right on North Boulevard. Oh. Right again on Dearborn. They’re doubling back. Where are you? Can you cut across on Burton? Maybe jump in ahead of us?”

  We did as he suggested, but reached the junction just as the second Cadillac was passing through. Fothergill was holding his distance, two cars astern. I told the cabbie to hang back, join in behind him, then stay on his tail no matter what else happened.

  The Cadillacs stayed together through the next two intersections, drifting along innocuously in the steady flow of traffic. They took a left on Division Street, then went left again, taking us back onto State.

  “Hey,” the cabbie said. “What’s going on? We’re going in circles here.”

  I ignored him.

  The next junction was State and Goethe. The first Cadillac turned right, swerving at the last minute without using its signal. The second kept going straight, darting ahead of a delivery truck.

  “I’m on the leader,” Fothergill said, pausing for a moment to let a bicycle rickshaw through on the inside before accelerating away down the side street. “Good luck with your guy. Don’t let him get away.”

  The second Cadillac moved much faster without its partner. The traffic was building steadily but the driver was relentless, weaving around other vehicles and jumping four red lights in a row. My cabbie had real trouble keeping up, swearing almost continuously and glowering at me in the mirror on the odd occasion when we did stop moving.

  We finally came to a complete halt on Pearson, just up from the Hancock Center. The Cadillac swung over to the side of the street and the driver climbed out, tossing the keys at the feet of a smart, uniformed man in his late fifties.

  “See that?” the cabbie said. “Asshole. If I was him, that car would be getting parked in the lake.�
��

  The passengers emerged from the backseat before the startled valet had even moved. They pushed past him, caught up with the driver, and formed up under the entrance canopy of the Ritz-Carlton. None of them moved again for fully three minutes. They were in a triangle, one looking east, the others west. Then they turned and moved, one at a time, through a wide set of revolving doors.

  I paid the cabby and followed the guys from the Cadillac into the hotel. An elevator took me to the lobby level, and I emerged just in time to see them veering away from the long line of reception desks and heading for a second bank of elevators on the far side of an elaborate octagonal fountain. A giant sculpture of waterbirds cavorting in a broad white dish was set high in the center. There were two, rearing up with long necks and outstretched wings, ready to fly away. They could have been swans. But whatever the species, they made for excellent cover. The three guys were constantly scanning the area around them as they walked, but they had no idea I was watching. They paused when they reached the elevators, but still didn’t spot me. The driver hit the call button and the doors to the left-hand car slid open almost immediately. Then they stepped quickly inside, standing together in front of the entrance and blocking a gray-haired couple from following them.

  I watched as the digits on the floor indicator above their elevator counted steadily upward. They wound all the way to thirty, paused, and began a leisurely descent. I waited to make sure they didn’t stop again before the lobby, then made my way around to the nearest customer service desk. The clerk switched on a training-course smile as she saw me approach, but she seemed genuinely pleased when I told her I was interested in a room for the night.

  “It has to be something special,” I said. “My girlfriend’s in town for the first time. From Antwerp. I want to surprise her. So let’s think. The best views are up high, right? What have you got on the top floor, right now?”