Die Twice

by Andrew Grant

  “You could be. I’m not coming to the office.”

  “What do you mean? I thought we just agreed?”

  “You don’t need me there to lobby London. Let’s face it, I’d just make things worse. So I’m heading out to Gary, Indiana.”

  “You are? Why? It’s no place for sightseeing, you know.”

  “We need proper intelligence, if we’re going to get this wrapped up. The guy from the suite gave me everything he had, but that wasn’t a great deal. Not much more than how to get there and sketchy details of the outside of the building where they’re holding McIntyre. We need to know how to get in, for a start.”

  “David, you shouldn’t be doing this on your own. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’ll just need my Beretta back, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Fothergill took hold of the steering wheel, then let go again and sighed.

  “All right, you stubborn mule,” he said. “I’ll give you your gun. Just don’t ask me to drive you all the way out there.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “You’re more use sitting on the phone, rounding up reinforcements.”

  The only other thing I wanted Fothergill’s help with before he dropped me off was to pull strings at the motor pool. The disguised Crown Vic was unbeatable in Chicago, but as Fothergill had pointed out, it was no use in other states. I didn’t want to be hanging around in Indiana using a taxi with Illinois plates any more than he had. Little details like that stand out a mile to people who are naturally suspicious. Or who are trained to look for them. The British Army found that out the hard way, in Northern Ireland. And because I’d likely be spending plenty of time in the car, I wanted something that would give me a high degree of cover. Panel trucks are too obvious. So are minivans, especially when they have tinted windows. I needed something different. Something we’d developed with this particular kind of job in mind. A CURVE—a Covert Urban Reconnaissance VEhicle. Navy engineers take a station wagon—pretty much any sort you like, as long as it’s large enough—and conceal a ventilated compartment under a false tonneau cover where the luggage area would usually be. Snipers have their own version where the rear license plate folds down, giving them an aperture to fire through. With ours, the tailgate is made from a special type of plastic. It acts as a one-way mirror so that we can see out across the full width of the car. Some of the newer ones have built-in cameras for recording, or enabling remote surveillance. But whether video equipment is fitted or not, CURVEs are hard to get hold of. Most consulates only have one. And because they’re converted to local specifications, the mechanics tend to be a little touchy about anyone using them.

  Fothergill came up trumps, and a disgruntled consulate technical officer met me outside the Tribune Tower to hand over the car. It was a modified Chrysler 300C with hemi badges, black metallic paint, and huge chrome wheels. Not the most discreet vehicle I’d ever seen, but he assured me it would blend in, where I was going. It had taken him an hour and a half to get there, which meant I’d had a chance to eat and stock up on Starbucks stakeout specials—coffee blended strong and served in a small cup. That was essential if I was going to be up all night and still be comfortable. Not even CURVEs have bathrooms.

  The built-in satellite navigation guided me as if I were heading to Midway Airport for the third time in three days. Then it changed its mind and sent me toward the Indiana Skyway instead. That sounded exciting, but it turned out to just be a large bridge that led to another freeway. The road itself was completely ordinary, but the view to the left was like a scene from some industrialized version of hell. I passed major railroad junctions. A nuclear power station. Chemical works, with miles of complex elevated pipe work spewing out dense clouds of evil-looking steam. Refineries, shooting jets of burning gas high into the darkening sky. There was no respite, anywhere. Any one of the places could trigger a major environmental catastrophe. Or provide the ingredients for one to be created somewhere else. It was a dirty-bomber’s paradise. And somewhere in the middle of it I had to find a bunch of murderous kidnappers armed with biological weapons. I just hoped London’s reluctance to involve the U.S. authorities wouldn’t end up biting thousands of people in the backside.

  I came to the junction the guy from the Vivaldi Suite had described after forty minutes, just as he’d told me to expect. The off-ramp dropped down sharply to the right, then swung around and doubled back under the highway. I followed it through to the other side and continued toward a line of warehouses. They were a quarter of a mile away, built of brick, and as I drew nearer I could see they were in bad shape. Most of their windows were broken and large patches of roof tiles were missing. Their perimeter fences were swathed with razor wire, stranding the half-dozen burned-out vehicles that had been left behind on the wrong side.

  A patch of waste ground two hundred feet wide separated the derelict buildings from a line of newer ones that were still in use. Small manufacturing units I’d say, judging by the shape and the materials used to construct them. But I wasn’t too interested in what they made. Just that people were there. People with cars I could park next to. Because the place I needed to watch was on the next street.

  I wanted to get a sense of the place before stopping the car, but couldn’t risk more than one drive-by. Even if the man and woman who’d left the Commissariat together were there without reinforcements, they’d be insane not to keep a lookout. And there probably would be more of them to contend with, somewhere inside. Fortunately, though, the street was well lit. That made the building easy to observe. It was a hundred and twenty yards long. The roof was a single, continuous span, but below that the structure was divided into two sections. The left-hand part, two-thirds of the total width, was built of unfinished cinder block. There was a tall roll-up door at each end, big enough for medium-sized trucks to drive through. The right-hand section was made of brick. It had two stories, with evenly spaced, barred windows and a dark green personnel door in the center. The side walls at both ends were blank. The rear was completely obscured by a twenty-foot fence, topped with razor wire. There was no way to determine the number of inhabitants. But on a positive note—no sign of surveillance cameras, either.

  I looped around past the disused warehouses, found my way back to the line of factories, and began looking for a suitable place to position the car. Several spaces were available on the street side of the parking lot, so I picked one at the far end, next to a pair of old, rusting flatbed trucks. It was pushing 10:00 P.M.—a little late for making deliveries—and I figured there was a good chance they’d be there for the rest of the night. That would be useful. A vehicle is always less conspicuous when it’s not on its own. That just left me with the problem of sliding into the back without being spotted. Normally, you’d stop a couple of miles from your target, climb in through the tailgate, and have someone else drive you the rest of the way. I didn’t have that luxury, so I had to switch to plan B: recline my seat as far as it would go, drop the backseat to leave a narrow triangle of space, and worm my way through into the rear compartment.

  The amount of space in the observation area was limited, but if you were on your own, and you didn’t wriggle around too much, it was tolerably comfortable. The floor was well padded, the side walls were cushioned, and the full-width view from the bottom of the tailgate took away any sense of confinement. And if I hadn’t been alone—if I’d been with, say, Tanya—being confined could even have been a major benefit. But I knew that could never happen, now, so I pushed the thought aside and tuned back to the job in hand.

  The first area to focus on was the space surrounding the building. I wanted to be sure no one unfriendly was on the loose, in a position to spot me. Once I was satisfied I unclipped the binoculars from their mounting in the equipment bin and studied the front of the place in more detail. That revealed nothing new or significant, so I settled down into the main grind of the surveillance. Waiting for someone to move. In, or out. I needed a picture of how many people I was contending with. What kind
of vehicles they used. What kind of weapons they carried. What kind of routine they followed on entry and exit. And what kind of loopholes they’d left for me to exploit.

  Forty minutes passed without anything special to report, then my phone rang. It was Fothergill. He was still at his desk in the consulate.

  “You’re not going to like this,” he said. “But London still aren’t willing to send anyone to help.”

  “Why not?” I said. “You told me you could swing this.”

  “I thought I could. I thought it was a stitched-on certainty. But there’s something fishy going on. Something someone’s not telling me.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a little awkward, actually. But I was wondering, exactly how many people have you upset over there?”

  “You’re blaming me?”

  “Not blaming. No. Nothing like that, David. I’m just trying to make sense of this. They’ve never denied a request as watertight as this one, before.”

  “Then find another way to convince them.”

  “I’ve tried everything. And talked to everyone I can get hold of. I’m not a magician, you know. I’m sorry.”

  “I am, too. ’Cause that’s going to make things a whole lot harder.”

  “No. Not harder. Impossible. Be realistic. It’s time to rethink this. Get yourself back to Chicago. Get some sleep. Start again tomorrow.”

  “No. We’ll be shorthanded, but that’s no reason to walk away. We can work around it.”

  “David, you’re pushing yourself too hard. You’ve had a hell of a day. Get back to your hotel. Rest. We can hook up in the morning. At the office. Get breakfast. Pull an alternative plan together then.”

  I took a moment to think.

  “Have you picked up any word on McIntyre?” I said. “Any new ideas about where he might be?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Or the gas they took?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Then there’s no alternative plan to make. I’ll stay here. We’ll carry on as agreed.”

  “That’s crazy. You can’t do this on your own.”

  I took another moment.

  “We’ll need another vehicle,” I said. “One with Indiana plates. Could you get hold of something?”

  “I should think so,” he said. “If it’s important. What kind?”

  “Nothing too fancy. A regular sedan. Or a pickup. Anything like that would be fine.”

  “When?”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “OK. Leave it with me. Where do you want it delivered?”

  “I don’t. I want you to drive over here in it. I’ll text you the GPS coordinates.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “So you don’t attract attention when you get here.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Why do you want me there at all?”

  “To take a spell watching this place. London won’t send anyone else, and I’ll be tired by morning. I’ll need some rest, ready for later on.”

  “Is it even worth watching it? Are you sure anyone’s even there? Have you seen anyone?”

  “No. Not yet. But that’s going to change. By three P.M. tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Why?”

  “Remember the guys you were following? They were heading this way. The only lead we have says they’re here. And by four fif-teen tomorrow, they need to be back at the Commissariat.”

  “Why?”

  “To meet me. To buy the gas we told them I had.”

  “If we know where they’re going, why not just snatch them up there? At the club? Why waste time making me travel to Gary, Indiana?”

  “Because we don’t want to pick them up.”

  “We don’t?”

  “No. Not yet. We just want them out of the way. So we can have a nosey round inside the building. Maybe lay our hands on our missing friend. Maybe his canister. Maybe both. Or at least find out more about what’s going on.”

  “But hold on a minute. Wait. The rendezvous with you at the Commissariat isn’t going to happen. The missing guys won’t show.”

  “They will.”

  “They won’t. Not once they hear about the Ritz-Carlton bloodbath.”

  “They will. Think about it. If they don’t realize the events are connected, they’ll show up with a sack full of cash. If they do join the dots, they’ll break out a fresh carving knife and invite me into the women’s bathroom. Either way, they’ll be at the club tomorrow afternoon.”

  Fothergill didn’t reply.

  “Have you got a better idea?” I said.

  He didn’t respond.

  “Something more than just hoping for divine inspiration over coffee and waffles?”

  He remained silent.

  “Seven o’clock sound about right?” I said.

  “Make it eight,” he said. “Talking about waffles, I’m not leaving before I eat. I spent enough years doing that.”

  “Eight it is, then. Bring coffee for me. And one other thing. Could you get your hands on a frequency grabber, as well?”

  “Probably. I suppose. What for? Are we planning a hijack?”

  “No. Getting into the building.”

  “Then why do we need a grabber? Wouldn’t a key be more useful? Or a crowbar? Or maybe a brick to throw through a window? Wouldn’t that be more your style?”

  “Hey. whatever gets the job done. And this place has roll-up doors. No handles on the outside. So, I’m guessing they have wireless openers. Spoof the signal, and in we go. No forced entry. No huge racket. No worried civvies swarming around, poking their noses in. Unless you want to stay outside and deal with them?”

  “Members of the general public?” he said, after a moment’s pause. “No thanks. Count me out of that. I’ll get the grabber. But it’ll take me a while to finesse the quartermaster. Shall we make it eight thirty, instead?”

  “Yeah, you take your time to finesse the QM,” I said. “And there’s me, thinking waffles take a while to cook.”

  I’d never been to Indiana before, but when Fothergill hung up the phone he left me in a state I was all too familiar with. One I’ve been in hundreds of times over the years. Suspended animation. The target building lay in front of me, almost close enough to touch, but there was nothing tangible to bridge the hours between now and morning. Nothing at all, aside from waiting and watching. Two of the most common activities in my line of work. If the circumstances were right, they weren’t too great a trial. And things were pretty reasonable that night. I started with the same five questions I always ask myself. Am I in danger? Am I hungry? Thirsty? Too hot? Or too cold? The answer to all of them was no, so the only potential problem was boredom. And that should never be an issue, either. Because whatever kind of job you’re on, you can always find plenty to think about.

  Fothergill called to check in with me at just after eight, by which time we figured he was only about twenty minutes away. We stayed on the phone till he arrived, me confirming that no one had come or gone during the night, him confirming that he had the coffee and the frequency grabber. Other than that I just talked him through the directions, and endured the running commentary he kept up on all the unsavory aspects of the area. He was still reeling off ideas for reforming the droves of local vandals and graffiti artists when I saw him pull into the parking lot. He was driving a Ford Edge—a kind of small SUV they don’t sell in England. It was silver, with a large dent in the driver’s door. There were still plenty of spaces to pick from, so he backed into a slot on the far side of the truck to my left. I gave it another ten minutes so that no one would connect my departure with his arrival, then told him to get out, fiddle with something in his trunk, and keep an eye open for me while I wriggled my way back into the driver’s seat.

  We sketched out the day between us and agreed to split the time into blocks of four hours, with fifteen-minute overlaps. Fothergill didn’t object to covering the next shift, which was lucky since I was already on the road, but I was well pa
st the ruined warehouses before I realized I’d forgotten the most important thing. To collect my coffee from him. After that I couldn’t shake the craving for caffeine, so I headed back to the highway. I remembered passing a diner on my way over last night. It was about fifteen minutes to the west so I retraced my steps until I found the correct turnoff. I’d missed breakfast so I ordered something more substantial than usual. A cappuccino. Extra large. With two extra shots to counteract the diluting effect of the milk.

  I’d spent more than enough time cooped up recently so I stayed in the diner and drank the coffee standing at the counter. I glanced at a copy of a morning paper that someone had left there, then strolled back to the car. I looked around as I walked. The parking lot was well screened from the road. No one would be able to see I was there. There were exits in both directions. It wasn’t too far from the industrial unit in case I got word from Fothergill that something had kicked off and he needed me back there in a hurry. And I could recline my seat, lie back, and be effectively invisible. All things considered, it was as good a place as any to grab forty winks.

  Sleep came to me quickly, but it was snatched away again just as fast. The peace was shattered by compressed air blasting out of a truck’s braking system, somewhere very close to my head. I woke with a start and checked my watch. It was dead on noon. I’d been asleep for two and a half hours. Not long by anyone’s standards. I was tempted to shut my eyes again, but I knew there was no point. I only had a quarter of an hour before I’d need to wake up anyway, to get back in time to relieve Fothergill. I dozed uneasily for another five minutes, then forced myself to sit up and take stock. The thought of another cappuccino was very appealing. I was starting to get hungry, too. But in the end I decided against dodging back into the diner. The smarter option was just to get on the road right away. Arriving anywhere at a round half hour always seems contrived and suspicious to me.

  I tried to get hold of Fothergill to let him know I’d be there early, but each time I called I was diverted to his voice mail. He was still on the phone when I pulled up opposite him, at twelve seventeen. The moment he saw me he dropped his other conversation and called me straight back. He spoke very slowly and made a real point of telling me just how little had happened, describing every mundane and irrelevant aspect in exaggerated detail. And while he didn’t say it in words, his tone made it clear he thought we were wasting our time. I was starting to worry he was right. Then movement caught my eye. From across the street. The left-hand roll-up door was beginning to open.