by Andrew Grant
“The road.”
“OK. I mean, who’s in front of you? In the Cadillac.”
He didn’t reply.
“You did follow it?” I said. “Just now. When it came flying out of here?”
“I did,” he said.
“And then you lost it, didn’t you?”
He didn’t reply.
“Didn’t you?” I said.
“What do you want me to do?” he said. “This tub’s no match for a Caddy. And whoever was behind the wheel was driving like a complete nutter. A psycho. No way could I keep up in this thing.”
“Did you see who it was?”
“One of the ambush party? If you’d done what I’d said, you could have been sitting safe and sound in Chicago all along. Had him come to you. Saved us both a lot of time and trouble.”
“No. He won’t be going anywhere near Chicago. Trust me.”
“Why not?”
“He’s too well trained.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because it was McIntyre, in that car. He was naked. Tied up. Gagged. Wounded. And he still got away from you.”
“It was Tony? Are you sure?”
“Certain.”
“Damn, he’s good. And he’s thrown a pretty big spanner in the works, hasn’t he? So. What now?”
“Just get yourself back down here. I’ve still got one guy left to talk to. Let’s see what he can give us.”
I ended the call and started work on the dead man’s pockets. They were completely empty, so I got up and hauled myself onto the loading dock one more time. Right away I saw that the first guy had moved again. About ten feet, this time. But now he was lying stock-still, facedown, with his arms above his head. His injured leg was stretched out limply behind him. A shiny red streak marked the way back to the last place I’d seen him. It started out a couple of inches across, and grew noticeably deeper and wider as it approached the spot where he’d come to rest. Getting that far had cost him a lot of blood, and the rate of loss was clearly accelerating. I checked his pulse. It was there, but faint, and he’d lost consciousness. I pulled the belt off his jeans, wrapped it around his thigh, and pulled it in tight. It wasn’t an elegant job. Probably too little, too late, but worth a try. I wasn’t worried about his long-term well-being, after all. Only about keeping him alive for another few minutes.
This guy’s pockets contained nothing, either, but I did notice one unusual thing when I was searching them. It was to do with his gun. The Browning was lying on the ground, away to the side, exactly where I’d kicked it earlier. But it didn’t look like the guy had been trying to retrieve it. He’d crawled far enough to reach it, but hadn’t gone in the right direction. The blood trail confirmed it. He’d dragged himself in a dead straight line from his starting point toward the office door. Back to where he’d started. Which suggested that something in there was more important to him than his weapon. I checked on his consciousness one more time, then went to find out what that could be.
The office was long and narrow. Maybe five feet by fifteen. There were three fluorescent tubes hanging from the ceiling. All were broken, so the space was only illuminated by the little light that could filter through the grimy internal window between it and the machine shop. There was enough to see that three high shelves ran the length of the room. They were metal, adjustable, and empty. A metal table was pressed against the concrete wall below them. That was the only piece of furniture in the place. Two wooden packing cases were sitting next to it, as if someone had been using them as chairs. Two more wooden boxes were lined up on its dented, scarred surface. And beneath it someone had shoved three clear garbage bags. Two were roughly crumpled up and empty, but the other was still around a quarter full with something multicolored. It looked like little S-shaped polystyrene peanuts.
The nearer wooden box was rectangular, around fifteen inches wide by twenty long. The lid was wedged in place, but not nailed down. I was curious to see what someone had been trying to pack away, so I wrestled it open with my fingertips and looked inside. And found a good candidate for what the unconscious guy had been crawling in there to fetch. An AK-74, with its skeleton stock still folded along the side. It was one of five that were peeping out from the polystyrene. Certainly a more effective weapon than the 9 mm he’d abandoned outside. If he’d got his hands on one in that confined space, dealing with him could have become a little tricky. Shooting him was turning out to have been an excellent decision.
The other box was the same height and width, but square. I figured that if the larger one contained assault rifles, this would hold ammunition. Or possibly grenades. Luckily it wasn’t too hard to find out. The lid was lying at an angle across the top, completely loose. So I removed it, and saw I could hardly have been more wrong. There was only one item inside the box. A cylinder. It was three inches in diameter. Twelve inches tall. The body was divided into two unequal sections, with three locked spring clips holding them together. The top was domed, with two mounting points for attaching carrying straps. Standard army-issue webbing would fit them. The whole thing was painted matte green—a familiar military color—and it was plain except for two symbols down near the base. They were picked out in yellow. There was a skull and crossbones, meaning poison. And a saber crossed with a test tube. The emblem of Porton Down. The British Army’s main chemical and biological laboratory. A place officially dedicated to defense research. But also where VX gas had happened to be invented. Among other things.
My phone started to ring while I was still standing, staring into the box. Fothergill’s number appeared on the screen. I took a moment to answer. I’d been unsure about one thing before, but now it was crystal clear. He could promise whatever he liked about safety. But there was no way I’d be touching that flask.
“I’m nearly there,” he said, when I finally picked up. “I’ll be parked in a couple of minutes. Then I’ll need you to wrap things up. Right away. We have to talk.”
“OK,” I said. “We can do that. But don’t go back to the factory. Come over here instead. I’ve got something for you.”
“What?”
“Richard, are you trying to spoil my surprise? I worked hard for this.”
“Cut it out. This is no time for games. You still in the place opposite?”
“Yes.”
“Where, exactly? How do I find you? I don’t want to be wandering around some filthy garbage pit for hours.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just back in through the open door. Then hop up onto the loading dock. Watch out for the guy who’s bleeding on it. Then come into the office. You’ll see the entrance.”
“Stay where you are, then. I’ll be there in two.”
It actually took Fothergill four minutes to reach me. He was moving slowly as he approached from the far side of the platform. His shoulders were hunched, and his face looked pale and spent. For the first time since I met him it looked like his years of service were finally taking their toll.
“Where is it, then?” he said. “This thing you want to show me?”
I nodded toward the box. He hesitated, then brushed past me and looked inside.
“Great,” he said. “Better get it in the car. You’ll have to do the carrying, though. Can’t do it with one arm.”
He turned back to me, and was halfway to the door when he stopped dead still.
“Wait a minute,” he said, pointing at the other box with his good hand. “What about that one? What’s in there?”
“Guns,” I said. “A handful of old AKs.”
“Oh. Damn. Guess we’re SOL after all, then.”
“Unless you were hoping for a little black market action, like your friend.”
“That’s not funny, David. Don’t even joke about it.”
“OK, then. Let’s be serious. Tell me—what were you hoping for?”
Fothergill sighed.
“More gas,” he said.
“How could there be more?” I said. “Those guys think they
’re on their way to buy more. From me. But that was a setup. I’m here. And now we’ve taken theirs. So think about it. They’re the ones who are out of luck.”
Fothergill didn’t answer.
“McIntyre’s our only problem, now,” I said. “He’s on the run again. But the job’s done, as far as finding the gas is concerned.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t. I just took a call from London. While I was driving back here. McIntyre’s canister? It was only half the consignment he brought over. He just held it back, to try to frame me. The other one, he’d already sold. To the same people. The ones you let drive away.”
“Are they sure? About the quantity?”
He nodded
“So where is it?” I said. “The other canister?”
“If we’d taken those people like I wanted to, we might have a chance of finding out,” he said.
I didn’t rise to that.
“If it’s not here, you can draw your own conclusion,” he said. “This was their laying-up position, obviously. Where was their forward base?”
“Chicago.”
“Right. At least we have to assume so, unless someone proves otherwise. And they’re heading there now. Toward three million defenseless people. So McIntyre escaping is a nuisance, yes. But nothing more. His whereabouts are the least of our worries right now.”
ELEVEN
Psychological profiling is used a lot in the navy.
Our bosses rely on it during selection. While you’re on probation. And, of course, in your regular operational reviews. Some of the guys try to get a head start by really getting to grips with it, and learning all the latest theories and technical terms. Personally, I can see a use for it, but I don’t go that far. I generally just divide people into two categories. Lean forward, who tend to be hands-on, seat-of-their-pants types who go out and make things happen. And laid back, who prefer to wait for all the information to emerge before they think, analyze, and respond.
Me—I’m a little of each.
But I guess I lean a little more one way than the other.
I pulled out the remaining bag of polystyrene peanuts and poured them carefully into the wooden box, like I was getting ready to send my grandmother’s best china to a distant city on the back of a mule. When even the tiniest chippings were used up Fothergill moved in with the lid, brandishing it like a shield. He laid it across the opening, made sure it wasn’t going to fall, and backed away. I held my breath and jammed it home with the heel of my hand. Then I picked the whole thing up, moved it to the back of his Ford, and secured it with a seat belt.
“You should get moving,” I said.
“What about the guns?” he said. “Better not leave them lying around.”
I stowed them in his trunk, then opened the driver’s door and held it wide for him.
“I know,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right behind you.”
“I do worry,” I said. “Driving around on your own with that stuff is a terrible idea. I should escort you.”
“David, you need to show some faith. I’ve been around a lot longer than you. I can move a box from one place to another without your help. And at this point, there is no higher priority than getting a jump on those guys. Leaving them to run around the Midwest with another canister of gas is not an option.”
I didn’t answer.
“Just go,” he said. “I’ll close this place down. And deal with the mess you made. Someone has to figure out what to do with the guy you shot, for a start.”
“Just leave him,” I said. “Let nature take its course.”
“That’s pretty callous, David.”
“Not really. Not compared to what they’ve got planned for their homeland.”
“That’s not our problem right now. We need to stay focused. I’m going to tidy up, dump the boxes at the office, and be outside the club before you know it. I’ll have your back. You can depend on that. What you need to worry about is getting there. Fast. You know their MO now. The main group won’t show up till after the advertised time. But they’ll try to drop their joker in early. Get there before him, and you’ve got it cracked.”
I’d covered less than three miles when Fothergill called again.
“What’s up?” I said. “Have they caught you already?”
“What?” he said. “No. Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve got good news. You can forget about the club. Head for the consulate. Meet me there. I’m going to show you why, after all these years, there’s still only one Richard Fothergill.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Meet me. I’ll show you.”
“No. Tell me.”
He didn’t respond.
“Has someone got a gun to your head?” I said. “If they have, just say the word consulate again. Anywhere in your next sentence. It’s safe. They won’t suspect. Then I’ll come back and get you.”
“There’s no gun to my head,” he said. “And I don’t need you to come back. Will you just listen? The immediate danger’s averted, thanks to me. You don’t need to go to the club after all.”
“Fothergill, I don’t like riddles. Tell me why, or I’m going anyway.”
“David, you’re impossible. OK. Here it is. I’ve found the rest of the gas.”
“You’re serious?”
“I am. Which means those guys don’t have it. There’s no need to ambush them.”
“Where was it?”
“In the office.”
“Where? I moved the Kalashnikovs. There was nothing else left.”
“There was. Two things. Right under our noses.”
“The packing cases.”
“Correct.”
“Amazing. I thought they were makeshift seats.”
“Me, too. At first.”
“So what made you look inside them?”
“I have my moments. I’ve played this game a pretty long time, you know. You don’t stay at the front of the pack as long as I’ve done without a damn good sixth sense. That’s why I didn’t want to leave when you did. I could feel something was about to break.”
“What was it?”
“The garbage bags. Under the table. Remember them? Two were empty. I suddenly thought, why? Where were the peanuts?”
“Nice.”
“I figured two bags, two boxes . . .”
“Bingo.”
“Exactly. But I didn’t think I’d hit the jackpot, right away. The first box was full of comms kit. Boring stuff. The canisters were in the second one. I pulled off the lid, and there they were. Thank you very much. Richard, you’re a genius.”
I didn’t reply.
“Getting them in the car wasn’t easy, I can tell you,” he said. “Should have asked you to come back, really, but I didn’t fancy hanging around the place.”
I was still thinking.
“David?” he said. “You still there?”
“I am,” I said. “But wait. Back up. Canisters? There was more than one?”
“What do you mean?”
“Go back to London’s message. They said McIntyre’s canister was half of the stolen consignment. Just now, when you got back from chasing him. Am I right?”
“Yes. So?”
“That means there should have been one more to find. A canister. Not two canisters.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. I guess you’re right. London must have been sketchy about the consignment size. You know what they’re like. The numbers thing hadn’t struck me. I was just thinking about avoiding the ambush.”
“That would be nice. But I can’t avoid it.”
“Of course you can. They don’t have any gas left. I’ve got it here, in my car.”
“We can’t be sure about that. The intel about the consignment size is clearly unreliable. There could be more.”
“I doubt it.”
“Can you rule it out?”
“No. But I think it does downgrade the threat. And remember, didn’t Young tell us these guys wanted the gas to use ba
ck home? You mentioned that just now. That’s what reminded me.”
“That was his theory, yes.”
“And I’m thinking that makes a lot more sense than them using it in some sort of random civilian attack on U.S. soil. What good would that do them? Maybe we’ve been too quick off the mark on this one, David. A little carried away. Time for a reality check, maybe?”
I didn’t reply.
“We need to refocus,” he said. “Stopping the supply of more gas has to be the priority now. That means finding McIntyre. He’ll be the first person they turn to. I know I told you to forget about him, but as of this minute he’s back on top of the heap. And after all, there is a certain piece of paper from London with his name on it that we still have to deal with. What do you think?”
“I’m thinking, the ambush goes ahead,” I said.
“No. There’s no need. We’ve both seen those other guys. We can circulate their descriptions. There’s plenty of time to pick them up later. Other people can do it, even. Finding McIntyre’s what counts, now.”
“Agreed. But the thing is, the ambush is key to both. It’s a two-for-one deal. Buy one, get one free week.”
“How so?”
“Where is McIntyre?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have any new leads come in?”
“No.”
“So, who might know? Who knew how to contact him before?”
Fothergill was silent.
“The guys on their way to the bar,” I said. “They’re the only ones. Otherwise we’ll just be driving around central America looking for a naked guy with a gag in his mouth.”
“I’ll speak to London,” Fothergill said. “Get him on the watch lists at airports and border controls. Stop him leaving the country.”
“That won’t help.”
“Wait. There’s something else. In the comms gear I found. A laptop and two hard drives. The guys at the consulate can rebuild them. They’re wizards at that kind of thing. They can decipher anything that was encoded. Restore anything that was deleted. Find anything that was hidden. We’re bound to get something on him that way. I’ll call ahead. Let them know to clear their desks.”