Die Twice

by Andrew Grant

Fothergill grunted. Then he picked up half of his sandwich and moved to gaze out of the window, standing in the same spot he’d been in when I first saw him. I went over and stood next to him. The cars were sitting stationary on the bridges, but below them the city lights were starting to dance in the darkening water of the river. I watched them for a moment as the sun slowly sank, and decided that if I ever did end up in an office, it would need to have plenty of windows. And a view no less stunning than this one.

  “You know, I need to talk to those techies again,” Fothergill said, after he’d finished chewing on the last morsel of bread.

  “You don’t,” I said. “Leave them alone. You’ll only make them go slower.”

  “No. You don’t understand. If we’re going to trick McIntyre, like you suggest, we’ll need a hook. There could be something we can use on that laptop. Something weird, that the techies wouldn’t expect we’d need. I never told them to look for anything off-the-wall. So, I need to change their brief. Right now. Before they miss everything.”

  “I guess that wouldn’t hurt. But be careful how you phrase it. No one works slower than a disgruntled engineer.”

  “You’re right. Only, don’t worry. I’m the master of careful phrasing. But you know what? I won’t do it on the phone. That’s too impersonal. I’ll head down there and do it face-to-face. It’s much easier to fake sincerity, that way.”

  Normally when I’m left alone in someone’s office I take that as a cue to nose around the place. Old habits die hard. But in Fothergill’s case, he had everything set up so minimally that there wasn’t much to get my teeth into. There was nothing on the glass desk. Only newspapers on the coffee table. And if there was a safe anywhere, it was so well concealed I certainly couldn’t find it.

  Ten minutes later I was back at the window, watching the traffic making no progress around the city center. It made me think of the cabdriver who’d picked me up at Midway when I first arrived, three days ago. He’d told me there were two seasons in Chicago—winter, and road construction. I was beginning to understand what he meant.

  Fourteen floors below me I saw two cabs from rival companies—a red one and a yellow one—vying for position at an intersection. The sound-deadening glass they use in all consulate buildings made it impossible to tell if they were honking at each other, and I might have been too high up to hear anyway, even if I’d opened the window. I bet myself that they were, and was wondering how I could find out when a noise did reach my ears. A sound like an old church bell. It was coming from my pocket. I realized it was my phone. Or rather, the one I’d inherited from Young. A new text had arrived.

  u here yet?

  I was intrigued. I didn’t know where Young was supposed to be but figured there was only one way to find out.

  Where’s here? I texted back. What am I? A mind reader?

  chicago, arsehole, someone replied a minute later. Another Brit, judging by the insult.

  I’m in a truck. Problems en route! Had to hitch the last part of the way. Nearly there, though. ETA twenty minutes. Where are you?

  problems—tell me about it! but be careful! all safe houses blown. consulate not safe either. specially fothergill. avoid at all costs.

  Got that. Will avoid. Where are you? What’s happening?

  eta chicago 30 minutes. meeting our friends 2moro night. should be last time, then free & clear. need you to watch my back, if youre finally there.

  Will do. No problem. Where & when do you want to rendezvous?

  6.45 bench next to navy pier ferris wheel photo booth.

  Today or tomorrow?

  you today. friends tomorrow!

  Got that. Confirmed. Out.

  Fothergill returned five minutes after the final text had arrived. His face had changed, and I thought he was looking a little haggard again. Perhaps the technicians hadn’t been as easy to manipulate as he’d hoped.

  “That went well,” he said. “I put them in the picture. They got it easily enough. But finding what we need will widen the search parameters, apparently. That means it could take longer to turn anything up.”

  “That may not be a problem,” I said. “ ’Cause we just caught a break. In fact, it landed right in our laps.”

  “Really? What did?”

  “McIntyre just resurfaced. Via text, would you believe. Asking Young to meet him. In Chicago. In seventy-five minutes.”

  “Seriously? How do you know?”

  “Because I have Young’s phone.”

  “Oh my goodness, you do. I never replaced your last one.”

  “No, you didn’t. Very remiss. I was going to report you, only I thought, come on, the guy’s getting old, he’s banged up his arm . . .”

  “You know, David, I could get used to working with you. You’re all right. whatever those other people say. So where does Tony want to meet?”

  “Somewhere called Navy Pier.”

  “Hmm. Good choice. Very public.”

  “What is it? Literally a pier?”

  “Yes. It sticks out into Lake Michigan. But it’s bigger than what we’re used to in England. Big enough to land planes on.”

  “Yeah. Of course it is.”

  “No, seriously. The U.S. Navy used it for training in World War II. New pilots had to practice there before being deployed. In fact, did you see a plane hanging from the ceiling at Midway, the other day?”

  “I did. Some kind of Dauntless?”

  “Right. That came courtesy of a guy who needed a little more practice. They dragged it out of the water after the war was over.”

  “McIntyre mentioned a Ferris wheel?”

  “Yeah. The place is all built on, now. There’s a big complex full of restaurants—and a cinema. Then a space with a few fairground things and the wheel. It’s not as tall as the London Eye, but you can still see it for miles. Then there’s another building with a garage and a theater.”

  “So it’s not too hard to find this place?”

  “Not at all. You can’t miss it. And it’s lit up like a Christmas tree. You go left out of the building. Right on Illinois. Down the steps. Past the cinema. Then keep on going past the big cloverleaf-shaped building near the water.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a problem.”

  “It shouldn’t be one. And it’s only a few minutes’ walk, which means . . .”

  “Someone’s going to be meeting McIntyre tonight. Only it won’t be Young. It’ll be me.”

  “It’ll be both of us. Oh, no—wait. Seventy-five minutes? That makes the rendezvous, what—a quarter to seven?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn. There’s no way I can make it. I won’t be back.”

  “Where from? You’re going somewhere?”

  “Yes. I have to. Didn’t I tell you? The establishment officer’s been on to me. She’s not happy about keeping the gas containers here overnight. In fact, she downright refused. She’s got herself all frothed up, worrying about the contents.”

  “She might have a point, you know. They probably are too dangerous for the office. But what does she want you to do with them?”

  “There’s a place out near the carpool that can handle them. A hazardous materials depot. I have to take them out there. They probably won’t know what to do either—this stuff is pretty new, apparently—but at least they can lock the containers down properly. Keep everything controlled and stable.”

  “Maybe they can. But they should come and fetch them. You can’t transport them. Bringing them back from Gary was bad enough, but there wasn’t an alternative. Now there is. Don’t take them on your own. Not through the city. It’s not safe.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t be on my own. The depot’s sending one of their guys to ride shotgun. He’ll have special equipment to transport the flasks. And he’s a fully trained-up biochem expert. So it’ll be fine. I’ll be in good hands.”

  “I don’t know. That doesn’t sound so bad, I suppose. But where was this guy before? Tell me he’s just been flown in from somewhere, or I’
m not going to be happy.”

  “Sorry, David. No. He hasn’t been flown in. He’s been at the center all along.”

  “How come?”

  “He’s based there. He’s the best guy in his field in North America, apparently. New York is always trying to poach him, but he’s too much of a Cubs fan. Which some folks around here would tell you is evidence enough to question any claims of intelligence. But that’s another story.”

  “So Cubs fan or not, where was he this afternoon? We needed him in Gary.”

  “That would have been handy. I did ask, but the place is very specialized. You wouldn’t believe the rules of engagement. They only come out to play when someone has a confirmed contact. And it has to be something on their Dangerous list. Until today, we just had a rumor. Now we have the gas. And its working name. Spektra. And that changes everything.”

  “Bureaucrats. You’ve got to love them. And their rules. But still. Given your recent history, it’s probably a good thing your path won’t cross with McIntyre’s. That would be as dangerous a formula as the gas, I expect. Especially in public.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said, lifting his bandaged arm. “And with this albatross, he would hardly be able to miss me.”

  “It does stand out, a little,” I said, thinking about the impression the sling had first made on me.

  “It does. But back to business. I’m puzzled. How’s this all going to work? Tony knew Young. And he’s seen you before. He’s going to know that you’re not the right guy.”

  “If he sees me. I’m going to head down there now. There’ll be time. He hasn’t arrived in town yet. Then I’ll lay up near the rendezvous point and snatch him when he comes by for his initial recce.”

  “That’s a tricky procedure. You’ll have to hope the place isn’t too crowded. But it might work.”

  “It might. And if not, I’ll come up with something else. But here’s another thing to think about. When McIntyre texted, he said he was meeting friends again tomorrow night.”

  “Friends? Who are they?”

  “Must be the people from Gary. So either he doesn’t know they’re dead, in which case he’s going to get two nasty surprises, later. Or there are more of them than we thought. Which means more loose ends to tie up.”

  Fothergill sighed.

  “Like we don’t have enough flies in the ointment,” he said. “What do you think we should do? Go ahead with the hard arrest as soon as you get hold of McIntyre? Or cut him a little slack, and hope he leads us to more miscreants?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” I said. “Option B is tempting. I could always use more contact with miscreants.”

  “David, I’m being serious.”

  “OK. This is what I think. McIntyre is so damn slippery that if we can get him in the crosshairs, we should pull the trigger there and then. Bring that chapter to a close. And worry about these other guys—who may not even show up—when and if.”

  “I agree. That sounds like the way forward. Plus, if you could get hold of McIntyre’s phone, they might even get in touch to see where he is. If we’re very lucky.”

  “I think we’re due a little luck.”

  “You’re right. We are. But listen, here’s an idea. Talking about McIntyre’s phone, why don’t you give me the number he texted you from? I’ll get onto the network guys. Then we can at least get a GPS trace on him, in case he gets lost in the crowd tonight. Or, heaven forbid, slips the net again altogether.”

  FOURTEEN

  Toward the end of our training program the instructors really cranked up the pace.

  Instead of setting one exercise and giving us the chance to complete it before moving on to another, they took to handing out three or sometimes four different tasks at the same time. Everyone was feeling the added pressure, but no one was prepared to buckle beneath it. We’d come too far for that. So we just worked longer and longer hours, juggling ever-increasing volumes of written work, physical training, practical assessments, and library research. Pretty soon a full night’s sleep had become nothing more than a distant memory.

  We tried our hardest, but after a few weeks our scores had begun to suffer. Our marks had declined, but not to a disastrous extent. Or so we thought. Until one Friday afternoon when, after a particularly brutal week, we were summoned to the main conference room. It was warm in there, and more than a few eyes were beginning to close as we waited for the chief instructor to arrive. He came in after twenty anxious minutes, carrying a stack of paper. I was near the front, so I could see it was the work we’d been set the night before. The instructions had been shouted at us as we staggered into the locker rooms after a six-mile run. Write two thousand words about Wales. Must be completed by 10:00 P.M.

  The one thing on our minds at that time was getting to bed, so no one queried what was required of us. We just each found a space in the gym and started scribbling down anything we knew about the place. Geography. History. Politics. Sport. Anything to burn through the specified number of words. Then one of the guys gathered the papers up, took them to the office, and no one thought any more about it.

  “Hands up who’s read Moby-Dick,” the chief instructor said.

  A couple of people complied.

  “Hands up anyone who started it, but didn’t make it to the end,” he said.

  About three-quarters of the group raised a hand this time.

  “Well, you lot have certainly got no excuse,” he said. “For getting no marks. Zero. Nada. Nil points. To be clear, you’ve all failed. All of you. Now go back to your rooms and write four thousand words this time. About whales.”

  The moral of the story was clear. Doing the right work was even more important than doing the work right.

  And once you’re in the field, you find the same thing applies to place.

  Fothergill was right. McIntyre had chosen an excellent place to set up the meeting. But not for the textbook reason. You’d normally pick somewhere like a pier when you knew you were under surveillance, but that whoever was watching you was still gathering evidence. Your identity would already be known, so you wouldn’t mind being seen or photographed. You’d meet at the very far end, so you had the maximum warning if anyone tried to approach or apprehend you. And the physical inaccessibility, married to the ambient noise from the wind and water, would make it nearly impossible for anyone to eavesdrop. Even if they had access to the best electronic enhancements.

  Navy Pier didn’t work that way. It was just too big.

  There were two official entrances for pedestrians to use. One was to the right, outside, leading to where the leisure boats and cruise ships were tied up. The other was in the center, which brought you inside the main building. It looked like you could make your way through either of the restaurants at the front of the complex if you needed to, as well. A driveway for vehicles led away to the left, allowing access to the garage. An abundance of windows and polished surfaces made it easy to check for tails. There were obliging crowds everywhere to lose yourself in. And a virtually unlimited number of places to observe the rendezvous point from without any chance of being spotted in the process. I had to confess—the location stacked the odds hugely in McIntyre’s favor. He’d pulled out another rabbit, just like with the abandoned apartment. I wondered whether Young’s network was still helping him. And whether there was any mileage in tracking them down, if I found myself needing a real plan B.

  I reached the pier complex at a minute after six, which further restricted my options. It meant there wasn’t time to set up any of the usual tricks. Even the simplest were out of the question. Like one of my favorites, which involves a second person. It works because generally speaking, your target will be on the lookout for an individual. So if you show up as half of a couple, you can stand or sit in plain sight—arm in arm, or even cuddling and kissing—without attracting attention. Another trained operative is obviously preferable, but I’ve had to rope in civilians on more than one occasion. The kind that bill themselves as members of an eve
n older profession than mine, and charge for their time by the hour. But in this case, I had no idea where to look for one. And no chance to find out. So instead, I resorted to something you learn on your first field exercise. Something that’s surprisingly effective, but so basic that with luck McIntyre would never believe anyone it would try it for real.

  All you need is a newspaper. And something to make a hole.

  None of the shops in the main building could help me, but a guy from a souvenir kiosk pointed me toward a trio of vending machines to the side of the taxi rank. I bought a copy of that day’s Tribune, and headed for the area surrounding the Ferris wheel. The photo booth was to the left, against the parking garage’s outer wall. A line of benches ran back from it, at ninety degrees. There were seven. All were vacant, despite the hordes of people that were still swarming throughout the place. I sat at the edge of the second one and unfolded my paper, making it as large as possible. The keys to the Chrysler were still in my pocket so I took them out and selected the sharpest. I used the tip to make a tiny hole two-thirds of the way up the paper’s spine. Then I sat back, raised the Tribune like a shield, and settled down to wait.

  I never paid much attention to physics at school, but I’d learned one thing about light waves since then. If I put my eye near enough to the hole, I could see out. Yet anyone looking back at me would be hard-pressed to notice the pinprick, let alone anything on my side of the paper. There were only two things to be careful about. Holding the paper in a convincing position, like I was actually reading something. And keeping it still.

  The photo sellers were kept busy that night. A constant stream of people flowed past their booth—there was no other way to go once you left the Ferris wheel—and the group from every third or fourth gondola stopped and gathered around to gawp at their pictures. They formed quite a crowd. Maybe half of them handed over some money. But six forty-five came and went without anybody sitting on the bench. Or approaching it. Or even looking at it. I scanned every face in the vicinity. There were hundreds. It was impossible to say that McIntyre’s wasn’t one of them. But if he was there, I couldn’t pick him out.