Even dt-1

by Andrew Grant

  “Want to start this conversation again?” Lavine said.

  “One,” Taylor said. “One team. Six people.”

  “Why fire them?” I said.

  “There was a complaint from the client.”

  “About what?” I said.

  “An allegation of inappropriate treatment of civilians.”

  “Expand on that,” Lavine said.

  “The guys were working at a hospital. In Iraq. Top team. Flagship contract. One night, three teenagers were brought in. Gunshot wounds. Took the rounds when their car-which they’d stolen-tried to run a roadblock. A U.S. Marine got hurt in the process. Story is, my guys heard about it, came on the ward, and tried to set things straight right there.”

  “But you don’t believe that,” Lavine said.

  “No. My guys are professionals. And they’re on good money. They wouldn’t put all that on the line over some marine they’d never met.”

  “More likely to do it over someone they did know,” I said. “You lost a couple of guys recently, didn’t you? The ones Redford and Mansell were brought in to replace.”

  “First thing I thought of, myself. But no. We’ve got investigators on the ground. They took a real good look, and it didn’t fly.”

  “So why fire them?” I said.

  “The client insisted. Lose the guys, or lose the contract.”

  “So you chose the contract,” Lavine said. “That’s cold.”

  “Not really. What we’re doing over there is more important than the short-term welfare of a handful of individual personnel.”

  “Why not move them to another contract?” I said.

  “It doesn’t work that way. We’re not a typical operator.”

  “Meaning?” Lavine said.

  “We’re there for principle, not profit. Our goal is the long-term advancement of the region, not the maximum percentage. We’re trying to give something back to a people who’ve been hit pretty hard, you know? Which means we only take on certain kinds of contracts. Ones that will benefit the local population as well as ourselves. Things like hospital security. Mine clearance. Ammo disposal. Prisoner transport.”

  “So?” I said.

  “To win that kind of business, your reputation is everything. There’s no room for anyone with the slightest question mark over them.”

  “Even if they haven’t actually done anything wrong?” I said.

  “Look, it’s not like we just cut these guys loose. We gave them three months’ money. And there’s plenty of other work for them, over there. They’ll get other jobs if they want them.”

  “Three months’ money?” Weston said. “What’s that in dollars?”

  “Ballpark? Somewhere between $40K and $60K each. Can’t remember the exact package all our guys are on.”

  “Big numbers,” Weston said.

  “Above average, yes. But that’s what we’re about. Above-average people, above-average risks, above-average rewards.”

  “The team you let go,” Lavine said. “Who actually fired them?”

  “You mean who sat in the room and gave them the bad news? Me.”

  “Who else knew?” Lavine said.

  “A couple of people in HR. Another couple in operations. Why?”

  “We’ll need their names,” Lavine said. “And a list of people with access to your payroll system.”

  “What’s that-”

  “Excuse me a minute, guys,” I said. “I need to use your bathroom. No need to call anyone. I saw it on our way in.”

  No one was speaking when I came back. Lavine had moved to the far side of the wolframite globe. Tanya glowered at me, as if she were annoyed I’d left the room. Taylor was standing with his back to the others, staring blankly out of the window. He looked pale. In his place at the table was a line of four-by-six photographs. If he was telling the truth, the last time he’d seen the people in those pictures, they’d just finished being his employees. And they’d still been alive.

  “He was lying,” Lavine said, back in the car. “He knew something. You can forget all that friend-of-the-people bullshit. I mean, please.”

  “It’s about the money,” Weston said. “Always the same.”

  “It’s not about the money,” I said. “I agree with Tanya. It’s about the hospital. Something happened over there. Someone did something. Or saw something. We just have to figure out who. Or what.”

  “How?” Tanya said. “Asking Taylor didn’t do much good.”

  “We can start with this,” I said, taking a CD out of my jacket pocket.

  “What is it?” Lavine said.

  “Debut album from a new Icelandic band,” I said. “Bjork’s brother-in-law. Played the Bowery Ballroom the other night. Heard of them?”

  “No.”

  “Go ahead. Put it on the stereo. It’ll help us concentrate.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Well, you’re probably right. It might not sound too good. Because it’s not really music. It’s actually Tungsten’s phone bill. Brand-new, fresh out of the envelope.”

  “On a CD?”

  “Of course. Itemized corporate phone bills always come on CD. Unless they want twenty boxes of paper every month.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “The phone company, would be my guess.”

  “I mean, how come you’ve got it?”

  “Use your imagination.”

  “So you didn’t really need the bathroom, back there,” Tanya said.

  “You stole it?” Lavine said.

  “That makes it compromised,” Weston said. “We can’t use it.”

  “You can’t,” I said. “But we can. Tanya, could you get some people to take a look?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Drop me at the consulate. I’ll get them straight on it.”

  “What’s it going to give us?” Lavine said.

  “Who knows?” I said. “Maybe everything. Maybe nothing. We’ll let you know in a couple of hours.”

  “Worth a try, I suppose,” Weston said. “Call us when you’re done. Meantime, we’ll head back. Check on the other hares we’ve got running.”

  “You can drop me at a hotel on the way,” I said. “I’ll need a room, now that I’m staying a while.”

  “No problem,” Weston said. “Which one? Same as last night?”

  “No,” I said. “I fancy a change. My favorite room’s not available in that place.”

  “Want us to have a word?” Lavine said. “When we ask, rooms get made available.”

  “Wouldn’t work this time,” I said. “They’re not done repairing it after the bureau’s last visit.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  A few years ago I remember there was a craze for “magic pictures.”

  They were really just psychedelic blotches that people would stare at for hours, willing their eyes to somehow make coherent images out of the brightly colored speckles. Intelligence analysts wouldn’t admit it, but the bulk of their everyday work is very similar. It all hinges on the same skill. Identifying hidden patterns. Only they’re not trying to conjure people’s faces and mountain ranges out of paint splatter. They’re looking for bomb plots and assassination attempts in financial transactions. Currency transfers. Phone calls. E-mail traffic. Internet searches. Passenger manifests. Freight receipts. University registrations. Job applications. Tax returns. Red-flagged purchases. Even old-fashioned letters and faxes.

  It’s a similar story for us, in the field. Only we have less material to work with.

  Less support.

  And less time to join the dots.

  The first guy was waiting near the crosswalk, half hidden behind a street vendor’s refreshment stand. He wasn’t buying anything. Or eating anything. Or reading anything. He was just waiting, watching the traffic. And occasionally glancing across at the disused store, fifteen yards away. That’s where the second guy was, prowling up and down, keeping track of the cars’ reflections in the blank glass.

  The lights changed, but neithe
r guy made a move toward my side of the road. The lights changed again, and a BMW 5 Series approached. A woman was driving, on her own. The first guy stiffened. The car drew nearer. The guy’s weight shifted forward, and he took half a step toward the street. Then he suddenly relaxed and melted back away from the curb. The car cruised past and I saw there was a baby in a child’s seat in the back. It was fast asleep.

  The lights went through three more cycles and the first guy remained like a statue until another car caught his attention. It was an Audi A6. Another woman was driving. Again, she was on her own. She picked up a little speed, trying to get through the intersection without having to stop when he sprang out into her path. She hit the brakes. The tires screamed. The car’s nose pitched down as if it were trying to burrow into the asphalt. The front fender hit the guy below the knees, flipping him into the air. He came down headfirst onto the hood, stuck to the shiny metal for a moment, then slithered forward and tumbled limply into the gutter.

  The driver jumped out and raced to the front of the car. The vendor ran to join her. The people who’d been waiting to cross the street quickly gathered round, anxious for a glimpse of blood. And beyond all of them, the second guy peeled away from the store window and casually drifted across the sidewalk.

  I crossed the street, heading for the back of the car. The second guy didn’t see me. He was too focused on the crowd. He reached the open driver’s door without anyone noticing him. He reached inside. The woman’s briefcase and purse were lying on the floorboard, on the passenger’s side, where they’d fallen. The guy stretched across, hooked his fingers through the handles, and smoothly backed out of the car. It had taken him less than two seconds, and no one else had seen what he was doing.

  I let him get clear of the trunk before hitting him. I didn’t want him to land on the car, or make any noise when he fell. My fist made a good clean contact and he went down like a stone, the side of his face banging against the base of a mailbox. I quickly checked him over. He was breathing, but out cold.

  The woman’s purse had rolled a few feet away across the sidewalk so I retrieved it, scooped up her briefcase, and tossed both bags back into the car. I took the keys from the ignition and found the button to lock the doors. Then I dropped my shoulder and waded into the gawking crowd.

  “Let me through,” I said. “I’m a medic. Out of the way.”

  “Don’t touch him, man,” one of the onlookers said. “He’ll sue you.”

  “He won’t,” I said.

  “Is he dead?” the driver said. “Have I killed him? I didn’t see him. He came out of nowhere. Just stepped out…”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s not hurt at all. Not yet, anyway.”

  I took hold of the guy’s fake Armani lapels and hauled him up until he was slumped on his back across the Audi’s hood.

  “Stop,” the same onlooker said. “You can’t move him. He might have a neck injury.”

  “He might now,” I said, leaning down and pressing the point of my elbow into the guy’s throat, just above his collarbone.

  “The hell are you doing? How’s this going to help him?”

  “It’s a new resuscitation technique, from England. Twenty seconds. Thirty max, and he’ll be awake. Trust me.”

  It actually took fifteen. The guy started to twitch. Then wriggle. Then thrash about, clawing at my arm and trying to wrench it free. I let him squirm for another moment then took hold of his right hand, locked his wrist, and flipped him over onto his front.

  “See?” I said, handing the keys back to the driver. “It was a scam. This guy, to make you stop. His buddy back there to grab your stuff.”

  “Well, I’ll be…” the onlooker said.

  “I don’t believe it,” the driver said. “I was so worried. The assholes.”

  “Want to stick one on him?” I said. “I’ll hold him.”

  A phone started to ring. I realized it was mine.

  “Excuse me a moment,” I said, pulling the phone out left-handed.

  It was Weston.

  “Got a breakthrough,” he said. “Where are you?”

  “Shopping,” I said. “I need clean clothes.”

  “Time for that later. We need to move. Where can we collect you?”

  “Back where you dropped me. In five.”

  “Be there,” Weston said, hanging up.

  I put the phone away.

  “Feeling better?” I said to the driver. “OK then. Time to call 911. These guys have done this before. They need to be stopped. Now that’s up to you.”

  Weston’s Ford was already waiting at the side of the street when I got back. Tanya was in the backseat. She looked a little confused.

  “I don’t see it,” she said. “That doesn’t prove anything, either way.”

  “What doesn’t?” I said, getting in.

  “Tungsten made another set of payoffs,” Weston said. “A year ago. To another team of six guys.”

  “How do you know?” I said.

  “Our forensic accountants found it. They started digging this morning. Got an early break. But listen to this. The other team-it was also assigned to the hospital right before getting fired.”

  “So the hospital is the link.”

  “No. It can’t be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because none of the six we just found out about are dead.”

  “So?”

  “If the hospital was the link, they’d have been killed, too.”

  “No. That’s backward. If the payoff money was the link, they’d have been killed.”

  “See?” Tanya said. “It’s totally inconclusive. The hospital and the money are both common factors. And at this moment, there’s just no evidence to place one above the other.”

  “Has any money been taken from the current six?” I said.

  “Not from two of them,” Lavine said. “We’re still checking the others.”

  “Not very convincing,” I said. “Whereas both teams were definitely working at the hospital. That’s the clincher. Something about the place got them fired. Has to be.”

  “Right,” Weston said. “They were fired because of the hospital. But not killed because of it. It has to be two separate things.”

  “Taylor called them tough clients,” Lavine said. “Maybe he was right about that.”

  “Otherwise, why bring the team home?” Weston said. “Why pay them off? Why not just kill them in Iraq?”

  “That would be cheaper,” Lavine said. “Easier. Less risky.”

  “Could make it look like another mob got them,” Weston said. “Or an ambush. Or friendly fire. No one would think twice. And there’s no one like us over there to sniff around.”

  “Will you three stop speculating?” Tanya said. “You’re wasting time. Let’s just talk to this guy. We should get it from the horse’s mouth.”

  “Which guy?” I said.

  “From the original team,” Tanya said. “Five have gone overseas again, but one of them’s here in New York.”

  “Didn’t we tell you?” Weston said. “I spoke to his wife before I called you. That’s how we knew about him working at the hospital.”

  “So where is he?” I said. “Your office?”

  “No,” Weston said. “At his job. He works construction, now.”

  A framed, five-foot-square artist’s impression was attached to every panel of rough blue hoarding that separated the pedestrians on East Twenty-third Street from the spindly steel skeleton rising out of the narrow lot on the other side. There were eight pictures altogether. Each one gave a different vision of the finished building, from a grand marble-lined lobby to a serene Japanese roof garden, complete with tiny bronze sculptures.

  Weston pulled up next to a designer couple power-snacking at a granite breakfast bar, and we had to walk past the view from one of the balconies to reach the foreman’s compound.

  “How tall is this place going to be?” Tanya said, staring at the pictures.

  “Not tall enoug
h,” Weston said, hammering on the wooden gate. “Except for maybe the penthouse. Won’t see the Chrysler, lower down. The Met Life’s in the way.”

  “And the Empire State’s not that high,” Lavine said.

  “Shame,” Tanya said. “Three buildings, each the tallest in the world at one time, all from your living room window. What a view that would be.”

  Eventually the foreman ambled across to talk to us.

  “Yeah?” he said. “What? I’m busy here.”

  “FBI,” Weston said. “Looking for Julio Arca.”

  “Not here.”

  “His wife said he was working today.”

  “He is. Not back yet.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “The park. ’Cross there. With the other guys.”

  “His coworkers?”

  “No. Guys in suits. Like you.”

  “Like us? How many?”

  “Two.”

  “When did they go?”

  “Don’t know. Ten minutes ago. Fifteen maybe?”

  “What does he look like, this Julio?”

  “Like a regular guy.”

  “Age?”

  “Thirties, I guess.”

  “Height?”

  “Five ten, maybe.”

  “Hair?”

  “Buzz cut. But he had a hard hat on.”

  “Mustache? Beard?”

  “No. Shaved.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Boots. Coveralls, like me. And a fluorescent vest.”

  The little park was swarming with people. They were sitting on benches, sprawling next to statues, lying on the grass, walking their dogs, lining up to buy coffee from an outdoor cafe. Some were on their own. Others were in groups. Some were wearing suits. Several were in work clothes. But none matched the description we had for Arca.

  The path from the gate at the southeast corner was one of six that radiated out from an ornamental fountain on the far side of the cafe. Another oval path crossed in front of us, a few yards in. Lavine paused when he reached it.

  “Better split up,” he said. “I’ll go straight on. Kyle, you go left. Dave and Tanya, you go right. You on the air?”

  Tanya patted her bag.