by Andrew Grant
“Maybe I can change you mind.”
“You can try. But I have to warn you. It wouldn’t be the first time. And it’s never worked before.”
Taylor put the syringe down on the dressing table. Then he stretched across, picked up my gun, checked it was loaded, and placed it carefully on the other side of the vial.
“There,” he said. “Have a look at your choices.”
He reached down to my left wrist and unfastened my watch.
“He can’t escape?” he said.
“No,” the rabbit guy said.
“The ties. They’re tight enough?”
“They are.”
“The chair. He can’t break it?”
“No.”
Taylor added the watch to the collection of items in front of me, laying it down so that one of the straps was touching the syringe and the other was nestling against the barrel of the gun.
“We’re going next door, now,” he said, picking up his bag. “There’s something we need to do. It’ll take us ten minutes. That’ll give you time, on your own. To think. Then you can tell me how you’d like your life to end.”
FORTY
One thing really annoyed me about our training regime, at first.
It was to do with the instructors. They never gave us accurate information. If they told us to run twenty miles, they’d change it to twenty-five. And then thirty. If they sent us to steal five people’s credit card numbers, they’d really want ten. Or probably fifteen. For a while I thought they were just disorganized. That, or plain sadistic. But then it dawned on me. There was a message hidden in the chaos.
Don’t count on anything being over. Ever.
No matter how good or bad it’s looking.
The rabbit guy was right about two things. The cable ties were tight enough. And the chair was too strong to break. But when it came to me not escaping, there was another factor he’d completely overlooked.
The length of my legs.
As soon as the connecting door slammed shut behind Taylor I tipped the chair back and held it balanced on the toes of my right foot. I shifted my left leg to the side until my thigh was clear of the cushion, pushed down hard, and wriggled the cable tie over the tip of the shiny metal leg. The same thing worked for my right ankle. Then I levered myself to my feet, suspending the chair behind me like some kind of cumbersome backpack.
I folded my arms up until my wrists were level with my shoulder blades and leaned forward to transfer some of the chair’s weight onto my back. I held tight with my right hand and slid my left about nine inches down the leg. Then I shifted my grip to my left hand and brought my right down until it was roughly level. I heaved the chair back up as high as I could and took hold with my right hand again. This time I straightened my left arm out all the way. I felt the cable tie slide smoothly down the metal. It reached the very end of the leg. Then it snagged on something. A kind of rubber foot, presumably designed to stop the chair from slipping on the floor. I snapped my wrist around in a sharp circle once, twice, three times until finally the tie worked itself clear. The chair spun around to the side, suddenly supported in only a single place, but I grabbed hold again before it hit the floor. Then I wrestled my right hand free and silently lowered it down.
I checked my watch. Two minutes twenty had ticked away. I picked up the gun, removed the magazine and emptied it onto the bed. I ejected the final round from the chamber, slotted the parts back together, and returned it to the exact same spot on the dressing table. Then I scooped up the bullets, dropped them inside one of the pillowcases at the head of the bed, smoothed out the duvet, and came back for the syringe.
The needle was broad. It was a tight fit, but I managed to force it into the catch on the cable tie around my left wrist. I kept pushing until the little plastic tongue was bent back, safely out of the way. I did the same for the ties on my right wrist and both ankles. Then I replaced the syringe and got ready for the hard part. Reversing the process I’d just gone through. I had to reattach myself to the chair before anyone caught me.
Taylor came back a minute early and found me sitting with my chin on my chest, snoring gently.
“Wake up,” he said. “It’s decision time.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Well, I was thinking we should do it in the Caribbean. On a beach. With a cold beer in my hand. Something like that.”
“Not ready to be sensible?”
“No.”
“I thought you might say that. So. I’ve got something new to put on the table. The chance to see your friend, one last time.”
“Tanya?”
“You have other friends who’ve been kidnapped recently?”
“Is she here?”
“No. But if you cooperate, I’ll take you to her.”
“I want to see her first. Then we’ll talk.”
“No. Something here needs my attention. You tell me what I want to know. I’ll finish my work. Then we’ll go.”
“How do I know she’s still alive?”
“You know who’s holding her?”
“Lesley.”
“Correct. And what are the odds, would you say, of Lesley missing the chance to kill you while your friend watches? As long as you’re breathing, nothing will happen to her. Nothing terminal, anyway.”
“I want to talk to her.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I only just thought of it.”
“But you knew Lesley had her.”
“True. But I wasn’t expecting you to fall into my lap. And when you did, for you to need extra persuasion. You’re an unusually stubborn man, Mr. Trevellyan. The syringe has more of an effect on most people.”
“But how do you and Lesley even know each other?”
“We’re old friends.”
“Rubbish. The FBI’s been buzzing around Lesley for years. They keep tabs on all her friends.”
“And yet they hadn’t heard of me.”
“No one had heard of you till your guy left those bodies by the train tracks.”
“I’ve been out of the country.”
“And then you only hit the limelight when Lesley’s guy accidentally killed the agent who was working the case.”
“The fickle hand of fate. How can you plan for something like that?”
“Level with me. We were certain there was no connection between you. Were we wrong?”
“No. You were bang on the money. Truth is, I’d never heard of Lesley, either, until yesterday. Then she reached out to me. Completely out of the blue.”
“Why you?”
“Lesley was locked up because of you. She escaped-she’s a resourceful woman-and wanted revenge. For the jail thing, obviously, and the millions of dollars your meddling has cost her. Only her operation was down the pan. The NYPD was all over it. And the feds. Parts she couldn’t control. So she needed a new partner. Fast.”
“The first part I can understand. I like a good bit of revenge, myself. But how did she wind up at your door?”
“She talked to her sources-the ones that were left-and reviewed her options. I may be a late entry, but I’m top of the FBI charts right now. So she heard about me and thought we could help each other. Mutual benefit, she called it.”
“Why did she go after Tanya? Not me, direct?”
“No one knew where you were. You’d moved hotels, apparently, and not told the FBI where you’d gone. So she needed bait. And a substitute, in case she failed to reel you in. She likes her fun dirty, or so she led me to believe.”
“OK. So, Lesley wants revenge. That part’s clear. But what’s in it for you?”
“Taking you out of the game. The FBI are predictable. I got the measure of them a long time ago. Any agent I can’t fool, I bribe. You, on the other hand, are a loose cannon. I wanted you out of the picture.”
“By dragging me to the clinic?”
“For starters. Then you were supposed to be running all around the cit
y, looking for Tanya. So when you turned up here and refused to talk, I improvised. Added a little icing to the cake.”
“Lesley’s not the only resourceful one, then. I’m impressed. So, is it far, to where she’s holding Tanya?”
“Answer my questions and you’ll find out. Continue to annoy me, and you won’t.”
“What do you want to know?”
“At last. Now you’re being sensible. So. Back to the FBI. They didn’t respond to my warning in the way I expected. I need to understand why. Start with the visit to the clinic. They found the memory stick?”
“Your ultimatum? Yes.”
“What action did they take?”
“They flew to Washington.”
“Why?”
“The wording was ambiguous. They thought you’d planted bombs there.”
“That’s interesting. Something to tighten up on, next time. If there has to be a next time.”
“I take it we’re not talking about bombs? Conventional ones?”
“No.”
“You’ve been implanting capsules of that drug? Remotely controlled? In your patients? Three hundred and twenty of them?”
“Yes. Hammurabi pods, I’ve named them. Ancient justice, modern technology.”
“That’s fine. But when you talk about them, remember who your audience is. Less history. Less symbolism. More facts. More specifics. Then perhaps fewer people will get hurt.”
“Perhaps you’re right. But tell me, what did the FBI do when they got to Washington?”
“Launched into their standard bomb-threat protocols, they said. I can’t tell you what those are because I didn’t go with them.”
“No, you didn’t. That’s interesting, in itself. Why did you stay behind?”
“To look for Tanya, just as you planned. Then my thoughts strayed back to your video. I put two and two together.”
“And you sprang into action, single-handed?”
“No. I called them. The FBI bosses. I tried to fetch them back.”
“But they didn’t come? And they only mustered up ten people? Raided one building?”
“I don’t think they really believed me.”
“Well, at least you can go to your grave knowing you were right.”
“That’s a comfort. But on that, let me ask you something. The FBI. I told them to shut off your patients’ broadband. If they had done it, would that have helped?”
“Of course. Without a signal, nothing would happen.”
“The devices weren’t set to go off at a certain time? Or if they lost contact?”
“No.”
“Why not? That would be a lot easier.”
“If you just wanted to kill a lot of people in a messy way, yes.”
“Which differs from what you’re doing, how?”
Taylor glared at me.
“You fool,” he said. “How can you ask me that. You saw the video. You saw what I want.”
“Yes, I saw it,” I said. “You want vengeance. People drowning in blood. That seemed clear.”
“How stupid can you be? Vengeance is not the goal. It’s a language. A means to an end.”
“What end? More money, somehow? Haven’t you sucked enough out of the place?”
“My mission in all this is to bring an end to the killing. That should be obvious, even to a government puppet like you.”
“You’re killing people because you’re against killing people? You don’t see a tiny discrepancy there?”
“Do I have to spell it out? The people who are going to die, they’re dying anyway. What I’m doing is taking their pointless, inevitable deaths and giving them a purpose. Individually their passing means nothing. By molding them together, symbolically, I can save thousands of other lives.”
“Really. And who made that your job?”
“Everyone has a purpose in life, Mr. Trevellyan. A unique part to play. You have yours. This is mine.”
“How do you know? Maybe your purpose is running your clinics? Saving all those innocent Americans you were so worried about.”
“I thought so, too, at first. I was saving lives. A handful. And that was enough. Until I woke up to the full potential of what I’d created.”
“What woke you? Your new partners waving dollar bills under your nose?”
“I’ve told you, it’s not about the money. The golden goose is dead now, anyway. My clinics are finished because of this. And there are no new partners. I misled you about that. I brought those guys in myself, because the old help was too slow.”
“So what raised the stakes?”
“It’s hard to give it a name. Call it fate, if you like. I had a very special opportunity. Only I was too blind to see it. I was happy messing around in the foothills instead of heading for the summit. So I was given a wake-up call. That’s the way I see it.”
“Who called? Your bank? Your broker?”
“My wife. In a way.”
“Oh, OK. Blame your other half. That’s original.”
“Your FBI friends didn’t tell you about her?”
“Nothing specific. Just a rumor you’d got married.”
“We did. Seven years ago. And then, because I had my head in the sand for so long, she was taken from me.”
“She was kidnapped? You’re being coerced into this?”
“No, for goodness’ sake. She was killed. By the U.S. Army. And you know when?”
“Obviously not.”
“March 20, 2008. What do you think about that?”
“Well, it’s a terrible shame and everything. But really, so what? Dozens of people were probably killed that day.”
“Are you brain-dead? The date? The fifth anniversary of the invasion? My wife, an Iraqi? Me, an American? And me, the only person on the planet with the resources to end the war without wasting a single extra life? Apart from the worthless fools who’ve interfered, of course.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“Of course there’s a connection. The tragedy is my wife had to die to make me see it. And now she’s gone, I’m going to use every means at my disposal to make her death count for something.”
“Including your clinics? Using them to acquire your targets?”
“Acquire, monitor, and control. Otherwise how could I be sure I have the correct number of serviceable devices? In the right places? At the right time?”
“Yeah. That would be tough. And the trigger signals. What sends them? A Web server, somewhere?”
“Correct.”
“Is it already set?”
“No. Server activity is kept to a minimum. Everything’s done at the last moment.”
“Isn’t that a bit risky? If it was me I’d want it primed well in advance.”
“Then you’d get caught. The FBI monitors every byte of traffic anyone transmits. You’ve got to keep it invisible, until it’s too late to stop.”
“How do you set it?”
“I log in, over the Net.”
“Remote access? I know about that. It’s a nightmare. What about hackers?”
“Impossible. Only two machines are authorized. Mine, and a backup. Security’s embedded into their software. The server won’t respond to anything else.”
“What if somebody steals one?”
“It wouldn’t help them. The software expires every twenty-four hours. Plus you need an eight-digit access number from my security token, which changes every minute, and a twelve-digit PIN number from two separate Tungsten employees.”
“That’s what you were doing just now? Loading today’s software? Logging on?”
“Right,” he said, checking his watch. “Now. Five minutes to go. Time to arm the system. Do you want to see?”
“No,” I said.
“Well that’s too bad. Stay there. You’re going to watch.”
Taylor slipped the gun into his pocket and fetched his laptop from next door. It was large and heavy with a rubberized outer shell, such as the kind field engineers use. He brought it ba
ck, dragging a chair in his other hand, and as he put it down on the dressing table his phone began to ring. He wedged it under his chin so he could open his computer and talk at the same time.
“That was Lesley,” he said, when the call had ended. “There’s a change of plan. We’re not going to her. She’s coming to us. Here.”
“When?” I said.
“Now. All her usual places are too hot, apparently. The NYPD is staking out everything she owns. Someone must have really put the wind up them. She’s fuming. And absolutely paranoid. She’s seeing cops behind every tree and lamppost.”
“Where is she now?”
“Around the corner. Three or four minutes away. I should just about be done when she gets here.”
“Is Tanya with her?”
“Yes. Don’t worry. You’ll be making your fond farewells very soon.”
This changed everything. There would be at least five FBI sedans scattered around outside the hotel, left there by the dead and captured agents. No one would have moved them, yet. Regular people might not realize the significance, but Lesley would spot them in a millisecond. Especially if she was already extra suspicious. Which meant it was no good getting Taylor to call back and warn her about them. She hadn’t known him long enough. She’d just take it as proof of a trap.
I had three or four minutes. That wasn’t enough time. The 320 people in Taylor’s crosshairs would have to take their chances. Those cars were a dead giveaway, and they were there because of me. I had to be in the street outside before Lesley saw them. Otherwise my plan wouldn’t be Tanya’s salvation. It would be her death sentence.
I started to loosen the ties around my wrists.
Taylor ran his finger over the trackpad. The screensaver melted away and a Web page sprang into view. There were two tabs at the top. The one on the left was active. It was labeled MONITOR. The screen was taken up with five dials, like the instruments on a car dashboard. There were four small ones in the corners, and a larger one filling the center. The background to all of them was green, and each one had a needle that pointed to a scale around the edge.
“There,” Taylor said, jabbing his finger toward the central dial. “Three hundred twenty. All devices are in Wi-Fi range. We’re ready.”
Three hundred and twenty devices. He meant 320 people. Soon to be 320 corpses. Three hundred and twenty lives I’d have to sacrifice to rescue Tanya. Those were terms I’d take in a heartbeat, but how would she feel? She had been tortured by one death on her conscience after Morocco. For three years. If three hundred died so I could save her, could she live with herself afterward?