The Equalizer

by Michael Sloan

  They walked into the Old Dutch Church burying grounds. McCall glanced at the dates on the tombstones.

  “Going back to the sixteen hundreds.”

  “There are a lot of Revolutionary soldiers buried here.”

  “What about Washington Irving?”

  “He’s buried in the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery just over there. It’s separate from the Old Dutch Church. Don’t worry. The headless horseman only rides through here at night.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  Control stopped at one of the headstones. It was a small plot beside a beautiful oak tree. It read ELENA PETROV, 1981–2014. Nothing more. McCall stared down at it.

  “Why here?” he asked.

  “It was in her will. When she was a very little girl, her mother used to read her Washington Irving’s short story ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.’ It was her favorite. She once told me she used it to help her learn English. She visited the Old Dutch Church many times. She said she found peace here.”

  “I never knew that.”

  “I guess there’s always things about the people we love we never find out. I thought you might want to know where she was buried. Come and visit her from time to time.” He took a photo from an inside pocket of his coat and handed it to McCall. “Elena carried this picture with her. It was in her hotel room in Moscow.”

  McCall looked down at himself and Elena on the deck of the sailboat, wineglasses in hand, the sun sinking into the water behind them in a blaze of bloodred glory. He put the picture into his pocket.

  “Take a walk with me,” Control said.

  They got back into the car. The young agent drove them through the small village of Sleepy Hollow, into Kingsland Point Park to the edge of the Hudson River. McCall and Control got out and walked along the river’s bank. McCall looked ahead at the impressive Tarrytown Lighthouse in the distance, just below the Tappan Zee Bridge. Control’s hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his camel-hair coat.

  “It was too bad about Chase Granger,” he said. “He was a little green, a little eager, but I liked him.”

  “That’s on me,” McCall said.

  Control nodded.

  More silence between them.

  “There was an assassination attempt at the Summit Meeting in Prague. Somehow the shooter got inside our perimeter. He had a sniper’s rifle assembled with a nightscope on it. On his cell phone was a picture of the secretary of state. The president put in an eleventh-hour appearance at the Summit. He might have been a target of opportunity. The assassin’s name was Jovan Durković. A Serbian. He also was known by the code name Diablo. He was considered the best assassin in Europe. He was a phantom. No one had ever got close enough to ID him. We found him beaten and stabbed to death on a hillside a mile above the main chateau building. You wouldn’t know anything about that?”

  “No.”

  “There was also a picture of Elena Petrov on his phone. He killed her in that Disaster Park outside Moscow. I take full responsibility for her death.”

  “You were her Control. The mission went badly. It happens.”

  “Not to me.”

  “It will if you go out into the field more often. You couldn’t have stopped a man like Durković.”

  “You would have,” Control said quietly.

  “No. Kostmayer told me how it went down. I’ve never known you to take things personally.”

  “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do. There was another picture on Durković’s cell phone. Serena Johanssen. I believe he was the shooter up in the bell tower at the Spaso-Preobrazhensky Monastery. But you already know that.”

  “How could I?”

  “It’s in Serena’s file.”

  “That’s restricted for Control’s Eyes Only.”

  “How is Brahms these days? Still the computer genius we all knew and loved?”

  “He’s retired.”

  “Like you?”

  Control stopped on the river’s edge, McCall beside him. The wind gusted around them. They watched the beautiful Hudson flow past. Far away in the north were some boats against the brilliant horizon.

  “Alexei Berezovsky,” Control said. “He was running an elite assassination bureau. An equal opportunity entrepreneur. All countries were on his speed dial. Terrorists welcome. Global targets. We believe he ordered the assassination of the secretary of state. We know he ordered Durković to kill Elena Petrov.” McCall nodded. And waited. “There was a fatal shootout in an abandoned New York City subway station a few nights ago. Two rival Mafia gangs, Russian and Chechen. At least, that’s the police and the FBI’s official position. One of the men killed was Alexei Berezovsky. What would he have been doing in the middle of a firefight like that?”

  “Good question.”

  “And you had nothing to do with that, either.”

  “Not a thing,” McCall said.

  Control looked at the lighthouse in the distance.

  “Tarrytown Lighthouse. Seventy-seven years in operation, twelve light keepers. It was automated in the fifties, then navigation lights on the Tappan Zee Bridge rendered it obsolete. Now they run tourists through it. Maybe it’s time I took a page out of your book. And retired.”

  “You’ll know when it’s that time. If you have to ask the question, it’s not yet.”

  “There’s a small faction at The Company that wants you dead.”

  “Led by Jason Mazer, no doubt.”

  “I can keep the wolves at bay. No one’s going to come after you. No surveillance, no tails. You can live whatever life you choose to.”

  “And the catch is?”

  “I might come and find you from time to time. Ask you to do something for The Company.”

  “You can ask.”

  “That’s good enough. I have to get back to D.C.”

  They walked back along the riverbank.

  “You want to tell me how you got onto the grounds of the chateau?” Control asked.

  McCall didn’t admit or deny the allegation.

  He said, “This is just hypothetical. That blueprint on Elena’s flash drive? They’re not tunnels. They’re empty oil pipes. Running from an abandoned oil pumping station outside Prague near the chateau. One pipe going right through the rock and cut off, on the hillside, above the main house. That’s how Durković got past your immaculate security.”

  Control nodded.

  They reached the trees where the government agent waited by the Lincoln.

  “I saw your ad,” Control said. “Just make sure the odds you’re equalizing aren’t too high. Will you do that for me, Robert?”

  “Sure.” McCall stopped. “You go on. I want to spend a little time here.”

  Control offered his hand. “Good luck.”

  McCall shook his onetime boss’s hand and walked away. Control watched him for a moment, as if a little envious, then climbed into the Lincoln. The young agent drove down the road through the trees.

  McCall walked to the village of Sleepy Hollow and bought some bright yellow sunflowers. Elena’s favorite. He walked to the Old Dutch Church, into the burying grounds and knelt beside Elena’s grave. He placed the flowers at the base of her headstone and propped the picture of the two of them on the sailboat up against it. Then he walked into the Old Dutch Church. It was deserted. He sat in one of the pews for about an hour, before he asked a pleasant young woman, who inquired if he was all right, for the number of a cab company that would drive him back to New York City.

  CHAPTER 54

  McCall stopped at the Chase Bank on Madison and accessed his safe-deposit box. He unwrapped a black Glock 19 Gen 4 pistol with a fifteen magazine capacity. He lifted out two mags and a box of ammo. He put the safe-deposit box back and took a cab to the Liberty Belle Hotel.

  The girls behind the reception counter were dealing with new check-ins and Sam Kinney was standing by one of the ornate couches patiently listening to a tale of outrage from Mrs. Gilmore, who sat in her slippers and fur coat, holding her white pood
le on a short leash. The poodle looked as if it wanted to sink its teeth into every leg that passed it. Sam glanced over as McCall entered, rolled his eyes, gave McCall a thumbs-up sign, and motioned to Chloe behind the counter. Then he went back to appeasing Mrs. Gilmore. McCall caught the words: “Pounding away at all hours of the night, and I know the old boy’s on Viagra because I saw him get the package in his mail yesterday morning…” as he moved to the reception counter. Chloe came around it and handed McCall a computer key.

  “Room seventeen twenty-eight,” she said. “It’s all ready for you, Mr. McCall. Are you going to be staying with us long?”

  “For a while.”

  “You’ll like it here. Have a good night.”

  She bounded back behind the counter. McCall took the elevator to the seventeenth floor. He unlocked the door to suite 1728 and walked into his apartment. Sam’s cousins had put the furniture in all of the right places. The bookshelves were against the wall in a spacious living room beside a window that looked out on the Manhattan skyline and Central Park. The TV was near the window, the couch, low coffee table, and easy chairs in their places. The Eel Walker sculpture was in one piece and graced the wall on the other side of the window. All of McCall’s books had been unpacked and stacked on the bookshelves along with the flea market ornaments and the large glass ashtray. The Tiffany lamp was there. The dagger bookmark sparkled on a lower shelf. The orange Frisbee was beside it. His Mac laptop, Venice coffee table book, earphones, and a bowl of M&M’s were on the coffee table. The chess table was in a corner, the defenders of the Alamo facing the Mexican Army. There was a small kitchenette off the living-room area. The counter was set up the way he’d had it in his apartment. There was a different refrigerator and stove, belonging to the Liberty Belle Hotel. Sam must’ve put his in storage. These were newer. McCall opened the refrigerator. It had been restocked with milk, eggs, butter, a loaf of whole wheat bread, cans of Diet Coke, bottles of light beer, cheese, a carton of OJ, and a jar of honey. Also a bottle of 2005 Domaine Ramonet Chardonnay. He opened the freezer door. Frozen dinners and frozen steaks.

  McCall walked into the bedroom. The bed was made. The bedside tables were on either side of it. The misty Turner painting of London in the rain had been hung over the bed. His clothes were in the dresser and the closet. His toiletries were all in the bathroom.

  He walked back into the living room and knelt by one of the cabinets. His sound system was there, the sensurround speakers discreetly placed in the corners of the room. He put on some Thelonious Monk—“Round Midnight”—and poured himself a Glenfiddich from the wet bar, which was better stocked than when he’d left it. He did note the Glenfiddich bottle was about three-fifth’s down, but that was all right. Collateral damage.

  He set his iphone on the coffee table, sat on the couch, and looked out the far window at the canyons and glittering stalactites of Manhattan.

  He accessed his phone messages and hit the speaker.

  The impersonal female voice said, “You have fourteen new messages.”

  Thirteen of them were crank calls.

  Yo, Equalizer, where you been, man? We gotta city to clean up here! Pimps, hookers, street vermin. Meet me at …

  McCall hit the button. Next message.

  A sultry voice: Hey, Mr. Equalizer, come over to my place, I’ll show you some odds that you won’t be able to …

  He hit the button. Next message.

  A teenage girl: Uh, hi there, Mr. Equalizer, my boyfriend is really giving me shit, and … There were girls giggling in the background.

  McCall hit the button. Next message.

  So do you wear a superhero costume? Is there a big E on your chest? You got a cape?

  McCall hit the button. Next message.

  Hi … are you there? Look, I’m desperate.… I’m standing on a ledge in midtown … twelve stories … seriously, if you don’t call me back, I’m going to fucking jump … so don’t be an asshole and call me back … my number is …

  McCall hit the button. Next message.

  Hey, Equalizer, I’m DM—Demolition Man. I protect the streets of Manhattan. I patrol the area between …

  The next seven messages were variations on the same theme. McCall moved onto the last message. He heard a woman’s hushed voice, filled with emotion.

  “Hi, I don’t know who you are, or if you’re for real, but I don’t know who else to call. My name is Laura Masden. I’m a stranger in the city and I can’t find my daughter and there are men following me. I know I must sound paranoid and I’m sure you get a lot of crank calls, but please, if you are for real, please call me back.”

  She left her number and the connection was severed.

  McCall called the number immediately.

  The same woman’s voice answered: “Hello?”

  “Hi, Laura, you called me an hour ago,” McCall said.

  “Are you the Equalizer?”

  Hearing the name spoken out loud by a real client gave McCall pause, but he said, “Yes. You have a problem.”

  “Yes, I do. I don’t know where else to turn.”

  “Are you in the city?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll meet you at the River Café on Water Street in Brooklyn. Any cabdriver will know it. Twenty minutes.”

  “All right,” she said, and hung up.

  McCall finished his Glenfiddich, put a full clip into the Glock 19, put the gun into his coat pocket, and left his new digs.

  * * *

  The River Café is located on Water Street in the Brooklyn docks offering a spectacular view of Manhattan lit up across the East River. It was crowded when McCall walked in, but he spotted Laura Masden immediately. She was sitting alone at a table by the window, nursing an apple martini. She was an attractive redhead, early forties, dressed in a suit and a black Dior coat. McCall slid into the seat opposite her.

  “Hello, Laura. My name is Robert McCall. What’s your problem?”

  She seemed a little disconcerted by the less-than-effusive greeting.

  “I feel very awkward, opening my life up to a complete stranger.”

  “Sometimes they’re the best people to talk to. They’re not sitting in judgment. I have experience in difficult situations. Just start at the beginning and tell me what’s happened to you.”

  She took a deep breath. “It’s my daughter Emily. She’s twenty-two. She’s always been a difficult child, but she’s not into drugs or alcohol. She’s a dreamer. She wants to make a difference in the world.”

  “Why did she come to New York?”

  “She was accepted at the Art Institute of New York City. Media arts. After being at the college one month she dropped out. And disappeared.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Three weeks ago. I came to Manhattan and talked to her teachers and the head of the college. They all liked her. They were very surprised when she just left, but it happens. I filed a missing persons report with the police. They investigated, but they just believe she’s a runaway.”

  “Has she run away before?”

  Laura looked out the window, across the river, as if thinking her daughter was somewhere in that jeweled array of Manhattan spires.

  “Twice when she was a teenager. But she always came back. I’m supposed to fly home tomorrow, but I can’t leave without knowing Em’s safe.”

  “Do you have a picture of her?”

  Laura took a small snapshot from her purse and handed it to McCall. Emily Masden was a young blonde with the kind of face that didn’t need makeup to be beautiful. She had pale blue eyes and a great smile. McCall put the picture into his pocket.

  “Does she have a boyfriend here?”

  Laura tried to stem the tears brimming in her eyes. “Yes. Very slick, seemingly very nice, a stockbroker. He says Em broke up with him right after she dropped out of college. He has no idea why and he was pissed off.”

  “When did you talk to him?”

  “Two weeks ago and then tonight. At his office near Ro
ckefeller Center. He’s with Morgan Stanley. He practically threw me out. He said he knew about the postcard.”

  “What postcard?”

  “I got a postcard at our home in San Francisco right before I left for New York. It was from Emily. Saying she was fine and she loved me and to let her go. I had to show the police here the postcard. That was the final nail in the coffin. They stopped looking for her after that.”

  “The postcard didn’t reassure you?”

  Laura leaned across the table. Now the tears had nowhere to go and spilled down her cheeks.

  “It wasn’t from Emily. It looked like her handwriting, but it didn’t sound like her. The phrasing was all wrong. And she wouldn’t have sent a postcard. She’d have called me.”

  “How did her boyfriend know about it?”

  “I have no idea. He threatened to call security if I didn’t leave.”

  “You said you thought you’ve been followed here in New York?”

  “I’ve seen the same two men in four different places in the last two weeks. And there were others. Looking at me on the street. In the cafés. Oh, God, I sound really paranoid, don’t I?”

  “Not to me,” McCall said. “Are they in this restaurant? Just look around casually, as if you’re a little restless while I talk.” Laura glanced around the busy room. “What else did Emily’s ex-boyfriend say at Morgan Stanley tonight? Anything you can remember, no matter how insignificant it might have seemed.”

  “Well, Blake, that’s his name, Blake Cunningham, sounds like he should be in a soap, doesn’t it? He was on his cell phone when he walked out of his office. I was waiting for him in the reception area. He was repeating an address. He was startled to see me and got off the phone.” She looked back at McCall. “They’re not here.”

  “What does Blake look like?”

  “Maybe six-two, dirty blond hair, an athlete’s body.”

  “What was the address he repeated?”

  “Eighty-nine Whitehall Street.”

  “That’s near the docks, outside Battery Park. He was going there tonight?”

  “He said, ‘When does it start?’ I heard the person on the phone say, ‘Midnight.’ Then Blake saw me and hung up.”