Even

by Andrew Grant

  I have to admit, I was starting to get annoyed. The bureau guys were obsessing over pointless details. Their desperation to nail down Lesley’s exact role in their railroad case was paralyzing them. They wanted everything neatly defined, but whatever part she played it made no difference that I could see. Lesley needed to be taken off the street. She was a murderer, a kidnapper, a sadist, and a thief—minimum. They should snatch her now, and worry about which pigeonhole to file her in later. Maybe that would leave me with some explaining to do—about Cyril being the actual trigger man or the apparent deal I’d made to execute Varley—but I wasn’t worried. None of that would stick. Varley was alive and it didn’t matter who’d killed Raab, as long as it wasn’t me. The point was, we needed to act. Speed was essential. Rosser should have already scrambled a fast-response team and sent it to secure Lesley’s place before she got word from her sources and vanished. Instead, he was upstairs with his buddies, playing chairman of the board, and every second they wasted tipped the scales a little further in Lesley’s favor.

  “How long do these talking-shops normally last?” I said to Weston, and pointed to the ceiling.

  “No idea,” he said, turning back to his computer. “People don’t normally bring in suspects who try and execute our senior staff.”

  “Really? That’s a shame. Keeps them on their toes.”

  “Don’t joke about it. Staging a mock execution—that was sick.”

  “There was nothing mock about it. Believe me.”

  “Then why do it that way? Varley could have been killed.”

  “No great loss, from what I’ve seen of him.”

  “You should be locked up. You’re an attention-grabbing maniac.”

  “Attention-grabbing? Hardly. The NYPD wouldn’t listen to me, remember. Nor would you. Nor would your bosses. You all had your chance. So stop complaining about how I put right what you failed to fix.”

  “Look, finding the guy was good work. I’ll give you that. But why not call it in and let us grab him up? Or just hand him to the local PD?”

  “ ’Cause he’d have denied it, Einstein. And I was working alone. I don’t have crime labs and technicians backing me up. I needed your bosses to hear the confession.”

  “You had his gun.”

  “Yeah. Circumstantial evidence. That’s always good. Till he goes with the ‘holding it for a friend’ defense.”

  “Got an answer for everything, don’t you?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Arrogant asshole.”

  “There’s a difference between being arrogant, and being right. You should think about that.”

  “Or what? Going to break my jaw, as well?”

  “That’s a tempting offer. I always enjoy a bit of jaw-breaking. But ultimately, what’s the point? It’s not your mouth I’m listening to.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, if anyone’s talking out of his ass, it’s you. We’ve got one agent in hospital ’cause of you. Another nearly killed this morning. And now . . .”

  “Weston, you want to rant?” I said, getting up from Lavine’s chair. “Go ahead. But do it on your own. I’ve got a call to make.”

  I could still see Weston’s mouth moving, but at least with the door shut the glass booth insulated me from the sound of his whining voice. The three chairs were still inside, so I chose the one I’d used yesterday and sat down to dial the number for the hotel switchboard. A receptionist answered on the third ring. She didn’t give her name, but it sounded like the woman who’d checked us in last night. Maxine. She must have been on a late-early. A bit like me.

  “Julianne Morgan’s room, please,” I said.

  “One moment,” Maxine said. “Connecting you now.”

  The phone rang again for another twenty seconds, then Julianne answered. She sounded sleepy.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Julianne, it’s David.”

  “David? What time is it? Is it lunchtime?”

  “No, not yet. But about that. I’m not going to make it, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re not? Why? Is everything all right? Are you in trouble?”

  “Everything’s fine. No trouble at all.”

  “Then why can’t you make it?”

  “Something came up, and now the FBI wants my help with it.”

  “The FBI? Why? What went wrong?”

  “Nothing went wrong. At least, not for me. Can’t say the same for the bad guys, though. That’s why I’m calling. I want you to get out of the hotel, right away.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I didn’t do what the bad guys wanted this morning. I went a different way. Completely stitched them up.”

  “You did? Fantastic. David, good for you.”

  “Point is, they’re going to hear about it. Soon.”

  “So they hear. So what?”

  “So they’ll be seriously pissed off. Pissed off enough to maybe send someone after you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Lots of reasons. In case you were in on it. To get back at me, through you. ’Cause you’re a journalist. It doesn’t matter why. What matters is, you’re not safe where you are.”

  “Oh. Well, have I got time for a shower before I make my escape?”

  I caught sight of a figure approaching from the far end of the room. It was Tanya Wilson.

  “Better not,” I said. “Safer just to leave. Have you got a place to go?”

  Tanya motioned through the glass that she wanted to talk to me, smiled, then went over to chat with Weston.

  “Yeah,” Julianne said. “I live in the Village. It’s walkable.”

  “Better head for home, then,” I said. “Sorry again about lunch.”

  I saw Weston give Tanya the cold shoulder. She stood and scowled at him for a moment, and then walked over to the side wall and started looking at the train maps.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Julianne said. “But I tell you what—if we can’t do lunch, what about dinner?”

  “Can’t,” I said, watching Tanya. “I’ve got plans for tonight.”

  “Already? You move fast. Who is she? An FBI agent?”

  “Who said anything about a ‘she’?”

  “Come on. You can’t fool me.”

  “It’s just a work thing. Something I promised to do a while ago.”

  “Oh, yeah? Just business?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Tanya’s body suddenly tensed as she studied the railway diagrams and I saw her head tilt slightly to the left, as if something critical had caught her attention.

  “That’s what you’re telling me now,” Julianne said. “Wait till you’ve had a few glasses of red. What will it be then?”

  “The same,” I said. “It’s not a date. Just someone from the consulate. She helped me out with a few things, and I promised to buy her dinner before I head back to the U.K. Nothing romantic.”

  Tanya had turned to Weston and was pointing to the lower map—the one of the entire United States of America.

  “You owe someone dinner in return for a few favors?” Julianne said. “Come on, David. I’m not buying that.”

  “Journalists,” I said. “Too suspicious for their own good.”

  “OK. You got me. I’ll back off. But listen, you did me more than a favor. You saved my life. I must owe you a whole bunch of dinners. What do you think—can’t we do at least one before you leave the country?”

  “I’d love to, Julianne. But I don’t know if it’ll be possible. I could be on a plane back home, tomorrow.”

  “What if you’re not? What if you’re here longer?”

  “OK, tell you what. If I’m here another night, I’ll call you.”

  “Great. Only trouble is, I lost my cell. Those guys took it when they threw me in their trunk. Why not give me your number. I’ll call tomorrow, after lunch, and see if you’re still around.”

  I took a moment to think about her idea. I didn’t own a personal cell phone, and there’s no way I’d give my work number to
a casual acquaintance. But the phone Lesley had given me was unofficial. It was untraceable, and in a few hours it would be landfill. Letting her try it tomorrow wouldn’t hurt. And it was a good way to shut her up now.

  “Good plan,” I said, and read out the digits.

  _______

  I slipped the phone back into my pocket and signaled for Tanya to come and join me in the booth.

  “Briefing’s over,” she said, touching my shoulder then taking the chair next to me.

  “Wow,” I said. “Must be some kind of record.”

  “They want to raid this Lesley’s headquarters.”

  “Do they.”

  “They want you to go with them. Show them where it is.”

  “No point.”

  “Why not? You’ve been there. You know the way.”

  “Too late. She’ll be long gone.”

  “Maybe. But their forensics teams might recover something.”

  “No chance. The place will be empty. She’ll take what she can, and destroy what’s left. It’ll be a complete waste of time.”

  “You’re probably right. But hey. London has agreed, and you have fences to mend. Better put a smile on your face and get on with it.”

  “One condition.”

  “What?”

  “Book us somewhere nice for dinner.”

  “Really? I didn’t know if you were serious about that, after everything that happened. And three years is a long time to wait.”

  “I was dead serious. But you better make it late, though, in case this raid nonsense drags on. We’ll have to trail over there, fake surprise at all the empty rooms, and then haul ourselves back here again. And they’re bound to want a full finger-pointing session afterward.”

  “No doubt about that. The blame game’s started already.”

  “Really? Who’s in the frame?”

  “No one knows who’s been leaking information. It’s too early for that. But for the big picture, fingers are pointing at Mitchell Varley.”

  “Varley? Poor bastard. Both sides are after him now. Maybe I should have just let that guy shoot him, after all.”

  “There were a few in that room who wouldn’t have complained.”

  “How come? He may be an arse, but how is all this his fault?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly. But listening between the lines, it sounds like he has some skeletons and they’re not too well buried.”

  “What kind?”

  “Something professional. It started with a counterfeiting crew, here in New York. Years ago. The bureau tried to take it down. Varley was part of the team. Their inside man. He latched on to this Lesley and used her to get to the others. That’s how their paths first crossed. She was just a lieutenant, back then, though. Sounds like she’s the boss now.”

  “So what happened? He took down her crew? She swore revenge?”

  “No. Not at all. Apparently the feds had Lesley’s mob on the hook. They were ready to move. Then she pulled a really vile stunt. Some kind of trademark of hers, they say. Ritual mutilation. Of the genitals. Some poor foot soldier who’d screwed something up.”

  “Still does that. She’s one sick puppy.”

  “Sick, yes. And smart.”

  “Not that smart. You don’t need a Ph.D. to terrorize people.”

  “I don’t think that’s why she did it. Not just to terrorize. She sounds more calculating than that. I think it was a test.”

  “Of what?”

  “Her people. To flush out any traitors. Or infiltrators.”

  “Sounds a bit far-fetched.”

  “No. Because she always does it when new recruits are around, apparently. She knows no one with a conscience would be callous enough to just sit and watch something like that.”

  “More likely she’s just a psycho.”

  “Maybe. But either way, Varley bit.”

  “You’re joking. He blew his cover?”

  “Believe so.”

  “Cardinal sin. The idiot. What happened?”

  “Lesley was wounded, but escaped. So did the other bad guys. Apart from the foot soldier. He died. And none of the other agents made it, either. I don’t know how many there were, but they left behind some friends. And friends with long memories.”

  “Oh, dear. Varley’s in deeper shit than I’d thought.”

  “He probably is,” she said, opening the door. “But now you better get moving. They want to form up in the garage at nine-thirty. That’s less than ten minutes, and Rosser’s getting uptight.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, following her out. “They can’t leave without me. What was up with the map, by the way? Just now?”

  “Oh, that. It was weird. I thought I recognized someone. There are photos around the edge.”

  “Really?” I said, moving over to the map. “Which one? Show me.”

  Tanya pointed to the photo in the top right-hand corner. It showed a man’s face, in his mid to late thirties. An arrow connected his picture to a point on a railroad just south of the Canadian border.

  “Who is it?” I said.

  “He doesn’t look familiar?” she said.

  “No. Why? Should he?”

  “I think it’s a guy called Simon Redford.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A Royal Marine. We met him in Spain, when we were there together. You don’t remember him? My brother knew him, too. Same regiment.”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “Strange. Maybe I met him before you arrived?”

  “Maybe. But why would he be here? All these guys were murdered by some serial killer, apparently. Something to do with trains.”

  “I don’t know. But they’ve gone outside, now, Simon and my brother. Could be anywhere.”

  “As civilians?”

  “No. He went to work for some private security firm. They both did. In Iraq.”

  “So what do you think? Is it him?”

  “I don’t know. But it really, really looks like him.”

  “Ask this guy,” I said, nodding toward Weston. “He’s working the case. Should know the victims’ names.”

  “I did,” Tanya said. “He wouldn’t speak to me.”

  “Oh, really?” I said. “Maybe I should ask.”

  Weston was working on his laptop, pretending not to listen, and he kept up the act as I moved in behind him.

  “Agent Weston,” I said, as I leaned over his shoulder and slammed the screen down hard on his fingers. “Perhaps you would like to show my colleague some professional courtesy?”

  He tried to wriggle free, but I just leaned down harder.

  “Of course,” he said eventually, through gritted teeth. “What does she want?”

  “Speak to her,” I said. “She’s right here.”

  “I want a name,” Tanya said. “The man in the photo I pointed to.”

  “I’ll need to look it up,” he said.

  I flipped the screen back up and gave Weston a minute to locate the file.

  “Dmitry Blokhin,” he said. “Illegal immigrant from the Ukraine. Deserter, on the run from their army.”

  “There now,” I said. “That wasn’t so hard.”

  “And it’s just Ukraine,” Tanya said. “Not the Ukraine. They hate that, you ignorant pig.”

  I needed a bathroom break on my way downstairs, so I stopped on the first floor and found some restrooms near the elevators. I didn’t exactly rush, so it was past 9:41 A.M. by the time I reached the garage. Rosser and Varley were already there, standing next to one of the black Fords that had escorted the Cadillac when they arrived. Rosser looked impatient. Varley just looked angry.

  “First you were an hour early,” he said. “Now you’re late.”

  “No pleasing some people,” I said.

  “We have a job for you,” Rosser said. “If you want brownie points, do it without anyone else getting killed.”

  “Depends what it is,” I said. “Might not be possible.”

  “I have two teams ready to roll, out
side,” Rosser said. “I want you to escort them to the premises where you apprehended the suspect in Raab’s shooting.”

  “Why don’t I give them directions?”

  “I want you to take them there, personally. Wait outside till you get the green light. Then go in. Look around. You’re the only one who’s been inside. I want to know everything that’s missing or out of place.”

  “I hope you’ve got a lot of paper. It’ll be a long list. She’ll have had a two-hour head start, minimum, by the time we get there.”

  “Then so be it. Just get it done.”

  “Since you ask so nicely. And am I traveling alone, or will I have a babysitter?”

  Varley stepped aside, and I saw Weston sitting behind the wheel.

  “Oh, well,” I said. “At least it’ll be a quiet journey.”

  The first FBI team entered Lesley’s house via the garage. The second—with Weston trailing behind, still wearing his suit—went in through the front door. I stayed in the car and figured the odds of Lesley not having booby-trapped the place.

  Twenty minutes passed without any explosions then Weston reappeared, heading back down the path. He was flanked by two agents in full urban assault kit, which made him look like an alien abductee.

  “Better come inside,” he said. “There’s something you should see.”

  It turned out I was wrong about the house being completely empty. Something had been left behind, in Lesley’s office. It was the metal trolley that Cyril had been strapped to. Inside it was a glass bottle. The same cloudy, industrial kind she had used yesterday. Its lid was off, so you could smell the formaldehyde, and a label was attached to the side.

  Two words were written on it, by hand, in green ink.

  DAVID TREVELLYAN.