by Andrew Grant
“How can I put this so there’s no room for ambiguity? No. Every step of the way you’ve been reckless, irresponsible, insubordinate, and rash. We cannot afford to fail at this point. There are no more second chances. Hundreds of lives are at stake.”
“I understand.”
“So. Where are you planning to be?”
“I’ll stay here. At Tanya’s apartment. I’ll wait by the phone.”
“Good. I’ll call you back when we have him.”
Old habits die hard. As soon as Varley had cleared the line I called information and asked for a number at the Swan.
A sleepy receptionist answered on the fourteenth ring.
“Swan,” he said. “Help you?”
“Hope so,” I said. “I need a room. For tonight.”
“How many people?”
“One.”
“How many nights?”
“One.”
“Two hundred and forty-eight dollars. Need a card number.”
“No problem. But while we’re talking, could you see if room 1012 is free? I’m sure I had that one last time.”
“I’ll have a look. No. It’s taken.”
“That’s a shame. Never mind. Oh, hang on a minute. Let me think. Ten twelve. Does it look out the back of the hotel?”
“No. Over the street.”
“Really? Oh, wait. You know what I’ve done? Confused it with the one my brother had. I was in the one opposite. Any chance that’s free?”
“Ten eleven? Sure. No one in there. You want it?”
“Yeah, why not. It’s as good as any. I’ll be over in ten.”
The reception area at the Swan was made up of two intersecting ovals. They were on different levels, and a pair of elliptical steps was formed where the shapes joined. The door from the street brought you in at the higher level, to the side of a long curved counter. It was made of heavily grained wood, and had been finished with a pale blue wash to match the carpet and walls. The lower area was a mess of orange. It was overstuffed with furniture. There were five ocher chesterfield sofas. Mounds of contrasting scatter cushions. Clusters of stained wooden coffee tables. A forest of stylized artificial potted plants, the color of virulent carrots. And one man.
I’d never seen him before, which simplified things. He was in his late thirties, with beige Timberland boots, loose jeans, and a tan leather jacket. His face was rough and weathered, and his fine blond hair was cropped close to his skull, betraying a smattering of gray. He was sitting on the center sofa, leaning back comfortably as if he were expecting to be there a while. An open newspaper was spread out on his lap. But he wasn’t reading it. His eyes were fixed on me. They’d locked on the moment I walked in, so I took a moment to check that Tanya’s Yankees cap was properly pulled down over the back of my head before approaching the check-in area, wheeling her travel-scarred Rimowa suitcase behind me for cover.
There was no sign of anyone behind the desk. I waited a moment, then rang the bell. It was made of heavy brass, eight inches in diameter, with a well-worn disk at the top to press down on. It made a deep, reverberating sound like the striking of an old-fashioned clock. I waited for the note to die down and then gently pushed against its base with the tips of my fingers. It moved slightly. Which meant it wasn’t fixed down.
It took a full minute for the receptionist to drag himself away from his back room and shuffle out to help me. His hair was brushed forward over his left eye, his tightly stretched skin was almost transparent, and his crumpled blue shirt was a couple of sizes too large for his scrawny arms and neck. He crept forward cautiously until he got to the counter. Then he stood and rubbed his tiny, beady eyes for a moment as if he were having trouble focusing.
“You the guy on the phone?” he said.
I nodded, and he reached down to pull a registration card from a drawer. I leaned forward, placed my forearms flat on the countertop, and watched as he struggled to fill it in. He took a print of my credit card and checked a computer screen. Then finally he took a fresh card key, ran it through the validator, and handed it to me.
“Here you go,” he said. “Enjoy.”
I turned away, and swept the bell off the countertop with my right hand as I went. It clanged down onto the floor and began to roll toward the steps. The guy on the sofa heard it. He didn’t react until I was approaching the elevators. Then his hand went for his jacket pocket. But he wasn’t reaching for a gun. I was watching. He was going for his phone.
I figured that if Taylor had a lookout in the lobby, there was a fair chance he’d have someone watching his corridor as well. Taylor himself and three of his guys could recognize me. So I didn’t go straight to the tenth floor. I went up to the twelfth. I counted the rooms. There were twenty. I found 1211 and 1212. They were just over halfway along the corridor, marginally closer to the stairs at the far end than the elevator I’d just used. I carried on past them and started to make my way slowly downward.
The fire door on the tenth floor was stiff, but I eased it open far enough to peek through. I could see all the way along to the elevators. The corridor was deserted. The layout was the same as the twelfth, but there was something different about 1012. The floor outside it was covered in something shiny. Heavy-duty plastic sheeting. And it extended beyond the neighboring two rooms.
It looked as though Taylor were preparing something for his guests.
I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. An operator picked up after six seconds. I ignored her request for my details and told her they had two officers down in the doorway of a building. I gave an address. It was the office opposite the Swan. Then I hung up, switched my phone to silent, and took a tight hold on my room key.
I heard the first siren after less than two minutes. Then another joined in. And another two. They grew louder and louder until there could be no mistake. They’d arrived, right outside the hotel. Directly under Taylor’s window. I slid through into the corridor and started toward my room, only slowing down when I reached the plastic sheet. I didn’t want to end up flat on my back.
Seven more paces and I was close enough to slide the key into the lock. It clicked. The light changed from red to green. The door swung open. I darted inside. The door eased smoothly back into its frame. I held my breath and listened. I heard nothing. I looked out through the spyhole. The door to 1012 was still closed. It stayed that way for the next two minutes.
I checked my watch. It was just 1:48 A.M. Another twenty-seven minutes until the agents were due to arrive.
Twenty-seven minutes that Tanya may not have.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The navy’s psychologists always seem fascinated by dreams.
They home right in on them, every twenty-four months, when you go for your evaluations. But it’s not just the shrinks who are interested. Over the years I’ve heard all kinds of people spend hours discussing what happened in theirs. And then speculating endlessly about what they’re supposed to mean.
One of the most common dreams, according to what I’ve been told, involves people who witness a chain of events. They can see that a bad thing is about to happen. They want to stop it. But for some reason they can’t. Something external prevents them. They could have been tied up. Or made to watch through a window. Or maybe they’re a passenger in a moving car. But whatever’s holding them back, they all reach the same conclusion. That it reveals a sense of underlying helplessness in their lives.
I’d never had that feeling myself.
But after looking out through that spyhole, I had a good idea of what it’s like.
The first of Varley’s agents stepped into the corridor at exactly 2:15. But he hadn’t sent twelve of them, as agreed. He’d sent ten. I watched them approach, all swollen and distorted by the tiny fish-eye lens. The first four filed quietly past me and backed up against the wall on the stairs’ side of Taylor’s door. They drew their weapons. Another four mirrored their positions on the elevator side. That left one pair. They were directly in front of me. The right-hand gu
y stepped forward. He knocked, firmly.
“Mr. Taylor?” he said. “We’re here. James Mansell sent us. You should have something for us. Can we come in?”
There was no reply. Nothing happened. I counted to fifteen. Then the agent stepped forward and knocked again.
I couldn’t hear any instructions being given, but the two agents simultaneously raised their hands. They both took a step back. They opened their jackets, took out their Glocks and laid them on the plastic sheet. Their Glocks. The FBI’s signature weapon. I couldn’t believe they hadn’t thought to carry something else. It was a dead giveaway. Absolute naïveté. Which made me worry. If they were so lax over gun choice, how would they have handled the sentry, downstairs?
Taylor’s door eased open a crack. The agents were focused on it. So were their eight buddies. That’s where they expected the threat to come from. But they were wrong. Instead, the doors to 1010 and 1014 flew open. A man burst out through each one. They were wearing Tungsten uniforms. And they had silenced .38s in both hands.
The Tungsten guys didn’t waste any time. They started shooting straightaway. With their silencers in place it sounded like someone swatting flies with a loosely rolled magazine. I couldn’t count the shots—they came too fast, one on top of the other—but the eight flanking agents went down like pins at a bowling alley. Only the central pair was still standing. They were left like statues, frozen rigid with shock. The one who’d spoken snapped out of it first. He ducked down, trying to recover his weapon. The other one followed a split second later. But they were too slow. Their fingers were still scrabbling forlornly on the shiny plastic when two more guys appeared from Taylor’s room. They kicked the guns away, grabbed the agents by their wrists, and dragged them inside.
The uniformed guys were still in the corridor, checking that none of their victims was breathing. I saw them gather up the spent shell cases as they went. They pocketed the two discarded Glocks. Then they lined the bodies up on separate plastic sheets and carefully hauled them, one at a time, into their own rooms. They took four each. After the final bodies had been removed the guys returned with something shiny in their hands. Aerosols of some kind. They started spraying randomly, swinging their arms in big lazy circles, and I realized they were using air fresheners. To cover the smell of the gunfire, I guessed, in case any other guests came past. They squirted away for thirty seconds, then one of them tipped his head back and pretended to sniff the breeze like a giant rabbit. He grimaced, and mimed that he wanted to stick his fingers down his throat. I knew how he felt. The other guy just smiled. Then they swapped a silent high five, glanced up and down the corridor one last time, and disappeared into Taylor’s room.
If the two captured agents were going to stand any kind of chance, the FBI would have to send its backup team in there, right away. Someone would have to get them moving. And let them know what they were up against. Varley would be best placed. I grabbed my phone. It would mean revealing I’d broken our agreement, but that couldn’t be helped now. His number rang, but he didn’t answer. I tried Lavine. Same result. Then Weston. His was still ringing when the door to 1012 swung open.
Taylor and one of the Tungsten guys came out. I hung up and watched them go into 1010. They stayed inside for less than a minute, then hurried over to 1014. The uniformed guy stayed outside the door. Taylor was out of sight for thirty seconds. He reemerged, phone in hand, scowling. He shook his head, and led the way back to his own room.
I redialed Weston’s number. He was engaged. I tried Varley again. I let it ring for longer this time, hoping the noise would be annoying enough to make him answer. But it didn’t work. And I didn’t get the chance to try Lavine because of more activity across the corridor. I saw Taylor’s door twitch. Twice. Then, slowly, it opened. One of the agents appeared. He moved forward, taking tiny hesitant steps. His arms were tied behind his back. One of the Tungsten guys was holding him by the collar. And a pistol was jammed against his temple.
Taylor followed, backed by two more Tungsten guys. All five of them were staring at my door. Taylor hit a button on his phone. He lifted it to his ear. I wondered who he was calling. Seven seconds later I found out. It was me.
“I know you can see me,” he said. “Come out of the room. Now.”
I hung up.
He called back.
“I know you’re in there,” he said. “I just spoke to my guy in the lobby. He saw you check in. I’m a little surprised you didn’t come knocking before, with your buddies. I didn’t have you down as a coward.”
I didn’t reply.
“So come out of the room, or this guy dies,” he said.
I didn’t reply.
“What?” he said. “You don’t believe me?”
“No,” I said. “I believe you. I just don’t care.”
“You don’t care. You’re just going to stand there and watch me shoot him?”
“That’s a tempting offer. I do like a good shooting. But I’ve seen eight today, already. So maybe I’ll just lie down, watch a little TV.”
“I will pull the trigger.”
“No you won’t. You’ll get one of your lackeys to do it. But either way, go ahead. Fill your boots.”
Taylor was silent for a moment.
“Got anything else for me?” I said. “Or shall I put the kettle on?”
“If you won’t come out, we’ll come in,” he said, nodding at my door.
The guys either side of him raised their pistols.
“Five seconds,” he said.
“Then what?” I said. “Those are only .38s. Low muzzle velocity. The silencers will soak up another 10 percent. And this is a fire door. I’ll take my chances, thanks.”
“OK. I didn’t want this, but I’m out of patience. Here are your options. Room 1005. Mother, father, and eighteen-month-old daughter. Room 1015. Mother, and two teenage sons. Come out, or pick one. Then explain to their families why they’re vacationing at the morgue.”
I disconnected him and redialed Varley’s number. It started to ring. Taylor looked at his watch. Varley wasn’t answering. Taylor started to fidget. Then he moved away, to his left. Toward 1005. The pair of Tungsten guys followed him. Their bodies stretched and curved into distorted crescents as they reached the outer fringes of the spyhole’s range, but they didn’t quite disappear. I could still see what they were doing. The phone was still ringing. And still Varley didn’t respond.
So, in the end, I had no choice. This was no dream. There was nothing to hold me back. It was no time to stand around, watching, while three innocent people were murdered in their sleep. Not to mention the 320 slightly less blameless ones who wouldn’t survive the night if I let Taylor walk away. And Tanya. I had to hold on to Taylor to stand any chance of finding her. Even if it meant losing the upper hand.
I let the phone ring two more times.
Then I hung up and opened the door.
THIRTY-NINE
Right from the start we knew Navy Intelligence was training us for one thing. Infiltration. The ability to worm your way into a close-knit group, extract secret information, get word back to your own side, and get out again in one piece. So it came as no surprise to find that they’d set up one of the other recruits to spy on us. Especially after all the other tricks they’d pulled. Although, to be honest, she gave herself away pretty cheaply. The type of questions she asked. The places she was spotted. The way she tried to buddy up to you for a few days, before moving on to someone else.
After three weeks an emergency announcement was made. A security breach had been uncovered, it said. We were all summoned to the briefing room, that same morning. I remember everyone sidling past the chief instructor, not making eye contact but feeling smug, confident they were in the clear. And how that feeling changed when everybody was handed a file. It was thick. It gave details of everything that had been leaked. Only it hadn’t come from the person we’d all suspected. The real culprit turned out to be the quietest guy on the course. The one we’d all talked t
o, trying to bolster his confidence and save him from getting thrown out.
At first I thought the moral would be the usual “trust no one.” But the real point soon became clear. That people will only talk voluntarily if they don’t perceive a threat. Tongues will only wag when people believe they’re in a position of strength.
Even if, in reality, they’re not.
You could see the surprise creep across both agents’ faces when we reached the elevators and Taylor hit the UP button. They fought it back, and gave nothing more away for thirty seconds. Then surprise turned to confusion when the doors opened and Taylor stepped inside.
“Don’t play poker, do you?” he said, as the Tungsten guys herded the agents in behind him. “What did you expect? Down?”
He hit the button for the fourteenth floor.
“But don’t worry,” he said. “Your backup buddies won’t be hanging around long. Any minute now they’re going hear about my car getting spotted on the FDR. They’ll go after it. Chase shadows the rest of the night. Last place they’ll look for you is right here, in the same building.”
The elevator doors opened and Taylor led the way down the corridor. He stopped halfway along. Two of his guys took the agents into 1410. Taylor slipped his satchel off his shoulder and let himself into 1412. That left me alone with the two guys who had done the shooting. The silencers were gone and their .38s were safely holstered. It was a tempting moment. But Taylor’s confidence was sky-high, and I wanted to keep it that way. I checked my watch. It was 2:34. No time to cover any ground twice.
The guy who’d done the rabbit impression was the first to move. He produced a key and opened the door to 1414. A light flickered on from inside the room. The other guy took my elbow and guided me through, in front of him. He steered me past the thin wooden closet and kept shoving until we reached the foot of the double bed. The rabbit guy was standing on the other side, looking around at the furniture. Then he took hold of a dressing-table chair, picked it up, and thoroughly checked it over.