by Andrew Grant
“An elephant couldn’t break it,” he said. “Bring him.”
I sat down on the chair. Between them the two guys bound my wrists and ankles to its metal frame. They used four of the cable ties they’d taken from me, downstairs. Each one checked the other’s work, pulling all the ties a couple of clicks tighter. They dumped the rest of my possessions—the gun I’d inherited from Lesley’s guy, one last cable tie, my wallet, ID, room key, and key to Tanya’s apartment—on the dressing table. Then they perched on the bed behind me.
I couldn’t help wondering if Tanya was tied up somewhere, as well. Attached to a chair, like me. Or still strapped to one of Lesley’s trolleys . . .
“Is there a kettle in here?” I said. “I could really use a coffee.”
No one answered.
A picture of Lesley’s shiny wooden box crept into my mind. I could almost hear her voice. All her talk of volts and amps . . .
“Room service?” I said. “Maybe a snack, while we’re waiting?”
Neither of the guys replied. They seemed happy to just sit in silence. I couldn’t see my watch, but ten or eleven minutes must have crawled past without any activity. I stared at the wall and tried to fend off all the images that kept forming in my head. Then I heard a light knocking sound. It was coming from a door in the side wall, between the closet and dressing table. The rabbit guy jumped to his feet and opened it. A man stepped through. His hair was combed back and he was wearing a black suit with wide chalk pinstripes, like a Chicago gangster. It took me a moment to recognize who it was.
“Taylor?” I said. “What the hell have you got on?”
He came over and stood next to me.
“You struck me as a smart guy when we talked before,” he said. “So I’ll level with you. I’m looking for a little bonus. Some information.”
“Information only I have?”
“No. Several people have it. But you could save me the trouble.”
“I could save you some trouble. My lifelong ambition. And if I give you this information, I go free?”
“No. You die. In this room. In around thirty minutes’ time.”
“Well, then, it may just be me, but I’m not really seeing much of an incentive.”
Taylor went back into his room and reappeared ten seconds later carrying an old-fashioned doctor’s case. The brown leather was worn into holes where it folded and the metal clasp at the top clearly didn’t work anymore. Taylor laid it down on the dressing table and levered it open. He took out a glass vial full of a clear, colorless liquid and placed it next to the bag. Then he pulled out a brass syringe. It was huge. He curled two fingers around the curved flanges on the side of its wide body, slipped his thumb into the loop at the end of the plunger, and held it out at arm’s length.
“Trying to compensate for something?” I said.
“Bigger than average, I know,” he said. “It’s European. An antique. It came from some old veterinarian, over there. Holds eighty milliliters. More than you really need for humans. But when I go to work with this baby, you don’t need to worry about air bubbles. Because you know what I’ll be injecting.”
He tapped the needle against the top of the vial.
“Is that the stuff you implanted in your patients?”
Taylor nodded.
“Then you can’t use it on me,” I said.
“Oh?” he said. “Why not?”
“You’d end up with 321 victims. One too many. Ruin the symbolism. Everyone would laugh at you.”
Taylor smiled.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “My guys will sit you in the bath, first. Your blood will just trickle away down the drain like watered-down cranberry juice. No one will know. Except you, obviously. If you force us down that road.”
I didn’t reply.
“We don’t have to go that way,” he said. “You could be sensible.”
I took a moment to glance up at Taylor. I could feel the time slipping away from me. I wanted to move on him. Find out what he knew. But I could see it was too soon. He wasn’t ready for the close. I only had one chance. I couldn’t afford to blow it. And I still needed a way to free myself from the chair.
“I never really did well with sensible,” I said.
“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 city, 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.”<
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“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.”