by Andrew Grant
“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 back, 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?
Taylor clicked on the second tab—CONTROL—and a picture of an old-fashioned light switch appeared in place of the dials.
It was in the off position.
I made the decision. I was going now. I’d get down to the street as quickly as I could. But I’d stop Taylor on my way. For Tanya’s sake.
“All we have to do is drag this . . .” Taylor was saying when I pulled my arms free of the ties and elbowed him in the side of the head, knocking him flying off his chair.
The rabbit guy was the first to react. He ran toward me, trying to wrap his arms around my body. I watched him coming in the mirror. I waited until he was one step away then twisted sideways and drove my right fist deep into his stomach. He doubled over, the momentum carried him forward, and the bridge of his nose slammed straight into the sharp edge of the dressing table.
He went down without another sound.
The other guy had a hand on one of his .38s. He was too far away to reach, so I scooped up my chair and hurled it at him, across the room. It felt good. I hadn’t done that to anyone since I was at school. And I hadn’t lost my touch. The backrest caught him square in the face and sent him staggering backward long enough for me to move in and smash my left fist into his jaw. The impact spun him around, bouncing him off the bed and onto the floor.
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. It was Taylor. He was back up, on his knees, going for his computer. That left no time for finesse so I just drove my heel down into the other guy’s throat as I passed him, crushing his larynx and leaving him to choke in silence.
Taylor was kneeling next to the dressing table. He was drawing his left hand away from the computer. I checked the screen. The switch had been dragged down, into the ON position. A row of digits had appeared underneath it, like the display on an old LED watch. They read 00:02:01. Two minutes, one second. And counting.
“Thought you’d like to see it,” Taylor said, pulling my gun out of his pocket. “Now. Turn around. Hands on the wall.”
Lesley would still be at least a block away. I hoped.
“How do you stop it?” I said.
“Right click on the display. Select ‘cancel.’ But that’s not really on your agenda, is it?”
I took a step toward the computer. Taylor raised the gun and aimed at my chest. I took another step. He pulled the trigger. The gun clicked harmlessly. He looked puzzled, and tried again. Twice. There were two more clicks. Then I put my hand flat on the side of his head and shoved, sending him tumbling sideways onto the floor.
I reached the computer and followed Taylor’s instructions to cancel the countdown, but all that happened was another window appeared. It read, WARNING: This action will stop the program from activating the remote field devices at the time you previously specified. Are you sure you wish to cancel?
I clicked Yes.
Another box appeared. Enter Password.
I turned to Taylor. He was back on his feet, fiddling with his phone. I took it from him, threw it on the floor, and ground it into pieces with the heel of my boot.
“You probably could make me tell you,” he said, nodding at the screen. “Given time. But not in a minute twenty. So go ahead. Guess.”
I typed Tungsten.
Incorrect password.
I typed 3/20.
Incorrect password.
I typed Retribution.
You have entered 3 incorrect passwords. The system is now locked. Your request has not been accepted.
“You weren’t far wrong with that last one,” Taylor said. “But it’s over now. Your chance has gone. All you can do is wait and watch.”
A cartoon image of a rocket appeared on the screen. It was red with an oval, cigar-shaped body and curved fins at the side, like a shark’s. It was sitting next to fuel pump, and as I watched a curly pipe floated across and slid its nozzle into the rocket’s tank. Then a little door opened halfway up the rocket’s body, revealing another timer. It was set at thirty seconds and counting. The rocket started to fidget on the spot and with each passing second its movements grew more frenzied, as if it were desperate to break free from the screen and fly away.
Which made me think.
“Taylor,” I said. “The signal. It hasn’t been sent yet, has it?”
“Of course it has,” Taylor said. “I sent it. You tried to cancel. And you failed.”
“But you keep your Web server quiet till the last moment. You told me. And that error message. It said ‘the program.’ As in, the one running on this machine.”
“So?” he said, looking away. “Just computer semantics.”
I reached down and pulled a .38 from one of the rabbit guy’s holsters. And I heard a noise. From the door, behind me. Someone was opening it. I spun around, expecting to see Lesley. Hoping to see Tanya. But actually seeing one of the other Tungsten guys, from 1410. He was already speaking as he came into the room.
“Boss?” he said. “Got part of a text—”
I shot him twice in the chest, watched him fall, and turned back to the computer. The countdown was hovering on two seconds. It turned to one. I pulled the trigger again. Three more times. Three bullets tore into the keyboard. And I put one into the top edge of the screen, where the Wi-Fi aerial is usually housed, just in case.
Then I grabbed Taylor by the collar and ran.
I could see all five black Fords before we were even through the hotel lobby. They’d been left in a loose horseshoe around the entrance. Lined up like a firing squad, I thought. They couldn’t have been any more obvious. I checked both ways, up and down the street. There was no sign of Lesley. No movement at all, of vehicles or pedestrians. Nothing to show whether she was still on her way, or had already gone.
I pulled Taylor back into the shadows and willed her car to appear.
Taylor broke the silence, after two minutes.
“You were too late,” he said. “You failed. You couldn’t stop me.”
I looked at my watch. My eyes were drawn to the second hand. I thought it must have stopped, but realized it was just crawling around as if it were made of lead. I followed it all the way around the dial. Twice. That made it 3:27. And then my phone rang.
It was Lavine. I spoke to him for fifteen seconds. Taylor saw the expression on my face and broke into a triumphant smile.
“It’s started, hasn’t it?” he said. “They’ve found bodies.”
“Body,” I said. “Just one. A block from here.”
It was Tanya’s.
FORTY-ONE
Losing one of your own is always traumatic.
I was introduced to it early in my career. One of our people was killed while I was in Hong Kong, on my first assignment. He was on their headquarters staff. Some of the others had worked with him for years. I remember wondering how they would react, and being surprised at how calm and unemotional they were. And also feeling uncomfortable when they invited me to his funeral. I’d hardly known the guy. So I declined, and straightaway the station chief called me to his office. He wanted to explain something. It wasn’t just a funeral, he said. It was an alibi. Because in our branch of the service you don’t waste energy on tantrums or hysterics. You don’t get mad. You just get even. Quietly. Efficiently. And permanently.
The killer’s body turned up that afternoon, crushed in the mechanism of an automatic car wash.
At least the police thought it was him. They found his remains unusually hard to identify.
Tanya’s death was officially being handled by the FBI, though inevitably it was overshadowed by their panic over Tungsten. Building a case against Taylor took priority with their bosses, along with keeping a lid on the media, recovering the money he’d squirreled away, hunting down the organ smugglers, and treating the clinics’ victims. But if their eyes were looking in other directions, that suited me fine. London, too. They cut me all the slack I needed. Complications were found with my head wound. Consultations at numerous hospitals were needed. Compassionate leave was granted. You name it. Lucinda, Tanya’s assistant, took care of the official explanations. I just made sure one thing was clear. I wasn’t leaving the United States until Lesley had been found. And made to pay.
It was beginning to look as if I were in for a long stay. How could I infiltrate an organization that had completely dissolved? The FBI could find no trace. Nor could the NYPD. Their internal affairs departments couldn’t unearth Lesley’s informers. We talked to the DSS, but her people had already been pulled out. We tried the banks. Forgers. Weapons suppliers. Car dealers. Realtors. Moving companies. Her known enemies. Homeless people. Everyone and everything we could think of. And we were getting nowhere.
Ten days later I was sitting with Weston and Lavine in their office, trying to conjure up some new angles, when my phone rang. It was Julianne Morgan.
“Hey, David,” she said. “Good to hear your voice. You still in town?”
I was tempted to fob her off. I was in no mood for socializing. But it’s not every day you share a dog cage with someone and then save their life. And there was something else about her. She was a journalist. An investigator, of sorts. A good enough one that Lesley had snatched her off the street a fortnight ago. She must have struck a nerve to warrant a response like that. I decided it was worth a shot. She might be able to dredge something up that could help me.
“Sure,” I said. “I’m just tying up some loose ends. How about you?”
“The same. I just finished a story. A big one. So I’m looking to celebrate. And you promised to let me buy dinner, last time we spoke.”
“I did. You’re right. That would be nice. When were you thinking?”
“How about tonight?”
“Works for me.”
“Great. I’m going to the gym first. Should be done by eight?”
“Eight’s fine.”
“OK, so where to meet? Do you know Esperanto’s? In the Village?”
“I can find it.”
“That’s fine then. See you there.”
The main dining room at Esperanto’s was on the first floor, but they wouldn’t let you up there until you were ready to order. If you were still waiting for anyone you had to stay downstairs, in the bar. Which was tiny. About the size of a normal coat closet. It was too small for tables. You had to stand, sandwiched between the staircase and the counter, being constantly jostled by a noisy throng of overly cheerful customers.
Julianne was forty minutes late. And when she arrived, she wasn’t exactly rushing. She just strolled in, saw me, waved, and waited for me to push my way through the crowd. At least she showed some enthusiasm when I did finally reach her. She threw her arms around me, hugged me tight, and kissed me on both cheeks. She must have just showered. I noticed her hair was still damp. And that it smelled of coconut.
A waiter was standing at the top of the stairs, between us and the tables. They were divided into three regimented blocks of twenty. The nearest ones had red and yellow tablecloths. The central group had red and blue. The farthest had red and green.
“Good evening,” the waiter said. “Spanish, French, or Italian?”
“English,” I said. “And American.”
Julianne giggled.
“No, sir,” he said, gesturing to the tables. “Your choice of cuisine?”
Add in the wh
ite of the walls, and the color scheme suddenly made sense.
“Any preference?” I said to Julianne.
“Me? No.”
“Then let’s go with Italian,” I said, with an eye on the table in the far corner. It would give me the clearest view of the whole restaurant. I didn’t know if Julianne had invited any other guests.
Julianne let the waiter take her jacket. Her blouse was slim and tightly fitted, her slacks had no pockets, and she was wearing boots. That just left her purse. It was unzipped. She was holding on to it as we sat down, then I saw her lean it against the table leg on her right-hand side. I nudged it with my foot, knocking it over. She reached down and retrieved it. But not before I’d caught the glint of metal near the top.
The waiter came back for our order, and then Julianne excused herself. I left it a moment and then followed her. The corridor leading to the restrooms was long and dingy. I had to press myself against the wall to let an older woman squeeze by, coming from the other direction.
“You haven’t seen a little girl, have you?” I said. “I’m looking for my daughter. She’s six years old.”
“No,” the woman said. “Sorry.”
“She didn’t just go in the bathroom?”
“No. That was a tall lady. Good-looking.”
“Five eleven, white blouse, black slacks?”
“Sounds about right. Why?”
“That’s my wife. She’ll know where the kid is. I’ll just wait outside.”
I moved up to the restroom door and listened. I could hear a soft electronic beeping sound. A cell phone keypad. Julianne was texting. Then the toilet flushed. The lock slid back. The door started to open. I let it move an inch and then shoved it, hard, with my right hand. It slammed back into Julianne’s face, breaking her nose. Blood spurted onto her blouse, scarlet and soggy against the crisp white cotton. I pushed her back, stepped into the tiny space, and locked the door behind me. Julianne snarled. And dropped her phone in the toilet.
Julianne’s purse had fallen on the floor. I leaned down to grab it and she tried to kick me. I blocked with my forearms. She pulled back, but I kept hold of her foot. Then I lifted and twisted at the same time, throwing her sideways. Her head smashed into the wall, dazing her for a moment. I grabbed the purse. I slid my hand inside. My fingers closed around wood and metal. It was the handstock of a small revolver. A Colt Detective Special. Only this woman was no detective.