by Mike Cooper
Harmony slowed, then nosed the Escalade off the road, toward another industrial parking lot. It was right up against the tank farm’s fence. A number of small vans were parked in the lee of a prefab metal building—several truck bays, closed tight, but it wasn’t a warehouse, because the doors went to ground level, not loading docks.
I could just read the sign mounted under the building’s roofline: RED BALL DELIVERY.
“These guys are okay,” she said.
“You know them.” I shrugged. “Sure, it’s low odds, but I’d hate to get in a shooting match next to a million gallons of high-test.”
Stairs led to a low wooden landing at the end of the building, a few feet off the ground. The door was blank and closed, though the window next to it showed light through an opaque shade. Harmony parked at the end of the row of vans and we got out.
“Maybe we ought to clean the surfaces?” I said.
“They’ll take care of it.” She pushed the door shut without slamming it. “I told you, they know their business.”
At the office door she knocked, waited, then stepped back when it opened and light spilled out.
“Come on in, honey.” The guy was short and thick, in blue-twill work clothes. A patch above one pocket had “Red Ball” embroidered in red over white, barely readable for fading and grime.
Harmony gestured at me—an invitation to follow, and an introduction. “This is Silas,” she said. “We’re friends.”
The office was small—desk, some chairs, a sprung couch. Curling safety posters and a calendar hung on the faux knotty paneling. The short man closed the door behind us, but Harmony had addressed the other occupant. He sat behind the desk, dark hair and reading glasses, papers stacked all around his laptop.
He didn’t get up, or offer to shake hands.
“Rough day?” he said.
The borrowed clothes helped, but we were still dirty, bloody and probably reeking of chemical smoke. “Same old, same old,” Harmony said.
“You’re early. Thought you needed the car for a week.”
“Sometimes it goes smooth.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You can keep the extra day’s payment. I already billed my client.”
The man studied me, looking over his glasses. “Silas?”
I didn’t know him, but it didn’t sound like an offer to introduce myself—he seemed to be talking to Harmony.
“I know,” she said.
“Funny, him having the same name.”
“It got complicated. Turns out we’re on the same side.”
I guess she’d mentioned what she was in town for.
“That’s nice.” He leaned back a bit, and I could see the shoulder holster, which was no doubt deliberate. “Good to find out who your friends are.”
“I ought to tell you,” said Harmony. “We happened to be nearby to some excitement.”
“Nearby.”
“In the general area. I don’t think anyone was taking pictures or writing down plate numbers, but I can’t swear to it. You might want to keep the Escalade out of the fleet for a few days.”
“What kind of excitement?”
“You know, kids. Did the Steelers lose today? Maybe they were letting off steam.”
“Football hasn’t started yet. As a girl, you might not know that.”
Delivery was a convenient business—a completely unremarkable excuse to have people driving all over the city, double-parked here, stopping there, visiting any company they liked, transporting anonymous boxes everywhere.
“It’s been like Halloween this week,” the man said. “Devil’s Night, practically. Those kids must be serious.”
“Serious?”
“Arson, explosives, shooting. Even went into a hospital, the news says. Firing at patients, blowing up the wards.”
“Nothing to do with you.”
“Course not. And you say you’re done. But the ones looking for him”— he looked at me–“do they know that? Is there any chance they might get upset at you, for example, and end up here?”
Harmony shook her head. “None.”
“Uh-huh.”
A long pause. The short guy stood by the door, more or less blocking it, arms at his side. A game controller sat on the couch, and an LCD monitor atop a two-drawer file cabinet showed a silent, frozen, CGI image—smoke and dust and smudge. In the silence I thought I could hear the hum of a second computer.
“They’re Russian,” I said.
Attention swung my way. “Who?”
“Russian speaking, anyway. The ones who’ve been shooting up your city.”
“Not my city.” He sat forward again. “And it seemed to be all out in the suburbs. Clackton.”
“Clabbton.”
“Right.”
“So I was wondering,” I said, “whether maybe you heard anything.”
“About Russians?”
“Anything helpful.”
The man pushed his chair back, its plastic rollers scraping on the linoleum floor, and stood up. The reading glasses deceived. He was wiry and muscled, not some potbellied middle-aged manager. Another stretch, showing off the holster again—looked like serious hardware in there, an FN maybe—and he opened a door behind him. It led to a small alcove with a sink and counter, where a coffee machine had a pot half full.
“Want a cup?” he said, over his shoulder.
“No thanks.” Harmony took the opportunity to move sideways, still between the short guy and his boss, but enough that he was no longer at her back. “It would only keep me up all night.”
The man came back, mug in his left hand. It had some sort of cartoon on it. I squinted.
“Polacks, we got,” he said. “Been here for a hundred years, working the mills. Indians—they’re buying the mills. FerroCorp just sold themselves to some Indian steel company. And the Chinese, they’re all over the place, looking for God knows what. Scrap metal, maybe.” He swirled the mug. “It’s like we’re the third world now, you know? Sell raw material to China, buy back televisions and iPhones.”
It seemed like an odd place for a discussion of international competitive advantage. “Funny,” I said.
“But Russians, they’re thin on the ground.”
“Just a thought.”
“When are you leaving?”
The question was unexpected. He was looking at Harmony.
“Soon as we’re done.”
“I thought you already were.”
“Someone’s trying to kill me.” She said it like it was just another of life’s minor irritations—the toaster broke, I ran out of oatmeal, and, oh yeah, a hunter-killer team is shooting the hell out of Pittsburgh. “Have to take care of that first.”
He drank some coffee, watching us. “Oh?”
“You know me.”
“Unfortunately.”
She let a smile go by, almost too fast to catch. “I’m here until it’s done.”
“Yes.”
“But,” she added, “the sooner, the better.”
“And you think I might share that perspective.”
“You don’t?”
It was a Garfield cartoon. His hand covered the punch line.
“The only Russians I know of are the ones who bought into Rockwire a year or two ago,” he said. “Over in Fellsville.”
“Rockwire.” Harmony didn’t react. “I’ve heard of them.”
“Russian money saved that company. There’d be two, three hundred guys out of work if the plant had gone under.”
“Rockwire’s bigger than Fellsville. They have operations all over the Midwest.”
“Could be.”
The short man shifted on his feet, not impatiently, just keeping the blood moving. His gaze traveled a steady circuit: me, Harmony, his boss. Me, Harmony . . . I caught his eye, but he just glanced at my hands and my feet, then on to Harmony.
“You do any business with them?” she asked.
“Rockwire? Nah. Some parts deliveries, maybe, but I’d ha
ve to look at the books to be sure.”
“They’re probably not connected.”
“Don’t see how they could be.” The man finished his coffee and set down the mug. “They make pipeline equipment.”
On the way out the short man finally stepped away from the door, nodding at Harmony. “See you around, honey.”
“Sure.”
“You need a ride? You only drove the one car here.”
“A friend’s waiting for us.”
She held the door for me, and we clumped down the wooden steps. They watched us go, the door not closing completely until we reached the gate and stepped out of the lot.
No sidewalk. It wasn’t a pedestrian neighborhood. We walked on a gravel verge between the road’s paving and the tank farm fence.
As soon as the Red Ball warehouse was no longer visible I borrowed Harmony’s phone.
“We need to know more about Rockwire,” I said.
“They make pipes, right? Like he said.”
“But they own half of Dagger Light—and Markson has the other half.”
“You know how to use the browser on there?” She gestured to the phone in my hand. “It’s custom as well, but I think they started with Mozilla’s code—”
“Not necessary.” I finished dialing and raised the phone. “Johnny’s looking in to it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Dave stood outside the Charger, tossing a rock from hand to hand, at the far end of the tank farm. He’d parked for a rapid getaway, next to a heap of dirty sand as tall as him. As we walked up I half waved—no rush, no problem.
“All set?”
“We’re good.” Harmony and I both reached for the passenger door handle at the same time. “Hey.”
“I’m not riding in back—there’s no seat.”
Dave seemed offended. “Of course there’s a seat.”
“That’s a piece of wood!”
The car’s rear held a plank—precisely cut and fitted, and varnished to a smooth gloss—but Harmony was right. The Charger was built to go around a track very fast, not to carry passengers.
“Also,” she said, looking through a rear side window, “is that the gas tank underneath it?”
“Yeah.” Dave nodded. “Taking out the upholstery frees up some weight. The tank’s always been there, but now you can see it. That’s all.”
“I am not sitting on top of a petrol bomb.”
I could see her point.
In the end she took the front and I perched rather uncomfortably on the hard wood. After some complaining, Dave held the speed down and tried to ease over the bumps for my sake.
With the windows open, cool night air flowed through the car. The engine rumbled like the well-tuned, barely restrained jet turbine it was. Dave kept two hands on the wheel, posture as correct as one of the mannequins in a driver’s-ed video, the same ingrained and professional habits I’m sure he used on the track.
“Where to, then?” he said.
“The airport.”
“What?” Harmony and Dave reacted simultaneously. “You’re leaving?”
“No,” I said. “But we can’t have you driving us around. I hate to do it, but we’re going to have to collect my car from the parking lot there.”
“Car?” He seemed confused. “Didn’t you fly in?”
“Oh.” I forgot I hadn’t explained and gave the short version.
Dave laughed. “So that’s like, what, five vehicles you’ve destroyed?”
“Only four, but now I’m down to the last one.”
Transportation resolved, we still had the question of where to stay.
“I don’t think Brendt would mind,” Dave said. “The basement’s got carpet. It’s not too bad down there—it only flooded once last year, and he dried everything out with one of those big fans.”
“Gosh, that sounds perfect.” Harmony patted him on the shoulder. “But Silas and I shouldn’t attract any more attention. We’ll find a hotel or something.”
I started to say that I didn’t have the cash for that, then realized that we could travel on her credit card for a while. “Good idea.”
“When is Brendt coming home?”
“He said they’re going to finish tonight no matter what—the ceremony is tomorrow.”
“Ceremony? At a fracking site?”
“I dunno. Sounded like PR—they have to clean up all the crap lying around, too. Make it look nice and clean for the reporters.”
“You still don’t have a place of your own, do you?” I said.
Dave downshifted, slowing through a blinking yellow light. A few blocks ahead a long bridge crossed the avenue, and as we approached I saw it was a highway viaduct. Dave got into the left lane, signaling onto the on-ramp.
“I’m trying to work it out with Elsie,” he said.
I considered that. “She doesn’t have a place of her own, either.”
“Yeah.”
“And if I were Brendt, I probably wouldn’t be very accommodating.”
“That’s the problem, all right.”
At the airport Dave dropped us at Departures. Not many people around at nine-thirty P.M.—a few taxis, some grim-looking businessmen headed for red-eyes, a state trooper parked and staring at his inboard computer. We got out and shook hands, just like real passengers. “Call me,” Dave said.
“We’re close.” Harmony gave him a quick hug, like she was his sister. “I can feel it. We’re almost there.”
“See you tomorrow.”
He drove off. The trooper watched him go with a frown, but the Charger attracted that sort of attention all the time. Harmony and I passed through the wide doors into the terminal, walked all the way down the row, and descended to Arrivals. Past the baggage claim, across the roadway and into the garage. A brisk climb up the stairwell took us to level three, where I’d parked a week earlier.
It seemed like a month.
“What did Johnny say?” Harmony asked as I recovered the spare key from its little holder magnetized to the underbody. Bad security, but awfully convenient. “About Rockwire?”
“I left a message. He’ll get back to me.” I settled into the driver’s seat. “Look under the seat. There’s a map folder.”
Harmony pulled out a dusty plastic case. “The phone has GPS, you know.”
“No. I keep some extra cash inside there. We’ll need it to get through the gate.”
We drove out of the garage. Harmony leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. “I’m crashing.”
“Me too.” Long day.
“Go to . . . let’s see, the Marriott on University Boulevard, right outside the airport.”
“You know it?”
“Checked in when I arrived. Room 242. Second floor—the card key’s buried in the planter holding a plastic-looking shrub to the left of the elevator.”
I slowed, stuck behind a taxi entering the exit road. It felt good to be in my own car for once. “You know, I’m paranoid, but even I’ll carry my hotel key around with me.”
“I have rooms at three different places.” Harmony yawned. “Paid a week at each one when I arrived, mussed the bed and hung out the do-not-disturb.”
“Three?”
“Be prepared. That’s all. When you need a bolt-hole, having to talk to the desk clerk in a public lobby may be a problem.”
Three rooms, one week each—more than two thousand dollars, probably.
Just in case.
“You run a nice budget,” I said.
“Expenses.” She opened her eyes to glance at me. “Charged to the client.”
“Of course.”
“Drop me first, come in five minutes later. Okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
I followed the airport exit road. Harmony seemed to doze off, but a minute later she spoke again. “I can’t figure who hired me.”
The question had been nagging at me also. “Not the Russians.”
“Not considering how they faced both of us off at Brinker�
��s farm. I suppose someone could have sent them and me on the same mission—but why? The Russian team was already here tearing up the place. They wouldn’t need me dogging you in New York.”
“What exactly was your assignment?”
“To find you.”
“That’s all?” I rested my hand on her shoulder briefly. “It’s okay, you can tell me if there was more to it.”
“Terminate with extreme prejudice? Wetwork? Like that?” Her eyes were still closed. “No, that really wasn’t part of the RFP. Just to collect you for an interview.”
“Interview. I’ve had some clients use that word.”
“By phone. I was supposed to sit you down somewhere and put you on speaker. There’d be a discussion, and then we’d let you go.”
“Hmm.” But one more question nagged. “They didn’t ask you to look for someone else first, did they?”
“Someone else?”
“Maybe named Ryan?”
“No.” She opened her eyes. “Who is he?”
“The guy who subcontracted me.” I explained. “I have to assume the Russians got to him first—and then turned up my name.”
No trouble when we arrived. The Marriott was the usual cheap cube, a circle drive and portico in front and plain windows on the sides. The parking lot was reasonably lit, and street lamps illuminated the roadway as well. I stopped around back, near an exit—we could see the hallway inside, through the glass door. A status LED glowed on a card reader alongside. Harmony waited a few minutes until someone approached the door from inside, then hopped out and arrived just as the guest was pushing through. She held the door for him, stepping back in a way that facilitated his departure and kept her face turned aside.
I parked the car—nose out, pointed directly at the lot’s exit—and went in the same door. Harmony had slipped a bit of paper into the jamb, holding the latch back just enough that I could fake a card swipe and pull it open. The paper scrap fluttered away.
Room 242 had two double beds, a narrow desk and a chair, plus a three-foot flat-screen TV above the credenza. No lights were on. Harmony stood at the window, the blackout curtain held open a few inches, studying the view.
“Backup gear bag’s on the dresser,” she said. “I left it here when I checked in. There’s an extra phone you can have, some money. Toothbrush in the bathroom.”