by Jason Dean
‘Hey, we’re not allowed to give out those kinds of details, man. Now are you gonna let me in or not? I got three more calls to fit in this afternoon and it’s almost two already.’
Charlie moved aside. ‘Okay, but maybe I should call the management company first. Nobody mentioned any of this to me.’
Sy stepped inside. ‘Hey, it’s your dime,’ he said. ‘But if you want my advice, I’d hold off till we see if there’s a problem or not. Lot a times these kinds of calls are false alarms, but we have to check anyway. It’s up to you.’
Charlie bit his lip. It was good advice. He liked a trouble-free existence and so did the management company. Better all round if he were to call them only if it became absolutely necessary. ‘Okay, I’ll wait,’ he said. ‘Where do you want to check first?’
‘Where’s your utility room?’ Sy asked. ‘In the basement?’
‘Right.’
‘Then we go there first. You wanna lead the way?’
‘Sure.’ Charlie turned and began walking down the hallway towards the door at the end. He heard Sy follow him. He came to a stop outside the basement door and was searching for the right key when he decided he could smell something. Very faint, but it had that hint of sulphur in there, like rotten eggs. Oh, Christ. Just what I need.
‘You smell that too, huh?’ Sy asked as he rooted around in his toolbox for something. ‘Might not be anything to worry about, but let’s see.’
Charlie unlocked the door, turned on the lights and led the way down the stairs. It was dank and musty in the utility room. Sy went over to look at the pressure gauges on the wall. He checked something on his clipboard, then tapped the second gauge from the left a few times with his finger. Then he checked the various gas meters, writing the figures down on his clipboard.
As he worked, he said, ‘How many of the apartments are vacant at the moment?’
‘Vacant? Well, none of them. We’re always at full occupancy.’
‘Nah, that’s not what I meant. I mean like if any of the tenants go on holiday for extended periods or something, they’ll tell you, right?’
‘Sure, they usually keep me informed. Why?’
‘Maybe the gas smell’s coming from inside one of those apartments, you follow? Maybe we’ll need to get inside and check. I don’t know yet. Which ones are empty right now?’
Charlie thought for a few moments. ‘Well, 3B are in Costa Rica for a week; 4A and 4C are both away for at least another month or more. And, um . . . oh yeah, 6D. He won’t be back until Christmas. They’re the only ones I know of.’
Sy nodded and kept writing. After a while, he came back and said, ‘All seems to be okay at this end. Could be a false alarm, but we’ll still need to check each floor. Maybe it’s a localized problem. Okay if I leave my toolbox here for now? The thing’s a bitch to carry.’
‘Sure,’ Charlie said.
‘Okay, we’ll take the stairs and do a floor-by-floor search. You take the first while I take the second. Then you do the third, and so on until we get to the top. You follow? And if you smell gas anywhere you come and let me know.’
‘Right.’ Charlie pointed Sy to the stairs halfway down the next corridor, then began his inspection of the first floor. He checked every inch of the hallways, but there was no gas smell anywhere. Even the faint odour from before had vanished.
He then took the stairs to the third floor and repeated the procedure, breathing deeply through his nose at every step and wondering who it was who’d made the call to the gas company. Probably Ms Egleton in 6C. She was always the first to complain about the heating not working properly, or some other penny ante problem she wanted him to fix.
The third floor was okay, too, though. No gas. Same with the fifth floor. Charlie figured about ten minutes had elapsed in total by the time he made it to the sixth floor. Sy was pacing up and down the corridors with his nose in the air. He noticed Charlie and said, ‘Anything?’
‘All clear on the odd-numbered floors. You?’
‘Not a whiff anywhere. I think we can chalk this one up to another false alarm, but better safe than sorry, I say.’
‘I hear you,’ Charlie said and smiled as he led the way back to the stairs. He was a happy man now that a possible disaster had been averted with the minimum of fuss. Everything was roses again. And the sooner he could see this guy off to his next job, the sooner he could get back to his movie.
THIRTY-SIX
Crouching on the fourth-floor fire escape, Bishop pushed open the window Willard had unlocked during his floor ‘inspection’ and leaned his head in. The hallway was empty. All was quiet. He slid his body the rest of the way in until his feet touched the floor, then closed and latched the window behind him.
Eager to rectify his earlier mistake, Willard had jumped at the opportunity to lend a hand when Bishop had called earlier. Bishop could have played the part of the gas engineer himself, but didn’t want to risk the possibility of being recognized by the super at any point. Not that he planned to show his face during his short stay, but you never knew. He liked to be prepared for all eventualities.
He’d picked Willard up at the airport at 14.15 in a rented panel van that also contained the work overalls and the brand new toolbox he’d need for his role. Along the way, they’d stopped off at a Home Depot store and picked up a can of sulphur pesticide spray, as the odour it gave off was almost exactly the same as that of natural gas. Bishop also picked up a couple of other items that might come in useful if this didn’t work out. Home Depot really did have everything a guy could want.
Bishop walked down the hallway. Willard had said that the A and B apartments were the front-facing ones, and that he had the choice of 3B or 4A. Bishop had decided to take 4A. The occupants were away for a longer period, so there was less chance of them coming back early and finding a gatecrasher in their home. That was the theory, anyway.
He turned the corner and entered another hallway with two doorways near the end: 4A and 4B. He studied the lock for 4A, then took the lockpick gun and tension wrench from his pants pocket and had the door open in seconds.
Closing it behind him, Bishop found himself in a spacious foyer that led off into five other rooms. He quickly checked each one. A pair of bedrooms on the left, living room straight ahead, and bathroom and kitchen to the right. The walls in each room had been painted white and the floor was hardwood throughout. The furniture was tasteful and conservative. The air in the place was a little stale, indicating the place had been empty for a while.
Bishop took a chair from the kitchen and carried it into the living room along with his knapsack. He placed both items next to the window and sat down. From here, the view of the front of the embassy was everything he could have wished for. He could see everybody who entered and exited, either by the front door or by the garage entrance at the side.
He opened the bag and pulled out the Zeiss spotting scope and tripod he’d purchased at an outdoor gear store near the airport. He spent a minute or two setting it up and getting it all focused, then he pulled out his cell phone and called Willard.
‘I’m in,’ he said when the younger man answered. ‘How about you?’
‘Yeah, I’m in the back of the van right now, catching some daytime TV on the portable you got me. This crap boggles the mind, it really does. But it’s kind of addictive, too. Hey, you know how much they’re charging me for all-day parking here?’
‘Charging me, you mean,’ Bishop said. They’d agreed that in the event Bishop saw Bekele exit the embassy, Willard needed to be stationed somewhere close by so he could follow at a moment’s notice. Since street parking around here was both impossible to come by and limited to two hours, he was currently in the underground Central Parking garage a couple of blocks down the street. Far from ideal, but it would just have to do.
Bishop wished Willard happy viewing, then hung up and got himself comfortable. A few moments later, he saw the front door of the embassy open. A man and a woman stepped outside and began walking d
own the path, talking to each other. Bishop pressed his eye to the scope, glad he’d forked out the extra money for a name brand. The magnification on this thing was wonderful. He could even make out a shaving cut on the guy’s chin. He was looking through his American passport and pointing at something as he spoke. Probably the new visa he’d just gotten.
Bishop sat up again. This was all well and good, but if Bekele didn’t show soon he’d have to try something else. And he already had a good idea what. But first, another call.
He dialled the number from memory. Shortly, a male voice said, ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Arquette. It’s your guest from last night. I need you to do something for me.’
‘Oh, really? What’s that?’ He sounded amused.
‘I want you to get in touch with your friend at the State Department again. Tell him to send you photos and personal details of all the embassy staff. And I mean everybody. From the lowest paid all the way up.’
‘Why?’
‘I have my reasons. Can you do it or not?’
There was a momentary pause. ‘Assuming I can, where would I send the info?’
Bishop had already seen a desktop PC and a laptop in one of the bedrooms, so he gave Arquette the address of an email account he rarely used and said, ‘How long?’
‘Within the hour, I imagine. So can I assume you’re on the job?’
‘You can assume whatever you like,’ Bishop said, and hung up. Then he lowered his eye to the scope as the front door of the embassy opened again.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Arquette actually missed his own deadline by fifteen minutes. Which was still better than Bishop had expected. After discovering the laptop in the bedroom had wireless capabilities, he had carried it into the living room and accessed his email from there.
The PDF file listed a total of thirty-three employees, including the service staff. Each page had a passport-type photo, along with a DC address and a few lines of basic biographical information. All of which made for some interesting reading. As expected, the address for Bekele was the same as the embassy’s. Same with the other man who’d been with him during that confab with Klyce. His name was Teferi Kidanu, age thirty-four, while his job description was simply ‘Security Officer’. He looked as tough as Bekele. Both were single, and both were listed as having once served in the Konamban armed forces, Bekele as a colonel, Kidanu as a major. There were also two more security officers who lived inside the embassy.
The rest of the day Bishop spent looking through the scope, watching people come and go. Once he’d memorized the photos he was able to differentiate clearly between embassy staff and visitors. It went slowly. Occasionally he dipped into his bag for a store-bought sandwich or some bottled water. There was stuff to eat in the kitchen, but while Bishop was many things he wasn’t a thief. He hadn’t quite sunk that low yet. Besides, it was better all round if he left as little sign of his occupancy as possible.
The man he knew as David Mbassu left by the front door at six on the dot, as Bishop had expected he would. He was an accountant with a ten-year history at this particular embassy. Which meant he had a routine he’d fine-tuned over the years. He looked like his photo. He wore glasses and had an average-looking face. Not handsome, not ugly. Just normal, like most people. He also wore a tight-fitting dark suit, which didn’t flatter his slim frame. As he began heading in the direction of Dupont Circle, Bishop followed him until he was gone from sight. More people Bishop recognized from the photos began leaving the embassy then. The worker bees generally left by foot, the higher-ups by car. Bishop took note of them all. But he didn’t see Bekele come out. Or Kidanu.
At 23.15, Willard knocked on the apartment door and Bishop let him in. No reason for Willard to sleep in the van when there was a perfectly good couch. Willard took his shoes off, spent a few minutes complaining about the state of TV these days, and passed out. At midnight, Bishop stretched out on the floor and did the same.
Willard had already returned to his post by the time Bishop woke at 05.30 the next morning. Bishop washed and then it was more of the same. The embassy’s immigration attaché was the first to arrive at 07.14. Then more employees arrived in dribs and drabs. Mbassu arrived at 08.53, wearing the same suit as before. For the rest of the day, Bishop alternated between standing and sitting, but it was still tedious work. David Mbassu left at 18.00 again. Bishop gave it another hour, watching the rest of the staff as they headed on home, but there was still no sign of Bekele.
He was all too aware that this could go on forever. And he didn’t have forever. He was getting itchy and impatient. Even with Muro on guard, Amy was at risk right now. He needed to get proactive.
At 19.04, his cell phone went. Bishop saw it was Willard’s number. Perfect timing. ‘What’s up?’ he said.
‘Hey, I’m not trying to rush you or anything, but how long do you think we’re gonna have to keep at this? I mean, there’s only so much daytime TV a man can take.’
‘I’ve been having similar thoughts,’ Bishop said. ‘I think it’s time we switched to Plan B. Pay the ticket and meet me outside in five.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
The five-mile journey to the Anacostia district took them almost an hour, but that included a stop-off at a stationer’s along the way. Once Willard found the street they wanted, Bishop kept a lookout until he saw a three-storey apartment building that carried on for the length of a whole block. He pointed a finger in that direction and Willard found a space on the street near the entrance and pulled in.
Bishop studied the surrounding area. Lots of clapboard houses with barren-looking front yards. No pedestrians in sight. Barking dogs could be heard in all directions. Bishop was aware Anacostia wasn’t one of the capital’s better neighbourhoods. They’d already had to pass through several ghetto areas to get to this point. In the last one Willard swore he heard the sound of a gunshot. Bishop had argued it was just as likely a car backfiring, but he knew better.
Willard turned off the engine. ‘You sure about this, Bishop?’
‘About what?’
‘Well, this guy isn’t like that asshat Darryl. That moron deserved everything he got, but this is a whole different ballgame.’
‘I know,’ Bishop said, turning in his seat. He reached into the back and retrieved the cap and clipboard Willard had used before. He also picked up the large thick manila envelope he’d bought and prepared on the drive here. ‘But sometimes we have to do things we’d prefer not to. Look, you’re under no obligation to stay. You’ve done your part, so you can go back to New York any time you want with no hard feelings. But I need to know right now if you’re in or out. What’s it gonna be?’
Willard paused, then gave a smile. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Just wait for my call. Depending on whether the apartment’s front-facing or not, I might ask you to wave, but I don’t know yet.’
Willard blinked at him. ‘Wave.’
‘Wave,’ Bishop said. ‘You can do that, can’t you?’ Placing the cap on his head, he picked up the clipboard and package, then opened the door and got out.
He walked up the path to the awning-covered entrance, then pulled the glass doors open and stepped inside. He was in another entrance hall. One that hadn’t been cleaned in a long while. There were empty torn envelopes scattered over the floor. Bishop stepped over to the next set of doors and checked the buzzers. Some had names and numbers. Others just had numbers. He searched the labels until he found D. Mbassu. Apartment 216. He pressed the buzzer twice.
After a few seconds, a male voice burst forth from the intercom. ‘Hello?’
‘FedEx package delivery,’ Bishop said.
‘For me? You are sure you have the right address?’ The cultivated, English-sounding voice enunciated each word with care.
‘You’re David Mbassu, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I got the right address.’
‘Very well. Please come in.’
There was a brief buz
zing sound and Bishop heard the lock disengage. He pushed the inner door open and walked along the main hallway until he found the stairwell. He climbed to the second floor and looked both ways. It was a very long hallway. He turned left and stopped outside 216, halfway down.
Wearing a long-sleeved black polo shirt and dark pants, Bishop figured he looked the part of a courier. He knew most of these companies also issued their delivery people with power pads, but he’d just have to fake it with the clipboard and hope for the best.
He looked both ways. The hallway was still empty. He undid the top of the envelope and pulled out the ski mask he’d brought along. He took off his cap, pulled the mask over his head until it almost reached his eyebrows, then put the cap back on. Then from the envelope he took out the butterfly knife he’d also brought with him from New York. It had meant checking in the overnight bag on the flight, but the hassle was worth it. He sighed to himself. Willard was right. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to this, either. But he’d given it a lot of thought and couldn’t see too many alternatives. None, really.
Bishop rapped his knuckles on the door.
After a few moments, he saw a shadow pass in front of the spyhole. Then a voice said, ‘Yes?’
Bishop raised the envelope and said, ‘Federal Express delivery.’
‘Ah, yes. Wait, please.’
He heard the latch being drawn. Bishop quickly pulled the ski mask down until it reached his neck. He waited. The moment the door began to open, he shouldered his way in. Mbassu, his eyes wide, made a soft cry as he stepped back from the doorway, both hands raised before him.
Bishop grabbed the frightened man by the shirt, flipped the knife open and pressed the blade against his throat. ‘Okay, Dave,’ he said, ‘let’s just stay calm, shall we?’
THIRTY-NINE
‘Hands behind your back, no sudden movements,’ Bishop said, and turned Mbassu so he was facing the wall. The accountant was still wearing his work uniform. White shirt and black pants, but no tie. With the knife pressed lightly against the back of the man’s neck, Bishop tied Mbassu’s wrists together using the Scotch duct tape he’d bought at the stationer’s. It wasn’t easy using just one hand, but he managed.