by Derek Haas
Olmstead’s office is under an ambiguously named, disreputable looking “repair shop” that encourages few customers. An older man with a scowl dismisses me when I enter.
“Got to turn you away, son, too busy,” he mumbles without looking up from a laptop.
I say Olmstead’s name and he closes the computer, a different man, and guides me to a stairwell hidden behind a rolling file cabinet. “Down you go,” he says, and waits.
I glide down the stone stairwell, a claustrophobia-sufferer’s nightmare, the steps steep, both walls brushing my shoulders. I hear the file cabinet roll back in place behind me like a mausoleum stone, but it would be hard to turn and see it. How long has this hidden room been down here, 400, 500 years?
A couple of corkscrew turns and I’m at the bottom where a pair of bulbs hanging from strings illuminate a musty basement with an arched ceiling and walls lined with wooden shelves. A few tables and desks occupy the center of the room and a space heater glows in the corner.
Olmstead, tall, bald-headed, with black-framed glasses I remember from the Paris job, stands and approaches, warm but all business.
“Heard you were dead,” he says in his working-class accent.
“I am,” I respond.
“Aye. Copeland it is then? That’s what Mr. Grant says.”
“That’s right.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Copeland?”
“Guns to start. Couple of Glocks. Extra rounds.”
“Holsters, then?”
“I got ’em. They’re empty though.”
“Aye. Copy that.”
“Clothes. Winter gear. Middle class.”
“Copy.”
He makes notes with a stub of a pencil on a snatch of paper, the back of what looks like a cleaning bill.
I move over to a row of shelves. This must be what a prop master’s truck looks like, rows and rows of disparate items that served a purpose one time or another and might be pressed into service again. A London officer’s uniform, a blonde wig, road construction signs, another sign written in Arabic, a pair of walkie-talkies, stacks of casino chips, a stuffed-animal unicorn, a bathrobe from a hotel in Paris—remnants from past jobs.
Olmstead’s an expert at finding whatever a contract killer needs to complete his job, from counterfeit money to forged artwork to perfect replicas of uniforms, IDs, licenses, badges. The little pieces of a plan that gets an assassin through a door, past a guard, into a hallway, invisible, undetected, free to make his kill and escape. His collection is like a museum of deception, and since Olmstead never knows when he’ll be called upon, he keeps a healthy inventory of items he is sure will be needed—hospital gear like syringes and stethoscopes, police uniforms from all over Europe, UN badges, Interpol badges, business cards with made-up names and phony phone numbers. He also deals in weapons and ammunition, a one-stop shop for all contract killer needs. He’s kept this business thriving by his ingenuity and his dedication. He’s the best scrounger in the world, as far as I’m concerned.
“You need a uniform then? 44 regular if I remember correctly.”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Reconnaissance then?”
“Not even to that stage I’m afraid. Just trying to locate the target.”
“No file?”
“This one came up suddenly.”
“I see. It’s an instant gratification world, innit? All hurry, hurry these days.”
“You’re right about that.”
“Well, I’m here when you need me. Once the plan’s together, call and I’ll find what you need.”
“You ever come across the name Piotr Malek? Polish national. Energy mogul.”
Olmstead scrunches up his face, deepening the wrinkles on his forehead. “Can’t say I have. Your target?’
I nod.
“Haven’t heard of him, but that’s not saying much. I don’t get out on that side of the fence too often.”
I nod, not even sure why I brought it up. He’s a scrounger but he doesn’t scrounge information. When he mentioned the file, my lack of background on the mark became glaring.
“I just thought . . . I wasn’t thinking.”
“What else then, Mr. Copeland?”
“I will phone when I . . . when I narrow my options.”
“Very well. Give me a minute here and I’ll get these things. I have some of them here. The rest I’ll bring to your hotel.”
“The Savoy.”
“Nice. Very well.”
He moves off, reaching to a shelf here, a drawer there, the layout of the place disorganized to anyone but him.
I check into a comfortable suite at the Savoy, and Olmstead shows up within an hour with a dozen hanging bags of clothes and several shoe boxes. When he finishes, he stops at the doorway, takes off his Donegal cap, and rubs his bald scalp.
“You said you’re lacking a file and you got a little time pressure, so I put in the pocket of that coat there the name of a man in London I trust. He deals in information. Mention my name and he’ll be at your service. Might help you with the pace of this, though I’m sure you’re capable either way.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Very well then,” and he’s out the door.
I met Olmstead’s man, first name Marcus, no last name, two days ago in the lobby of the Savoy and now we’re to meet on the steps of the statue at Trafalgar Square. He’s a quirky little bastard, a round man with caterpillar eyebrows and a red nose that speaks of many nights of many pints at many pubs. I have no idea if he’s effective—Archie hadn’t heard of him—but Archie vouched again for Olmstead, and if Olmstead vouched for Marcus, then . . .
I asked Archie if Loeb had called or if he had made any contact with the kidnappers. The answer was none. None from Piotr Malek, none from the two men in black masks, none from anyone.
Questions start to prick at me like an itch between the shoulder blades. Where are the goddamn demands? Why didn’t the kidnapper shoot Boone in the chest when he had the chance? What are they waiting for?
The way I die is ignoring the itch.
The way I die is moving too fast.
The way I die is putting trust in the wrong people.
The way I die is out in the open, without answers, answerless, useless, used up, a failure, ignorant, alone, forgotten, never remembered, wasted, a waste.
Trafalgar Square is quiet and cold. A few stragglers loiter, tourists taking selfies with their phones, but most Londoners bustle through without looking at the fountain, their collars pulled up, scarves wound tightly around their necks, earbuds blocking out the world, eyes never leaving the sidewalk except when they come to a street crossing, gazing a few feet in front of them but distant, not seeing at all. The dead-eyed vision of the modern pedestrian. Bad for civilization but great for those of us who don’t want to be seen.
Marcus heads toward me, his body moving as though there’s a Hula-Hoop in perpetual motion around his middle. He has much too bright of an expression for people in our profession, which is alarming rather than reassuring.
“Got it, got it!” he announces while still twenty meters away, holding a manila envelope, nearly mowing down a bundled jogger headed in the opposite direction. “Beg your pardon,” he calls out, but the jogger only stutters and keeps going.
Marcus reaches me and takes my arm. “Let’s keep moving, that’s how I like to do it, keep walking, keep the CCTV cameras guessing and Orwell’s corpse spinning and all is right with the world.”
We stroll toward the National Gallery and he keeps his voice low like he’s just remembered his fair share of cloak and dagger movies. The manila folder is tucked under his arm like a football.
“So your man Piotr Malek does not live in Clifton Villas as you were told. He does own a home there, understand these are not flats, oh no, heh heh heh, these are homes, quite posh. He owns one as I say, which might be why you were misled, but it is his sister Gosia who lives there with her, ahem, wife.”
We turn past
the gallery and move up Charing Cross Road, dotted with mild traffic as we swing around the National Portrait Gallery.
“So Poland then?”
“Ah-ah, not so fast. I said his sister lives in Clifton Villas. Piotr Malek lives outside London in Maidenhead in a mansion fit for a king. Do you know Cliveden House?”
I shake my head.
“No, no, of course not. You’re a Yank. Ever watch Downton Abbey?”
I shake again.
“Quite good actually. Quite good. Well, Cliveden House was owned by Nancy Astor. It was the meeting place of political intellectuals who were called the Cliveden Set, anyway, huff huff, never mind any of that, what you need to know is it’s a hotel now, and the house Piotr Malek bought two years ago practically sits in its shadow. You can book a room there while you do what it is you need to do. Just a suggestion. Your decision, my good mate, your decision.”
We step left onto Irving Street where traffic is lighter and make our way toward a small park. The sign at the gate announces Leicester Square Garden. A marble fountain is in the center, a statue of Leicester I presume atop it, but the water is shut off this time of year.
Marcus arrives at a bench, sits down clumsily, and pats the seat next to him.
“Come on, rest a moment, won’t hurt, won’t hurt.”
I join him. The red bloom on his nose has spread to his cheeks and is spotty, like vines dotted with flowers.
“Do you smoke?” he asks, expecting my head shake. When he gets it, he raises his hand, “No, no, of course you don’t. Mind if I do?” but he’s already produced a cigar and a flame touches the end of it. “Ahh, that’s it. Nasty habit but it has its moments.” He expels a jet of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “So this house owned by Piotr Malek is set back from the road, four floors, eleven bedrooms, fourteen baths, indoor swimming pool, elevator, two-level garage, set on 500 acres.
“He employs two full shifts of bodyguards, ten separate soldiers, who work staggered weeklies. I don’t mean to suggest that one team goes on and one team goes off. They stagger the individual soldiers so every team member on both shifts works with everyone else. I refer to them as soldiers because all of Malek’s bodyguards are Wojska Specjalne. I have no idea if I’m pronouncing that correctly . . .” He pats me on the knee. “Polish Special Forces, you see. All out of Krakow, all together since 2007. They are paid very well, their families are taken care of back in Poland, they are loyal to the death.”
“Maids, housekeepers, cooks?”
Marcus lights up and his whole body shakes. He pops up quickly, like a jack-in-the-box hitting the last notes of “Pop Goes the Weasel.”
“Keep moving, let’s keep moving in case any . . .” and he taps his ears, points at a seemingly harmless construction crew. “Yes, the staff as it were. I like the way you think. So there are about two dozen regular employees, some Polish, some English, one West Indie. They’re listed in the file but I haven’t been able in the time allotted . . . I haven’t been able to sniff out the weak links. If you find one, that may be the best way to make the chain snap. Yes, ha ha, roff!” He mimes breaking a chain.
“That said, I have an alternative idea in there I would like to bring to your attention.”
He waits for me to say something but I don’t see the question. I ask, “What’s that?” and satisfied, he points in the air as though he’s a politician making an election-rattling point.
“Right, well, Piotr Malek has an English tutor!”
His face jiggles as he puffs on his cigar. His mirth is infectious. I’m amused by ol’ Marcus. He likes his job, that’s easy to see, and I’ve been surrounded by so much darkness, it’s nice every now and then to stand next to a light.
“Yes, yes, we have a My Fair Lady situation here in reverse. Enter Madeleine Graybill from Cambridge University, a maiden fair and free, one hundred pounds of lean English tenderloin, hm, hm, hm,” and then the dam breaks and great rolling laughter bursts from Marcus in disaster-movie proportions. It’s a symphony of laughter, all orchestra sections at full volume. I let the flood trickle to a leak, until he finally regains control.
“Yes, well, so, as you will see in the file, I think the tutor might be shagging her client, your mark, and I think she might be your skeleton key, but all I can do is present the case. It is up to you to make the decision. At least that’s how we do it on this side of the pond.”
“The same.”
“Good, then . . .” he makes a silly bow, complete with a finger twirl, and hands over his file. “If you should need anything else, Mr. Olmstead knows how to ring me.”
Marcus takes off one glove and thrusts his hand in my direction. I do the same and we shake. He heartily pumps my hand, everything about him exaggerated, and turns and waddles back toward where we entered the park.
I put back on my glove, look down at the manila envelope, stuffed and bulging, and spy a bakery outside the gates of the park.
My stomach grumbles.
Madeleine Graybill has red hair and a vanilla face. She’s Scottish, not English, it seems, and inherited some of her homeland’s roughness in her cheeks and eyes. Not pretty, plain.
I follow her into a coffee shop where she orders an espresso and sits at a table by herself with a paperback copy of All the Light We Cannot See.
A book lover, and my mind flits to Risina’s face, and then the image dissipates as quickly as it appeared. It happens often. I’ll hear an expression or see the back of a head or some sign on the highway or it’s the way a girl is laughing in an advertisement, and for a second, Risina floats right in front of me. Here’s this Scottish woman who looks nothing like my dead wife, but the way Madeleine’s eyes dance over the words in her book summons Risina from the grave.
Do I want these flashes to disappear, go away completely, or am I seeking them, seeing them even when there’s no reminder?
Her espresso arrives and she flashes the server a smile, and the warmth that rises over the roughness in her eyes gives me pause.
She sits for thirty minutes, her legs crossed. Every now and then she reaches for her espresso cup and sips, her pinky extended. She puts the book down at one point, makes a face as if she’s shocked by what she’s reading, then picks it back up, and Risina flashes in front of me once more. I’ve seen that identical behavior before, the surprise of the story forcing her to put the book down for a moment and acknowledge the shock, then the call of reading on too overwhelming to ignore.
A few minutes more and Madeleine marks her place in the book, stands, and dons her coat. I rise at the same time, beat her to the door, and exit in front of her. Instead of letting the door swing back into her face, I hold it politely, and she shines her warm eyes on me.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Nie ma za co,” I answer.
She stops abruptly as though I shocked her with electricity.
“You speak Polish!” she remarks, her eyes dancing.
“No,” I say and smile. “A little, I guess.”
We walk up St. Martin’s Lane and then right on New Row toward Covent Garden. “You’re kidding me,” I say after she tells me she’s a Polish translator and teaches English as a second language to a few Polish nationals.
“I have no idea what possessed me to say ‘You’re welcome’ in Polish when you thanked me for holding the door. It was like a bird whispered in my ear.”
She looks at me with naive innocence, as though there is no deception in the world, that I said a bird whispered it in my ear and coincidence and fortuitousness are just as natural as the air we breathe. Bless her.
“How did you come to know a little Polish?” she asks.
“I spent a year in Warsaw,” I confess, though six weeks on separate occasions is closer to the truth. Once to kill a priest who played brinkmanship with the wrong city official, and a second time to get information out of a newspaper reporter who worked for the Associated Press and was covering an upsurge of U.S. troops in the country. He had been reluctant to ta
lk to me but was persuaded with a double shot of carrots and sticks. I hope Madeleine is more forthcoming.
The market carts are out, even in February when the sky is clear, and Madeleine stops to browse multicolored soaps in the shapes of eggs.
“I forgot to ask your name,” she says.
“Jack Walker.” It’s a name I’ve used many times because it invites no further questions and slips easily from memory.
“I’m Madeleine,” she reciprocates.
“Well, it was very nice meeting you, Madeleine.” I take a few steps away, then stop like I just had another thought. “You mentioned teaching. Maybe I could get your card and inquire about learning more Polish.”
She cocks her head at me. “Is this a pick-up now?”
I affect a blush, and she breaks into laughter. “I’m taking the piss out of you.” She reaches her hand out, and adds, “Give me your phone.”
I hand her the phone Olmstead supplied and she taps her number into my contacts list.
“How do I know you’re not giving me a fake number?”
“Tap it and find out.”
I smile, nod a good day, and head away. I don’t turn to see if her eyes follow me.
I don’t have the normal amount of time I’d like for a kill. I can feel an invisible countdown clock hovering over my head, ticking toward doomsday, restless, hungry.
The kidnappers will make their move within a week, their own clocks ticking, antsy. Probabilities suggest they’ve already killed the kid, but nothing sits right about any of this. So why am I not following Madeleine back to her flat, moving this along faster and further? Why am I in London? Why did my plan of attack involve moving far from Peyton, far from Matthew Boone, far from Liam? Why are all connections severed? Why are all emotions suppressed? What does it mean to live without contact?
The way I die is my insides ripped out, my heart dangling from a hook in front of my face.
There is some information I need to plan my next move. Loeb hinted at it back in Los Angeles, and whenever I’ve made a kill in the past, I’ve always tried to internalize the evil of my mark so when I eliminate him or her, it’s like I eliminate that part of me. It allows me to kill again, psychologically. This job eats you, even if you follow the rules. The way to keep the hellhounds at bay is to truly hate the mark you are assigned to put in the ground. I hate Piotr Malek for taking a boy instead of killing his father. That’s low work, base. It reveals the character of an amoral man. It could be enough, but Loeb said he was evil before the kidnapping. His report mentioned the deaths of twenty-four people at a power plant in 2004, after which Piotr Malek became a rich man. So what’s the rest of that story?