“I recognize some of these,” Dinara said.
“Me too,” Leonid replied. “Looks like it could be her.”
Dinara went up to the main folder level and ran the cursor down the sub-files until she came to one called “Pending Cases.” When she clicked the icon, she discovered the Pending Cases sub-folder contained only one file called “Boxing.” Dinara opened it and found pages of typed rough notes.
“It looks as though she was investigating match-fixing,” Dinara said as she skimmed the text.
Leonid leaned over her shoulder. “She seems to think Spartak Zima threw his world championship title challenge, and that the mob was behind it. Solntsevskaya Bratva, maybe?”
“And they have the means and motive to have killed her,” Dinara said.
“The mob …” Leonid said the word dreamily, as though his mind was elsewhere.
“Problem?” Dinara asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing’s ever really a problem. Not if you’ve got enough firepower.”
CHAPTER 31
ELIZABETH CONNOR WAS attending a charity lunch at the Beekman, the luxury hotel where I’d met Karl Parker the morning he’d been shot. Her schedule was closely guarded, but Mo-bot had managed to hack into Connor’s assistant’s computer.
Justine and I drove south to the hotel and parked the car a block away on William Street. We hurried through the quiet, frozen streets and entered the hotel without incident, but once inside the grand lobby, we saw heightened security everywhere. Hotel guards eyed everyone coming into the traditionally decorated redbrick building, and their presence was augmented by the addition of private security personnel, who were easy to spot with their dark suits and discreet earpieces. They congregated at the edge of the lobby, by the entrance to the first-floor bar, which had been closed to the public.
“This way, honey,” I said to Justine, gently steering her toward the bar.
Playing the part of a couple of gawking tourists, we peered past the security personnel into the large space beyond. Dozens of people sat at ornately decorated circular tables, and at the very end of the room was a long table on a raised dais where twenty VIP guests sat. Elizabeth Connor was seated in the middle of the table and had two guards standing behind her, flanking either side. The room was a beautiful example of nine-teenth-century architecture, with tiled mosaics, decorative arches and wood paneling everywhere. But the most impressive feature was the nine-story atrium that was capped by a huge skylight. The balustrades of the nine balconies that overlooked the bar were made of ornate metalwork, and wherever you looked there was a beautiful feature to catch the eye.
“Can I help you, sir?” one of the suited men asked as we spied what was happening inside.
“We were hoping to have a drink at the bar,” I said.
“It reopens at five, sir,” the man replied.
“Let’s go to our room,” I said to Justine, and we headed for the elevators.
“It’s like they’re protecting the President. How do we get to her?” Justine asked.
“I’m working on it,” I replied, calling the elevator.
We stepped inside one of the three cars and I looked at our reflections in the smoked mirrors. I was in a lounge suit, and Justine wore a pullover and jeans. We were hardly dressed for a high-society lunch.
The elevator doors opened on the seventh floor and we moved along the corridor to the rectangular balcony that edged the atrium and overlooked the bar. The lunch was in full flow and the hubbub cascaded up to the skylight. I caught sight of a chambermaid in one of the corridors leading off the balcony. She was at her housekeeping trolley, going over a checklist. I put my arm around Justine and started tickling her playfully as we moved toward the chambermaid.
“What the—?” Justine said. “Get off me.”
She pushed me away, and I collided with the chambermaid, knocking her into her trolley.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“That’s OK, sir,” the chambermaid responded as I steadied her.
“What the hell was that?” Justine asked as we walked on.
“A little misdirection,” I said. “Sorry.”
I showed her the maid’s keyring, which included a hotel master key.
“Nicely done,” Justine remarked.
We went round a corner and found a double door marked “Service Area.” The chambermaid’s master key got us inside a twelve-by-twelve-foot space that contained racks of linen and a couple of housekeeping trolleys. There was also a service elevator, which I called using the stolen key card. Justine and I stepped inside and I pressed the button for the first floor.
We descended in silence and as the floors counted down, my body crackled with anticipation. We had no idea where the elevator would bring us out, but I was almost certain there would be a guard posted nearby, and if we couldn’t bluff our way past, I’d have to take a more direct approach. I looked at Justine and could read the tension on her face. She offered the faintest smile, but it was forced through layers of stress.
“It’s going to be OK,” I told her, steeling myself as we reached the ground floor.
The doors slid open, and we stepped into mayhem.
Staff were running through a vast kitchen and a couple of close-protection personnel were trying to maintain order by a set of double doors. Guests were screaming and pouring through the doors, joined by servers and other hotel staff. Justine and I pushed against the flow of people until we were able to see into the atrium bar.
At the far end of the chamber, on the raised dais, a crowd had gathered around the chair at the center of the table.
“She’s dead,” I heard a voice say. “Elizabeth Connor is dead.”
Instantly, I searched for an anomaly. Most staff and guests were streaming out of the bar through the main exit or the kitchen, where we were, but there was one waiter on the other side of the room who only started to move when he heard that pronouncement. His face was unfamiliar, unnatural and distorted by a prosthetic mask, and when he caught sight of me, I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes.
It was the man who’d killed Karl Parker.
I started running, and an instant later so did he.
CHAPTER 32
I RAN ACROSS the room as the assassin made it to a fire door. He glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of me through the crush of people. I held his gaze for a moment before he sprinted into the corridor and the fire door slammed shut. I fought my way through the noisy crowd and followed.
The corridor was capped by another fire door and when I stepped beyond it I could hear street noise and saw a fire exit, which was wide open. The assassin had fled the building. I sprinted toward the sound of an engine rumbling in the snow-filled alley. I cast around for a weapon and spotted a CO2 fire extinguisher near the door. I grabbed it as I raced outside.
I burst into an alleyway and was immediately confronted by a Dodge Challenger racing toward me. The assassin was in the passenger seat. He was being driven by a man whose face was covered by a skull mask.
The car’s engine roared and its wheels spun on ice as it surged forward. I hurled the heavy extinguisher at the windshield and leaped back through the fire exit as the metal canister smashed the glass. The car collided with the fire door, clipped the hotel wall and veered across the alleyway before striking the adjacent building and coming to an abrupt stop.
I ran through ice and slush and crossed the freezing alleyway. The driver was trying to get out, but I grabbed the fire extinguisher that had fallen beside the car and shoved the nozzle through the open door and pulled the trigger. The car, already white with airbags and silicon dust, filled with gas and foam.
The sound of a gunshot rattled off the walls and a bullet shattered the driver’s window. A voice yelled in what sounded like Russian.
As I jumped back, the door swung open and the masked driver leaped out, gun in hand. He pointed the pistol at me, but I moved in and knocked the weapon away. The gun hit the ground and skidded across the alley, disappear
ing into a deep drift.
Another gunshot from the assassin’s pistol sent me dodging back. The driver rushed forward and tackled me hard. We barreled back out of control and I lost my footing when the two of us tumbled through the open fire exit into the corridor beyond. We hit the deck hard.
Outside, I saw the assassin slide into the driver’s seat, but there was nothing I could do about him. The masked driver was on me and it took all my energy to block his ferocious blows.
I heard the engine roar and glanced beyond my formidable opponent to see the Dodge speed along the alleyway, heading for Beekman Street.
CHAPTER 33
I KNEED THE driver in the gut and he tumbled forward and rolled off me. I snapped to my feet and aimed a punch at his head, but he turned and I caught his shoulder. He fell backwards and I ran into the alleyway to see the Dodge’s burning taillights arc round the corner and vanish north on Beekman Street. I had no hope of catching the assassin, but the getaway driver was still within my reach.
I ran into the building to find him on his feet, sprinting along the corridor. He burst through the fire door leading inside and bounded up the stairs. I raced after him and shoved the fire door so hard the sound of it crashing into the wall startled the man. He glanced down at me from one flight up, and redoubled his efforts. I bounded up the steps two at a time, and pushed myself off the wall when I came to the first landing. The driver was a little over a flight above me, and I could hear his labored breaths between his pounding steps. He was getting tired and I was gaining on him.
We ran on, climbing the stairs at a punishing pace. My legs burned and my lungs screamed at me to stop, but there was no way I was giving in. This man was a living connection to the assassin who’d murdered my friend. I pushed myself on and finally closed the gap when we reached the landing between the seventh and eighth floors.
He glanced over his shoulder, saw me coming and tried to lash out with a kick, but mistimed it, so I sidestepped his attempt and surged forward, grabbed him around his midriff and put my bodyweight against it. He toppled over and hit the deck and we got right to it.
I drove a fist into his face as he tried to get up, and he went down again, but he wasn’t out. He sprang to his feet and caught me with a knee to the ribs that knocked the wind from my chest. I stepped back and he scrambled up the steps. This was no street brawler. Some of his moves were Krav Maga; others were aikido. Not the repertoire of a political activist.
I raced on, following him up the stairs, and when he reached the eighth floor he yanked the fire door open and sprinted into the carpeted corridor beyond. I chased him through one of the hotel’s executive floors and he tried to block the corridor by pulling over marble-topped tables and pot plants. I jumped the obstacles and followed him into a stairwell on the other side of the building. As I bounced off the bannister, I heard a voice yell, “Jack!”
I glanced over the rail and saw Justine a long way down.
I sprinted on. We were near the roof now, and I heard the metallic rattle and clang of the stairwell door opening. I ran up the last flight and burst through the metal fire door onto a wide, flat roof.
A blinding flash and an explosive ringing in my ears told me I’d been hit, even before the pain started, and as I staggered forward, I turned to see the driver wielding a chair, taken from a stack behind the stairwell. He swung again, but I jumped out of range. I slipped on a layer of ice that lay beneath the soft powder covering the rooftop, and my sudden stumble saved me from another blow. As the chair whipped over my head, I powered forward and tackled my assailant. He fell backwards and dropped the chair as he hit the deck. I punched him in the ribs and the second time I did it, I felt something crack, and he yelped in pain.
I swung again, but he kicked me, catching me in the chest. I staggered back and he got to his feet. I grabbed the chair and drove its legs forward. One of them struck him in the face like a pool cue and his nose gushed blood. He pulled his mask off and I saw the mess he was in. His face was bloodied and he’d lost a number of teeth. His eyes were rolling and he was having trouble focusing.
“It’s over,” I said.
He wiped his bloodied face with his hand and I noticed the scar of an old bullet wound on his cheek. This was a man who’d survived being shot in the face.
“It’s never over,” he said with a grotesque grin. As with the assassin, there was no mistaking this man’s Russian accent.
He fumbled in his pocket for something, and, thinking he was going for a weapon, I lashed out with the chair. One of the legs caught him on the ear and he dropped whatever had been in his hand as he stumbled. I looked down and saw something small and black in the snow. A plastic square about the size of a book of matches. The driver was looking at it too. He tried to lunge for it, but I hit him again and he fell back.
“Give up,” I said.
He reached a decision and suddenly ran away from me, toward the giant rooftop skylight that hung over the bar.
“No!” I yelled.
He jumped, sailed through the air and crashed into the skylight. The glass shattered, the frame splintered, and I ran over and watched him flailing as he fell nine stories and smashed into one of the ornately decorated banquet tables far below.
CHAPTER 34
I DROPPED THE chair, picked up the small black device and ran to the fire door. I raced into the building, down the fire stairs and into the eighth-floor guest corridor. I could hear commotion rising through the huge atrium and pressed the elevator call button. Burning with adrenalin, I paced the elevator lobby and caught my breath. I looked over the edge of the balcony and saw a crowd gathered around the fallen man’s body. Snow was being blown off the roof through the hole in the skylight, glinting as it floated down toward him.
The elevator tone sounded its arrival and I hurried over to the middle car and waited impatiently for the doors to slide open. I stepped inside and hit the button for the ground floor. The ride down seemed to take an age and I used the time to study the square device the driver had dropped. There were two buttons and a small LCD screen that reminded me of an old calculator. I pressed the buttons, but nothing happened. What was this thing? Why had he been reaching for it?
I glanced in the mirror. My eyes were wild, my hair disheveled and my face dirty and bruised. My right ear was glowing red, the legacy of where I’d been caught by the chair. My clothes were soaked with melted snow, and covered in stains. I certainly didn’t look like a winner, and the loss of the assassin and the driver meant I didn’t feel like one either. As the adrenalin subsided, aches and pains began to make themselves known.
When the doors opened, I rushed across an almost deserted lobby to the bar, where I found a few uniformed members of staff and a couple of well-to-do guests milling around near the entrance. Police and paramedics were on scene. One team was clustered by the long table at the podium. Another group had surrounded the Russian driver, who was spread-eagled in the wreckage of the collapsed table.
“Jack!” Justine called out from across the room.
She ran over and surprised me by throwing her arms around me.
“I thought it was you,” she said. “When I first saw him, I thought it was you.”
She looked up, and tears glistened in her eyes.
“It’s OK,” I said. “Take this.” I handed her the black device. “Give it to Mo. See if she can figure out what it is.”
“I’ve got a pulse,” a voice announced.
Justine and I turned to the group around the driver, and sensed new urgency from the paramedics. I pushed my way through the gathered people and was soon beside the injured man. His eyes were glazed, and flecks of blood and spittle were rasping from his mouth with each labored breath. He didn’t have long.
“We’ve got to get him out of here,” the attending paramedic said. “Bring over the gurney.”
Another medic ran for a gurney that was parked by the lobby entrance. I’d seen enough endings to know the Russian had the cold shadow of death on
him. It was now or never.
I sensed collective shock and disbelief as I knelt beside the injured man and grabbed his collar.
“Who sent you? I demanded.
The paramedic tried to push me away. “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I resisted, and kept my focus on the Russian. “Who sent you?” I repeated.
I felt hands on me, but I fought their pull and pressured the driver.
“Tell me!” I yelled.
The man muttered something in Russian and his eyes focused briefly.
“Get off him!” an angry voice yelled, and it was joined by others.
The hands were pulling harder now. I couldn’t resist for much longer.
“Give me a name!” I demanded.
The driver smiled darkly.
“Who’s next? Who’s your next target?” I pressed my hand against his broken ribs, and the sudden jolt of pain brought the getaway driver out of his stupor.
“You’ve failed, American,” he moaned. “You’ve failed.”
I was hauled off the dying man and heard one of the uniformed cops utter the words, “You have the right to remain silent,” as hard steel was tightened around my wrists.
CHAPTER 35
“WE ARE THE Ninety-nine. Elizabeth Connor’s time is at an end and her riches will go to others. We will continue to strike at the one percent, and you must choose: your money or your lives. If you want off our list, unburden yourself of your deadly wealth. We are the Ninety-nine and we shall punish all those who live so greedily while others starve and suffer.”
The masked man sat in front of a large anarchy symbol, a new innovation since the last video. His voice was disguised and the table in front of him prevented an accurate assessment of his size and weight.
Rick Tana, the NYPD detective leading the investigation into Karl Parker’s murder, minimized the window and pushed the tablet computer to one side. We were in the same interview room in One Police Plaza that I’d been taken to after the shooting at the Stock Exchange.
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