Against the Clock (15 page)

16:17:12

The heavily clad sergeant peered through the viewfinder of the surveillance camera now snaking its way under the interrogation room door. It took a moment to register what he was seeing. He blinked hard and looked again before jumping to his feet, pulling the snake-like camera out and yelling into the throat mic attached to his kit. "They're all down! No visible threat. I repeat, no visible threat. Breach is a go!"

He stepped to the side to allow the breach team access, then set out to start work on the door beside him, the door to the monitoring room.

16:19:37

In the back of the delivery van, Shirin removed the magazine from the pistol the police officer had given her. It was fully loaded. She clipped it back in and moved toward the front. Her eyes caught a look from Barratt, but she ignored it. He would be pissed at her, but he'd get over it. She wanted to know who this person was helping them to escape, and who he was working for.

"I suggest you keep those bullets for the team following us," the officer said, motioning to the rearview mirror as Shirin moved in behind him.

Shirin paused, realizing her intention was far from discreet."How many?" Questioning him would have to wait until they were in the clear.

"Two teams. One in a silver Ford sedan, one on a Honda road bike."

Shirin moved back into the guts of the delivery van to see Barratt finish wiping his face clean of brain matter. "We have company," she said, passing him.

At the rear of the van, she peered out through the tinted window, looking for the Ford sedan and the bike.

"Hang on!" shouted the driver.

The van veered sharply to the right, decelerated abruptly, jumped the curb, then collided with a traffic pole, bounced, and stopped.

Knocked to the floor, Shirin and Barratt found their feet quickly and rushed to the front of the van. The driver was gone.

16:22:56

Smith tossed the fake moustache into the trash receptacle and kept walking. The subway was crowded, and he managed to disappear into it with practiced ease.

He would have to call Zelig now and report that he had arrived too late, that Shirin and Barratt had escaped, and that somehow they had taken out Zelig's entire team in the process. He didn't look forward to that conversation, or to Zelig's famous temper. It was moments like that when he wished he could just kill the man and be done with it.

He pondered the thought for a moment before pulling the phone from his pocket. Yes, he would make Zelig suffer before dying. Maybe make him beg first but definitely make him suffer. He hoped the old man would give the order soon.

The phone rang three times before Zelig answered.

"It's Smith. I got here too late," he lied. "Your team failed."

16:28:04

Barratt leaned over the dirty restroom basin, splashing cold water on his face. He scrubbed at the edges of his hairline, rubbing at the traces of dried blood still staining his skin.

"You really are crazy, Shirin!"

Shirin didn't respond. She stood to the side, staring at the gushing faucet as though the running water would cleanse her mind of all confusion, of all frustration, of all pain. She was tired, but the anger inside kept her from resting, kept her from stopping. The anger kept her moving forward. Always forward. She wondered what would be left of her once the anger was gone. Would there be anything left?

"Shirin," Barratt called, breaking her from her thoughts. "What now? Whoever that guy was, he helped us for a reason. Somebody wants us out there doing whatever it is we're doing."

"Maybe," Shirin mumbled. "I don't really care what they want, or even who they are. I'm sick of this shit! You were right, Zelig's behind this. It's time we take him out!"

Barratt looked up from the sink, nodded.

"He'll know we're after him now."

Shirin didn't respond. She didn't care.

"So how do you want to do this, then?"

Shirin looked up from the basin, up from her deep thoughts, and said, "Slowly."

"We'll need some gear," Barratt prompted.

"Let's go," she said, leading the way out of the public restroom and out into a course of action that would finally put her face to face with the man who killed her husband.

"And when this is over," Barratt mumbled, almost to himself, "we'll have to have a serious talk about you getting me into situations where other people's brains keep ending up splattered across my face."

"Better theirs than yours," she grunted over her shoulder.

16:34:22

Smith stepped off the train platform and followed the crowd down the access ramp to the ticket booth. He casually flashed the police badge from the dead officer and walked through the collection gate with a polite nod to the transit officers.

The world outside the train station seemed undisturbed by the violence six suburbs away. Kitchener Park and the police station looked like a war zone. Destruction, death, confusion, and fear at every glance. Structurally, it would take weeks to remove all traces of the carnage waged within the last two hours. And maybe months before they began to piece together what really happened.

Looking up at the clear sky, and out over the pedestrians going about their business, it was almost as though none of the events of the day had happened at all. Smith smiled to himself; this was the world he lived in. He hailed the first cab he saw, jumped in the back, and wondered which girl he would visit when this day was over. The young waitress from the restaurant earlier had piqued his interest. He liked the way she moved so confidently around the tables with her skirt sashaying. Yes, he liked the idea more and more. He wondered, smiling, would she struggle?

The cab dropped him off several blocks east of the train station. He walked to the opposite side of the block, hailed another taxi, and rode it back the direction he had come. He wasn't being followed, he quickly decided, but felt the repetition of evasive maneuvers comforting while he waited for Zelig's call.

Almost on cue, Smith's cell buzzed. He looked at the screen. The blocked number gave away nothing, but he knew it was Zelig. He let it ring another four times before answering.

"What took you so long?" barked Zelig on the other end. Smith didn't reply. "Have you picked up the package?"

"No." Smith looked at his watch, made a quick mental note, and said, "I'm nine minutes out."

"Fine. Pick it up. But don't deliver it yet. I need you to have a talk with someone first."

"What sort of talk?"

"The kind where they tell us what we want to know or you kneecap them!"Zelig's voice rose in volume and timbre.

"Details?"

"A forensic accountant, name of Gerald Maier. He just came across our radar. He's been snooping where he doesn't belong. Find out who hired him. Get everything you can out of him, then get rid of him."

Smith was quiet for a moment. Stretching it out. Let Zelig work for it, he thought.

"Smith? Still there?"

"Yes," Smith said. "Details?"

"I have two agents on their way to detain him now. Join up with them and do whatever you have to. Torture him, torture anyone he loves, just make sure you get everything out of him!"

"Understood." Smith pocketed the cell phone. Somehow, this accountant must be connected to Shirin. Zelig wouldn't have involved him and taken him away from delivering the package he was about to collect otherwise.

16:44:41

Smith entered the food court via the south entrance. The air-conditioned space was cool and clean, and he welcomed it after riding in the last run-down old taxi. The humidity and stink of the sweaty driver had pursued him out of the vehicle and onto the street, giving up only after he ducked into the local shopping center.

It was crowded; he assumed the man he was about to meet wanted it that way. The illusion of safety in a crowd was often the rationale for meetings such as this. But Smith knew better.

There were several thoroughfares leading to the ground-floor food court. It acted as the heart of the shopping complex. Even at this hour, the patron count was high. Smith couldn't understand the human compulsion to gather socially, but he appreciated the value of its predictability.

He saw the man he was sent to meet. Small, robust, clearly nervous.

Smith moved toward him slowly. He was aware of the countless security cameras, but watched more carefully for a surveillance team or hit team that may have followed the small man. He could discern no obvious followers, but if they were of Smith's caliber, it would be impossible to spot them until it was too late.

Smith walked with a vague limp, nothing too obvious―subtle. Coupled with hunching his shoulders, and a realistic mop-style wig, there was no resemblance to his normal appearance. He found these simple guises worked best.

He bought a New Age frappé from the juice bar closest to the small man. Watched him carefully while waiting for his order to be made, and continued to watch him while taking his first sip of the drink.

The small man was known to Smith only by the code name Patch. Where he came from, his real name, what he did, or who he worked for were not his business. This was the second time Smith had collected something from him. It was one of the special jobs he would do for Zelig when needed.

This time was different, however. This time the old man wanted to know who Patch was, and what it was exactly he did for Zelig.

16:45:25

Smith glanced at his watch. It was the time they had agreed to meet. He made his final approach, his honed instincts picking up nothing out of the ordinary.

He sat at the booth adjacent to the small man, his movements stealthy, as though he appeared out of nowhere. They were only an arm's length apart. The movement visibly startled the small man.

"Hello, Patch," Smith said in a lazy, relaxed accent.

"You look different," he said, trying to compose himself.

Smith ignored the comment. He was a master of disguise. It was a tool that made him incredibly dangerous―and helped him remain very much alive. "You have something for me?"

He rubbed his hand across his chin, then across his brow. "This is the last time," he said, trying to summon the strength to look into Smith's eyes. "I can't do this anymore."

"That's not up to me. I'm just here to pick up the package," Smith said casually.

"Just tell him. Okay? Tell him this is the last time."

"Sure," Smith shrugged, "I'll tell him."

The small man seemed to relax almost instantly. Like a huge burden had been lifted from his psyche. Smith scoffed internally at this little man's ignorance. If he had any value to Zelig, he would never be allowed to stop doing whatever it was he was doing. Once he stopped being useful, Zelig would eliminate him. He would probably get Smith to do it for him.

"What have you got for me?" Smith asked.

The small man looked furtively from right to left. If anyone was watching him, his behavior was clearly suspect. He reached into his laptop bag and removed an A4-sized brown nondescript envelope. It was sealed completely with an adhesive lacquer. No way to open it and reseal it and hide that it had been opened. Not his problem, Smith thought to himself.

"Just leave it there on the table," Smith said before the small man could hand it to him.

He did as he was told.

"Wait a minute, then stand up and walk away. Don't look back." Smith took a burner phone from his jacket pocket. It was new. He placed it on the edge of the bench between them. "Take this phone as you leave. If you think you're being followed, call me. My number is programmed into it. Just hit redial. If you really want this to be the last time, keep the phone with you. Someone will contact you."

The small man looked bewildered, grateful, and confused all at once.

"Do you understand?" Smith asked.

He nodded.

Smith smiled. The old man could track him via the phone, even listen in to his conversations. It was perfect. He would make sure he took the phone everywhere, he would even protect it. The best kind of surveillance.

Before the small man had even left, Smith was planning his route to meet with Zelig's men and to interrogate Gerald Maier. But first, he had to get a message to the old man.

16:54:19

Gerald Maier hung up the phone and wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into. He had left two voicemails for the lady he knew as Katie Jones. She hadn't called him back yet.

He clenched the slender USB tightly in his fist, rubbing his balled hand against his forehead, as if willing his mind to erase its contents and turn back time. He wished now so badly that he had not accepted the USB, had not opened it, and had not looked into the data it held. At first glance, the information seemed innocuous, but to his skilled mind, it unfolded quickly into a spider web of facts that now scared him.

Gerald slammed the USB on his desk, turned to his computer, and hurriedly started deleting local files and search history queries from the computer's digital brain. He deactivated his key-logger software, deleted data for the last few hours, emptied the recycle bin, and rebooted his PC. He wanted no evidence of what he had found, or of his involvement.