Choke Point (21 page)

Knox hears nothing past the mention of his cover. It’s Chief Inspector Brower’s voice. Only now does it register. It’s the confluence of two worlds, a
Twilight Zone
moment. Only Sonia calls him by that name.
She is a celebrity here
 . . .

He drags the iPhone’s blue time line back to listen again.
“—you might have warned me. I allowed her to monitor the interview of Demir. Unseen, of course. One-way glass. Her taking off like that. Most unprofessional. I expected some courtesy. I believe we had an agreement to work together, did we not? I would appreciate your sharing whatever it was he said that triggered that hasty departure. I believe you owe me that much. I am on the graveyard. Call me. Please.”

He bumps the Scotch, nearly spilling it, while going for his wallet. “How much?” In Dutch. The single malt is insanely expensive. He overtips the moment he sees the first of the five shots ring up on the register. Does the math in his head. Is out the door.

The bitch! The Scotch speaking. The Scotch working at his temples and his knees like an invisible kickboxer. Calls Brower back. Demir’s interview was videoed. He’s on his way.

Risks a series of trams. Feels a million eyes on him. Wonders how much is the liquor. Breaks his own rules. Hopes she has more sense than he.

Calls her from the third tram. It goes straight to voice mail. Calls Dulwich.

“I need a real-time fix on her, pronto. Code red, Sarge.”

“Copy.”

The call ends, Knox marveling at Dulwich’s self-control, his not throwing a punch. Dulwich is the closest thing he has to a real friend, which is somewhat depressing. He fits Grace into that equation, but doesn’t know how to assign value. She’s more of a fixed variable. Dulwich is the common denominator.

Middle of the third tram ride, his phone vibrates.

“No joy,” Dulwich says. “Device is disengaged or destroyed. No signal.”

Disengaged,
Knox thinks, ruminating on the word . . .
or destroyed
. Sonia is AWOL.

“On my way to Brower,” Knox explains. “He may have something for us.” He holds back from admitting the reporter has scooped him.

“Progress here,” Dulwich says.

“Keep trying, will you?”

“You’ll hear if I do.”

Knox tucks the phone away. Takes a moment to look out a window. Catches his agonized reflection in the glass. Turns away from it.

—

B
ROWER COOPERATES,
suggesting he’s expecting a quid pro quo. It tells Knox that Demir’s interview was inconclusive and that whatever drove Sonia from oversight of the interview is now the carrot they both seek.

Knox buries the ask, out of gamesmanship. No way Brower is giving him everything.

Finally, the opportunity comes around. “Maybe if I saw the interview tape . . . ?” Knox says.

“But I tell you, there is nothing.
Pfff.
I am preparing to begin the interrogation, and there is one of my men asking for her recorder back.”

“Her recorder,” Knox echoes.

“Exactly that,” Brower concedes. “I never claimed to know how to run the damn thing. Every one of them is different. Is it not so?”

“Every recorder,” Knox tests.

“I had barely turned the thing on and she wants it back!”

“Could I see?”

“I tell you, there is nothing to see.”

Knox is capable of being belligerent. Would rather not take it that far. Is warming up to it as Brower shrugs.

“Why not?”

The room smells of a cigarette veneer mixed with the acrid bitterness of electronics. Contrary to the state-of-the-art resources available to Rutherford Risk, this looks like a high school language lab. The video is low definition, though the sound quality is above average.

Demir occupies a fixed chair with his hands cuffed to a chain between his legs. Given that pose, he’s doing everything possible to look bored and in control, but it’s a losing effort. The chains rattle; he lets go two deep sighs as he works to calm himself.

“He’s been coached, or he’s been through this before,” Knox says.

“Evidently.”

“Does he have a record?”

“Not within the EU.” Brower adds, “We are checking outside, including your FBI.”

On the screen, the door opens. Demir is careful not to change his demeanor even slightly; he stares straight ahead like a man stuck in a long waiting line. Brower enters and sits down. He reads the suspect some legalese that pertains to his rights, pointing out that video and audio will be recorded and may be used as evidence. He slaps down a legal pad and proffers a Crayon.

Next, he withdraws a device from his pocket.

“Is that—?”

“I tape all my interviews. We . . . our department . . . has experienced some misfiling of certain interrogation recordings.”

“Permanent misfilings?”

Brower doesn’t answer.

On the video, Brower studies the device and works its buttons. The digital recorder plays instead of records. A male is heard speaking. The voice continues from the device as Brower works to stop it from playing.

“Damn thing,” Brower says to Knox. “Buttons meant for a child!”

On screen, the recorded voice stops. Brower places the device onto the table.

“State your name and age, please,” Brower says to Demir.

The interview door swings open. Sonia comes through the door, a female officer a step behind. Sonia leans in to Brower and whispers. He motions his officer away—clearly annoyed by the interruption—then whispers back to Sonia.

“She asked me who was on the device,” he tells Knox.

“And you told her . . . ?”

Brower pauses the video.

On the screen is Sonia looking into the camera. Directly at Knox.

“What did you tell her?” Knox repeats.

“Kahil Fahiz,” Brower says. “It was the interview with Fahiz following the assault. I didn’t conduct the session, but following your and my initial conversation, I asked for a dub in order to study it.”

“Could you play the video again, please?”

They watch it again.

The suspect Mert Demir’s reaction is unmistakable. Upon hearing the voice his face fills with alarm. He is wide-eyed. He forces himself to recover from the shock, but it’s too late.

A lie is the first thing to find Knox’s tongue. But he swallows it. Brower is an asset, a friend of Dulwich’s.

“Watch Demir,” he advises. Brower plays the bit again.

“He knows that voice,” Brower says, finally seeing what first Sonia and now Knox have. “He’s afraid of Fahiz.”

“Because Fahiz is actually—”

“Kloten!”
Brower curses.

“The voice is completely unexpected by Demir. It paralyzes him.” Knox pieces together the story. “Fahiz’s guys find and punish the EU worker, killing him with the car bomb, hoping his death is taken as politics as usual. They can’t find Sonia’s other sources to teach them a lesson. But Fahiz has serious stones: he walks into your cop shop playing the victim to try to find out how much you know. If anything should connect back to him in the future, you’ll doubt your findings—he’s a victim, after all.”

“He was assaulted! I’ve seen the photographs!”

“Was he?”

Brower is already typing on an adjacent keyboard. Fahiz’s face appears, showing his injuries in three images.

Looking beyond the cuts and abrasions, Knox leans in and points out a curving bruise across the man’s forehead.

“Wiekser!”
roars Brower.

“That bruise is from a steering wheel,” Knox says.

“First-year constables! They process this shit and don’t pay a damn bit of attention to what it is they are looking at.”

“He wrecked a car and saw it as an opportunity to introduce himself to you guys.” Knox hesitates.

Brower says, “The sack on this guy!”

“He’s a psych case.” Knox blurts out without thinking, “Sonia’s going after him.” At the same time he’s thinking there’s a report sheet of traffic accidents on or before the date Fahiz filed the assault. That one of those accidents will tie directly to the man they’re calling Fahiz. Brower has access to that information, but the excited look in Brower’s eyes says not to ask. Knox doesn’t want to give the man a head start.

“If we are to arrest him, I need more than Demir’s look of surprise. We must locate him. Put him under surveillance. Build a case.”

Knox has lost the ability to track her iPhone. She’s responded to none of his messages. But maybe not Fahiz. Grace has a phone number the man answered, a SIM card from Singapore.

Brower clearly wants Fahiz for himself. He’ll interrogate Demir for a second time as soon as Knox has gone. There will be additional threats and plea bargaining incentives. If Demir plays along, Brower will jump ahead of Knox with little or no consideration of Sonia.

Knox feels himself being sucked down the drain.

He’s afraid Sonia has already beaten him to it.

T
he call from the real estate agent is anything but reassuring. The woman has found a couple of properties that Grace “should see.” Given that Grace has pressured the vendor, Marta, for a list of possible girls, has hacked Kreiger’s laptop, and has downloaded the vitals from the computer that hacked hers. She’s aware it could be a trap.

Knox sends the text message:

sit tight. on way

She has a decision to make. Knox’s situation is radically different from her own; in the world of Rutherford Risk, initiative is capital. If she’s to be rewarded with future fieldwork—with or without Knox—it will be because she has taken initiative while remaining part of a group. It’s a fine line to walk. Dulwich’s impressions and recommendation are critical. The very nature of Knox’s text implies urgency; she can feel him about to influence the direction of the assignment.

The sleeping tiger never eats.

“We have an appointment,” she tells Dulwich over her mobile. Like an obedient driver, he spends much of his time behind the seat of a rented Audi or Mercedes in the hotel’s parking lot while on his BlackBerry. She explains the realtor’s call.

“I’ll pull around front.”

She saw no indication the text had been sent to both of them. Dulwich’s failure to mention it can mean several things, none of which matters to her once he agrees to drive her. Dulwich has his own master plan.

“What about the computers?” he asks from behind the wheel.

“I have enough to attempt to hack them. Kamat narrowed down the router location to a ten-block area.”

“Still too big.”

“Yes, but the smallest yet. We’re closing in. If I ping the router, we will have it much narrower, but a ping would be detected. No way around that. We would have a matter of minutes. No more.”

It has been the worry since the firewall breach from the hotel lobby. Any attempt on her part to reconnect could scare the rats from the den. It is a time for prudent decision-making.

“That could play into our favor.”

“Agreed.”

“The photos? The porn?”

“Carry a digital ID, yes, but unfortunately not a phone. Taken with a Canon PowerShot. Kamat is working a long shot.”

“Which is?”

“Both photos were taken with the same camera—same digital tag in the code. If the camera happens to be under warranty . . .”

“Seriously? The camera is hot. Count on it.”

“If Canon will cooperate, or if Hong Kong can hack their warranty database, we might come away with his full contact info.”

“I wouldn’t count on it meaning anything.”

“I register all my gear.”

“As do I.”

“Something to think about from now on.”

“If I go into the porn business,” Dulwich says.

They’re a good ten minutes from the hotel when she says, “John just texted for us to ‘sit tight.’” She pauses to see if he calls her out. “He is en route to the hotel, I believe.”

“Tell him to sit tight himself. We’ll be, what? An hour? Two, at most.” Dulwich reconsiders. “Better yet, text him the address of the meet. Tell him I need him as backup, ASAP.”

“Yes.” She doesn’t dare go counter to Dulwich’s instructions, though for a moment her fingers hover over the phone’s screen without touching it.

The invitation to view the real estate could be an attempt on her life, an attempt to steal her laptop, an attempt to raid her hotel room while she’s away. It might be used as a chance to photograph her, or the car, or Dulwich.

Her driver pops gum into his mouth and begins chewing furiously. She doesn’t often see Dulwich nervous.

“Do you want to walk through this?” she asks.

“You keep your phone on and the line open so I can hear. What more is there to discuss? If we can wait for Knox we improve our odds—and then some.” Dulwich has on several occasions referred to Knox by the name of a popular sitcom:
Two and a Half Men
. There’s a seed of truth behind the jab, and all three know it.

“I doubt that will be possible.” She would rather do this herself. Knox has a way of sucking the air out of a room.

“You can stall her. Ask long-winded questions that demand long-winded answers. Realtors love to sell. Let her do her job.”

“I refuse to believe this woman could in any way be tied to our principals.”

“She doesn’t have to be. It could be a coworker. Another realtor who’s heard what you’re looking for. You did everything but tell this woman you were setting up a sweatshop. It won’t take a genius.”

“I suppose.”

“Your street market pal could have gotten the ball rolling. Your beating the shit out of that guy may come back to haunt us. If you’re looking for child labor, you need a place to use it. It’s all a piece of the same pie.” He adds, “Remember, by your own admission, these mothers, people in these neighborhoods,
rely
on the knot shop. If you go into this meeting expecting trouble, you might just come out of it.”

She didn’t need that. She wants to tell him so. Maybe her silence does.

—

T
HE PLUS-SIZED
REALTOR WEARS
a matronly wool outfit again despite the fact that the day doesn’t demand it. A warm front has moved in; it’s bearable outside and in. One look at the woman’s clammy complexion and darting eyes puts Grace on alert and wishing she could send Dulwich a warning without invoking the safe word.

There are too many possibilities: from the benign to the overt. Grace is out on the ice and hears it cracking.

“Impressive,” Grace says, after the usual pleasantries.

The cellar space is large, supported by steel posts. The glow is from tube lighting; there’s no natural light. Grace walks the perimeter of the room while the realtor babbles, exactly as Dulwich anticipated. Grace is looking for the best defensive positions. No natural light means no windows; no escape routes beyond the two doors, one on either end. She’s trapped, and judging from the realtor’s anxiety, it’s to be more than a photo or eavesdropping session.

“Only the two doors,” she says, for Dulwich’s ears.

“I understood you were looking for privacy.”

“Absolutely. And where does this second door lead?”

“You expressed interest in access away from busy streets. This door leads to a common parking area behind the building.”

“Excellent!”

“Yes, I thought it fit your needs quite nicely.”

“Proximity to a tram line is a potential problem,” Grace says. “But more to the point is the apparent absence of toilets, running water and heating. I am not running a sweatshop, you know? It’s to be an artists’ workspace. It must be habitable.”

On the off chance she’s being listened to by people other than Dulwich, she has thrown out this treat.

“The landlord is amenable to negotiate improvements providing—”

“He is aware it is to be month-to-month?”

“Well . . . I thought, perhaps . . . That is . . . allow me to show you around before we discuss too much detail.”

If she had any sense, she would mop her brow. It’s not the wool suit or hormones causing her to overheat.

“Very well.”

“The parking. Please.” She motions to the second door.

Grace holds her ground studying the exposed ceiling with its pipes and conduits. “You have to admit it’s
chilly
in here.”

“I find it quite pleasant,” the realtor answers.

“If I may say so,” Grace says, “you look warm. Are you not feeling well?”

She has given Dulwich as much as possible. She allows the realtor to open the door, revealing concrete steps leading up into darkness. The realtor nervously tries a light switch.

“Oh, I am terribly sorry!” the woman says. “The light appears to be out.
I will lead the way.
Please follow me.”

The woman could not be a worse actor. It doesn’t merit a high school performance.

“That is all right. I would like to see the exterior of the building anyway. I will meet you around back.”

Grace moves with deceptive speed toward the original entrance. It’s impossible to predict Dulwich’s reaction to her having spoken the safe word. He might be about to come through that same door, or he may have pulled the car into the back lot. As she’s five strides from the door, she hears them coming for her.
Two or three of them,
she thinks, not looking back. Stealthy, and well trained, already fanning out to surround her.
Two,
she decides. She recognizes this as her “be careful what you wish for” moment: her chance to earn herself a field promotion, to be considered more Knox’s equal, but it’s fraught with risk. She didn’t wish this upon herself, but doesn’t shy from the knock of opportunity.

The two have closed in on her quickly, both approaching from her blind spots behind. If she turns to see one, she invites assault from the other. They are anticipating her going for the door. The idea is to use their strength and advantage as weakness and vulnerability. Never moving her head, she bounds three strides straight back, splitting them and forcing
them
to turn.

Her target is the nerve running from the knee, up the thigh and into the lower back. She uses her hips, not her leg muscles, to thrust her upraised knee into the sweet spot on one attacker’s thigh. Cupping her left hand, she smacks his right ear, disorienting him, then drives the outside of her left elbow into his jaw. His right leg won’t move; he’s semi-conscious and immobilized, though still standing.

Her right hand goes out like a two-fingered claw. She misses his collarbone, connecting instead with the powerful chest of the assailant to the right.

He’s fast. Bats her arm away while simultaneously digging his fingers into the flesh of her forearm. She screams involuntarily and drops to her knees, succumbing to the pain.

Grace head-butts his kneecap, cups her right hand and swats his groin.

He curses, knees her in the face, and the lights go out.

The Indonesian in the parking lot jumps back as Knox, aware he’s late to the party, hollers in Dutch for him to get out of the way. Up until that moment, the man had been changing a tire on his Nissan. But Knox scares him back, hip-checks the Nissan and knocks it off its jack. Knox grabs the jack like it’s a drumstick and marches for the unmarked, black metal door.

He’s through the door. Shoves some librarian in a wool suit so hard she flies to the concrete floor a good distance from where she started. She won’t be getting up soon.

Grace is over a goon’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The other one is on his knees doing an imitation of Jerry Lewis seeing stars.

“Stop! Or I kill her.”

Knox stops.

“Seriously?” Knox returns in Dutch. “I’m supposed to care? Who the hell is she?” He looks between the two men. “I didn’t come for her, asshole. I came for you.”

The man dumps Grace off his shoulder while reaching for his back and a concealed weapon. Grace hits hard, head first, which results in Knox going all primal. He uses his core to launch the car jack javelin-style, a two-foot spear of Japan’s best steel. It flies on a frozen rope and strikes with so much force that Knox hears a crack and a pop.
That would be the ribs and the lung
. The handgun discharges.

Grace’s body elevates off the floor two inches like someone lit her up with 220 volts.

The jack clatters to the floor. It has torn a hole in the guy’s chest.

His partner tries to stand, but tilts to his right on a numb leg and falls over. Starts crawling toward the back door while going for his own handgun. Knox has the punctured guy’s gun. He shoots the crawler twice—two taps, chest and head.

Knox pistol-whips the coughing mess, dropping him. Then kneels next to Grace, his chest tighter than the fallen man’s. Feels for a pulse.
Strong.
Her face is a bloody mess, but wiping it off, it’s nothing more than a broken nose. He feels down her chest and abdomen for an entrance wound.

“Pervert,” she gags.

He hears himself exhale.

“Left leg,” she says, her attempt at a smile wiped away before it materializes.

“Another couple inches, you woulda been a nun,” Knox says.

The wound is a through-and-through on the inner thigh of her left leg, four inches below her crotch. The bullet is flat on the concrete in an island of flesh and tissue. Not much blood: it missed the femoral artery, which is something of a miracle given how little there is of Grace. He tears open her pants. She tries for modesty, but he slaps her hand away.

“Easy,” he says.

The exit wound isn’t pretty. The size of a quarter, it’s taken a plug out of her.

Dulwich comes through the street-side door, prepared to finish what Knox started. He has the entire picture with one look.

“Can she be moved?”

“Yes,” Knox answers.

Dulwich drags the unconscious realtor to inside the darkened stairwell leading to the parking lot.

“There’s a guy out back changing a tire,” Knox hollers. “Or he was.”

“Got it.”

Dulwich leaves the realtor in a pile. She’ll awaken soon and take off—won’t dare head back inside.

Dulwich crosses back and hoists Grace into his arms. He stands.

“Brower?” Knox says. “The shots could have been heard.”