Enemy Agents (21 page)

“It’s still a few hours away. We can make that meeting,” said Quarrel. “Or more accurately, you can make that meeting.”

Crowe/Smith smiled. “If Mr. Digamma himself wants a meeting, I think we should attend.”

“Can we trust Milton with this?” asked Quarrel. He looked to Swift. “I thought someone in CIB altered the file you stole, but if Smith isn’t Smith then there’s no reason his name would have been on it. Maybe Milton and Boswell are trustworthy?”

“No way,” she said. “Maybe Smith was never Jupiter but someone was. And Milton, Boswell, and your pal Thorpe were all in CIB this morning. Anyone could have altered that file before you arrived. We can’t let anyone at CIB tell Mercier that we’re coming for him.”

“Alright,” Quarrel said. “We’ll do it alone.”

“Smith” adjusted his tie. “We’ll need some equipment.”

26

The building that the book cipher referred to was a four-level parking garage. When they surveyed the area from inside Smith’s car, Quarrel wondered which level the handler would want to meet on. “Second,” said Crowe in his creepy Smith voice. “Ground level’s too exposed, and so is the roof level, which narrows it to two or three. This guy will want a quick escape and the second level’s closer to the road, so that’ll be it.” Swift nodded in agreement.

It was two hours before Smith’s meeting with “Digamma,” who they believed to be Martin Mercier, the assassin who had disappeared twenty years earlier. Smith’s car was a big black Oldsmobile, with plenty of room for all three of them. Quarrel and Crowe were in the front, while Swift was in the back, constantly moving around to look out both sides of the car and study the area.

“Over there,” she said suddenly. “That apartment had the best view of the second level of the garage. We can set up in there.” She was pointing to a four-storey building across the street from the parking structure, specifically at the corner apartment on the second floor.

“And if it’s occupied?” Quarrel asked.

She shrugged. “Then we go next door to the second best view.”

“We could always just tie up the people who live there,” offered Crowe.

“No,” Swift said emphatically. “I won’t hurt innocent people just to make my job a little easier.”

#

It turned out to be a moot point anyway, since nobody answered when they knocked on the door of the second-floor apartment that Swift had picked out. Swift quietly picked the lock and let herself in, leaving the men out in the corridor. Quarrel and Crowe waited around in silence for a minute before she returned to usher them in.

“Nobody home,” she whispered. “And the photos suggest the people who live here are young professionals. No kids to come home for lunch and interrupt us. We should be good to set up.”

It was a fairly plain one-bedroom apartment. Most of the floor space was reserved for the large living room with the corner windows. A bedroom was next to it, with more windows, and behind that there was a bathroom and a small kitchen. It was actually a lot like Smith’s apartment, but brighter, more lived-in, and with art on the walls. It was like seeing what Smith’s place could have been if Smith wasn’t an emotionless robot.

They set up a tripod to hold a video camera with a lens the size of a travel mug and plugged it into the wall to make sure it didn’t run out of power. They also set up a recorder, which would pick up the signal from Crowe’s microphone and capture it on both digital audio and analog tape. They had a parabolic microphone as well, which they might need if Mercier was using anything to detect or dampen the bug that Crowe would be wearing. The parabolic mic was a big plastic device, shaped like a massive cup, which would have to be held out an open window in order to pick up the sound from the parking garage. They would only take the risk of opening a window if they needed to.

In addition to the equipment for documenting Digamma’s meeting, they also had rifles and ammunition in case Quarrel needed to protect Crowe. Quarrel insisted he was trained to hit a moving target from this distance, but training is not the same as firing a live round at a live person, so he was worried. He knew from the firefight on the highway that he was capable of shooting at someone when he needed to, but he was unsure whether he’d be a good shot when he had to be. Quarrel kept his self-doubts out of the conversation, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to make Crowe doubt him.

As noon approached, Crowe went to his car, circled back a few blocks, and drove up to the second level of the garage. He reversed into a spot facing the entrance ramp and waited. Quarrel and Swift turned on the recording devices. Quarrel held the rifle while Swift worked the camera, which was currently zoomed in (with hi-res detail) on Smith’s car.

At exactly noon, a Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows pulled into the building, and a moment later it climbed to the second level and stopped in the middle of the lane. Crowe, looking perfectly Smith, got out of his car. The man he was meeting got out of the back of the Navigator. Through the recorder, they heard the door open and close. Crowe’s bug was working perfectly. Quarrel raised the rifle, squinting into the scope to see the face of Digamma.

“Long time no see, Mr. Smith,” said the man, who wore a handsome blue suit. “Where have you been?”

“Milton’s got me jumping through hoops,” said Crowe in his Smith impression. “Have to put up with some kid they brought in to look for leaks.”

“I heard about this kid. Quarrel. Survived the bomb in Canada,” said the man. Quarrel knew that the mole would have immediately gone back to Digamma to warn him about the investigation, but it was still worrying to hear that such a dangerous man knew his name.

“In fact,” the man continued, “that’s why we’re here. I wanted to make sure that the kid isn’t getting too close.”

“OK,” said Crowe, “what do you want me to do?”

“I was hoping,” said Digamma, “that you would get the code phrase right and prove that you’re not under duress. But you already got it wrong.”

Suddenly the side of Crowe’s head exploded open in a bloody exit wound, and he collapsed to the floor. “Sniper!” Swift shouted, kicking over the tripod. A moment later, shots shattered the large window and Swift grabbed Quarrel by the shirt as she dove out of the living room.

There was a steady stream of bullets, fired one at a time from a powerful semi-automatic somewhere outside. There may have been multiple shooters since there seemed to be a lot of bullets coming very quickly. Even with the glass window gone, Quarrel heard no shots, only the sounds of impacts as the bullets buried themselves in the wall and furniture.

Quarrel wanted to run from the apartment, but the door to the hallway was in sight of the window. The sniper would have a great shot at anyone trying to open the door. Staying in the kitchen was safe for now, since it had no windows for the sniper to use, but staying here long would only get them killed. Quarrel knew that there would be more than one shooter. A strike team would be on its way, attacking them either
for
from the hallway or by rappelling into the now-shattered living room window.

“This is Milton or Boswell. They must have followed us from CIB,” whispered Swift, who hunched down below the counter, even though no bullets had penetrated through the bedroom and bathroom walls to reach the kitchen.

“This meeting was on the website before I came to CIB this morning. They couldn’t have known that we’d be with Smith.”

“Not until Boswell or Milton called to them that we’d gone to Smith’s apartment. They must have figured it out eventually. Plus, how hard can it be to fake a timestamp on that website?”

Quarrel accepted her logic. “We have to get out of this apartment. They’re closing in right now.”

Swift whispered back, “No way. That door’s exposed to the window. They’ll shoot—”

Quarrel cut her off, raising his voice: “I know! You’re the expert here, get us out!”

Swift shook her head. “The door’s the only out. Window’s too high to jump without breaking something and they’re watching it anyway.”

Quarrel looked around the kitchen, praying for a solution. Then he found one: “The fridge. Drag it in front of us. No way a sniper can shoot through that before we make it to the hallway.”

Swift looked at the fridge, sizing it up, and he was sure she’d agree. But they never got the chance to try the plan anyway. With a shockingly loud thump, the apartment door was kicked inward. Swift instinctively stood up and tucked herself into the narrow gap between the doorway and the counter. Quarrel knew that it was only a split second before the attackers came into the apartment and spotted him, but luckily they were moving slowly and cautiously, giving him a chance to scamper onto the countertop on the other side of the door. Tucked in as they were, they were in prime position to jump the attackers as they entered the kitchen, but the invaders would be armed and armoured. That was a huge advantage for the invaders, since Quarrel had dropped the rifle in the frantic dive for cover, and Swift was unarmed. All they had was Quarrel’s sidearm, which he quietly pulled out and cocked.

Cocking it made a sound. It was a quiet click, but it was enough to get the strike team’s attention.

“Kitchen!” shouted a male voice.

Quarrel saw that Swift had nothing to use to defend herself. She was pressing her body against the wall, shrinking as much as possible, but she looked helpless. Quarrel spotted a spice rack next to Swift. He nodded to it, then made a gesture of forcing his eyes shut, as if in pain. Swift understood. She grabbed a bottle of red powder, spun off the top, and dumped spice into the palm of her right hand.

A moment later, before the spillover powder had even reached the floor, the barrel of an automatic rifle stuck through the doorway. The intruder spotted Quarrel, awkwardly sitting on the counter as he was, and the gun barrel swung toward him. Just then, Swift swung her arm out, smacking a handful of cayenne pepper into the attacker’s eyes. He screamed and reflexed to rub his eyes. The gun barrel jerked up, and that’s when Quarrel swung himself down from the counter.

Using the first man as a human shield, Quarrel lowered his pistol at the man who was still in the living room. The other man fired first, his bullet striking the first attacker in the back of his bulletproof vest. Quarrel lined up his sights and pulled the trigger. The man in the living room took the bullet in the cheek and collapsed next to the tripod. Meanwhile, Swift had grabbed the first man’s gun and pointed it at the empty space between herself and Quarrel. The impact of the shot in his back made the blinded man grab for the rifle again, but Swift twisted the gun and he couldn’t find the trigger.

Quarrel used his left hand to grab the man by his collar and leaned out of the kitchen with the man’s body as cover. A third attacker was standing in the doorway out to the hall, and Quarrel fired two quick shots to the man’s vest, which made him wince. The third man fired a burst from his automatic, spraying up the back of the cayenne-blinded man, who screamed for a moment. The last shot must have taken him in the back of the head, because the blinded man went limp and Quarrel couldn’t hold him upright with just his left hand, so the human shield fell away. The man in the doorway had a clear shot at Quarrel now, but Quarrel had recovered from missing his first shots and the man in the doorway was winded from the shots to his vest. In the instant where the gunman sucked in a deep breath, Quarrel put two careful shots into the man’s forehead. And for a moment, there was silence as the gunpowder hung in the air.

“Clear!” he said to Swift, who had turned white from the sight of three men dying.

“Jesus Christ . . . ” she gasped.

For a second they looked at each other and they both felt nauseous. Quarrel had just killed three men, and Swift looked disgusted at having a part in it. Quarrel had trained for this, mastering his grip, his aim, practicing in war games and playing at being a real spy. Now he had gunpowder on his hands and blood on the floor, and the knowledge that he had killed surprised him as much as it nauseated. He inhaled the gunshot smell and wanted to throw up.

Swift sprinted into the living room and picked up the camera, still attached to the tripod, and threw the whole unwieldy thing toward Quarrel. Then she snatched up the digital recorder, rolled behind the loveseat so any snipers out the window couldn’t see her, and called to Quarrel.

“You make sure the hallway’s clear. I’ll carry this.”

Quarrel nodded, unscrewed the tripod from under the camera, then he ran straight from the kitchen to the open doorway, rushing into the hallway before any possible remaining sniper could hit him. It was a big risk, since there could have been an attacker waiting in the hallway in either direction. It turned out that there was nobody else in the hallway, so Quarrel lowered his gun and whispered that it was all clear. A moment later, Swift somersaulted across the room and out into the hall.

“That street’s side will be covered by the sniper. We’ll never make it to Smith’s car. We have to get out the south side and make it out of here on foot,” Swift told him in a rush. Quarrel got the sense that she planned these back-up escape routes constantly; that Jessica Swift was never at rest, and her frantic instructions were a glimpse into her fever-pitch brain. She was still talking: “Best bet is to take the nearest stairwell, since they’ll probably expect us to take one at one of the far ends of the building. Once we get to the ground floor, use one of the apartments to escape out a window, don’t exit through the main doors or fire escapes. And never stop running.”

Quarrel followed Swift as she sprinted to the stairs, and rushed downward, taking the entire ten-step staircase with only a step in the middle before hitting the landing, turning one-eighty and doing it again. Quarrel tried to do the same jump but felt that the time it took him to recover was too long. After that, he hit every second stair while Swift continued hopping around like a water bug. They got to the ground floor before anybody else joined them in the stairs. When they pushed out of the stairs into the main floor corridor, they emerged into a rush of sounds. A dryer was humming in a laundry room, someone was playing music that came through the walls as a deep thumping, and there were police sirens approaching. Someone had heard Quarrel’s gunshots and called 911.