Even (27 page)

“Correct. We pulled out the numbers of all Tungsten’s own handsets. Then we looked at the itemized records and identified all the calls from company cell phones to other company cell phones, and from company cell phones to company landlines. Everything not on that list was a cell phone call to someone outside the company. That’s all in section three.”

“Long list,” Lavine said.

“Correct again. So we narrowed it down. First with a reverse directory. Then with Google. That took care of 95 percent of the numbers. My people called the rest. Said they were from the phone company, checking records, if anyone answered. They kept trying, or took the details off their voice mail greetings if no one picked up. Tedious work, but worth it. Take a look at what we found. That’s section four.”

“Six numbers,” Weston said. “With dates against five of them.”

“That shows when the last calls were made from Tungsten to those numbers. The dates don’t stand out?”

“They do to me,” I said.

“They should to all of you. They’re also the dates that Simon and the four Americans were killed.”

“They all received a call from the same cell phone the day they died,” Weston said.

“Correct.”

“From someone going after the money,” Weston said.

“Not necessarily.”

“It had to be,” Lavine said. “But who?”

“Don’t know. We only have the originating number, not a name. We called it, but no one answered.”

“Voice mail?” Lavine said. “Did you leave a message?”

“No. It didn’t go through to a mailbox.”

“What about the sixth number?” Weston said.

“There’s something about it . . .” Lavine said.

“It’s the only one we couldn’t account for. It received its last call from Tungsten the day after Simon’s, but before two of the Americans.”

“It’s James Mansell’s phone,” I said.

“I think so, too. It has to be. Which means . . .”

“Mansell’s dead as well,” I said.

“Oh, no,” Lavine said, standing up and striding toward the door. “It doesn’t. Stay there. Don’t move. There’s something I’ve got to show you.”

Lavine rummaged through the clutter on his desk for over a minute, then came back into the booth brandishing a blue Post-it note.

“Take a look at this,” he said.

It was the same number.

“Where did you get that?” Tanya said.

“In Raab’s paperwork,” Lavine said. “It’s the number of the guy he was planning to meet, Sunday night. When he was killed.”

“It was Mansell that Mike was due to meet?” Weston said. “No. How could that be?”

“Mansell must have survived the attacks on his buddies,” Tanya said. “Then tried to get help when he realized the trouble he was in.”

“Needing help, I understand,” I said. “But how on earth did he end up in touch with Raab?”

“It makes sense, if you think about it,” Lavine said. “It’s standard procedure. Mike’s team floods everywhere they work with flyers. They ask people to call a hotline. The calls are screened. Anyone genuine would have been passed up the chain.”

“All the way to Mike?” I said.

“Absolutely,” Lavine said. “Mike was a hands-on guy. He liked to judge for himself whether people were on the level.”

“It does fit,” Weston said. “We know Mike was meeting someone with a British accent, remember. That’s why the NYPD suspected you. One reason, anyway.”

“Then why meet in an alley?” I said. “Why not an office, or police station?”

“To keep the killer in play,” Lavine said. “In case he was watching. Mike didn’t want to scare him off.”

“So what went wrong?” Tanya said.

“Mansell must have arrived after Mike was already dead,” Lavine said.

“He would have seen what happened, and figured the Tungsten guy got there first,” Weston said. “The same guy who killed his buddies.”

“Then he would have run, figuring there was a leak from the bureau,” Lavine said. “He’d have thought, how else would the Tungsten guy know about his meeting with Raab?”

“That’s pretty much the same assumption we made,” Weston said.

“And it’s not impossible,” Lavine said. “Tungsten is hooked up with the DOD. Why not with the bureau, as well?”

“I’ll tell you something else it explains,” Weston said. “Why Mike didn’t put up a fight.”

“Right,” Lavine said. “That part never sat right with me. But now we know. When this guy from Lesley’s scam walked into the alley, Mike thought it was Mansell.”

“It explains a lot,” Weston said. “And it proves Mansell is alive. Or was, at least up to Sunday night.”

“Poor fellow,” Tanya said. “His friends are dead, he’s been scared off the bureau, and he thinks the guy from Tungsten is still after him.”

“The guy from Tungsten probably is still after him,” I said.

“Then we’ve got to find him,” Tanya said. “And stop him. Fast.”

“We need a warrant,” Weston said. “Then we can go back to Tungsten’s compound. Tear the place apart.”

“How long will that take?” I said.

“A day?” Lavine said. “A couple of days? We need to convince a judge. Which will be hard, since we can’t use any of this evidence. You poisoned the fruit, my friend.”

“We could be a little more direct,” I said.

“And what, break in?” Weston said.

“No,” I said. “We have Mansell’s number. We could use that.”

“I already tried,” Lavine said. “I called it as soon as we found it in Mike’s papers. There was no answer.”

“Same for us,” Tanya said. “That’s why we couldn’t identify it, remember?”

“Where did you call from?” I said.

“Here,” Lavine said.

“The consulate,” Tanya said.

“If you were Mansell, would you have answered those calls?”

“I guess not,” Lavine said. “I didn’t know what he was likely thinking, when we tried it.”

“So where should we call from?” Tanya said. “How do we make him answer?”

“We can’t,” Weston said. “Forget the phone.”

“We don’t call him,” I said. “We text him. From Tanya’s cell phone. Then he gets the message without having to answer.”

“My cell?” Tanya said. “Why? What do we say?”

“We tell him the truth,” I said. “He’s friends with your brother. You heard he’s in trouble. You want to help.”

“The truth,” Weston said. “That’ll work.”

Tanya sent the message. A minute passed. Two minutes. There was no response. Weston and Lavine exchanged glances. Tanya gazed at the floor.

“We should get started on the warrant,” Weston said.

“You’re right,” Lavine said, getting to his feet. “Sorry, guys. Worth a try. Come on, Kyle.”

Tanya stayed in the booth, with me.

“What now?” she said.

“We try again,” I said. “Put yourself in Mansell’s shoes. What’s he thinking? When he sees the message, what’s he afraid of?”

“A trap. The Tungsten guy, trying to finish what he started on the railways.”

“Could be. Or?”

“A crooked fed. Because he’s going to think his meeting with Raab was betrayed. He’s got no way of knowing about the wires being crossed with Lesley’s guy.”

“Right. So this time put in some details that only you would know, because of your brother. And tell him the thing with Raab wasn’t what it seemed. That there’s no problem between him and the bureau.”

Tanya poked awkwardly at the tiny keys until she was happy with the message.

“Sent,” she said. “I hate texting. I hope he answers this time.”

We waited five minutes. There was no reply.

“What now?” Tanya said.

“Try again,” I said. “Tell him you work at the consulate, and you can get him out of the country in one piece if he needs you to.”

“Done,” she said after a moment, dropping the phone on the chair Weston had been using. “I don’t know why teenagers like this so much.”

Thirty seconds later there was a sound like a cartoon arrow hitting a target.

“It’s him,” Tanya said, snatching the phone back up. “Look.”

this is james. do need help

“OK,” I said. “Go ahead. Reply.”

where r u
, she sent.

nyc. in danger

am also in nyc. go to nearest police station. will meet u there

no police

ok. come to consulate. 845 3
^rd
ave. round corner from grand central. ask 4 me

no2 dangerous

“Not exactly bending over backward, is he?” she said.

“Frightened people need to feel some control,” I said. “Give him the choice. Ask him where he’d feel safe.”

where then? can’t help if can’t meet
, she sent.

bulldog pub. w4
^th
st. know it?

i’ll find it. when?

tonight?

ok. time?

21:00

ok. c u later.

sit at bar. i’ll find u. COME ALONE

ok. will be ALONE

“Excellent,” I said. “He’s on the hook. We just need to reel him in. Then we can take some time for ourselves.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Tanya said. “Plenty can still go wrong.”

“I didn’t know you were such a ‘glass half empty’ person.”

“I’m not. I’m more of a ‘what glass are you talking about?’ person. As in, down to earth. You’re already dreaming about tomorrow. I’m still wondering whether to tell Tweedledum and Tweedledee about tonight.”

“Do you want to tell them?”

“Not particularly.”

“Do you know what Mansell looks like?”

“Yes. Lucinda pulled his record. He looks a bit like you, actually.”

“Could we borrow Lucinda for the evening? Get her to sit with me while I keep an eye on you?”

“Mansell said come alone. He seemed clear on that.”

“You will be alone. I’ll be with Lucinda. Couples are less conspicuous. And if you tell the feds they’ll bring dozens of guys. Probably helicopters and everything.”

“Seems a bit OTT just to meet a friend of my brother’s.”

“Shocking waste of tax dollars.”

“And it would be nice to see their faces in the morning, when we bring Mansell in all safe and sound.”

“Especially if he dishes the dirt on that hospital first . . .”

When I began my training, there was one exercise that nobody was looking forward to. Withstanding interrogation. There were too many rumors about exactly how realistic the experience was going to be. But when the course schedule was finally handed out I could see no mention of it. I remember sitting with the paper in my hand, studying each of the titles, wondering where in the jargon it was hidden. And obviously no one was stupid enough to ask.

The exercise after the fake fridge company was also based in the field. Each of us was dropped in a different town in Devon and given four hours to get hold of the full names, addresses, passport numbers, and bank account details from a pair of civilians. It didn’t matter who they were, as long as the information was genuine. It sounded pretty straightforward. We all set off happy, confident of another tick in the box. Plus an afternoon in a nice seaside pub if we worked fast enough.

Ten minutes after jumping down from the bus we’d all been snatched back off the street. We were each thrown in the back of a van. Sacking was tied roughly over our heads and we were driven to an abandoned abattoir. What happened next wasn’t nice. But it did teach us two things. How to keep our mouths shut, at least for a while. And that circumstances are rarely as they first may seem.

I never forgot the first part.

I should have paid more attention to the second.

The consulate Jaguar had dropped Lucinda and me outside the Broadway branch of Rhythm & Booze at dead-on 7:30
P.M.
We mingled with the little group of early-evening drinkers that was gathering outside until the car was well out of sight. Then we made our way toward the rendezvous point, circling the area and looking for anyone who could be watching the place from a vehicle, a building, or on foot. Lucinda thought I was paranoid, the length of time we took, but I made her stick with it. She wasn’t the one who’d be facing Lavine the next morning.

The Bulldog itself turned out to be a typical theme pub—a square, characterless multipurpose unit clumsily dressed up to look like something it wasn’t. There were fake Yorkshire flagstones on the floor, a rectangular mahogany and brass bar tacked on to the back wall, a pool table and one-armed bandits to the left, and four dingy booths in a row on the right. We checked that no one was lurking there or in the restrooms, and by 8:00
P.M.
were settled on hard wooden chairs at the side of the drafty doorway. I had a bottle of Newcastle Brown on the round table in front of us. Lucinda had a gin and tonic.

Twenty-three people entered the pub over the next hour. Seventeen were men. Nine were on their own. Five were in the right age range. And none of them looked anything like the photo of Mansell that Lucinda had brought in her purse.

Tanya arrived at a minute to nine. She stood on her own near the door for a few moments, gazing around the room as if she were taken by the oversized photos of wartime London that were plastered all over the walls. Then she stepped up to the bar, took the middle one of the three remaining stools, and ordered a drink.

“Looks different, doesn’t she?” Lucinda said.

“A little, maybe,” I said.

The truth was she looked very different. It wasn’t just the jeans and casual blouse, or the way she’d left her hair untied. It was her whole
manner. She seemed tense and twitchy, like someone on speed. That wasn’t like her at all. It brought home to me how much the need to exorcise the ghosts of Morocco must be eating away at her. I just hoped Mansell would show his face. And if he did, that her spikiness wouldn’t scare him away again.

“Who is this guy we’re supposed to meet?” Lucinda said.

“No one special,” I said.

“Then why are we bothering?”

Good question
, I thought.
Ask Tanya, and her overactive sense of guilt
.

“He’s a U.K. citizen,” I said. “He’s in danger. Needs our help.”

“We help lots of citizens,” Lucinda said. “But they usually come to us. What’s different about this guy?”