Even (30 page)

The TV was huge. At least fifty-two inches, set into rather than hung on the far wall. There was no sign of any cable boxes or DVD players to drive it. But whatever AV equipment Taylor had hidden away, it would be hard-pressed to compete with the view. First your eyes were drawn to the lavish green of the park, twenty-one floors below. Then the jagged gray and brown buildings of the Upper West Side. And finally the cold blue of the Hudson. Individually each swath of color was fascinating. Together they were hypnotic. No wonder Taylor didn’t feel the need for pictures on his walls.

“Do you live here alone?” I said.

“At the moment,” he said. “Why?”

“I’m just looking at what you’ve done with the place. It’s hard to be so focused if you’ve got to compromise with someone.”

“That’s true. Can I get you a coffee?”

“Please. No milk, no sugar.”

“I’ve got a pot brewing downstairs. It’ll be ready in a minute. Meantime, take a seat. Let’s talk. Tell me what’s got the feds all riled up.”

“Down to business already. OK then. Well, remember your dead ex-employees? We talked about them yesterday. It turns out they were killed by someone from Tungsten.”

“No way. Who?”

“A guy called Salif Hamad.”

“Hamad? I got a call about him, this morning. He’s dead.”

“I know.”

“Hamad killed those guys? Are you sure?”

“Oh, yeah. No doubt.”

“Salif Hamad. Would you believe it? Such a quiet guy. But if it was Hamad, it kind of begs the question, why are you here? The feds aren’t going to get their warrant, now.”

“Want to bet?”

“What’s to search for? You’ve got the guy. End of, surely?”

“Sorry, Kelvin. This isn’t going away. Not yet. The feds are suspicious people. They hate mysteries. Who did it is only half the story. They’ll keep on coming till they find out why.”

“Why has nothing to do with us.”

“I believe you. But the feds think otherwise.”

“How come?”

“Hamad worked for you. The other dead guys worked for you. They don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“Of course it is. And you need more than a coincidence to get a warrant.”

“They do have more.”

“Like what?”

“I have it here. I can show you. But before I do, I want to get something straight.”

Taylor’s phone began to ring before he could reply. He excused himself, answered it, and listened for a few moments.

“Sorry,” he said. “My housecleaner’s on the way up. I need to go let her in.”

His feet clattered down the metal steps. The door opened. Footsteps came into the hall. Two sets. Both heavy. Then the door closed again and Taylor started back upstairs without a word being spoken.

“I’m back,” he said, emerging from the stairwell. “Sorry about that. What were you saying?”

“Does your housecleaner come up here?” I said.

“Yeah, she will. But not for an hour or so. She does downstairs first. And don’t worry. She doesn’t speak English. So, you wanted something?”

“Yes. Assurances. I’m taking a big risk. No one knows I’m here. If anyone finds out what I’m showing you . . .”

“Understood. And don’t worry. Discretion is my biggest virtue. Now, let’s see what you’ve got and maybe we can help each other.”

I took out the set of photos Lavine had given me from Mansell’s phone and handed them to Taylor.

“It looks like Iraq,” he said, studying the first one.

“It is,” I said.

“Where did you get them?”

“One of your ex-employees took them. On his phone.”

“Which one?”

“James Mansell.”

“I remember him. He wasn’t one of the five victims, though?”

“We’re not sure. We know Hamad tried to kill him. If he succeeded, we haven’t found the body. But he certainly took Mansell’s phone. He had it with him, last night, when he died. He was trying to protect it.”

“Strange.”

“Very. And the question the feds are asking is, why did he want the phone so much?”

“No idea. Call records? People’s numbers?”

“No. The FBI have analyzed everything. There must be something else.”

“I can’t imagine what.”

“They’re thinking, maybe the photos?”

“Surely not. How could someone’s vacation snaps be worth five lives?”

“I don’t know yet. Have a look. Tell me what you see. If I can convince the feds the photos aren’t significant . . .”

“Got you,” he said, starting to thumb his way through the pile. “I’ll try. Let’s see what we have. Guys in their barracks. Guys in the desert. More guys in the desert. Some girls—not ours. Guys in vehicles. One of our convoys. One of our trucks.”

“What’s that Arabic writing on the back?”

“ ‘Danger. Keep Back. Authorized to use lethal force.’ ”

“Is that normal?”

“Completely. All private contract vehicles have signs saying it. In English, and in Arabic.”

“Oh. OK. Keep going.”

“This next one is, this one is, well, it looks like it could be the inside of one of our trucks.”

“What are all the containers?”

“Organ carriers, for transplants. Big on the black market.”

“Valuable?”

“Very. That’s why we have to guard them. Those and the drugs, obviously.”

“Why would Mansell photograph them?”

“No idea.”

“They don’t look like regular ones. Usually they’re like picnic boxes.”

“Right. These are special. The country’s in a mess right now, so most of the organs have to be flown in. They need built-in monitors, fluid pumps, all manner of gizmos. Because of the time from harvesting.”

“OK. So what about the rest. Anything?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, glancing at the remaining pictures. “They just look like souvenirs.”

“I see.”

“So that’s cleared things up? We’re good?”

“No. Sorry, Kelvin, but that’s nowhere near good enough. I can’t go back to the FBI with ‘they look like souvenirs.’ I need more.”

“There is no more. I looked at the pictures. I told you what I saw.”

“The SWAT teams are suiting up, right now. They might not wait till tomorrow morning. . . .”

“So, stop them.”

“Then give me something to work with.”

“Like what? There’s nothing in those pictures. They’re irrelevant.”

“Then I’ll see you in the morning,” I said. “And I’d wear old clothes, if I were you.”

“No, wait,” he said. “Forget the photos. Let’s try another approach. We work with the government all the time. It’s a complex machine. Sometimes the wheels get a little jammed up. I’m thinking, maybe that’s the kind of situation we have here?”

“I don’t know. What do you do, in that kind of situation?”

“We unjam the wheels. Lubricate them. Get them moving again.”

“How?”

“Money usually works.”

“How much?”

“Depends how many wheels are jammed.”

“Say, three? Aside from me.”

“A hundred thousand. You keep whatever’s left.”

“How about a million?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“I wonder if they’ll raid this place, too?”

“Five hundred thousand.”

“Imagine them checking these walls, digging around for concealed hiding places. . . .”

“Seven fifty. Fifty now, the rest when the case is closed.”

“I keep whatever’s left, after the wheels are moving again?”

“Right.”

“How about the coffee?”

“Forget the coffee. I’ve got the fifty downstairs. I’ll go get it.”

“Thanks. And tell your guys they can stop hiding.”

“What guys?”

“The guys you just let in. Unless it really was your housecleaner. And she’s got four legs.”

“Oh. The metal floor. Not the best for subtlety.”

“No.”

“OK, this is embarrassing. We still good?”

“We are. What if I’d not taken the bribe? You couldn’t meet me here alone. Only a fool would have done that. And I don’t do business with fools.”

Halfway through my first month in the navy there was a fire.

It was at our training barracks. We had to move out for two weeks while they repaired the place. The nearest available alternative was a university residence hall. It was in the middle of the holidays, so most of the campus was deserted. There was just us, plus the last dregs of students on the floor above. They’d stayed on for some kind of summer school.

The students didn’t seem very dedicated. They were more interested in partying than studying. Always playing loud music. Drinking. Running around, making noise, annoying everyone. Well, annoying me, anyway. I remember one night water started to drip through my ceiling. I went to investigate. Turned out someone had taken a garbage can from the kitchen, filled it under the tap, and leaned it against my upstairs neighbor’s door. They knocked, he opened, and finished with twelve gallons of soaking garbage around his ankles.

I remember thinking it was pretty stupid, at the time. Funny how your perspective can change, though, later in life.

Taylor had no need for his bodyguards once we’d reached our agreement, so they walked out of the apartment at the same time as me. It
was strangely disconcerting because the two guys looked almost identical. One appeared from the bedroom corridor, then another, as if I were seeing double. I guessed the pair would be in their late twenties. Both were around six two, with broad shoulders and the kind of muscles in their arms you get from working outdoors, not visiting the gym. Their skin was deeply tanned. Blond stubble bristled on the top of their heads. They had the same kind of clothes as the guy we’d seen at Tungsten yesterday, minus the name patches. Both had Australian accents. One carried a canvas utility bag slung over his right shoulder, and neither showed any awkwardness about standing and talking with someone they’d been ready to kill ten minutes before.

“Need a ride?” the guy with the bag said as Taylor’s door closed behind us.

“Please,” I said. “Just a couple of blocks. Saves me finding a cab. Only thing is, I don’t get on too well with elevators. Any chance we could take the stairs?”

“Twenty-one floors?”

“Come on. It is down, all the way. And I’ll even carry your bag.”

The guy sighed and looked back at his twin.

“OK,” he said, finally. “We’ll walk. But don’t touch my stuff.”

The door to the stairs was to our right, next to the third elevator. I was nearest so I moved across and gave it a push. It opened more easily than I’d expected. The self-closer was broken. That was a piece of luck. It meant I could bring the timetable forward a little. I didn’t want Taylor leaving before I could get back and see him again.

“After you,” I said, moving aside to let the guy with the bag go first. I stepped through immediately after him and took hold of the handle on the other side. I paused. Then I heaved the door back toward its frame, twisting my body and shifting my weight like a hammer thrower.

My timing was just right. The steel skin of the heavy fire door crushed the second guy’s nose like it was made of paper and only slowed down when it connected with his jaw. The impact sent him staggering backward and he went down in a sprawling heap like he’d fallen twenty feet off a building and landed on his face.

The guy with the bag heard the thud. He stopped, four feet in front of me, right at the top of the stairs. He started to turn. I waited until he was facing me. Then I launched myself forward, swinging my back leg up and driving the ball of my foot into the base of his rib cage like a battering ram. He fell back, gasping for air, hopelessly off balance. His arms were flailing, desperate for anything to grab onto. His right hand glanced off the smooth wall. His left grazed the metal banister rail, scrabbling for grip, but he just couldn’t hang on. Both arms ended up stretched out behind him. That was just as well. They took some of the sting out of his fall. But even so, the back of his head caught the sharp edges of four, five, six bare concrete steps before he came to rest.

I followed him down, retrieved his bag, and checked inside. There were three things. A clear, heavy-gauge plastic sheet, folded into a square. A black body bag, standard U.S. Army issue, rolled up. And a metal case containing a syringe. It was filled with some kind of clear liquid. I put the syringe case in my pocket, replaced everything else, and slung the bag over my shoulder. Then I took hold of the guy’s hands, swung him over the same shoulder, and carried him up to the landing.

Next I went to check on the second guy. He’d rolled onto his front and was trying to drag himself across the carpet toward Taylor’s apartment, groaning softly each time he moved. He wasn’t aware I’d come back, so I let him get within touching distance of the wall before rolling him onto his side and slamming the heel of my hand into his temple. That put an end to his crawling, so I eased him into a sitting position and shuffled him over until his head and shoulders were against Taylor’s door and his backside was twelve inches out from its lower edge. Then I fetched the bag guy. I lugged his unconscious body through the lobby and lowered it down onto the second guy’s lap. They ended up back against chest, like one was sitting on the other’s knee. The bag guy’s head lolled sideways, so I had to roll it around onto the second guy’s shoulder. His oozing blood left a blotchy stain on the white surface of the door, but I wasn’t too worried. I was going to give Taylor more to think about than smudged paint.

I took the syringe out of its case, stepped to the side, and reached
across to the doorbell. It was set into the center of the door, above Taylor’s printed name card and below the lens of a security peephole. I kept my finger on the button for a full two seconds. The sound was harsh and mechanical, like the old-fashioned windup kind. Not what I’d expected at all. There was silence for ten seconds. Then a light pair of feet started down the spiral stairs. They came nearer, scurrying across the metal floor like a couple of mice. And stopped.

“Who’s there?” Taylor said.

“Your cleaners,” I said. “They forgot to do upstairs. Thought they better come back.”

Taylor opened the door. That was a mistake. The bodies fell backward, deflecting off his legs as gravity pulled them to the floor. I heard a sharp intake of breath, and two near simultaneous thumps as their skulls hit the checkered tile. I gave Taylor a couple of moments to register what had happened. Then I stepped into view.