Even (38 page)

“Listen to this,” he said. “Hot off the press. The body you found at the clinic? It wasn’t Taylor. Maher’s come up with a new ID.”

“Who was it?” I said.

“No one we’ve heard of before. A guy called Darius Metcalf.”

“What’s his connection with Tungsten?”

“There isn’t one. He does have a sheet, though. Small-time stuff. He’s just some junkie asshole. They probably picked him because he was scrawny enough to pass for Taylor. The weedy little runt.”

“So Taylor is still alive?”

“As far as we can tell.”

“Where is he?”

“We don’t know.”

“Why the elaborate cover? Why not just slip away with the others on Monday, before anyone was even looking for him?”

“We’re thinking he wasn’t looking to run. He was looking to stay, under the radar.”

“What for?”

“We’re thinking he’s the trigger man. Or he knows who is. Which means he’s the way we’re going to stop these explosions.”

Forget that
, I thought.
He’s the way I’m going to find Tanya
.

We already knew someone at Tungsten had made Tanya call me. To lure us to the clinic. To find their video. And now, it appeared, to set up Taylor’s cover at the same time. That was a neat move. We hadn’t seen it coming. But the key is what happened next. They didn’t just kill Tanya, or even let her go. They gave her to Lesley. And that didn’t happen on its own. Taylor and Lesley must have been in contact, to arrange the handover. They must have spoken today. This evening. In the last few hours. Taylor could get in touch with Lesley when it suited his own ends. So he could get in touch with her for me.

If I could put my hands on him.

“Let me help you find him,” I said. “You’ve tried his apartment? His office?”

“They’re the first places we looked,” Varley said. “We’re still sitting on them.”

“No fruit?”

“Nothing from his work, but a neighbor saw him leave his building. Yesterday afternoon. Less than an hour after he was released. Two big guys were with him, in some kind of desert uniform. He was carrying a satchel. Like a laptop bag. But no other luggage.”

“Any idea where he was going?”

“No. That’s why I’m calling you. You spent the most time with him. Any thoughts about where he might run?”

“Nothing comes to mind.”

“You were at his apartment. Anything there that could help? Pictures of holiday cabins? Ski equipment? Scuba stuff? Anything at all?”

“No. The place was sterile. Immaculate.”

“You spoke to him. Any idea how we could contact him?”

I checked my pocket before giving him an answer. I did have one idea. But I wasn’t sure if it was the kind of thing I could share. The FBI is too conventional. Taylor was the last strand in Tanya’s lifeline. It was frayed enough, already.

Smoking him out was going to need a different approach.

In training, the emphasis is all on preparation.

The instructors are constantly asking,
What’s your situation? What’s your objective? What’s your exposure? What’s your time frame?
It’s a relentless process. You’re always being pushed to plan, check, adapt, implement, and review. Then go again, if necessary.

In the field, the emphasis is all on speed. The ability to think on your feet. To react. Improvise. Make it up as you go along. For some jobs, you’re on the road or in the air before the background reports have even been opened, to make sure you’re in the right place when you’re needed.

That’s the kind of reality that drives the instructors crazy.

But for the agents, it’s what gives you your edge.

I perched back on Tanya’s windowsill and switched the SIM card in my phone with the one I’d taken from Mansell’s. Then I started to type a message.

hi
I sent to Taylor.

No reply.

guess who’s back?

No reply.

got a game 4 u. want 2 play?

No reply.

3 questions. guess how i got my phone back? guess where i am? guess how much $ i want

This time Taylor did respond. He sent a single character.

?

am working with fbi. fun! but not 4 u if u don’t answer my qs

ok. where r u?

66
^th
st. inside clinic. taken more photos. haven’t shown fbi. yet

$?

50k. tonight

2 hrs

I checked my watch. I couldn’t wait two hours. It would be too agonizing. And more to the point, neither could Tanya.

no I sent. 30 mins

need 2 hrs 2 get $

cant stall for 2 hrs. calling fbi now

wait. 1 hr?

I thought about it. One hour would be hell, but I couldn’t afford to overplay my hand. Taylor was Tanya’s last chance. If I scared him off, that would be the end of the game. And I did have some arrangements to make.

ok 1 hr
I sent.

where will u be? will send cash

who with? mechanic, like last time? no thx. i’ll collect. where?

swan hotel. e 12
^th
. rm 1012. come alone

no. will send 2 guys. 1 stays with u, 1 brings back the $. then he brings u the photos & u let both go

ok. but want phone as well, not just photos

deal
.

Varley said he knew the Swan Hotel. He remembered it from a surveillance assignment, early in his career. And he agreed with me when I
said we should send more than two agents. Taylor had caved in far too easily. I’d barely made a single threat. He was clearly in no mind to roll over and pay Mansell off. More likely he had something up his sleeve. Something nasty. Which made this one occasion when it would pay to go in mob-handed.

My approach to his sole remaining witness hadn’t boosted my popularity any, in Varley’s eyes. He had cut me some slack, given the outcome, but there were still severe limits to his spirit of cooperation.

“One last point, Commander,” he said, once the logistics were squared away. “Where are you planning to be when my guys take Taylor down, tonight?”

“I hadn’t really thought that far ahead, to be honest,” I said. “Where would you like me to be?”

“I don’t care. Be wherever you like. Just make sure it’s not within half a mile of the Swan.”

“You don’t want my help? In a purely supportive, backup-type capacity?”

“How can I put this so there’s no room for ambiguity? No. Every step of the way you’ve been reckless, irresponsible, insubordinate, and rash. We cannot afford to fail at this point. There are no more second chances. Hundreds of lives are at stake.”

“I understand.”

“So. Where are you planning to be?”

“I’ll stay here. At Tanya’s apartment. I’ll wait by the phone.”

“Good. I’ll call you back when we have him.”

Old habits die hard. As soon as Varley had cleared the line I called information and asked for a number at the Swan.

A sleepy receptionist answered on the fourteenth ring.

“Swan,” he said. “Help you?”

“Hope so,” I said. “I need a room. For tonight.”

“How many people?”

“One.”

“How many nights?”

“One.”

“Two hundred and forty-eight dollars. Need a card number.”

“No problem. But while we’re talking, could you see if room 1012 is free? I’m sure I had that one last time.”

“I’ll have a look. No. It’s taken.”

“That’s a shame. Never mind. Oh, hang on a minute. Let me think. Ten twelve. Does it look out the back of the hotel?”

“No. Over the street.”

“Really? Oh, wait. You know what I’ve done? Confused it with the one my brother had. I was in the one opposite. Any chance that’s free?”

“Ten eleven? Sure. No one in there. You want it?”

“Yeah, why not. It’s as good as any. I’ll be over in ten.”

The reception area at the Swan was made up of two intersecting ovals. They were on different levels, and a pair of elliptical steps was formed where the shapes joined. The door from the street brought you in at the higher level, to the side of a long curved counter. It was made of heavily grained wood, and had been finished with a pale blue wash to match the carpet and walls. The lower area was a mess of orange. It was overstuffed with furniture. There were five ocher chesterfield sofas. Mounds of contrasting scatter cushions. Clusters of stained wooden coffee tables. A forest of stylized artificial potted plants, the color of virulent carrots. And one man.

I’d never seen him before, which simplified things. He was in his late thirties, with beige Timberland boots, loose jeans, and a tan leather jacket. His face was rough and weathered, and his fine blond hair was cropped close to his skull, betraying a smattering of gray. He was sitting on the center sofa, leaning back comfortably as if he were expecting to be there a while. An open newspaper was spread out on his lap. But he wasn’t reading it. His eyes were fixed on me. They’d locked on the moment I walked in, so I took a moment to check that Tanya’s Yankees cap was properly pulled down over the back of my head before approaching
the check-in area, wheeling her travel-scarred Rimowa suitcase behind me for cover.

There was no sign of anyone behind the desk. I waited a moment, then rang the bell. It was made of heavy brass, eight inches in diameter, with a well-worn disk at the top to press down on. It made a deep, reverberating sound like the striking of an old-fashioned clock. I waited for the note to die down and then gently pushed against its base with the tips of my fingers. It moved slightly. Which meant it wasn’t fixed down.

It took a full minute for the receptionist to drag himself away from his back room and shuffle out to help me. His hair was brushed forward over his left eye, his tightly stretched skin was almost transparent, and his crumpled blue shirt was a couple of sizes too large for his scrawny arms and neck. He crept forward cautiously until he got to the counter. Then he stood and rubbed his tiny, beady eyes for a moment as if he were having trouble focusing.

“You the guy on the phone?” he said.

I nodded, and he reached down to pull a registration card from a drawer. I leaned forward, placed my forearms flat on the countertop, and watched as he struggled to fill it in. He took a print of my credit card and checked a computer screen. Then finally he took a fresh card key, ran it through the validator, and handed it to me.

“Here you go,” he said. “Enjoy.”

I turned away, and swept the bell off the countertop with my right hand as I went. It clanged down onto the floor and began to roll toward the steps. The guy on the sofa heard it. He didn’t react until I was approaching the elevators. Then his hand went for his jacket pocket. But he wasn’t reaching for a gun. I was watching. He was going for his phone.

I figured that if Taylor had a lookout in the lobby, there was a fair chance he’d have someone watching his corridor as well. Taylor himself and three of his guys could recognize me. So I didn’t go straight to the tenth floor. I went up to the twelfth. I counted the rooms. There
were twenty. I found 1211 and 1212. They were just over halfway along the corridor, marginally closer to the stairs at the far end than the elevator I’d just used. I carried on past them and started to make my way slowly downward.

The fire door on the tenth floor was stiff, but I eased it open far enough to peek through. I could see all the way along to the elevators. The corridor was deserted. The layout was the same as the twelfth, but there was something different about 1012. The floor outside it was covered in something shiny. Heavy-duty plastic sheeting. And it extended beyond the neighboring two rooms.

It looked as though Taylor were preparing something for his guests.

I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. An operator picked up after six seconds. I ignored her request for my details and told her they had two officers down in the doorway of a building. I gave an address. It was the office opposite the Swan. Then I hung up, switched my phone to silent, and took a tight hold on my room key.

I heard the first siren after less than two minutes. Then another joined in. And another two. They grew louder and louder until there could be no mistake. They’d arrived, right outside the hotel. Directly under Taylor’s window. I slid through into the corridor and started toward my room, only slowing down when I reached the plastic sheet. I didn’t want to end up flat on my back.

Seven more paces and I was close enough to slide the key into the lock. It clicked. The light changed from red to green. The door swung open. I darted inside. The door eased smoothly back into its frame. I held my breath and listened. I heard nothing. I looked out through the spyhole. The door to 1012 was still closed. It stayed that way for the next two minutes.

I checked my watch. It was just 1:48
A.M.
Another twenty-seven minutes until the agents were due to arrive.

Twenty-seven minutes that Tanya may not have.

The navy’s psychologists always seem fascinated by dreams.

They home right in on them, every twenty-four months, when you go for your evaluations. But it’s not just the shrinks who are interested. Over the years I’ve heard all kinds of people spend hours discussing what happened in theirs. And then speculating endlessly about what they’re supposed to mean.

One of the most common dreams, according to what I’ve been told, involves people who witness a chain of events. They can see that a bad thing is about to happen. They want to stop it. But for some reason they can’t. Something external prevents them. They could have been tied up. Or made to watch through a window. Or maybe they’re a passenger in a moving car. But whatever’s holding them back, they all reach the same conclusion. That it reveals a sense of underlying helplessness in their lives.

I’d never had that feeling myself.

But after looking out through that spyhole, I had a good idea of what it’s like.