Once a Crooked Man (41 page)

The curtain came down again. The final act of the play was over. It was time to go to the bar for a drink.

 

78

As he was being wheeled into the operating room, Harry regained consciousness long enough to acknowledge that he was in neither Heaven nor Hell but in a hospital and to realize that his body had been seriously damaged.

Five hours in surgery, seven in recovery and very slowly comprehension returned. With it came the pain.

The next day he learned from the surgeon that he had been lucky. Only his left upper arm had been shattered. The bullet had missed all the vital bits. The surgeon also told him that before he performed the operation his fellow doctors had suggested a plastic replacement. The older man had listened to his younger colleagues but opted to attempt to rebuild Harry's bones. The recovery would be long and the results uncertain, but if all went well there was every reason to believe he would have full mobility of both the arm and shoulder.

Various medications were added to his drip tube to keep the pain level within acceptable limits and to accelerate the healing process. All these drugs conspired to dull his already depleted senses.

Eventually he was transferred to a private room with a window overlooking the tops of trees. For his first solid food he was given a bowl of pale liquid with floating colored lumps. As he slept off the effort of lifting the spoon to his mouth the door opened and a small woman came in carrying an arrangement of flowers. Behind her was a thickset man clutching a brown paper bag.

“Harry?” the woman said in a hushed voice. “Guess who's here? Guess who's here to see you?”

“He's asleep, Bridget,” said the other. “We should leave and come back later.”

Harry's limbic brain connected with the low tones of this voice and his eyes jerked open. At the sight of his parents he tried to sit up. This made him moan.

“Don't try to move, my darling,” said his mother. She came over and kissed him gently on the forehead. “We only came to stay for a few minutes. We wanted you to know we were here.”

“How did you…?”

“Read about you in the paper,” said his father. “Said you'd been pulled from an automobile just before it sank. We thought you might need us, so we jumped on a plane. Nice flight. Food was great.”

“That's enough, Mike,” said his mother taking the bag. “Here, Harry, we brought you some fruit.”

They stayed for a further ten minutes, during which time Harry learned that the spare room in their little house in Boca Raton was aired and ready. As soon as he was able to travel they were going to take him home. His immediate reaction was to politely decline, but good sense prevailed. His mother's chicken soup might be just what the doctor ordered.

For most of the next twenty-four hours Harry slept. He was awoken in the late afternoon by the smell of burning leaves. Opening his eyes, he beheld Lizzie's boss by his bed with his hat in hand. Smiling down, he gave a friendly nod and pointed to the armchair with his umbrella.

“Do you mind?” he asked before sitting down. “Are you up to a little chat?”

Harry was about to be interrogated. In spite of his weak condition, it was imperative he find out as much as he could before he gave too much away.

“How's Lizzie?” he asked.

The beekeeper raised both eyebrows and said with an expressive sigh, “I had hoped you might be able to tell me.”

“You haven't heard from her?”

The answer was a shake of his head.

Harry sank deep into the pillows. Knowing the Bruschetti methodology, Lizzie Carswell was six feet under the marshy ground of New Jersey.

Harry had genuinely felt great affection for the crazy woman and he had failed miserably. Every decision he had made had been wrong. Why the hell had he done it in the first place? Lizzie had tricked him for sure, but he had made his own choices. He had fooled himself into thinking that what he knew about organized crime, that what he had learned from the virtual world of film and television, was enough to keep him alive and even help others to survive. How stupid! How futile! Many people had died and absolutely nothing had been accomplished or gained.

The beekeeper was talking and Harry wasn't listening so he asked his visitor to begin again.

“I suppose I should start at the moment when I received the call from the States asking for confirmation of Detective Sergeant Carswell's undercover identity. I was most encouraged. I felt her scheme was going according to plan and she had gained access to her target. From then on we had no further communication. This is not unusual in this type of operation, so I saw no cause for alarm and I decided to wait. It came as quite a surprise when you were shot.

“Soon after this I received a communiqué saying that Detective Sergeant Carswell's passport had been flagged at Heathrow, but of course by the time we arrived there she had long since left the airport.”

“Then she's alive!” cried Harry. “She's here in the UK!”

“I doubt it, Mr. Murphy,” the little man said. “There is a strong possibility the passport was used by someone masquerading as Miss Carswell. Security cameras show a female of similar height and build, but the face is completely obscured by a hat and scarf.”

“You think she's dead?”

“I'm afraid I do. If she weren't she would have got in touch with us by now. She was well trained and very resourceful. The Americans think we should assume the worst. Such a shame.”

He stood up and looked out the window. “Of course I immediately informed Detective Sapinsky of her possible appearance and he returned with Agent Vargas to watch the Mews premises in Kensington. It was the one location we knew was connected to our investigation. By doing this I saved your life. They observed the arrival of the minivan and saw the Ford Escort leave. When they saw that you were driving they followed at a discreet distance and called for backup.

“When the shots were fired both ran forward and observed the Escort crashing into the pond. They pulled you free before the vehicle went under.”

He put down his hat and pulled out a small notebook. He flipped it open.

“A second man was later recovered from the rear seat and a subsequent autopsy revealed that strangulation was the cause of death. A third individual was recovered from the riverbank and he has been identified as Colonel Charles Villiers. Records show he was retired from the military but currently employed by the European Parliament in Brussels.

“It's all a bit of a puzzle,” he said, closing the notebook. “Apart from yourself, the only person who could throw some light on the affair is the Colonel's wife, and she has apparently gone insane. When anyone goes near her she screams obscenities. Left alone, she has long, rambling conversations with her dead father. We checked and found the poor fellow had committed suicide when she was about fifteen years old. Some petty dispute with the tax authorities.

“The only relative of Miss Carswell we can trace is her mother. Although they were estranged from one another, I will see that she receives all the appropriate benefits.”

So far he hadn't mentioned the bundles of cash, so Harry asked. “Did you check the Mews cottage?”

“Oh yes” was the reply. “And that added to the mystery. Several metal cases were found with their linings ripped out. Beside them were three valuable guitars and a set of drums.”

Harry was careful not to flinch.

“In one of the lids was the address and telephone number of a man who apparently owns the instruments. He was unconcerned about the state of the cases but keen to know about the instruments. I informed him that they were undamaged and assured him everything would be returned as soon as it was practical.”

“What about the Americans?” Harry asked. “What did they tell you?”

“I'm afraid they weren't very cooperative. The whole business seems to have been a thorn in their collective sides. They did tell me they had been to an establishment known as…” he referred to the notebook, “Mazaras.”

“What did they find?”

“Painters and plasterers. The place was undergoing a renovation. They carried out a thorough search, found nothing and left. Your apartment was thoroughly checked and seemed to be as you left it. Their attitude is that no crime has been committed. As far as they are concerned, it's all over. I personally would appreciate anything, anything at all you can tell me. Mainly to put my mind at rest.”

Harry stuck to the facts. “We flew to New York. At Lizzie's prompting I made a phone call to the people who controlled Villiers and made contact. She encouraged me to follow this up and at the same time assured me DEA agents would be watching. But they lost me. I was abducted and held hostage. Miss Carswell made an unsuccessful attempt to rescue me and was herself taken. When I saw her she was gagged and bound and we never had the chance to speak. That's the last I saw of her.”

“I see,” said the beekeeper.

“I was told to get the money to London. If I succeeded she would be freed. Otherwise they would kill her. The money was in the cases you found in the basement. The dead man in the car was sent over to make sure I didn't run off with it.”

“How did he die?”

Harry thought it best to let this one alone. “I have no idea,” he lied.

“What were the names of the individuals in New York?”

Harry wanted it all to end. He wanted his life back. Lizzie was gone. If he gave names his testimony would be forwarded to Marty MacAvoy. The investigation would be reopened.

“Again, I have no idea,” Harry said weakly. “They were all careful to keep all that from me.”

“How much money did you bring over?”

Harry shrugged. “More than a million. I arranged for friends of mine to come with me posing as a rock band.” He paused for effect and then added dramatically, “I can't believe I'm saying this. It sounds so crazy!”

“In my experience life often is, Mr. Murphy. The scheme apparently worked.”

“Perfectly.”

The two men sat in silence for a moment.

“Tell me,” said Harry. “What was the real reason we went to New York? With everything that happened I got confused.”

The beekeeper took a little time before he answered.

“To achieve national security, Mister Murphy, many governments have special forces that remain in the shadows. They perform operations that are not regulated by normal rules. They are ‘off-the-books,' so to speak. Budgets are provided. No questions are asked of anyone.

“I am head of such a task force that works with MI5, MI6 and GCHQ. When necessary, we cooperate with similar clandestine operatives worldwide. Specifically, our unit was formed three years ago to fight cyberterrorism, as there was a suggestion that someone had hacked into several highly classified and sensitive areas at the European Defence Agency.

“As Miss Carswell was one of our senior operatives, she was given the lead on the case. After months of painstaking work tracing back through various sites that had been compromised, we were able to narrow down the primary source to New York. Other avenues of investigation led us to the Villiers's Mews cottage in Kensington.

“Her argument to use you to make the connection between London and New York was very persuasive, and as you know, I readily agreed. Perhaps I shouldn't have been so hasty. Possibly had I questioned her more thoroughly she would still be with us.”

He picked up his hat. “I'll leave you now. Get some rest. If I hear anything further, I will get in touch, and I'd appreciate it if you would do the same. Incidentally, I have persuaded the authorities that Her Majesty should take care of all your medical expenses. It's the least we can do.”

Taking a card from his top pocket he laid it on the table. “My telephone number,” he said gently. “Call anytime.”

“Thank you,” said Harry, and he picked up the card. “Before you leave,” he said quietly, “tell me, was it all worth it? What did you and your covert operatives achieve in all this?”

The beekeeper said simply, “Nothing, I'm afraid. It was all a complete waste of time and money. I realize it may be difficult for you to accept, Mister Murphy, but in our business you win some, but you lose most.”

He walked over to the door and turned.

“No one complains because what we do never happened.”

With a final nod he left the room and closed the door.

Harry was too exhausted to process so much information but he also was too upset to sleep.

Nothing Lizzie had told him was true. All along it was about cyberterrorism. She was just a fucking liar. And nothing had been achieved. She had failed. He had failed. The money had gone. No one knew where.

All that effort. Zero. One complete fucking failure.

But then he smiled as he remembered that it all had happened because he had needed to take a leak!

 

79

“Bloody hell, Max!” said Lizzie in frustration. “Look out there! You got it all! Just what you said you wanted. Sunshine, golden sands, wavin' palm trees and a view of the beautiful blue sea. What more do you want?”

Fernando Perez, aka Max Bruschetti, and a well-tanned Lizzie stood in a big empty room on the top floor of a vacant house half a world away from New York and London. The tropical scene outside the big window was lit by a dramatic orange sunset.

“We've been here on this island paradise for five fucking months. I've had enough of the golden sands and waving palm trees,” said Max. “I need some goddam action. I am sick of doing nothing.”

Lizzie pointed a finger at him. “Well, it's not going to be the same sort of action like what you was doing in New York. From now on everything's got to be straight.”

“What do you mean, straight?”

“Straight! Not bent, not crooked, on the level.”

“So tell me! What the fuck am I going do?” he persisted.