The Tunnel Rats (7 page)

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STEPHEN LEATHER Wright went back over to the shelving unit and picked up a harmonica. He sat down on the edge of the sofabed and played along with the recording, the mournful notes echoing down the hallway.

The elevator wasn't working, and by the look of the rusting gate, it hadn't been used for several years. Jody Meacher took the stairs one at a time, resting for breath every couple of dozen steps. When he reached the third floor he took off his overcoat and draped it over one shoulder. By the time he was on the fifth floor, he had to mop his forehead with a Jarge white linen handkerchief. The man he was looking for lived on the ninth floor, but Meacher doubted that he was ever fazed by the long climb. Len Kruse was a fitness fanatic and probably raced up all nine floors at the double. %

Meacher transferred his black leather briefcase to his left hand, pulled out his gold pocket watch and flipped it open. It was five o'clock in the morning. Meacher had driven from Washington to New York. He hated driving but he didn't want to use an official car and there was a good chance he'd be recognised if he travelled by train or plane. The fewer people who knew he was in New York, the better. He leaned against the whitewashed wall and exhaled deeply. At his feet was a discarded used condom, glistening wetly like a trout that had just been pulled from a stream. Meacher grimaced and carried on climbing. He smelled stale urine and put his handkerchief over his mouth as he walked by a yellow stain on the wall.

There were no numbers to indicate the floors, but Meacher had been keeping count during his ascent. He pushed open a door and stepped into a corridor. The smell wasn't much better than in the stairwell. The corridor had a low ceiling with dim lights every fifty feet that did little to illuminate the drab walls and black-painted doors, every one of which appeared to have a minimum of three locks, and strips of metal along the jambs to prevent them being forced. Meacher walked slowly THE TUNNEL RATS 47 down the corridor, his heart still racing from the exertion of the climb.

He found Kruse's apartment at the end of the corridor, on the left. He stuffed his handkerchief into his trouser pocket and knocked gently on the door. Meacher waited. The paint was peeling off the ageing wood and a small glass lens stared blankly back at him. There were three locks in the door: a Yale and two high security locks. Meacher knocked again.

'It's open,' said a voice.

Meacher pushed the door. It squeaked open.

Kruse was sitting on a wooden chair in the corner of the room, his back ramrod straight and his hands resting on his knees. He was naked except for a pair of khaki boxer shorts, and his eyes were closed. It had been a little under three years since Meacher had seen Kruse but he didn't appear to have changed. His upper body was trim but muscular, his thighs thick and powerful. His hair was close cropped, light brown and flecked with grey at the temples, and there were lines around his eyes and mouth that made him look older than his twenty-eight years.

'Hello, Len,' said Meacher.

The room was little more than a cell, three paces wide and four paces long with a single bed that had been stripped of its bedding, a cheap wooden wardrobe and a door which Meacher presumed led to a bathroom. A bare lightbulb hung down from the middle of the ceiling. There was no curtain at the window, though a thin wire had been strung across the top of the frame as if one had once been there.

'Hello, Jody.' Kruse slowly opened his eyes. 'Long time, no see.' His face crinkled into a smile but there was little warmth in it, and the expression vanished just as suddenly as it had appeared.

Meacher walked into the room and closed the door behind him. There was no carpet, just bare floorboards, but they had been polished to a shine. Kruse was a fanatic when it came to cleanliness, and Meacher knew that if he ran his fingers along any surface they'd come away spotless. Kruse remained seated and watched Meacher with dispassionate eyes as he waited for him to speak.

Meacher smoothed his beard with his right hand. 'How've you been, Len?'

The corners of Kruse's lips turned down a fraction. 'Same old, same old.'

Meacher lifted the briefcase. 'Are you available for a short-term contract?'

The smile appeared again. 'Who do you want me to kill this time, Jody?' Kruse asked. His chest shuddered as he laughed, a dry, rasping chuckle that sounded more like a death rattle.

' I Aad!' Sean's voice jolted Wright out of his reverig^He turned JL/and grinned at his seven-year-old son. The boy ran forward for a hug and Wright scooped him up off the floor. 'Hiya, Dad,' said Sean, throwing his arms around Wright's neck.

'Whoa, you're choking me,' said Wright, but he didn't try to break free. Over his son's shoulder he saw Janie, her face a polite mask. She looked pointedly at her wristwatch.

Wright set his son down. He stepped forward, prepared to kiss Janie on the cheek, but her eyes hardened, leaving him in no doubt that the gesture wouldn't be appreciated. Wright's stomach lurched at the thought that she couldn't even bear to touch him any more. 'Do you want a coffee or something?' he asked.

Janie shook her head and looked at her watch again. 'I'll pick him up here at six.'

'That's okay, I can drop him off at home.' r� 'No,' she snapped. Her lips tightened as if she was holding something back, then she forced a smile. 'Here's fine.' She knelt down beside Sean. 'Give Mummy a kiss,' she said. Sean kissed her dutifully on the cheek. 'Be good,' she said.

Wright watched her go, her heels clicking on the tiled floor of the burger bar. He ruffled his son's hair. 'What do you want to eat?'

'Mummy gave me breakfast already,' said his son.

'Yeah? What did you have?'

'Muesli.'

'Rabbit food,' said Wright scathingly. 'Wouldn't you like a cheeseburger?'

'Mummy says red meat is bad for you.'

'Burgers aren't red. They're brown.' Sean giggled and Wright's spirits lifted. He might have lost his wife, but his son was still very much his son. Even if he was having muesli for breakfast. Flecks of rain peppered the window. 'So, where do you want to go?' Wright asked.

'Anywhere.'

'What about the Trocadero? We could hit the video games.'

'Mummy says I shouldn't play video games,' said Sean.

'She said what?'

Sean wiped his nose with the back of his hand. 'She says they encourage violence.'

Wright snorted softly. He knew that he shouldn't contradict his ex-wife, but sometimes she talked absolute nonsense. What did she hope to achieve by feeding the boy muesli and keeping him away from video games? She'd be putting him in a dress next. 'Okay,' he said. 'What do you want to do?'

Sean drummed his fingers on the table, his brow furrowed. 'We could go to the zoo,' he said eventually.

'You want to go to the zoo?' said Wright, surprised.

'Fine. I guess.'

'Okay, it's the zoo, then.'

They went out to the car park. Wright opened the door to the Fiesta for Sean and waited until he'd fastened his seatbelt before getting in himself. It took several turns of the key before the engine burst into life. Wright drove to Regent's Park, doing his best to keep the conversation going. His son seemed happy enough, but it was clear from the number of questions that Wright had to ask how little they knew about each other.

'Here we are,' said Wright, stopping in the zoo car park. As they walked towards the entrance, spots of rain began to fall. Sean pulled up the hood of his blue anorak. 'You're not cold?' asked Wright.

'I'm okay,' said Sean.

Wright looked up at the clouds gathering overhead. They were grey rather than black and the rain didn't seem to be getting worse, but Wright wondered if he should suggest going somewhere else. The problem was, he couldn't think of 50 STEPHEN LEATHER a single place to take a seven-year-old boy on a wet Saturday morning.

He paid for them to get in and they walked together towards the large cats enclosures, which was always Sean's favourite part of the zoo. They passed several other father-and-son couples. The zoo was a popular place for divorced fathers to go with their children.

'Can you see them?' Wright asked.

Sean shook his head. 'Lions don't like the rain,' he said.

Drops of rain began to pitter-patter on the hood of Sean's anorak and water trickled down the back of Wright's neck. 'I'm sorry,' said Wright. He put his hand on his son's shoulder.

Sean looked up at him. 'What for?'

'The rain.'

Sean smiled up at him. 'It's not your fault.'

In the distance there was a flash of light followed a few seconds later by a roll of thunder. Wright and Sean hurried back to the car as the skies opened.

Sean looked out of the window as Wright drove towards Tavistock Place. 'Where are we going?' he asked.

'It's a secret,' said Wright.

It was only when Wright pulled up in front of the Gothic-style brick building in Tavistock Place that Sean realised what their destination was.

'It's your office,' he said, his eyes wide.

'Smart lad,' said Wright. 'You should be a detective.' The black metal gate rattled up and Wright drove through to the courtyard. There were fewer than a dozen cars parked there and Wright pulled up next to Tommy Reid's Honda Civic.

They found the man himself in the CID office, slouched in his chair with a naked foot propped up on his desk, clipping his toenails. He seemed totally unfazed by the appearance of Wright and his son and continued to drop pieces of clipped nail into a wastepaper bin. 'I thought you were playing video games,' he said.

'Nah, they encourage violent tendencies,' said Wright.

Reid raised his eyebrows in surprise. 'Do they now?' he said. 'I must remember that.'

- I THE TUNNEL RATS 51 'Then Sean here said he wanted to see animals. So I thought. . .' He gestured around the office.

'What better place?' Reid finished for him with a wry smile. He put down his clippers and pulled on his sock. 'How are you doing, Sean? My name's Tommy.'

Sean said hello but he was more interested in a large whiteboard which Reid had placed in front of the window on an easel. On it Reid had stuck a photograph of the body in the tunnel. 'What's that?' asked Sean, pointing at the photograph. 'It's a body, isn't it?' he said, stepping forward for a closer look.

Too late, Wright realised what Sean was looking at, and dragged him away. 'What the hell's that doing up here?' he yelled at Tommy. 'It's meant to be in the incident room. That photo's enough to give the boy nightmares.'

'They've only just finished connecting the phones and computers downstairs.' Reid went over to the coffee machine. 'I'm still checking lists of missing persons on the Police National Computer.'

'Any joy?' asked Wright.

'Do you have any idea of how many middle-aged men go missing every year?'

'A lot?'

'Yeah. A lot. Mind you, I thought of doing a runner when my wife set her solicitor on me. You were probably the same, right?' He froze as he realised that Sean was listening. He looked across at Wright, who shook his head admonishingly. 'Do you want a coffee?' asked Reid.

'Sure,' said Wright coldly.

Reid made a gun of his hand and pointed it at Sean. 'Coke?'

'Yes, please,' said the boy. Sean looked up at his father, his face suddenly serious. 'You're going to find the man who did it, aren't you?'

Wright nodded. 'Sure I am.'

J ody Meacher pulled the door closed and walked down the dimly lit corridor. He took his pocket watch out and opened it. With 52 STEPHEN LEATHER luck he'd be back in Washington for lunch. A door opened to his right and Meacher flinched, but a single eye glared at him for a second and then the door slammed shut again. Meacher put his watch away and pushed open the door that led to the stairs. This time the smell didn't seem as bad.

He switched the briefcase to his right hand. The briefcase had been mainly for show, a badge of office. The briefing he'd given Kruse had been entirely verbal: no papers, no photographs, not even a copy of the Polaroid that had been sent to the senator. Kruse had listened in silence as Meacher explained what had to be done. There had been no questions, a credit to the thoroughness of Meacher's briefing and the sharp intelligence of the man who had been nicknamed 'Missile' during his brief time in Special Forces. Kruse hadn't even asked how much he'd be paid this time.

Meacher wasn't concerned by the man's apparent lack of enthusiasm. Or by his curious living arrangements. Meacher knew that between missions Kruse simply shut himself down, like a piece of machinery that was surplus to requirements.

Meacher knew that in his resting phase, Kruse was almost robotic; but primed and briefed, given an objective, he became a human juggernaut. His personality underwent a transformation, too, like an actor assuming a role. Kruse would produce whatever characteristics were necessary to get the job done, almost on demand.

Meacher walked slowly down the stairs, taking care not to touch thfc walls. He had come across Kruse five years earlier, shortly after he'd left the army. Kruse had served with distinction in Desert Storm and had stayed behind in Saudi Arabia as part of a special anti-terrorist unit protecting the Saudi royal family, but one of his best friends had been killed by a suicide bomber. Kruse's retaliatory attack had killed three Iranian terrorists, but bad timing had led to two innocent bystanders being injured, one of them a Saudi prince. The Americans pulled Kruse out before the Saudis discovered that he was involved.

On his arrival back in the States Kruse was given a battery of psychological tests, the result of which was a recommendation that he be removed from Special Forces. He'd quit the military a THE TUNNEL RATS 53 week later, and according to an FBI report that had passed across Meacher's desk, he'd tried to begin work as a contract killer. He approached a New York Mafia family but they were suspicious of the non-Italian and sent three of their own men to kill him. They were found two days later in a dumpster, shot with their own guns. That was when Meacher approached Kruse, offering him a chance for occasional work on condition that he worked solely for him. The arrangement had worked perfectly so far.