Die Twice (11 page)

“But why? Move where? You’re not coming in with us.”

“I have to. Who are these guys you’re meeting? They’re a completely unknown quantity. And they’re not the only threat,” he said, nodding discreetly at Young. “You need someone in there with you. Someone to watch your back.”

“You can watch our backs,” I said, handing him both guns, my wallet, and the hotel room key. “But you can’t come in. We can’t take weapons with us. And I don’t want to carry ID. They’re bound to search us. So if things go south, we’ll need to bail in a hurry. We need you outside, engine running, ready to get us out of Dodge.”

Young and I walked past the bar three times before we went inside. Once to identify the alternative exits, and twice to scope out the security. The main entrance was set at an angle at the corner of the two streets. A bloated guy in a dinner suit was standing by the door the first time we strolled by, but he’d moved to perch on a flimsy-looking bar stool in an alcove to the right by the time we returned. Two smaller, lighter guys in similar clothes were loitering just inside the building. One was pressing buttons on his cell phone. And neither of them seemed particularly alert, hardly turning
a hair as we pushed past and made our way down a set of carpeted stairs to the main bar area.

We had forty-five minutes to kill before Young’s contacts were due to arrive, so we ordered a couple of beers and settled down to wait at a round table near the back of the room. There were seven other people in the place. Three were working. One guy was behind the bar, leaning listlessly against the wall, waiting in vain for someone else to want a drink. Another was halfheartedly clearing martini glasses from a large rectangular table in the center. A girl was jammed into a tiny DJ booth to our left, fiddling with an iPod. And the four customers—all men in their fifties—were huddled over some paperwork in a booth at the foot of the stairs.

Fifty minutes gradually ticked away. We sipped our Peronis. The busboy wandered back and dawdled over wiping the long table. The DJ churned out one dire eighties hit after another. The barman looked like he was asleep. The older guys wrapped up their meeting and left, all together. But no one new came into the bar. I began to feel like we were frozen in time. The gloomy lighting, the lack of movement, the outdated music—they made it feel like the world had forgotten we were there. I had to check my watch to make sure the hands were still moving. I saw them creep around another five minutes. And another. Then there was a pause between songs. And I finally heard footsteps on the stairs.

Four people entered the room. They were all fairly tall—three men between six one and six three, one woman around five nine—and they were wearing identical clothes. Black trainers, with no discernible branding. Stiff, new jeans. Dark blue chicago hoodies, pulled up high to conceal their faces, and baggy enough to give easy access to the obvious bulges on their hips.

The new arrivals fanned out, six feet from the stairs, and scanned the room. Then they strode straight up to our table, spreading out and penning us in against the wall.

“Gentlemen,” said the tallest of the group. “I apologize for our timekeeping. I fear our knowledge of this fair city, and its traffic issues in particular, is not as encyclopedic as I would wish it to be. But still, we are here now. As are you. So, shall we get down to business?”

“By all means,” Young said. “Let’s get started.”

“Excellent,” the guy said. “However, before we commence, a couple of precautions would be welcome. Would you mind accompanying my associates for a moment? Perhaps the privacy of the restrooms would be appropriate?”

The guys each took a step back, and the one who’d been speaking gestured for us to stand and follow them. I looked across at Young.

“It’s OK,” he said. “This is standard with these guys. Nothing to worry about. Best to just get it over with.”

I nodded, and squeezed out from behind the table. The woman was standing nearest to me so she took my arm and we started to walk. Young slid out from the other side and immediately overtook us, heading toward the toilets. The next guy in line quickly fell into step, grabbing Young’s shoulder and steering him left toward the ladies’ room. The woman guided me to the right, and into the men’s.

The restroom was small and basic. The walls and floor were covered with white tiles. There were three urinals. Three stalls. Two basins. And one hand dryer. The woman motioned for me to stand next to it while she checked that no one else was in the place. Then she shook the hood off her head and turned back to face me.

For a moment she stood in front of me, silently, without moving. Then she raised both hands, palms together, and pressed her fingers against me, just below my collarbone. She looked me in the eye and began to move her hands slowly down my body, crossing my chest, then my stomach. She reached my belt, paused, moved her hands
apart slightly, and kept going till she reached my thighs. Then she stepped back, tipped her head to one side, and pursed her lips.

“No,” she said. “That just doesn’t tell me what I need to know. Give me your shoes.”

I leaned down and unzipped my boots.

“Give them to me,” she said.

I set them on the floor between us. She rolled her eyes, picked up the boots, examined the insides, then tossed them into the corner of the room.

“Now, your shirt,” she said.

I pulled my T-shirt over my head, paused, and dropped it in front of me. She ground it into the tiles with the sole of her foot, then kicked it aside.

“Your pants,” she said.

I unfastened my belt, let my jeans fall, and stepped out of them. She pulled the waistband closer with her toe and leaned down to grab them, leaving the back of her neck temporarily exposed. She was only in that position for a fraction of a second, but that would have been all I needed. Still, it wasn’t too big a sacrifice to let the chance go begging. Something told me her time was going to come. And soon.

“Now, the rest,” she said, letting go of my jeans.

I slipped my shorts off and held them out, level with her face. She stared back, then slowly and deliberately lowered her gaze.

“It’s OK,” I said. “Go ahead. You can touch.”

She let ten seconds pass, then slowly reached toward my groin.

“I meant the underwear,” I said. “It was fresh on this morning.”

She snorted, snatched the shorts, and crammed them into her pocket.

“Come and see me later,” she said, opening the door. “You can get them back, then. If you’re still breathing.”

The woman was sitting in my place when I came back out into the bar. The men were with her, plus a guy I hadn’t seen before, and all five had glasses of sparkling water lined up on the table in front of them. Someone had dragged over one extra chair. I took hold of another one and had started to move it when the man who’d spoken to us before looked up and caught my eye.

“That’s very kind,” he said. “But we won’t be needing it.”

“What about Young?” I said.

“Who?”

“The bloke I came here with.”

“He doesn’t need it. He won’t be working with us after all.”

“Why not?”

The guy shrugged.

“We’re very particular about who we accept as colleagues,” he said.

“Where is he?” I said.

“That’s an interesting question. I expect it depends on your religious outlook.”

I started for the stairs, but changed tack after three steps and headed for the ladies’ room instead. None of the men moved from the table. The bartender looked the other way. The woman winked at me. I covered the ground quickly and pushed the door open with my foot. The layout inside was just like the men’s, except that two extra stalls took the place of the urinals. They filled in the space all the way to the far corner. My eye was drawn to the last one in line. It was the only one with a closed door. But that wasn’t what worried me. I was more concerned about the red stream snaking its way under the side wall and flowing along the joins in the floor tiles.

Fresh blood.

It was already halfway to the basins, and showed no signs of slowing down.

The navigation exercise all those years ago showed that you can use a fake rendezvous to flush out your enemy. You can even use a real one.

But it’s only once they’re in the open that you see what they’re truly capable of.

Ask a sane person to commit suicide, and the answer will be, “No.” Every time.

That’s not to say people will never give their lives for a cause. Sometimes, things are worth dying for. For parents, their children. For soldiers, their comrades. For some people, a flag. Or a country. Or a concept, such as freedom or honor. For them, it can be a choice. And for others, it can just happen. Rational decision making doesn’t stand up well in the heat of the moment. Like for the Battle of Britain pilot my father remembered watching in a dogfight over London. Out of ammunition, desperate not to let the invaders through, he ploughed his Hurricane straight into the side of a Ju88. In a sense, his desperate plan worked. The bomber broke in half and went down in flames. But it was the British pilot’s last action, too. ’Cause he went down with the four Germans.

Everyone in the navy knows that lives can be lost. At our level, we accept it. There’s no room for soft hearts in our line of work. It’s
a different equation for the senior ranks, though. To them, it’s just another example of cost versus benefit. Operatives are expensive assets. Training takes time and money. Experience is worth even more. If you die while getting the job done, there’s a chance the result will be worth the sacrifice. But if you sense that you’re falling short, it’s better to pull the plug right away. There’s no merit in almost. The top brass always take the same view. He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day. Or more importantly, doesn’t have to be replaced at great expense, another day.

That’s why you’ll never leave an operational briefing without one critical piece of information.

A number to call for emergency exfiltration.

I looked back at the door that led from the bar. No one came through after me. I didn’t realistically expect anyone to. If they’d wanted to try anything, their moment would have been in the men’s room when I was getting undressed. But still, I was disappointed. A bathroom floor is a poor place to take your last breath. Even Young didn’t deserve that. Part of me wanted to settle the score there and then, before his blood so much as had the chance to congeal.

I moved into the adjacent stall, stood on the edge of the bowl, and looked over the dividing wall. Young’s body had fallen backward, blocking the door. His throat had been cut. The gash was so deep his neck was almost severed, and the broad crimson arcs that bridged all three walls were already turning brown. His legs were partly covered with a balled-up set of coveralls. The killer must have brought them to protect his clothes. I could see the handle of a butcher’s knife peeping out from beneath the splattered fabric. That meant there would be a pair of discarded gloves somewhere,
too. There was no point searching for them, though. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who’d done the cutting. There were only two suspects. And anyway, as far as I was concerned, all five of the Myenese were in it together. They were equally guilty. And they would all have a price to pay.

I stepped down from the toilet, moved over to the sinks, and pulled out my phone. Fothergill answered on the first ring and listened in silence until I’d given him the basic facts.

“Is there a window in there?” he said. “Or are the stairs clear, at least? I can be outside in two minutes.”

“Good,” I said. “Get over here. But not to pick me up. Young’s contacts will be leaving in a couple of minutes. I need you to follow them. We need to know where they go.”

“What about you? What will you do?”

“They might split up,” I said, describing each of them in detail. “If they do, stick with the tallest one. He did all the talking. It’s pretty clear he’s in charge.”

“Is that safe?” he said. “Killing Young could just be a warning. What if they come after you?”

“They won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Nothing ever works out that neatly, when I’m involved.”

The barman was delivering a second round of sparkling water when I got back to the table. I saw that he’d included one for me, this time. I ignored it, took the fresh glass from the woman’s place, and sat down in the empty chair.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Help yourself.”

“Not you. And not for the drink.”

The main guy raised an eyebrow.

“Not many people would thank us,” he said. “Not in these circumstances.”

“Then there’s fresh air between their ears,” I said. “You just turned me into Captain Scarlet.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve made me indestructible. I’m the last link to the merchandise. If anything happens to me now, there’ll be no nice goodies for you. Which I’m guessing would make you very unhappy, given the distance you’ve traveled and the trouble you just went to.”

“A most undesirable outcome, I agree. For both of us.”

“Then let’s make sure we avoid it. Shall we say, tomorrow? Same time, same place?”