Die Twice (13 page)

Silence.

“Why don’t I give you some time to mull things over?” I said. “But not too much. Señor Benitez will be making the call in ten minutes, if we haven’t heard anything. I’ll be outside, at the valet desk if you need me. Good afternoon, sir.”

“Wait,” he said. “Give me a second.”

I said nothing.

“Are you there?” he said. “Hang on a minute. Let’s talk about this.”

I heard the security chain rattling against the inside of the frame. The guy must have disengaged it. And before it could stop swinging I reached out and took hold of the handle. Lightly at first, so that he wouldn’t realize what I was doing. I let him open the door an inch without resisting. Then I pulled against him, stopping the gap from growing any wider. He grunted and started tugging harder. I matched his efforts, waited till he was heaving like crazy, then suddenly let go. The door gave way instantly and the guy collapsed backward, losing his footing. I followed straight after him into the suite’s entrance corridor, getting a good look at him for the first time since he left the Commissariat. He was one of the guys
from the club, all right. But not the one who’d ambushed Young. And he was already trying to sit up. His right hand was reaching under his hoodie as he moved. I couldn’t allow that, so I crashed the ball of my foot into his jaw. He went down again, this time spinning around and ending up sprawled out on his face, not moving.

I looked down the length of the corridor. No one else had appeared. It was a safe bet that the other two from the Cadillac were in the suite somewhere. And possibly more who hadn’t been with them at the club. I couldn’t run the risk of the first guy coming around and popping up behind me—or maybe getting to McIntyre before me, if he was being held there—so I leaned down and put my right knee between his shoulder blades. I slid my left arm under his chin and took hold of his right ear. My right hand gripped his other ear. I glanced up once more to check we were still alone. And twisted. Sharply. The guy’s neck rotated through a full ninety degrees. Then I rolled him over and took the Browning pistol he’d been hiding in his waistband.

The corridor gave way to four rooms. There were two on each side. The first on the left was a bedroom. I checked behind the door, under both king-sized beds, inside all four wardrobes, and in the en suite bathroom. No one was hiding there. The door opposite led to another, identical bedroom. I found no one there, either. Next on the left was a small kitchen. It held plenty of high-gloss white cabinets and stainless appliances, but no people. Or gas canisters. My options were narrowing. It meant any remaining hostiles would be in the same place, so picking them off one at a time as I preferred would be a little harder than usual.

I took a used wineglass from the sink and moved into the corridor. I positioned myself next to the final door—on the hinge side—and lobbed the glass back into the kitchen. It spun twice as it sailed through the air, then hit the granite countertop near the far wall and disintegrated into a million tiny fragments.

“Sidney?” a man’s voice from the room behind me said. “You OK?”

I kept quiet.

“Sidney?” the man said. “That you?”

I groaned, long and loud.

I heard footsteps. They were running. Again, only one set. The door opened beside me and a man burst through. I recognized him from the Commissariat, as well. He’d been in the group I saw walk in, not the one hiding in the women’s bathroom. He headed straight past me, running for the kitchen. For a second that left his back exposed to me. It would have been foolish to try to physically subdue him when he had at least one accomplice only a few feet away, so I did the sensible thing. Raised the 9 mm I’d just inherited, and shot him. Twice. In the back of the head. Then I spun around the door, needing to bring the Browning to bear before anyone on the other side could get wind of what was going on.

The final room was a combined sitting and dining area. The nearer half of the floor was finished in wood veneer. It held a large oval table, and was lit by a grotesque triple-tier crystal chandelier. Formal chairs were spaced out evenly all the way around it. There were eight. All were empty. So were three of the brown leather couches that were scattered asymmetrically in the carpeted half of the room. But the fourth, positioned opposite a huge wall-mounted flat-screen TV, was occupied. By one man. The guy who’d butchered Gary Young. His hand was on the grip of another pistol, which was still only halfway clear of his waistband. And the look on his face told me he knew it was too late to change that.

The guy held my gaze for twenty seconds. Then his eyes peeled away from mine. They moved slowly, as if drawn against his will, and settled on the muzzle of my Browning. I was holding it perfectly steady. I don’t know if he was taken with where it was
pointing—straight at his head—or whether he recognized it as his friend’s.

“Drop your gun,” I said. “And kick it toward me.”

He did as he was told.

“Good,” I said, sitting down on the arm of the nearest couch. “Now, take out your phone . . .”

For the most part, in my mind at least, assignments seem very linear in nature at the outset.

Looking ahead to what you have to do, one event should lead to another, which should lead to another, until the job is done. Take a task I was given in Germany, last year. The brief was to fly to Berlin. Locate a woman who worked for one of their huge industrial conglomerates. Follow her to the railway station. Get on the same train. And make sure that by the time we reached Düsseldorf, the flash drive she was planning to sell was safely in my pocket and to the rest of the world, it looked like she’d suffered a heart attack in the middle of the packed lunch she’d brought for herself.

The snag is, of course, that real life never runs that smoothly. What starts out as a straight, easy path is soon beset with unscheduled twists and turns. Planes are late. People are sick. Trains are full. And while you can work your way around those kinds of obstacles without any great difficulty, you know that before long something more serious is going to happen. Your route is going to
split in two, and you’re going to have to make a choice which way to go.

Pick the wrong branch, and you may fall flat.

But wait around for someone else to pick for you, and you’re guaranteed to end up on your face.

Fothergill pulled over behind a delivery truck outside the hotel’s loading dock. He waited just long enough for me to climb in beside him, then eased the police taxi neatly back into the flow of traffic. I was impatient to see him. He’d been evasive about progress when we spoke on the phone twenty minutes earlier, and the second I saw his face I knew I wasn’t going to be happy with his news.

“I couldn’t tail them any farther,” he said. “It’s as simple as that.”

“Why not?” I said. “What happened?”

“They crossed the state line. Went into Indiana. A cab with Illinois plates was going to stand out a mile. They were bound to notice me. I had no choice. It was drop out, or get blown out.”

I didn’t reply.

“I know what I’m talking about, David,” he said. “You don’t stay in the game as long as me by taking stupid chances.”

“They went to Indiana?” I said. “The road they were on. Does it lead to a place called Gary?”

“Gary? Strange name for a place. That was Young’s first name, wasn’t it?”

“Does it go there?”

“I guess. Probably. I never go out that way, though. Is it important?”

“Could be. It adds weight to something one of the guys told me, upstairs.”

“You got them to talk?”

“One of them. He became quite chatty, for a while.”

“What did he say?”

“That they have McIntyre, as we thought. And the gas.”

“Damn. Where?”

“At some kind of abandoned industrial unit they found.”

“In this place, Gary?”

“Yes. So we need to head over there. And fast.”

“I don’t know. That could be dangerous. Won’t the guys from upstairs have warned them by now? To expect us? Or you, at least?”

“No.”

“You can’t assume that. They’re bound to have called. Or texted. Or e-mailed. Or done something to get word through.”

“Don’t worry. They’re in no position to communicate. Not any longer.”

“Why not? Where are they?”

“Depends on your religious outlook, I guess.”

“What?”

“Well, their bodies are still in the suite.”

“Oh. I see. So what happened?”

“Hard to say. You know how confused things can get when three guys hole up together for a while. Especially when they’re criminals. Highly strung. Unreliable. All in all, it was a recipe for chaos. Carnage was inevitable.”

“How does it look?”

“Like cabin fever set in. Their nerves frayed. They argued. Possibly over a glass that got broken in the kitchen, sometime. Things escalated. Spiraled out of control. Guy one pulled a gun. Guy two snapped his neck and took it. Shot guy three in the back of the head. Then turned the gun on himself. Tragic, really. Such a waste of youth. And bullets.”

Fothergill didn’t reply for a good thirty seconds.

“Did you make it seem watertight, at least?” he said, eventually.

“That’s doubtful,” I said. “The police will see through it in a heartbeat, if they have a half-decent look. Some heat could well be coming our way. As soon as someone finds the bodies. That’s why I’m giving you the heads-up, now.”

“You killed them?”

I didn’t reply.

“They’re dead?” he said. “All of them?”

“It would appear so,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because you told me they couldn’t be arrested. Because London wanted this whole thing cleared up, off the books. And because they killed Young.”

“Off the books doesn’t mean executing people, David. There are other ways. And a couple of hours ago you were ready to kill Young yourself.”

“Young’s one of ours. His mess is ours to deal with. He crossed a line that we defined. And there’s a world of difference between London ordering a hard arrest, and some murderous lowlifes whacking him because they mistook his identity.”

“Mistook it for what? Who, I mean?”

“Me.”

“What? Why? How do you know?”

“Their boss told me so. He thought it was Young who killed his guys when they went to snatch McIntyre. So actually, it was me they were aiming to kill in that bathroom. Young got his throat cut on my behalf.”

“So now what? You feel guilty?”

“Of course not. For what? Young should have been more careful. The rest is just business.”

“It smacks of something else to me. They threatened you, so now your knickers are in a twist. You’re lashing out, indiscriminately.”

“My knickers are in—forget it. Watch the CCTV from the club. I’m just being practical. What happens if McIntyre blabs? Tells them it wasn’t Young who stepped in at the apartment?”

He didn’t reply.

“And aside from any of that, here’s what it all boils down to,” I said. “These people came here to buy gas that kills children. I don’t see a burning need to keep them alive. Do you?”

Fothergill kept silent and concentrated on the traffic until we were two-thirds of the way up Michigan Avenue. Then he pulled over and turned to face me.

“You look pleased with yourself,” I said.

“I am, as it happens,” he said. “I’ve just thought of a way to turn this situation to our advantage. You have an address in Gary, where these people will be?”

“Not exactly an address. More of a rough description.”

“No matter. It’s close enough. And it could be all I need to make London change their minds.”

“About what?”

“Sending a team. Sounds to me like there’s every possibility we’ll need to assault the place. And you can’t do that on your own, now, can you?”

“I like the way you think.”

“Thank you. Now, let’s get the wheels in motion. Want to grab a bite on the way to the office? We could be there for a while.”

“You could be. I’m not coming to the office.”

“What do you mean? I thought we just agreed?”

“You don’t need me there to lobby London. Let’s face it, I’d just make things worse. So I’m heading out to Gary, Indiana.”

“You are? Why? It’s no place for sightseeing, you know.”

“We need proper intelligence, if we’re going to get this wrapped
up. The guy from the suite gave me everything he had, but that wasn’t a great deal. Not much more than how to get there and sketchy details of the outside of the building where they’re holding McIntyre. We need to know how to get in, for a start.”

“David, you shouldn’t be doing this on your own. It’s too dangerous.”

“I’ll just need my Beretta back, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Fothergill took hold of the steering wheel, then let go again and sighed.

“All right, you stubborn mule,” he said. “I’ll give you your gun. Just don’t ask me to drive you all the way out there.”

“I won’t,” I said. “You’re more use sitting on the phone, rounding up reinforcements.”

The only other thing I wanted Fothergill’s help with before he dropped me off was to pull strings at the motor pool. The disguised Crown Vic was unbeatable in Chicago, but as Fothergill had pointed out, it was no use in other states. I didn’t want to be hanging around in Indiana using a taxi with Illinois plates any more than he had. Little details like that stand out a mile to people who are naturally suspicious. Or who are trained to look for them. The British Army found that out the hard way, in Northern Ireland. And because I’d likely be spending plenty of time in the car, I wanted something that would give me a high degree of cover. Panel trucks are too obvious. So are minivans, especially when they have tinted windows. I needed something different. Something we’d developed with this particular kind of job in mind. A CURVE—a Covert Urban Reconnaissance VEhicle. Navy engineers take a station wagon—pretty much any sort you like, as long as it’s large enough—and conceal a ventilated compartment under a false tonneau cover where the luggage area would usually be. Snipers have their own version
where the rear license plate folds down, giving them an aperture to fire through. With ours, the tailgate is made from a special type of plastic. It acts as a one-way mirror so that we can see out across the full width of the car. Some of the newer ones have built-in cameras for recording, or enabling remote surveillance. But whether video equipment is fitted or not, CURVEs are hard to get hold of. Most consulates only have one. And because they’re converted to local specifications, the mechanics tend to be a little touchy about anyone using them.