Die Twice (18 page)

“Well, OK then. One quick look.”

“Oh, thank you. I really appreciate this. One other thing, though. When you go in, could you go up to the sinks and wash your hands or something? If she is there, she might get scared if she thinks someone’s checking up on her. That would make it harder for me to calm her down, later.”

“Sure. No problem. You know, would it be better if I actually used the bathroom?’ Cause to tell you the truth, I kind of need to go.”

“That’s a little too much information, but it would definitely be helpful. Thank you.”

I waited next to her booth and fought the urge to rifle through her playlists and find something less annoying to listen to. She was gone for three and a half minutes, and as she hurried back toward me I could see she was excited about something.

“I think you’re right,” she said. “I think your daughter’s in there. Someone was, definitely. They were locked in one of the stalls the whole time. And they didn’t make a single sound. I peeped under the side, and I couldn’t see their feet. They must have been holding them up, out of the way. So whoever it is, they’re definitely hiding.”

“Thank goodness,” I said. “I was so worried. I can’t thank you enough. But which stall was she in? The one at the end? That’s where she usually goes.”

“No. The end one was all closed up with some kind of tape. Must have been out of use. She was in the next one to it.”

“That’s great. OK. Well, I better go and fetch her now. I hope things don’t turn too ugly. She can certainly be difficult when she’s had a few.”

“What’s her name?”

“Pardon?”

“Your daughter’s name? What is it?”

“Oh. Angela. Kind of ironic, don’t you think?”

“I guess. But I was thinking. Do you want me come back in with you? Maybe talk to her? She might respond better to another girl.”

“That’s a lot to ask. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Come on. Let’s go. We’re up to ’97 already, and I need to be back before the new millennium starts. I’ve got a bunch of embarrassing stuff on it after that.”

“OK, thanks. I appreciate it. But let’s do this. You go in first. I’ll follow, stepping when you do so she doesn’t hear me coming and freak out. Then maybe you could just wash your hands and head back out? Leave me to take care of the messy part? She’d never forgive me if I let someone new see what kind of state she was in.”

“Sure. I understand. I don’t want her to feel bad. I just hope she’s all right.”

“Oh, she will be. It takes a while, sometimes, but we always get there in the end. Actually, it can take a really long time to get her back on her feet. Up to a couple of hours, worst case. So if I’m in there for ages, I don’t want you to worry. That’s just the way it goes with Angie. It’s the price of being a parent, these days.”

The DJ was as zealous at the basin as anyone I’d ever seen. She washed her hands twice, used a paper towel as well as the air dryer, and finally turned back to give me a smile before the door to
the bar closed behind her. I stayed completely still throughout her whole performance. Thirty seconds passed in silence after she left, then I heard a rustling sound. It was coming from the closed cubicle. A pair of feet hit the floor. They sounded heavy, but somehow also made a crunching noise. I looked under the door and saw a pair of black trainers. They were large enough to be a man’s. Transparent plastic covers were stretched over them. The ankles were elasticated, like the kind crime-scene technicians wear when they want to avoid contaminating evidence.

Or getting soaked with blood.

I drew my Beretta and launched myself forward, smashing the ball of my foot into the door to the stall. The lock shattered and it flew open, connecting with some part of the guy who was lurking inside. He swore, but I could tell the flimsy wood was too light to have done him any real damage. Four latex-covered fingers appeared around the doorjamb, so I lashed out again, just as hard, before he had the chance to push it away. It was still touching him when my foot made contact, which was just what I wanted. It ensured that this time, none of the force was wasted.

I stepped into the stall and closed the door behind me. A man was lying on his side, stranded between the side wall and the toilet bowl, struggling to get back on his feet. He’d certainly come well prepared. As well as the shoe covers and surgeon’s gloves, he was wearing a set of baggy gray coveralls and a dentist’s-style mask over his mouth and nose. But what he was holding was even more telling than his outfit. Still clasped in the fingers of his right hand, despite his fall, was a knife. It was six inches long with a watermarked cobalt-steel blade.

“Is that Japanese?” I said.

The guy didn’t speak, but his I saw his eyes narrow with surprise and the skin of his forehead wrinkle into narrow folds.

“The knife you’re holding,” I said. “It looks Japanese. That’s not good. I prefer Sheffield steel, myself. But then, I am a little biased.”

He didn’t respond.

“Have you ever used a Fairbairn-Sykes commando knife?” I said. “I went to the factory, once. And saw how they make them.”

This time his eyes grew wider, but he still didn’t speak.

“You should try one,” I said. “They’re a lot better than kitchen utensils. Less likely to snag on someone’s rib. If you want a job done properly, you need the right tools. Remember that. Now. Take the mask off.”

He removed it gingerly with his left hand, and confirmed what I’d suspected from the moment I first heard him move. It was the guy I’d seen leaving the machine shop in the back of the Cadillac, nearly two and a half hours ago.

“Have you been in this business long?” I said.

He didn’t answer.

“How’s it working out for you?” I said. “Are you enjoying it? Does it give you much job satisfaction?”

His eyes were starting to glaze over.

“No?” I said. “Can you tell me the money’s good, at least? ’Cause I’ve met your co-workers, and they’re nothing to write home about.”

By now he was looking thoroughly confused.

“Let’s try this, instead,” I said. “Do you know who I am?”

He shook his head.

“Well, we need to put that right,” I said. “My name’s David Trevellyan. I’m your victim. You’re supposed to be killing me, right here, in less than two hours.”

That took a moment to sink in. Then his whole body recoiled, pressing hard against the cubicle wall to get away from me.

“So, we can do one of two things,” I said. “Bring the schedule
forward, and you can kill me now. Try to, that is. Or you can put the knife down, and we’ll think of another way to handle this.”

The knife hit the floor and for a moment it hummed like a tuning fork, but the expression on the guy’s face didn’t relax one bit.

“Good,” I said. “Now, there’s one more thing I need to find out.”

The guy capitulating like that gave me a tough choice to make. He was no use to me. He was clearly new to whatever business his employers were in, and if he didn’t even recognize my face or know my name, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance he’d be privy to McIntyre’s contact information. Obtaining that was my only valid objective, not furthering my case for the Nobel Peace Prize. Keeping him alive was a liability. I knew that. If we were part of a well-resourced, official operation, things might be different. You could maybe make a case for holding on to him. He was never going to be primary source material—that was immediately obvious—but some conscientious interrogator with time on his hands might have been able to dredge up some useful background information from somewhere inside him. But with circumstances as they were, however, the requirements of the mission were clear. It was my job to shut him down. Permanently. Except that I was reluctant to do that. He wasn’t like the guys at the machine shop or the Ritz-Carlton or the apartment. He was quivering. Up close, he didn’t seem much more than a kid. Not much of an adversary. More of a rabbit in the headlights. So I decided to delegate. To let him make the decision for me. And to do that I kept him at the limit of my peripheral vision, half turned away, and started to open the stall door.

“I have to just step outside for a moment,” I said. “You stay there. Don’t move.”

He moved. I was still midstep when I heard his coveralls start to rustle. I saw him sit up and lean forward. He was stretching. Going for the knife. He reached the handle. His intent was clear. He was
still trying to pose a threat. So I changed direction and planted my left foot firmly on the flat side of the blade, pinning it to the floor and trapping his fingers. Then I drove the edge of my right foot into the bridge of his nose. His head snapped back and smashed into the hard tiles on the back wall. He started to slide. He was out cold. But he didn’t fall all the way, because I leaned in and caught him.

A couple of seconds later I did lay him down. Only by then, there was no chance of him regaining consciousness. Ever again.

I come from a very healthy family.

We live till ripe old ages, and hardly spend any time in bed, sick. In fact, during my whole childhood, I can only remember my mother taking to her bed on one occasion. It was just after we’d moved into our new house in London, and I guess looking back the stress of relocating from Birmingham had taken its toll. My father filled the void as well as he could, but after three days he sent an SOS to some obscure relatives in Ireland and headed back to the safety of his office.

Two old ladies answered his distress call, and they had an almost immediate effect. Within hours of them arriving, my mother was out of bed, cooking, washing up, and making sure the guests were comfortable. And within two days, she was in the hospital. The Irish ladies were well meaning, but hopeless. She felt she had no option but to look after them, even though it was supposed to be the other way around. And the effort required was simply too great.

I heard the grown-ups referring to the whole episode as the Curse of Good Intentions.

I didn’t really understand what that meant, at the time. But later in life, it became only too clear.

Sixty minutes is a long while to spend on your own in a women’s bathroom. Especially in one like the Commissariat’s, where there isn’t even a window to look out of. Instead, I sat on the counter between two basins and tried to make the time count for something. I wanted to put myself in McIntyre’s shoes. To picture what he might be doing or where he might be going, in case the afternoon’s meeting didn’t yield any new information. I’d infiltrated groups who were trying to buy arms—and secrets, and even people—but I’d never sold anything like that on my own initiative before. There were too many factors I had no experience of, and too many gaps in our intelligence. I guessed the main one was not knowing how big the consignment he’d stolen had actually been. If he’d sold all his stock already, maybe he’d just fade into the background until his wounds had healed. If not, greed might lead him to show his face one more time. These thoughts just kept chasing themselves around my head, never leading anywhere conclusive, so I still hadn’t made much progress when I saw that my watch was showing three forty-five. Only half an hour to the rendezvous. I decided it was time to take my seat in the bar.

Charades had never been my forte as a kid, but I did my best to mime “putting makeup on” to the girl in the DJ booth as I came out of the bathroom. I didn’t want to speak to her again, and that seemed like the best way to avoid it. I was in luck. She just smiled and turned back to her iPod, leaving me free to walk across to the table I’d used yesterday. I’d been there less than a minute when the
barman arrived at my side. He was carrying a new bottle of Peroni, as well the empty one I’d been drinking earlier.

“You must have been sitting here quite a while,” he said, setting the bottles down together. “Assuming you don’t drink too fast.”

“I never left the table,” I said. “And I’m very responsible when it comes to alcohol.”

The guy who’d done all the talking and the girl who’d searched me arrived fifteen minutes late, just as they had done yesterday. They paused at the foot of the stairs, surveyed the room, then approached the table and sat down on either side of me without saying a word.

“I guess your knowledge of the city hasn’t improved any,” I said. “It’s a good thing I’m a patient man.”

“Once again, my most sincere apologies,” the guy said. “I would offer to buy you a drink as compensation, but I see you’ve already been well tended to. Perhaps we should move directly to the matter in hand?”

“As long as you’ve brought the money, I have no objection.”

“I have it. Outside, in the car. And the item you are furnishing us with?”

“It’s nearby, too. Somewhere safe. Given what it is, I thought that was better than bringing it into a public place.”

“Then shall we proceed?”

“In due course. Pardon my cynicism, but I’d like to see the color of your money, first.”

The guy reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out his cell phone, called up a picture, and held it out for me to see. The screen showed an aluminium briefcase loaded with cash, but the image was too small to make out the denominations. I wondered where he’d taken the photo. Nowhere close, I’d be happy to bet. And I’d wager double the contents that there was no sign of the case in his car.

“That looks good,” I said. “But I hope you won’t be offended if I count it, before we complete our transaction.”

“A very prudent attitude,” he said. “I would do exactly the same thing. Now, in return, some indication that we are not wasting our time?”

I showed him the picture that Fothergill had given me of a typical gas canister three days ago, when he’d first briefed me on this whole mess. It was almost identical to the one I’d found at the machine shop. You couldn’t see any emblems or markings, and the spring clips were slightly different, but it was clearly from the same family. The guy studied the image intently for a moment, nodded, then folded the paper and placed it carefully on the table between the beer bottles.

“Excellent,” he said. “Then there’s no need to delay any further. Just one final precaution, as is our custom. I think you know what I’m referring to. Perhaps one of the restrooms would be appropriate, for privacy?”