Die Twice (21 page)

Instead of setting one exercise and giving us the chance to complete it before moving on to another, they took to handing out three or sometimes four different tasks at the same time. Everyone was feeling the added pressure, but no one was prepared to buckle beneath it. We’d come too far for that. So we just worked longer and longer hours, juggling ever-increasing volumes of written work, physical training, practical assessments, and library research. Pretty soon a full night’s sleep had become nothing more than a distant memory.

We tried our hardest, but after a few weeks our scores had begun to suffer. Our marks had declined, but not to a disastrous extent. Or so we thought. Until one Friday afternoon when, after a particularly brutal week, we were summoned to the main conference room. It was warm in there, and more than a few eyes were beginning to close as we waited for the chief instructor to arrive.
He came in after twenty anxious minutes, carrying a stack of paper. I was near the front, so I could see it was the work we’d been set the night before. The instructions had been shouted at us as we staggered into the locker rooms after a six-mile run. Write two thousand words about Wales. Must be completed by 10:00
P
.
M
.

The one thing on our minds at that time was getting to bed, so no one queried what was required of us. We just each found a space in the gym and started scribbling down anything we knew about the place. Geography. History. Politics. Sport. Anything to burn through the specified number of words. Then one of the guys gathered the papers up, took them to the office, and no one thought any more about it.

“Hands up who’s read
Moby-Dick
,” the chief instructor said.

A couple of people complied.

“Hands up anyone who started it, but didn’t make it to the end,” he said.

About three-quarters of the group raised a hand this time.

“Well, you lot have certainly got no excuse,” he said. “For getting no marks. Zero. Nada. Nil points. To be clear, you’ve all failed. All of you. Now go back to your rooms and write four thousand words this time. About whales.”

The moral of the story was clear. Doing the right work was even more important than doing the work right.

And once you’re in the field, you find the same thing applies to place.

Fothergill was right. McIntyre had chosen an excellent place to set up the meeting. But not for the textbook reason. You’d normally pick somewhere like a pier when you knew you were under surveillance, but that whoever was watching you was still gathering evidence. Your identity would already be known, so you wouldn’t
mind being seen or photographed. You’d meet at the very far end, so you had the maximum warning if anyone tried to approach or apprehend you. And the physical inaccessibility, married to the ambient noise from the wind and water, would make it nearly impossible for anyone to eavesdrop. Even if they had access to the best electronic enhancements.

Navy Pier didn’t work that way. It was just too big.

There were two official entrances for pedestrians to use. One was to the right, outside, leading to where the leisure boats and cruise ships were tied up. The other was in the center, which brought you inside the main building. It looked like you could make your way through either of the restaurants at the front of the complex if you needed to, as well. A driveway for vehicles led away to the left, allowing access to the garage. An abundance of windows and polished surfaces made it easy to check for tails. There were obliging crowds everywhere to lose yourself in. And a virtually unlimited number of places to observe the rendezvous point from without any chance of being spotted in the process. I had to confess—the location stacked the odds hugely in McIntyre’s favor. He’d pulled out another rabbit, just like with the abandoned apartment. I wondered whether Young’s network was still helping him. And whether there was any mileage in tracking them down, if I found myself needing a real plan B.

I reached the pier complex at a minute after six, which further restricted my options. It meant there wasn’t time to set up any of the usual tricks. Even the simplest were out of the question. Like one of my favorites, which involves a second person. It works because generally speaking, your target will be on the lookout for an individual. So if you show up as half of a couple, you can stand or sit in plain sight—arm in arm, or even cuddling and kissing—without attracting attention. Another trained operative is obviously preferable, but I’ve had to rope in civilians on more than one
occasion. The kind that bill themselves as members of an even older profession than mine, and charge for their time by the hour. But in this case, I had no idea where to look for one. And no chance to find out. So instead, I resorted to something you learn on your first field exercise. Something that’s surprisingly effective, but so basic that with luck McIntyre would never believe anyone it would try it for real.

All you need is a newspaper. And something to make a hole.

None of the shops in the main building could help me, but a guy from a souvenir kiosk pointed me toward a trio of vending machines to the side of the taxi rank. I bought a copy of that day’s
Tribune
, and headed for the area surrounding the Ferris wheel. The photo booth was to the left, against the parking garage’s outer wall. A line of benches ran back from it, at ninety degrees. There were seven. All were vacant, despite the hordes of people that were still swarming throughout the place. I sat at the edge of the second one and unfolded my paper, making it as large as possible. The keys to the Chrysler were still in my pocket so I took them out and selected the sharpest. I used the tip to make a tiny hole two-thirds of the way up the paper’s spine. Then I sat back, raised the
Tribune
like a shield, and settled down to wait.

I never paid much attention to physics at school, but I’d learned one thing about light waves since then. If I put my eye near enough to the hole, I could see out. Yet anyone looking back at me would be hard-pressed to notice the pinprick, let alone anything on my side of the paper. There were only two things to be careful about. Holding the paper in a convincing position, like I was actually reading something. And keeping it still.

The photo sellers were kept busy that night. A constant stream of people flowed past their booth—there was no other way to go once you left the Ferris wheel—and the group from every third or fourth gondola stopped and gathered around to gawp at their
pictures. They formed quite a crowd. Maybe half of them handed over some money. But six forty-five came and went without anybody sitting on the bench. Or approaching it. Or even looking at it. I scanned every face in the vicinity. There were hundreds. It was impossible to say that McIntyre’s wasn’t one of them. But if he was there, I couldn’t pick him out.

I decided to only wait until seven fifteen before abandoning the plan. I took a final, careful look around the area. Then I folded the paper, found the shortest route across to the garage building, and called Fothergill. I wanted to know if he’d got anywhere with the cell phone company. I knew it was a risk. McIntyre had shown he was patient. If something had made him suspicious, he’d have been prepared to watch the bench for hours. But on the other hand, the GPS signal from his phone would give us an idea of where he was. If it turned out he was miles away from the place, the sooner I found out, the better.

There was no answer from Fothergill’s desk phone, so I tried his cell. I figured he might not be back from the depot yet, or he might be tied up en route with the technicians. He didn’t answer that one, either. I moved to a window to keep an eye out, just in case, and gave him five minutes. I tried again. And got the same result. No answer on either number. So then I wondered about the IT guys at the consulate. Perhaps Fothergill was down there again, harassing them. I didn’t have their department’s number so I tried the switchboard, hoping they could put me through. But when the operator picked up, she recognized my voice. She sounded tense. I was put on hold, and after thirty seconds the receptionist from the fourteenth floor came on the line. She took a minute to run me through some pedantic security routines—a kind of telephone version of the sniffer machine—and then told me why I couldn’t reach Fothergill. He wasn’t in the office. And he wasn’t in a place where they allow cell phones.

He was in the hospital.

The car he’d been driving to the depot had been involved in an accident. A serious one. The other occupant had been killed. Paramedics had collected Fothergill and taken him to the emergency room at Northwestern. It was nearby, on Huron. There was no word yet on his condition.

The receptionist had no idea whether Fothergill had made any headway with the cell phone company before he’d left. There was no one else there who could find out. But by then, at least the first part of the answer was irrelevant. I knew for a fact that McIntyre had been nowhere near the pier that night. He’d obviously been too busy elsewhere.

I’ve always hated hospitals. They may look different in other countries, but the smell is always the same. And so is the atmosphere. The moment you set foot in one, the sense of sickness and decay floods over you, seeping into your pores and dragging you down into a pit of despair. At least that’s how it feels to me. And judging by Fothergill’s face when I finally found his room at Northwestern, he saw it pretty much the same. Which was a good thing. People who enjoy getting medical treatment worry me deeply.

A doctor and two nurses were gathered around Fothergill when I arrived, so I retreated to the corridor until they’d left. Then I went back in for a proper look at him. He was wearing pajamas—crumpled green ones—which was a little disconcerting after his usual beautiful suits. The fancy sling was gone, replaced by a standard white one, and his right hand and forearm were bandaged, too. But other than that, barring a few scratches on his face, he didn’t seem too badly banged up.

“Grapes?” I said.

“Whisky?” he said.

“Haven’t got either. Sorry. So. What happened to you?”

“Had a fight with an iron girder. Holding up the top deck of Lake Shore Drive, where it crosses the mouth of the river. A couple of hundred yards from where you were, ironically.”

“Good spot for it?”

“Perfect.”

“Hit and run?”

“Officially.”

“And do we know who did the hitting and running?”

“Take a guess.”

“McIntyre.”

“Right in one.”

“I’m not surprised. But are you sure? Did you actually see him? These things can be so sudden.”

“It wasn’t sudden at all. He actually stopped, after running us into the pillar. Came up to the car. Opened the door. Saw Milton was dead. Pointed his gun at me. I thought he was going to slot me there and then, David. I really did.”

“Milton was the techie they sent?”

“Yes. Seemed like a good guy, too.”

“And he bought it in the crash?”

“He did. Poor bastard. It was the air bag’s fault.”

“Your car has air bags?”

“He brought the car from the depot. That’s how they have them, apparently.”

“I got the impression you were driving.”

“I was. Milton asked me to. Said he hates doing it, especially in the city.”

“So what went wrong with the air bag? I guess you weren’t wearing seat belts?”

“No. The techies are properly trained. It’s just their cars that are weird. And nothing went wrong with it, exactly. It’s kind of
hard to explain. Milton was holding this thing. On his lap. And I don’t really know what happened. I guess he went forward, with the momentum. The air bag burst out and hit him. And somehow, this object ended up getting driven straight into his chest. Like a knife, almost.”

“What was it made of? Metal?”

“Yes. It was some kind of tool. Long and thin. A bit like a wrench, with a special end. For fastening the lid onto the container.”

“What container?”

“For the gas. The safety thing.”

“What, like a key? You had to keep it separate?”

“No. Just a regular tool. They always go together, as far as I know.”

“So why did Milton still have it? Oh. Wait.”

Fothergill looked away.

“Tell me you weren’t on the way to the depot when this happened?” I said.

He fixed his stare on the wall, and didn’t speak.

“Tell me the gas wasn’t in the car?” I said.

“Well,” he said, after a moment. “Put it this way. It isn’t there now.”

Neither of us spoke for a good two minutes. Then Fothergill shook his head and finally broke the silence.

“So,” he said. “Here’s where we stand. Tony’s back on the loose. So is the gas. And it sounds like the buyers could still be on the scene, based on what Tony texted you.”

“Not just ‘the gas.’ Three times as much gas as there was when we started.”

“No. There’s the same amount. We just didn’t know about all of it. But either way, this is not good. There’s some serious broken glass for us to sweep up here, my friend.”

“There’s more than broken glass. Things are spiraling out of control, is what’s happening. This is about much more than a hard arrest, now. Or saving face with the Americans. It’s time for you to call London. Light a fire under them. We need more feet on the street if we’re going to contain this mess.”

Fothergill didn’t answer.

“What’s the matter?” I said. “Don’t you think they’ll listen?”

He glanced at me, then looked away again.

“Is this about covering your arse?” I said. “Are you trying to hide the fact that McIntyre put one over on you again? Because if you are, you can forget it. Trust me. The truth’s coming out, anyway. A man’s dead, remember.”

“It is my arse that’s on the line,” he said, slowly turning back to face me. “But that’s not the problem. I didn’t break any procedures. There’s nothing I can’t talk my way out of. I’ve been backed into worse corners, dozens of times.”

“So why the reluctance? We need to escalate this, and escalate it fast.”

“There’s something else,” he said, after a moment. “Something you need to know.”

“So go ahead,” I said. “What is it? Level with me.”