Thin Line (23 page)

"No, I suppose they're only good at raising the dead." I paused. She said nothing, so I continued. "You know how many people have access to the information
you've been given?"

Shrugging, she reestablished eye contact with me.

"A handful," I said. "There are people running the Pentagon who don't know some of the things you've been told."

"Jack, I'm simply trying to get to the bottom of a-"

"What you're trying to do and what you are actually doing are two separate things. You've dug yourself a pretty deep trench, and if you're not careful,
someone's gonna bury you in it, McSweeney."

Her cheeks reddened. I couldn't tell if that meant she'd grown embarrassed or angry. I certainly wasn't the first possible
witness
that gave her
push back. Perhaps she thought the information her source provided gave her some kind of an edge or leg-up on me. Fact was, no one in local law enforcement
gave me reason for pause, because my contacts always trumped them.

"You want my advice, detective?"

She stared at my forehead, said nothing.

"Take your file and bury it so far in the archives that the cold case unit would need thermal underwear and arctic parkas to come close to sniffing it." I
paused to allow her a chance to react. She didn't. I continued. "You don't want the attention that will go with figuring out who these men are. Take me,
for example. You've learned things about me that you don't need to know. That you shouldn't know. Not because I'm afraid of you finding out, but because it
puts your life in danger should someone ever try to find me. These kinds of people will scour the bowels of the city in an effort to get any shred of
information about me. Your name comes up? It's not a knock at the door in the middle of the night you'll be receiving. You'll end up with a bag over your
head, in the back of a trunk, driven out into the woods to be tortured until you tell them what little you think you know. Then you're dead. Is this what
you want?"

McSweeney said nothing for a few minutes. Every so often, she made eye contact with me for a second or two, then broke it off.

Two spiky-haired men rose from their seats and crossed the room. They took seats three down from McSweeney. One looked in her direction every few seconds,
apparently hoping she'd do the same. Bear brushed past me, placed his hands on the bar, and leaned toward the guys. They ordered a few drinks and continued
to occupy the stools. The only danger they posed was overhearing something that put them at risk.

Presumably sensing this, McSweeney reached into her pocket, pulled out one of her business cards, and scribbled something on it. She flipped the card over
so the writing faced the bar top, then handed it to me. Before releasing it from her grasp, she said, "Meet me in one hour."

"And if I fail to show up?"

"I'll have you arrested."

"And you know that'll be a waste of time and taxpayer dollars, right?"

"Yes." She hopped off her stool, zipped up her jacket, and added, "And I don't care."

The two guys rotated toward the front of the establishment and watched her leave.

"Don't bother, guys," I said. "She's a cop."

After McSweeney left, I headed for the kitchen, ignoring the calls of the two morons still perched at the bar. Clarissa waited for me near the rear door,
twirling an unlit cigarette between her fingers.

"Thinking of taking up the habit?" I said.

"Jack, listen, I'm sorry. I didn't have a choice. She knows about-"

I silenced her with a gesture. "Forget about it, Clarissa. It doesn't matter. I think she'd have put the pieces together at some point." The draft switched
directions and blew toward us from the bar. The front door must have opened, and now air was being sucked through the back. Burger-scented smoke from the
grill blew past, and my mouth watered.

Clarissa stared up at me, her eyes dark green in the dim light. "Am I in danger?"

"You usually are."

"Shut up." She smiled, briefly. "More so than usual?"

I nodded. "I'm calling in a favor now. He'll be by your side every moment I'm not."

Pushing past me, she squeezed my hand, then made her way back to the dining area. After she disappeared from sight, I stepped out back. The deserted alley
smelled of trash and grease and wood smoke. Conflicting, for sure. I pulled out my cell phone and called a ghost. A man from my past, who had done the
things I had done, and been in some of the same places I had been. Born into a family with the last name Kolinski, we called him the Russian, though in
reality, he was of Czech descent. Our conversation was short. He agreed without requiring explanation and told me he'd be at the bar within ten minutes.

I bummed a smoke off a cook, enjoyed the chilled and stagnant alley air alone for a few minutes, then returned to the kitchen. There, I updated Bear while
Clarissa attended to two new groups of patrons seated in booths. It was better that she was busy tonight. Left her little time to worry.

A few minutes later, the door opened. The Russian stepped in. His black leather jacket accentuated his bloodless face and pale blue eyes. He'd have made an
excellent villain in an eighties war movie. These days, they'd probably cast him in a vampire flick. With a casual sweep of the bar, the Russian sized
everyone up, stopping for a brief second on the two men who could possibly pose a problem. Same ones I'd made a note of when returning from the kitchen. He
stared at nothing as he approached the bar and took a seat at the end closest to the front door. Bear walked over, nodded, acted as though he had never
seen the man before.

Kolinski ordered a beer, but barely took a sip. Every so often, he'd slide the mug away from himself, then tilt it so that the liquid spilled onto the
splash rail behind the bar. Twenty minutes and a beer-and-a-half later, he got up and went to the restroom.

I followed him in. His lingering cologne gave way to the odor of urinal cakes.

"She's the dark redhead?" he said, gaze fixed on himself in the mirror. He looked paler under the fluorescent lights. I wondered if he'd glow in the
presence of a black light. Would his veins stick out like streams cascading down a mountainside? At least he had a reflection, though that hurt his
Hollywood prospects a bit.

"That's her," I said. "Name's Clarissa. Just keep doing what you're doing, then when it's time to leave, stay with her."

"What kind of trouble's she in?"

"She's not." I turned on the faucet and ran my hands under the icy water. "I am."

"Say no more."

I withdrew my hands from the stream of water, shook them into the sink, and then grabbed a paper towel. "I appreciate this, Kolinski."

He shrugged and scratched at the small scar on his neck. A reminder of our past. Five years ago, we were running the same Op in Iraq. Kolinksi had been
captured by a small group of terrorists who weren't even related to the men we were tracking. Certain members of our three-department team were willing to
let him die. Not Bear and me. We tracked the small cell down. Arrived at the last possible moment. While they had a camera running and a knife the size of
a machete pressed into Kolinksi's neck, we fired off six quick shots, dropping all six of the terrorists in under three seconds.

"Think nothing of it," Kolinksi said. "I owe you. Can't think of a better way to pay you back than being in the presence of a beautiful woman for an
evening."

We stepped out of the bathroom. Clarissa waited alone in the dark hallway. I introduced her to Kolinski, then Bear and I left the bar.

BEAR LOOKED UP the address McSweeney had given and told me it was close enough for us to walk. Despite that, the frigid temperature warranted considering a
cab. But we had time to kill. On top of that, I'd reached the point where the cold didn't bother me as long as I didn't plan to sleep outside.

The sidewalks were packed with groups of people coming and going from the theater, restaurants, and bars. A new smell littered the air every few steps.
Occasionally, it was steak. Far too often, I caught a whiff of the stench of the sewer as it rose through the grates and mixed with the melting snow.

The directions took us off the main thoroughfare. I was fine with that. The Old Man had eyes everywhere, and by this point he had them trained to look for
Bear and me. Getting away from the crowds took us away from the Old Man's lookouts.

When we arrived at the building on East 77th Street, the wind had stopped. The light over the glass door flickered. Bursts of orange faded in and out.
There was no doorman. In his place, a call box. I punched the button for apartment 4C, then announced myself. The door buzzed a second later. Bear pulled
it open and held it while I walked inside.

Once shielded from the street, we both repositioned our pistols for easier access. A set up like this felt, quite simply, like a set up. The rational part
of my mind tried to downplay the notion. After all, why would McSweeney go through all this if she wanted to arrest me?

Ice traveled down my spine as my gut knotted. At once, my chest, back, brow were lined with a thin layer of sweat. The answer danced on the tip of my
tongue, but the phrasing wouldn't come. Only logical answer was that she didn't intend to arrest me. It would be worse.

Bear said, "What if her source had her arrange this?"

I glanced toward the door and the cone of view it provided of the street. Empty. Not a soul in sight.

"My thoughts exactly."

"Well, be ready to shoot first and bail if necessary."

I considered this for a second, then nodded. Together, we continued through the foyer and found the stairwell. Unlike the lobby, the concrete chamber that
ran the height of the building was not heated. Compared to outside, it felt like Miami Beach, though. I welcomed the lack of wind. Dull fluorescents
lit the stairwell. The combination of that and the painted concrete gave the stairwell a greenish glow.

Four flights of stairs later, we stood in front of a metal door labeled in stencil, FOURTH FLOOR. The paint had faded over the years. Left the demarcation
looking grungy. I pulled the door open. Bear shifted his pistol to his coat pocket.

The hallway was brightly lit and ran the width of the building. It appeared to dead end at the far end. I figured there had to be another stairwell down
there. Ten evenly spaced doors, five on the left and five on the right, stood before us. The first to our left was labeled A. On the right was B. In front
of C's door, a colorful welcome mat, flowers and birds, occupied a few square feet of flooring.

"Think this is her place?"

I nodded.

"Pretty ballsy leading us here."

For a moment, I felt I could let my guard down. That meant remaining vigilant was more important than ever.

I positioned myself in front of the door. Before I managed to rap my knuckles against it, McSweeney answered. She had on the same jeans, same sweater, but
had ditched the coat. Her hair was pulled back again. She nodded at Bear. Smiled at me, briefly.

"Thanks for not making me drag you in," she said.

"Never would have come to fruition," I said.

"You're a little too cocky, Mr. Noble."

I recalled Clarissa telling me that McSweeney had uncovered my identity.

"Oh, it's not me," I said. "But when Bear's around, I know I'm safe."

She arched an eyebrow as she cast her glance toward Bear. "Yeah, he's even harder to get information on than you."

Bear chuckled. "Good reason for that, too. You know what they say about sleeping bears."

"I thought that was sleeping dogs?" she said.

"Whatever," I said.

"Get you guys a drink?"

Bear declined.

"Water's fine," I said. "What's this all about, detective?"

"You can call me Reese now. We're not in public, so you don't have to defer to my authority."

Bear laughed again. "She's sharp, Jack."

"Yeah, your kind of woman."

"This is fun, guys, but I can assure you, I'm right for neither of you." She handed me a glass of water, took a sip from her own cup. Then she said, "And
it's about time we got to the real reason you're here."

"About time," I echoed. "It's your show, Reese. Start talking."

She set her glass down on the counter. A ring of condensation quickly formed around the base. McSweeney crossed her arms over her chest, just below her
breasts. She shifted her gaze from me to Bear and back.

"Before I tell you, I need you to promise that you will hear us out."

I glanced around the room, looking for the other part of
us
. Didn't see anyone. My senses became aware of sounds and signs of movement outside my
field of view.

McSweeney continued. "All of this will be recorded. If things don't go the way I've planned, then my partner will find an envelope inside his desk. That
envelope will lead him to a secure web address where he'll be able to witness tonight's events. You will be…" she paused a beat, smiled. "Scratch
that. You already are on camera. So know that any action you take will be used against you for purposes of prosecuting you. During the process of that, all
of your secrets will come to life."

"We're out," I said.

"Wait," she said.

"Why?"

"You have to stay, Jack. You two are the only ones who can help us."

"How do I know you're not gonna use whatever happens here anyway?"

She lowered her head, looked at the ground. "Trust me, once you see who's here with us, you'll realize that I have plenty of motivation to get that
envelope and destroy its contents."

"Jack," Bear said.

I turned toward him. Shrugged.

"Let's just get this thing going." He waited for me to nod, then said, "Reese, go get him."

"I'm already here."

I looked up at the man standing in the shadows at the hallway's edge. He held my gaze, no trace of fear on his face.

"Son of a bitch," I muttered as I pulled out my pistol.

THE MAN WE'D been sent to terminate, the reason we went to France and had our facial hair singed, the guy who'd been working with or for those terrorists,
with or for al-Sharaa, stood less than fifteen feet away from me. And he didn't flinch as I drew my pistol and aimed it at him. In fact, he squared up, as
though he'd prepared himself to take the fatal shot with no fight.