the room James had locked himself in. The door was shut but not locked. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The room was in almost complete darkness. Hunter didn’t look for a light switch — no time — and dashed towards the window on the far wall, almost tripping over something on the floor. Just like the room James had gone into, the window faced the building’s back alley. There were no curtains, but the glass had been sprayed with black paint. It was an old-style window. Two panels. The bottom one had slots for fingers at the bottom. No locks, just a single rotating latch. Hunter undid it and pushed the bottom panel up. Stuck.
‘Shit.’
With his fingers in the slots he shook the window so vigorously the entire frame rattled. He tried again. The panel slid up a couple of inches, enough for him to get his hands under the frame. Much better grip. With one big push, the panel creaked and slid all the way up. Hunter craned forward and looked out. James was rushing down the last rungs of the metal fire escape ladder.
‘Goddamnit.’
Smith didn’t look back. He jumped from the ladder and hit the ground running. He was fast and agile.
Hunter searched the alley for Garcia. He saw Smith zigzag between a few large trash cans and then dive through an open door about twenty yards ahead.
Garcia finally appeared, coming from the alley’s entrance on the right, sprinting like an Olympic champion.
‘The Chinese restaurant’s back door,’ Hunter called from the window. ‘Past those trash cans on the right. He got in through the kitchen.’
Garcia hesitated for a beat, considering if he should run back the way he came in and try to cut James off at the front of the shops. Going back and around would take too long. By the time he got there James would be gone. He carried on forward, sidestepping the trash cans and disappearing through the same door James had done seconds earlier.
Hunter turned around and hurried back out of the room. If he was fast and lucky enough, he could cut Smith off at the top of the street. He’d taken only two steps away from the window when his eyes caught a glimpse of something on the walls.
The light that now poured in through the open window had erased the darkness.
What he saw made him stop dead.
Thirty-Six
Garcia rushed through the back door of the Chinese restaurant and found himself inside a crowded kitchen. Lunchtime was in full swing. Three chefs were standing by a large ten-burner cooker where several woks were sizzling away. One of the woks seemed to have caught on fire and flames were shooting up from its bowl at least a foot and a half high. Two sous chefs were by a long metal workstation covered with freshly cut vegetables along with three waitresses. One of them had her back flat against the wall next to the double swinging doors that led to the restaurant’s dining room, as if she’d just been pushed out of the way. On the floor directly in front of her was an overturned metal tray. Several bowls of noodles and soup were scattered on the ground. All eight of them were yelling loudly in Mandarin. Garcia didn’t have to understand them to know that they weren’t yelling at each other, or about the spilled food. It was a nervous reaction.
Garcia figured from their reaction that he was about ten to fifteen seconds behind Smith.
All eyes were on Garcia as he came through the alley door. Everyone took a step back. A fraction of a second later they were all yelling and gesticulating at him. Garcia didn’t even miss a step. As he skipped over the dishes on the floor and burst through the swinging doors, he could understand only one word —
The shocked expression from the kitchen staff was mirrored on the faces of every customer in the main dining room. Some had turned to look at this new crazy man who’d blasted out of the kitchen, and some were still staring at the restaurant’s front door, where the previous one had just exited.
Garcia ran through the restaurant, expertly avoiding the manager and a waitress on the way.
Outside, the street was full of people coming and going in both directions. Garcia looked left, then right. No one was running. No one looked surprised. There was no commotion. Garcia took two steps forward, lifted himself onto the tips of his toes and looked both ways again. He cursed under his breath as he realized that he didn’t even know what Smith was wearing. Only his eyes had been visible when he opened the door to his apartment. From the exhibition picture, he knew what Smith looked like, but not from the back. Any tall male walking away from him could be Smith.
Garcia searched the street for Hunter. He was certain that while he followed Smith in through the restaurant, Hunter would be trying to cut him off at the top end of the street, but he was nowhere in sight.
‘Shit, Robert, where are you?’
He approached a group of three guys standing just a few yards away. ‘Did any of you see a tall guy come running out of that restaurant just a few seconds ago?’
They all looked at him, then at the restaurant’s door, then back at him.
‘Sure,’ the short stocky one said, and they all nodded at each other at the same time. ‘He went. . that way.’ One of them pointed left, the other one right, and the stocky guy pointed at his crotch. All three burst out laughing. ‘Get the fuck outta here, cop. We ain’t seen shiiit.’
Garcia didn’t have time to argue. He took a step back and checked up and down the street once again.
No Hunter.
No Smith.
Garcia had to hand it to him. Smith was smart. He knew no one had gotten a good look at him. He could be wearing a suit or a hooded jacket. As soon as he hit the street in front of the restaurant, instead of carrying on running and sticking out like a sore thumb, he slowed down to a walking pace. Just another guy strolling along a street full of shops. He’d look as suspicious as everyone else.
Garcia took his cell out of his pocket and called Hunter. ‘Where are you? Did you get him?’ His eyes were still roaming up and down the street.
‘No, I’m still at the apartment.’
‘What? Why? I thought you’d try to cut him off.’
‘I take it you don’t have him either.’
‘No. He was clever. He mixed in with the crowd. And I don’t have a clue what sort of clothes he was wearing.’
‘I’ll call and put an APB out on him right now.’
‘Why are you still at his apartment?’
A short pause.
‘Robert?’
‘You’ve gotta come see this room.’
Thirty-Seven
Garcia stood motionless by the door to the small square room. The window was now fully open, allowing daylight in. The weak light bulb at the center of the ceiling was also on. A musty smell of old paper and dust lingered in the air, the kind of smell you’d get inside a basement storage room of a bookshop, or a newspaper archive. Hunter was standing next to a large wooden table piled high with magazines, journals, printouts and newspapers. Piles and piles of them were stacked all around the floor, overcrowding the room — Smith was either
