“Early, anyway,” I said.
“What about lunch, tomorrow?” Julianne said when he’d gone. She was standing in the middle of the corridor, looking a little lost. “I’m worried. Will you really come back?”
“Of course,” I said, sliding my key card into its slot. “Sleep well.”
The door closed solidly behind me and for a moment I felt a slight pang of regret about leaving Julianne outside, on her own. She looked so forlorn, with her head tipped anxiously to one side and her big brown eyes stretched wide and fearful. Maybe I felt a little bad about lying to her, as well. After what I was planning for tomorrow there was no way they were going to let me out for lunch. I was never going to see her again, and part of me was wondering what other possibilities I was turning my back on. It was a long time since I’d been in a hotel with a woman, voluntarily, and not felt some official eye looking over my shoulder. Tomorrow’s plan wasn’t complex. How much sleep could I need?
But deep down, I knew I was right. If I was going down that road with anyone, it had to be Tanya. Especially now we were back in touch. And tomorrow was about more than the basic ability to stumble through a plan. It was about more than the professional pride of doing a job right. Or even the satisfaction of wiping the smile off Rosser’s smug face.
Tomorrow was about redemption.
Another man’s life would be taken. Mine would be reclaimed.
It deserved my full attention.
SIXTEEN
Mitchell Varley and his colleagues had seemed innocuous enough when I first met them in their abandoned office building. Devious, certainly, but not physically dangerous. Not like the Nazi from the police cell. You didn’t get the feeling they were going to leap across the table and tear your head off. But with guys like these, superficial impressions don’t count for much. You could say the same for lots of unpleasant species. Spiders, for example. The deadliest ones are always the most harmless looking.
Which is why I changed the plan.
I didn’t call Tanya at nine the next morning, as I’d promised.
I called her at eight.
Tanya answered on the first ring.
“David?” she said. “What’s wrong? You’re an hour early. Is there a problem?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve just brought the schedule forward a little. Are the FBI guys with you yet?”
“But are you OK?”
“Absolutely fine. Are they there?”
There was a pause before she answered.
“Yes,” she said. “All three are here.”
“Good,” I said. “Because here’s some good news for them. They won’t be needing their copter after all. They can save some gas money. We’re going to meet in the city.”
“Oh. OK. Where exactly?”
“The same building they took me to yesterday. Room 3H3. It’s on the first floor, for some reason, not the third like you’d think. End of the corridor. Last room but one, left-hand side.”
“Got that. What time?”
“Eight-twenty. But listen. Tell them I’m set up in the neighborhood with a clear view of the room. If I don’t see Rosser, Varley, and Breuer enter before that time-I walk away. If I see anyone else come in with them, or positioned in the building, I walk away.”
“Got that. What about their guy?”
“He’s stashed somewhere safe. When I’m happy, I’ll lead them to him.”
“Got that. Stand by…”
The phone was silent for forty seconds.
“Confirmed,” Tanya said, coming back to me. “All three are en route. ETA ten minutes. Conditions understood. And David-good luck. I want you back in one piece at the end of this.”
“As always,” I said, hanging up the phone and shifting my position to get a better view of the garage entrance.
It took eight minutes for the first vehicles to arrive. There were five of them. Two black Fords, the Cadillac I’d seen yesterday, then two more black Fords. They swept around the corner, moving fast, only a couple of feet between each one. Then the lead car swung the other way and the others followed it into the garage, disappearing like a snake slithering into a hole.
Two minutes later a white van appeared from the opposite direction, traveling much more sedately. It trundled three-quarters of the length of the street, then drifted to the side and stopped in the same space the backup van had used yesterday. From my position, almost directly above, I couldn’t see any markings on its sides but there was a picture of an engine component-a carburetor?-painted on the hood.
After another two minutes I heard activity in the hallway outside. Footsteps were approaching. It sounded like five sets, but I couldn’t be sure. There was a pause, then the door was flung open. I caught a glimpse of a hand and a gray sleeve, but nothing else.
The door started to close. It was almost back in its frame when someone rammed it with their shoulder and stepped into the room. It was Varley. He was holding a Glock out in front of him, two-handed. He checked both corners to his left and then moved forward. The gun was swinging across to his right when he saw me, standing to the side of the window. He stopped instantly and snapped the weapon back, lining up perfectly on the bridge of my nose.
“Stand still,” he said unnecessarily, as I showed no sign of moving. “Hands on your head.”
I kept my hands down by my sides. There was no chance of him shooting me. Not yet, anyway.
Louis Breuer was next into the room. He was much shorter than I’d realized from seeing him sitting down, and he walked stiffly with a stick in his left hand. He moved to Varley’s right, stopping a couple of feet from the closet where I’d found the shelves, yesterday. It was a perfect spot to triangulate on me, but he didn’t draw his gun. I didn’t know whether to be reassured or offended.
Bruce Rosser came in last. He saw me-I caught his eye for a moment-but pretended not to notice I was there. Then he moved between the others to the center of the room and slowly turned a full circle, like a prospective buyer assessing a new home.
“Coffee stain,” he said, poking a mark on the carpet with his toe.
“Carpet’s damaged,” he said, examining the depressions left in the pile where the desk would have been.
“Place needs cleaning,” he said, running his finger through the layer of dust on the windowsill.
“And you know what else?” he said, turning to look at me. “Something doesn’t smell good. You. Three hours after you escape, wounding another of my men, you’re on the phone wanting a deal. Now you’re ambushing me. What kind of game are you playing?”
“What can I tell you?” I said. “If your people had done their jobs
…”
“I want to see this guy, who you say is the real shooter.”
“No problem.”
“Something else you should know. We’re going to take a good look at him. A real good look. You better be on the level. So had he.”
“I am. I can give you the guy, where I found him, full background.”
“Good. Then let’s go.”
“Not with a gun on me.”
“Mitchell,” Rosser said, shaking his head.
Varley lowered the Glock, but didn’t holster it.
“Now let’s hurry it up,” Rosser said. “We can use my car.”
