“Quicker to walk,” I said, moving across to the closet and opening the double doors.
Patrick stepped out. He was wearing the same coat as last night but had swapped his soccer clothes for a gray herringbone suit, white shirt, and black shoes. His arms were in front of him, fastened with a cable tie. He glanced at the three FBI men and then dropped his gaze to the floor. He looked genuinely ashamed of himself. Lesley hadn’t told me he was a bit of an actor.
“This is the guy?” Rosser said. “Who is he?”
“Ask him,” I said.
“Well?” Rosser said, looking at Patrick. “Talk to me.”
Patrick stood in silence for a moment, then shuffled around to face the wall. His head tipped farther forward and his arms started to quiver, as if he were straining to free his wrists. I checked the others. They didn’t seem too concerned. FBI agents had used cable ties themselves, all the time, before flexicuffs were invented. They work the same way. Once they’re on, the only way to remove them is to cut them off. Pull against them and the little plastic teeth just lock together and the sharp edges bite into your skin.
Only, the tie around Patrick’s wrists didn’t have any plastic teeth. Not anymore. I’d sat in my hotel room and carefully removed them with the knife Lesley had given me. So when Patrick turned back around, his wrists were no longer secured. His left hand was gripping the flap that covered the buttonholes on his coat, rolling it back to expose the stitching. His right hand was hidden from view. It was reaching inside an opening concealed in the seam, and when he pulled it back out, a small gun was nestling in his palm. A Smith amp; Wesson 2213.
Twenty-two caliber, as promised.
Patrick stepped to his left and grabbed Louis Breuer by the hair, jerking his head back and locking his spine. Then he jammed the pistol under Louis’s jaw and flicked the safety down with his thumb.
“Your weapons, please, gentlemen,” he said. “Two fingers only. On the floor in front of you. Do it now.”
Varley let go of his Glock and it fell to the carpet with a muffled thud. Rosser drew his from a holster on his belt and carefully placed it on the ground, its barrel pointing straight at Patrick.
“And you,” Patrick said to Louis.
Louis fumbled and the gun slipped through his fingers, landing between Patrick’s feet.
“You, too, English,” Patrick said, turning to me. “I know you took one from the house.”
I took Cyril’s Springfield out of my jacket, held it at arm’s length and let it drop.
“Easy come, easy go,” I said.
“Now, kick them away,” he said.
Varley’s didn’t travel very far, but Patrick didn’t complain.
“Now, back up against the wall,” he said.
Rosser and Varley shuffled slowly backward, exchanging worried glances. I went across and stood between them.
“Good,” Patrick said. “Now, Mitchell Varley-two steps forward.”
Varley didn’t move.
“Do you want to get your friend killed?” Patrick said, savagely tugging Louis’s hair.
The cane slipped from Louis’s fingers and its metal handle fell down and rattled against the barrel of Rosser’s discarded gun.
Varley took two small, reluctant steps.
“Now, on your knees,” Patrick said.
Varley flopped down onto all fours, throwing his left hand out so it landed eighteen inches from his Glock.
“Hands off the floor,” Patrick said. “Don’t lean forward.”
Varley straightened himself up.
“Now, hands behind your head,” Patrick said. “Fingers laced together.”
Varley did as he was told, and Patrick suddenly dropped his left hand to Louis’s shoulder and started to propel him across the room. Louis half walked, half stumbled in front of Patrick until they were six feet away from us. Then Patrick launched Louis at the wall and stepped sideways, bringing the little. 22 down and ramming the barrel into Varley’s temple.
“Your other guy, in the alley?” he said, looking at Rosser. “That was a mistake. We didn’t mean it. I apologize. But this, I’m going to enjoy.”
The sound of the shot was uncomfortably loud in such a small, enclosed space. I normally use a silencer for close-range indoor work, but needs must. Rosser and Breuer flinched. Varley flopped down to his left. And Patrick was knocked backward, off his feet. He landed awkwardly, half on his side, with his right arm trapped underneath him. Blood was draining steadily from the hole in the center of his chest. It was seeping out faster than the carpet could absorb it. I had to be careful not to step in it as I moved in closer. Then I lowered the. 45 I’d inherited from Lesley’s guy and put two more rounds in Patrick’s head.
They probably weren’t necessary, but it pays to be thorough.
SEVENTEEN
MEETINGS. A PRACTICAL ALTERNATIVE TO WORK.
I’ve seen that slogan in offices from Mumbai to Montreal and Moscow to Melbourne. It’s a simple observation. And it’s absolutely true. People all over the world build whole careers out of sitting around, talking, secretly looking for ways to steal credit or avoid blame.
And of course, the worst offenders are always the bosses…
Rosser, Varley, and Breuer had set themselves up in the boardroom, leaving me on the twenty-third floor with only Weston for company. They were busy raking over the fallout from the Patrick incident. Searching for connections. Assessing the consequences. Reviewing their procedures. Debating corrective actions. It must have been a complex operation because they’d had to summon more guys from their main New York office to lend a hand. Then they’d spread the net to include the NYPD. Even Tanya Wilson had been dragged in. That meant London would be involved. It would be after lunch in the U.K., but that wouldn’t be a problem. The desk jockeys would still be all fired up, eagerly chipping in over the spider phone and adding their slice of nonsense for the bureaucratic parasites to feast on.
I have to admit, I was starting to get annoyed. The bureau guys were obsessing over pointless details. Their desperation to nail down Lesley’s exact role in their railroad case was paralyzing them. They wanted everything neatly defined, but whatever part she played it made no difference that I could see. Lesley needed to be taken off the street. She was a murderer, a kidnapper, a sadist, and a thief-minimum. They should snatch her now, and worry about which pigeonhole to file her in later. Maybe that would leave me with some explaining to do-about Cyril being the actual trigger man or the apparent deal I’d made to execute Varley-but I wasn’t worried. None of that would stick. Varley was alive and it didn’t matter who’d killed Raab, as long as it wasn’t me. The point was, we needed to act. Speed was essential. Rosser should have already scrambled a fast-response team and sent it to secure Lesley’s place before she got word from her sources and vanished. Instead, he was upstairs with his buddies, playing chairman of the board, and every second they wasted tipped the scales a little further in Lesley’s favor.
“How long do these talking-shops normally last?” I said to Weston, and pointed to the ceiling.
“No idea,” he said, turning back to his computer. “People don’t normally bring in suspects who try and execute our senior staff.”
“Really? That’s a shame. Keeps them on their toes.”
“Don’t joke about it. Staging a mock execution-that was sick.”
“There was nothing mock about it. Believe me.”
“Then why do it that way? Varley could have been killed.”
“No great loss, from what I’ve seen of him.”
“You should be locked up. You’re an attention-grabbing maniac.”
“Attention-grabbing? Hardly. The NYPD wouldn’t listen to me, remember. Nor would you. Nor would your bosses. You all had your chance. So stop complaining about how I put right what you failed to fix.”
“Look, finding the guy was good work. I’ll give you that. But why not call it in and let us grab him up? Or just
