TWENTY-THREE
A few years ago I remember there was a craze for “magic pictures.”
They were really just psychedelic blotches that people would stare at for hours, willing their eyes to somehow make coherent images out of the brightly colored speckles. Intelligence analysts wouldn’t admit it, but the bulk of their everyday work is very similar. It all hinges on the same skill. Identifying hidden patterns. Only they’re not trying to conjure people’s faces and mountain ranges out of paint splatter. They’re looking for bomb plots and assassination attempts in financial transactions. Currency transfers. Phone calls. E-mail traffic. Internet searches. Passenger manifests. Freight receipts. University registrations. Job applications. Tax returns. Red-flagged purchases. Even old-fashioned letters and faxes.
It’s a similar story for us, in the field. Only we have less material to work with.
Less support.
And less time to join the dots.
The first guy was waiting near the crosswalk, half hidden behind a street vendor’s refreshment stand. He wasn’t buying anything. Or eating anything. Or reading anything. He was just waiting, watching the traffic. And occasionally glancing across at the disused store, fifteen yards away. That’s where the second guy was, prowling up and down, keeping track of the cars’ reflections in the blank glass.
The lights changed, but neither guy made a move toward my side of the road. The lights changed again, and a BMW 5 Series approached. A woman was driving, on her own. The first guy stiffened. The car drew nearer. The guy’s weight shifted forward, and he took half a step toward the street. Then he suddenly relaxed and melted back away from the curb. The car cruised past and I saw there was a baby in a child’s seat in the back. It was fast asleep.
The lights went through three more cycles and the first guy remained like a statue until another car caught his attention. It was an Audi A6. Another woman was driving. Again, she was on her own. She picked up a little speed, trying to get through the intersection without having to stop when he sprang out into her path. She hit the brakes. The tires screamed. The car’s nose pitched down as if it were trying to burrow into the asphalt. The front fender hit the guy below the knees, flipping him into the air. He came down headfirst onto the hood, stuck to the shiny metal for a moment, then slithered forward and tumbled limply into the gutter.
The driver jumped out and raced to the front of the car. The vendor ran to join her. The people who’d been waiting to cross the street quickly gathered round, anxious for a glimpse of blood. And beyond all of them, the second guy peeled away from the store window and casually drifted across the sidewalk.
I crossed the street, heading for the back of the car. The second guy didn’t see me. He was too focused on the crowd. He reached the open driver’s door without anyone noticing him. He reached inside. The woman’s briefcase and purse were lying on the floorboard, on the passenger’s side, where they’d fallen. The guy stretched across, hooked his fingers through the handles, and smoothly backed out of the car. It had taken him less than two seconds, and no one else had seen what he was doing.
I let him get clear of the trunk before hitting him. I didn’t want him to land on the car, or make any noise when he fell. My fist made a good clean contact and he went down like a stone, the side of his face banging against the base of a mailbox. I quickly checked him over. He was breathing, but out cold.
The woman’s purse had rolled a few feet away across the sidewalk so I retrieved it, scooped up her briefcase, and tossed both bags back into the car. I took the keys from the ignition and found the button to lock the doors. Then I dropped my shoulder and waded into the gawking crowd.
“Let me through,” I said. “I’m a medic. Out of the way.”
“Don’t touch him, man,” one of the onlookers said. “He’ll sue you.”
“He won’t,” I said.
“Is he dead?” the driver said. “Have I killed him? I didn’t see him. He came out of nowhere. Just stepped out…”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s not hurt at all. Not yet, anyway.”
I took hold of the guy’s fake Armani lapels and hauled him up until he was slumped on his back across the Audi’s hood.
“Stop,” the same onlooker said. “You can’t move him. He might have a neck injury.”
“He might now,” I said, leaning down and pressing the point of my elbow into the guy’s throat, just above his collarbone.
“The hell are you doing? How’s this going to help him?”
“It’s a new resuscitation technique, from England. Twenty seconds. Thirty max, and he’ll be awake. Trust me.”
It actually took fifteen. The guy started to twitch. Then wriggle. Then thrash about, clawing at my arm and trying to wrench it free. I let him squirm for another moment then took hold of his right hand, locked his wrist, and flipped him over onto his front.
“See?” I said, handing the keys back to the driver. “It was a scam. This guy, to make you stop. His buddy back there to grab your stuff.”
“Well, I’ll be…” the onlooker said.
“I don’t believe it,” the driver said. “I was so worried. The assholes.”
“Want to stick one on him?” I said. “I’ll hold him.”
A phone started to ring. I realized it was mine.
“Excuse me a moment,” I said, pulling the phone out left-handed.
It was Weston.
“Got a breakthrough,” he said. “Where are you?”
“Shopping,” I said. “I need clean clothes.”
“Time for that later. We need to move. Where can we collect you?”
“Back where you dropped me. In five.”
“Be there,” Weston said, hanging up.
I put the phone away.
“Feeling better?” I said to the driver. “OK then. Time to call 911. These guys have done this before. They need to be stopped. Now that’s up to you.”
Weston’s Ford was already waiting at the side of the street when I got back. Tanya was in the backseat. She looked a little confused.
“I don’t see it,” she said. “That doesn’t prove anything, either way.”
“What doesn’t?” I said, getting in.
“Tungsten made another set of payoffs,” Weston said. “A year ago. To another team of six guys.”
“How do you know?” I said.
“Our forensic accountants found it. They started digging this morning. Got an early break. But listen to this. The other team-it was also assigned to the hospital right before getting fired.”
“So the hospital is the link.”
“No. It can’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Because none of the six we just found out about are dead.”
“So?”
“If the hospital was the link, they’d have been killed, too.”
“No. That’s backward. If the payoff money was the link, they’d have been killed.”
“See?” Tanya said. “It’s totally inconclusive. The hospital and the money are both common factors. And at this moment, there’s just no evidence to place one above the other.”
“Has any money been taken from the current six?” I said.
“Not from two of them,” Lavine said. “We’re still checking the others.”
“Not very convincing,” I said. “Whereas both teams were definitely working at the hospital. That’s the clincher. Something about the place got them fired. Has to be.”
“Right,” Weston said. “They were fired because of the hospital. But not killed because of it. It has to be two separate things.”
