Lucinda sighed.
“You have no idea what it’s like for a woman in a pub on her own, have you?” she said. “It’s just a creep hitting on her. Happens all the time.”
The guy put his hand on Tanya’s shoulder and leaned in close to whisper something in her ear. I couldn’t hear her reply, but it must have hit the spot. He didn’t hang around. And none of his pals tried their luck, either, after that. Which was just as well.
At nine thirty Tanya took out her cell phone and labored through the process of sending a text. She tapped out another at ten. And at ten thirty, and eleven. Then thirty minutes later she stood up, put the phone away, and headed for the exit. The door hinged inward, and as she pulled it open Tanya curled her first two fingers around the leading edge.
“Phase two,” I said to Lucinda. “Time to go.”
Lucinda and I stood close together at the edge of the sidewalk and stared in opposite directions, arms poised as if waiting to flag down a cab. Tanya was on our left, strolling casually back toward Broadway. Nothing developed for thirty seconds. Then another guy came out of the pub. He paused next to Lucinda and also looked down the street. But he was only interested in one direction. Tanya’s. He watched her intently for ten seconds then started after her, sticking to the shadows. He was moving just fast enough to draw level before the end of the block.
“Creepy guy,” Lucinda said. “But too short for Mansell.”
“So who is he?” I said.
“What do you think? Pervert?”
“Don’t know. Could be. Let’s find out.”
We moved off together, keeping pace with the guy from the pub. I felt for my phone and held down the 3 key with my thumb. It was set to speed-dial Mansell’s number. Five seconds passed. Six. Then the guy reacted. His left arm twitched, reaching for his pocket, and I heard a brief snatch of muffled ring tone.
Tanya was closer and she heard the phone, too. She stopped and turned. Both the guy’s hands disappeared into his coat pockets. He silenced the ringing with his left, and pulled something out with his right. It was small. Brown. Wooden, with brass ends, like a flattened tube. There was a button halfway down its long edge. The guy pressed it and a four-inch blade scythed out from the side and locked into place. He lifted the knife up. The steel was gleaming orange under the streetlights. The point was level with Tanya’s throat.
I was too far away to reach him. If he moved now Tanya would be dead before I could make up half the distance.
“Stop,” I said. “Armed police. Drop your weapon or I will fire.”
The guy froze, but the knife stayed in his hand.
I kept going. I was nearly there.
“Armed police,” I said. “Drop your weapon. You’ve been warned.”
He slowly turned to face me, raising the knife and angling it toward my chin.
“Now, it seems you have two problems,” he said, in a flawless BBC accent. “You don’t look like a policeman. And you don’t look like you’re armed. So tell me again, why I should drop anything?”
“We’re looking for a missing person,” I said. “Another Englishman. We’re worried about him. All we need to know is who you are, and where you got that phone. Tell us, and there’s no need for anyone to get hurt.”
“Firstly, I’m not English, you presumptuous ass. I don’t care what happens to your countrymen. And secondly, who is going to hurt me? You? Or these women?”
“No one wants to hurt you. We just want your help.”
The guy snorted disdainfully.
“OK,” I said. “If that’s not a good enough reason, how about money? Put the knife down and we’ll talk. Dollars, pounds, euros-whichever you prefer.”
The guy pursed his lips, nodded thoughtfully, and began to lower the knife. He traced an imaginary line down the center of my body from my throat, past my chest and stomach and as far as my waist. Then he lunged at me, thrusting forward and trying to drive the blade back up under my rib cage. I jumped back and shot out both arms, crossed at the wrists, trapping his hand and stopping him an inch short of skewering me. The guy tried to pull away so I grabbed his wrist with my left hand, forced it over, and jabbed one knuckle from my right fist into the fleshy part of his forearm. He yelled. The knife clattered onto the sidewalk. I kicked it aside and flicked my right fist up square against his cheekbone, disorienting him. Then I punched him hard in the solar plexus, doubling him over, and slammed my fist upward into his face to stand him upright again. He was sagging now, bleeding heavily from the mouth and nose, barely able to breathe. The job was nearly done.
I drew my arm back, ready to unload the final blow, but before I could launch it his whole body was suddenly bathed in light. It was coming from the street. I realized a car engine was running, close by. It was stationary. Then a door opened, followed by another a second later. I heard footsteps. Two sets. One moving straight toward me, the other peeling away to the right.
“NYPD,” a woman’s voice said. “Stand still. Nobody move.”
“The phone,” I said to the guy. “Where did you get it? Tell me and we’ll help you. We can make this go away.”
“Shut up,” the officer said. “Hands where I can see them. All of you. Do it now.”
Tanya and Lucinda complied straightaway. I gave the guy another couple of seconds to answer, then let go of his wrist and raised my own hands. He staggered sideways, slumped against the wall, and struggled to get his arms up to chest level.
“You, in the leather coat,” the officer said. “Turn and face me.”
“Can’t do that,” I said. “Can’t turn my back on this guy. He’s a psychopath. Wanted by the FBI. Multiple homicide.”
“Shut up. Turn around. Do it now.”
“Listen to me. My name is David Trevellyan. I’m working with the FBI. Special Agent Lavine is in charge. His number is in my phone. I’m going to reach inside my jacket and-”
“No. Don’t move. Hands where I can see them.”
“David, quick,” Tanya said. “Stop him.”
The guy from the pub was smiling. But not an ordinary smile. A fervent, ecstatic smile. And his right hand was moving again. It was snaking back toward his inside pocket. This time the officers didn’t bother with a warning. They just fired. Two rounds each. Tight pattern, to the center of his chest. After that-epiphany or not-there’s really no way back.
“Too slow,” Tanya said. “Damn it. We needed him alive.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Look at his hand.”
The officers had shredded a number of the guy’s vital organs, but they’d missed the thing he’d been reaching for.
Mansell’s phone.
TWENTY-SIX
My first cellular phone was enormous.
It was so big it had to be fixed permanently in my car. I remember watching it being installed. The engineers had to dismantle half the interior, like customs officers searching for drugs. They put in amplifiers, speakers, microphones, antennas, miles of wiring, separate fuses, a big cradle for the handset. And even then it didn’t work very well. Today’s phones are much better. They’re smaller. More powerful. More reliable. Easier to use.
And able to do more than just make calls.
Lavine thought the events outside the Bulldog were significant enough to bring back his boss, so Varley was called in for the next morning’s meeting. That meant heading up to the boardroom. The three FBI guys were already there when Tanya and I arrived, just shy of eight thirty. Varley was waiting in his seat. Someone had left a tray of coffees on the table next to him. Weston was helping himself to one. And Lavine was busy setting out piles of papers in the places we’d each used last time we’d met.
I gathered up the thicker pile he’d left near my seat and started to flick through it. The top sheet was a list of
