I turned to Taylor. He was back on his feet, fiddling with his phone. I took it from him, threw it on the floor, and ground it into pieces with the heel of my boot.
“You probably could make me tell you,” he said, nodding at the screen. “Given time. But not in a minute twenty. So go ahead. Guess.”
I typed Tungsten.
Incorrect password.
I typed 3/20.
Incorrect password.
I typed Retribution.
You have entered 3 incorrect passwords. The system is now locked. Your request has not been accepted.
“You weren’t far wrong with that last one,” Taylor said. “But it’s over now. Your chance has gone. All you can do is wait and watch.”
A cartoon image of a rocket appeared on the screen. It was red with an oval, cigar-shaped body and curved fins at the side, like a shark’s. It was sitting next to fuel pump, and as I watched a curly pipe floated across and slid its nozzle into the rocket’s tank. Then a little door opened halfway up the rocket’s body, revealing another timer. It was set at thirty seconds and counting. The rocket started to fidget on the spot and with each passing second its movements grew more frenzied, as if it were desperate to break free from the screen and fly away.
Which made me think.
“Taylor,” I said. “The signal. It hasn’t been sent yet, has it?”
“Of course it has,” Taylor said. “I sent it. You tried to cancel. And you failed.”
“But you keep your Web server quiet till the last moment. You told me. And that error message. It said ‘the program.’ As in, the one running on this machine.”
“So?” he said, looking away. “Just computer semantics.”
I reached down and pulled a. 38 from one of the rabbit guy’s holsters. And I heard a noise. From the door, behind me. Someone was opening it. I spun around, expecting to see Lesley. Hoping to see Tanya. But actually seeing one of the other Tungsten guys, from 1410. He was already speaking as he came into the room.
“Boss?” he said. “Got part of a text-”
I shot him twice in the chest, watched him fall, and turned back to the computer. The countdown was hovering on two seconds. It turned to one. I pulled the trigger again. Three more times. Three bullets tore into the keyboard. And I put one into the top edge of the screen, where the Wi-Fi aerial is usually housed, just in case.
Then I grabbed Taylor by the collar and ran.
I could see all five black Fords before we were even through the hotel lobby. They’d been left in a loose horseshoe around the entrance. Lined up like a firing squad, I thought. They couldn’t have been any more obvious. I checked both ways, up and down the street. There was no sign of Lesley. No movement at all, of vehicles or pedestrians. Nothing to show whether she was still on her way, or had already gone.
I pulled Taylor back into the shadows and willed her car to appear.
Taylor broke the silence, after two minutes.
“You were too late,” he said. “You failed. You couldn’t stop me.”
I looked at my watch. My eyes were drawn to the second hand. I thought it must have stopped, but realized it was just crawling around as if it were made of lead. I followed it all the way around the dial. Twice. That made it 3:27. And then my phone rang.
It was Lavine. I spoke to him for fifteen seconds. Taylor saw the expression on my face and broke into a triumphant smile.
“It’s started, hasn’t it?” he said. “They’ve found bodies.”
“Body,” I said. “Just one. A block from here.”
It was Tanya’s.
FORTY-ONE
Losing one of your own is always traumatic.
I was introduced to it early in my career. One of our people was killed while I was in Hong Kong, on my first assignment. He was on their headquarters staff. Some of the others had worked with him for years. I remember wondering how they would react, and being surprised at how calm and unemotional they were. And also feeling uncomfortable when they invited me to his funeral. I’d hardly known the guy. So I declined, and straightaway the station chief called me to his office. He wanted to explain something. It wasn’t just a funeral, he said. It was an alibi. Because in our branch of the service you don’t waste energy on tantrums or hysterics. You don’t get mad. You just get even. Quietly. Efficiently. And permanently.
The killer’s body turned up that afternoon, crushed in the mechanism of an automatic car wash.
At least the police thought it was him. They found his remains unusually hard to identify.
Tanya’s death was officially being handled by the FBI, though inevitably it was overshadowed by their panic over Tungsten. Building a case against Taylor took priority with their bosses, along with keeping a lid on the media, recovering the money he’d squirreled away, hunting down the organ smugglers, and treating the clinics’ victims. But if their eyes were looking in other directions, that suited me fine. London, too. They cut me all the slack I needed. Complications were found with my head wound. Consultations at numerous hospitals were needed. Compassionate leave was granted. You name it. Lucinda, Tanya’s assistant, took care of the official explanations. I just made sure one thing was clear. I wasn’t leaving the United States until Lesley had been found. And made to pay.
It was beginning to look as if I were in for a long stay. How could I infiltrate an organization that had completely dissolved? The FBI could find no trace. Nor could the NYPD. Their internal affairs departments couldn’t unearth Lesley’s informers. We talked to the DSS, but her people had already been pulled out. We tried the banks. Forgers. Weapons suppliers. Car dealers. Realtors. Moving companies. Her known enemies. Homeless people. Everyone and everything we could think of. And we were getting nowhere.
Ten days later I was sitting with Weston and Lavine in their office, trying to conjure up some new angles, when my phone rang. It was Julianne Morgan.
“Hey, David,” she said. “Good to hear your voice. You still in town?”
I was tempted to fob her off. I was in no mood for socializing. But it’s not every day you share a dog cage with someone and then save their life. And there was something else about her. She was a journalist. An investigator, of sorts. A good enough one that Lesley had snatched her off the street a fortnight ago. She must have struck a nerve to warrant a response like that. I decided it was worth a shot. She might be able to dredge something up that could help me.
“Sure,” I said. “I’m just tying up some loose ends. How about you?”
“The same. I just finished a story. A big one. So I’m looking to celebrate. And you promised to let me buy dinner, last time we spoke.”
“I did. You’re right. That would be nice. When were you thinking?”
“How about tonight?”
“Works for me.”
“Great. I’m going to the gym first. Should be done by eight?”
“Eight’s fine.”
“OK, so where to meet? Do you know Esperanto’s? In the Village?”
“I can find it.”
“That’s fine then. See you there.”
The main dining room at Esperanto’s was on the first floor, but they wouldn’t let you up there until you were ready to order. If you were still waiting for anyone you had to stay downstairs, in the bar. Which was tiny. About the size of a normal coat closet. It was too small for tables. You had to stand, sandwiched between the staircase and the counter, being constantly jostled by a noisy throng of overly cheerful customers.
Julianne was forty minutes late. And when she arrived, she wasn’t exactly rushing. She just strolled in, saw me, waved, and waited for me to push my way through the crowd. At least she showed some enthusiasm when I
