‘Pardon?’
‘When I was a girl, Karim would periodically check in with the school staff to enquire about my progress. Dr Franklin said, “She never stops moving, that one. Always on the go, like a little machine.” That’s why Karim calls me M. It’s short for “Machine”. I want to know where we’re going.’
‘To get my car. The Jaguar.’
‘Why?’ she asked in a casual tone.
‘Locked inside the trunk is a netbook computer containing information I downloaded from Corrigan’s cell phone — call history, contacts, everything.’
‘Corrigan as in Dr Gary Corrigan, the former surgeon.’
‘Karim told you?’
A curt nod, and she added, ‘I told you I was helping him on this project.’
‘Corrigan performed the organ removal in another location. There could be something on his phone that might allow me to find out where Dr Sin and Nathan Santiago were taken.’
‘What kind of cell did he have?’
‘An iPhone.’
‘Then that will make it easier. All iPhones contain a GPS function — the maps icon. The program is always running in the background, recording where the phone travels. We can download that data and analyse it.’
‘You said Karim was going to be moved to Manhattan either later today or early tomorrow.’
‘That’s what I was told.’
‘I want you to call the head of his security detail.’
‘Bar Lev,’ she said.
‘Call and tell him to speak to Karim’s physician, ask if the transfer can be postponed until tomorrow morning.’
‘Why?’
‘Let me tell you what I have in mind,’ Fletcher said.
69
It was a widely known fact within the Bureau that the FBI’s New York field office was considered to be the best in the country. Size was a factor: it boasted the largest office and the greatest number of personnel. Since it was located in the most volatile city in terms of organized crime — and now, because of 9/11, the most volatile in terms of terrorist activities — the Manhattan field office hired only the brightest technical and forensic minds. Their Evidence Response Team was first rate. Consisting of top supervisory special agents, mechanical engineers, computer and program analysts, even forensic K9 specialists, Manhattan ERT could work any major investigation — had, in fact, worked several terrorist cases. Because of the quality of personnel, these terrorist plots had never materialized.
So it came as a complete surprise to 35-year-old Damon Ortega as to why he and the other eighteen Manhattan agents delivered to Ali Karim’s historic Park Avenue mansion were being asked to perform what amounted to nothing more than watch patrol.
Bundled into a long overcoat, a scarf wrapped around his neck and a clipboard tucked underneath his arm, Ortega paced the cold garage to keep warm. A four-man team of evidence technicians had been brought here all the way from the federal lab to search for evidence inside the three luxury vehicles parked against the side of the far wall. Another team was in Cape May, New Jersey, processing Karim’s Range Rover.
They refused to touch the Jaguar.
A close examination revealed the car contained armour plating and shatterproof windows. They couldn’t unlock it. A tech had tried, using a Slim Jim, and ended up getting shocked — not enough to kill him, but enough to knock the guy flat on his ass. It was the oddest damn thing Ortega had ever seen. Like the others, he kept a safe distance from the car, as though it were a dozing panther that could wake up and pounce at any moment.
One of the evidence guys — or girl, it was impossible to tell which was which with all of them dressed in the same white Tyvek clothing, particle masks and white hoods — saw that Ortega had wandered too close to their work, and waved him away.
Ortega resumed his post near the private elevator. He didn’t need any problems here. Some big players from Headquarters had come all the way from Washington to monitor the Malcolm Fletcher manhunt. Like the lab geeks, they looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping before engaging in hushed conversations.
Why were these Washington suits keeping their cards so close to their chest? Everyone knew what was going on: they were searching for evidence to tie Fletcher to Manhattan’s bigwig security owner, Ali Karim.
When the news broke about what had happened in New Jersey, the Bureau grapevine went into overdrive. Suddenly everyone at the Manhattan field office had some sort of story about the former profiler and his extraordinary — and some said eerie — talent for capturing serial killers. Nobody seemed to know the cause of Fletcher’s strange ocular condition, and it seemed only to enhance the man’s already overpowering sense of menace.
It was maddening to be this close to such a major investigation and yet shut out of the inner circle. He had graduated summa cum laude from Yale and Harvard Law schools, and here he was acting as a secretary, keeping a log and writing down the time and name of each and every person who entered and exited the garage. His eight- year-old daughter could do this job.
By midnight, Ortega was the only one left inside the garage.
At 1.20 a.m. he called upstairs for a bathroom break. When he came back, along with a fresh cup of coffee, he relieved his temporary replacement. Clipboard in hand, he went back to pacing.
At 1.43 a.m. the big bay garage door started to rise. Ortega heard a revving engine and caught sight of a dark SUV roaring down the ramp before a pair of high beams blinded him.
Ortega moved out of the way. A black Ford Expedition whisked past him and came to a screeching stop near the stairs leading up to the elevator. The door flew open and an old woman darted out with surprising speed — no, not an old woman, she was young, with shockingly white hair cut short. She didn’t so much as glance at him, just dashed around the back of the SUV.
‘Stop,’ Ortega said, and gave chase. ‘Stop right now. ’
The woman ran up the short set of concrete steps leading up to the platform for the private elevator. Ortega ran after her, reminding himself of what was happening outside, on Madison Avenue, with the news vans and reporters. They had been camped out there ever since the story broke, recording every door that opened, every agent who stepped outside or entered the mansion. And now they had footage of an SUV shooting its way inside the garage.
The woman pressed the elevator button. Ding as the doors slid open. Ortega reached the top of the steps, hit the wall control for the garage door and then took two long strides and grabbed the elevator doors before they shut.
‘Step out of the elevator,’ Ortega said. ‘Right now.’
The woman stared at him blankly. Her face was delicate and beautiful, the skin pale, almost translucent; it brought to mind the Japanese kabuki dolls his mother collected. She wore a dark wool jacket over a tight fitting black shirt. She also wore a hearing aid.
Ortega spoke loudly, clearly. ‘I said step — ’
‘I’m Mr Karim’s personal assistant.’ She had a British accent, very sexy, even though she was shouting at him. ‘There’s an emergency at the Cape May Medical Center, and I need to — ’
‘No, you need to get out of there and get back inside — ’
‘ Shut up and listen. Mr Karim has a history of high blood pressure and heart problems. He’s experiencing arrhythmia, and his physician has asked me to make a list of all his medications — yes, yes, I know, the hospital should have all that information on their computer. For whatever reason they don’t. Now you know why I’m here, so you better bloody well let me upstairs.’
‘You aren’t allowed — ’
‘Let me speak to the agent in charge right now.’
