against the walls, creating noise.
Borgia said, ‘Why does your employer have a bodyguard posted at his bedside?’
‘I suggest you direct these questions to Bar Lev and Karim’s doctor. I’m just Mr Karim’s assistant.’
Fletcher, wedged inside the hidden compartment’s cramped space, was about to slide the false bottom’s door shut when he remembered his smartphone. He’d left it on the floor. He couldn’t see it, then remembered he had left it lying next to his head.
Quickly he snaked the upper half of his body out, his fingers splayed across the floor as though he were about to perform a push-up. The phone sat near the rear wheel. Slowly he crawled his way to it.
A door slammed open, shoes clicking their way across the garage.
‘Bobby,’ a woman’s voice called out, ‘take cameras three and four.’
‘It’s not the damn cameras, it’s the SUV,’ Bobby replied. ‘You said so yourself.’
‘Yeah, well, the boys upstairs want someone else to take a look at it. We’re ordered to examine the cameras.’
Fletcher, his weight balanced on his left hand, grabbed the phone. He placed it inside his mouth and, biting down, crawled backwards slowly and carefully.
A pair of shoes whisked past the Jaguar’s back bumper.
The elevator doors chimed open.
The man named Bobby said, ‘You need help with the ladder?’
The woman answered from the other end of the garage: ‘I’m a big girl. I think I can manage.’
Fletcher’s arms trembled slightly as he inched his way back, sweat from the exertion and increased adrenalin dripping from his face and leaving small puddles on the floor. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of M’s boots and Borgia’s polished black loafers heading down the steps.
Borgia said, ‘Would you mind if I take a look at your vehicle?’
‘As you Americans say, knock yourself out,’ M said.
‘So I have your permission to examine it?’
‘You have my permission. I have nothing to hide, Mr Borgia.’
‘You said you wanted to tell me something.’
‘I do. But I prefer to have the conversation privately.’
Borgia didn’t reply, possibly mulling over the question.
With much effort and concentration, Fletcher had managed to hoist himself back inside the compartment. He couldn’t move any further without making noise. He hovered over the opening, muscles straining, sweat pouring freely down his face and splashing against the floor.
A cell trilled inside the garage and then stopped as Borgia said, ‘Go ahead.’
Fletcher needed to create a diversion. He grabbed the phone from his mouth.
Borgia said, ‘Good news, Miss White. The list of Karim’s medications has been faxed to the hospital.’
‘Thank you,’ M replied. ‘I still want a copy. I was told to personally hand-deliver it to the hospital.’
‘I had a copy emailed to my phone. We can print it out at the hospital. I’ll drive you.’
‘I think I can manage, Mr Borgia.’
‘I want to speak to Mr Karim’s physician, so we might as well go together. We can speak along the way, privately, like you asked.’
No, Fletcher thought. Don’t go with him.
M’s voice inside the garage: ‘Where are you parked, Mr Borgia?’
‘I’ll have a car meet us — where are you going?’
Fletcher didn’t hear M’s reply; the garage door was rising, the sound loud enough for him to mask his movements.
Clever girl, he thought, and grabbed the door, gently slid it forward and quietly locked it into place. Now he was safely hidden inside the cramped, dark chamber.
His thoughts turned to M. Her safety.
She’s quite capable of handling herself, Karim had said.
Phone in hand, Fletcher counted off time in his head. He would wait twenty minutes — that should give M enough distance from the house. Then he would use the phone and turn up the EMP unit’s frequency to its maximum setting and escape.
73
Borgia escorted M back into the house. He stopped inside the foyer.
‘Please turn and face the wall,’ Borgia said. ‘Spread your arms and your legs.’
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘I need to check you for weapons.’
M recalled Fletcher’s warning: Someone may frisk you. I know you detest being touched, but if you don’t cage your anger, you’ll fail Karim.
Failing Karim was unacceptable; she wouldn’t allow it. She turned and faced the wall.
His hands were rough. She felt as though they were made of fire, leaving burns in the places he touched.
Borgia had arranged for a car to be brought around the back of the house, where there were fewer reporters. Her skin was throbbing as she slid into the passenger’s seat of a black Mercury Grand Marquis. The grey interior smelled of fast-food and cigarettes. M cracked open her window to let in some fresh air.
Manhattan, even at this hour, was still a hive of activity. The noise and bright lights did not bother her, as she had acclimatized herself to this environment over the course of many, many years of living here.
‘We’re all alone now,’ Borgia said. He was leaning back in his seat, one hand draped over the steering wheel. ‘What did you want to tell me?’
She didn’t want to do it here, in the city, with witnesses. She needed to wait until she reached the highway. She needed to draw it out. She needed to act troubled. Concerned and upset.
M had never cried (at least she couldn’t remember having ever done so), and when she’d learned what had happened to Boyd Paulson, a hollow space had formed inside her chest. But she hadn’t cried. With the exception of anger, she was denied most emotions.
Neurotypicals had a range of facial expressions and gestures to show when they were troubled. She had her mental flashcards ready and consulted them now.
M sighed heavily. Her shoulders slumped and she swallowed.
Borgia concentrated on driving. He kept watching her from the corner of his eye.
Minutes passed.
‘Whatever you tell me, I’ll keep in confidence,’ he said.
M didn’t speak. Drew out the silence.
‘It has to do with Mr Karim,’ she said.
Borgia nodded, waited.
Again she didn’t speak. Borgia kept driving, kept shifting in his seat.
‘This is… difficult,’ M said. She ran her fingers through her hair. Then she leaned forward, arms wrapped around her midsection as though experiencing stomach pain, and said, ‘Mr Karim has been very good to me.’
‘That seems to be the general consensus from the employees I’ve spoken to so far. Your boss seems to engender a great deal of loyalty.’
‘He’s been very kind to me. Very generous.’
‘I’m sure he is. But, the fact of the matter is, your boss has been aiding and abetting a known fugitive. You know the man I’m referring to.’
M nodded, eyes wide as she stared down at the dirty car mat littered with an empty Dunkin Donuts coffee cup. Borgia was watching her closely.
‘Malcolm Fletcher,’ she said. ‘I thought he was an honest man.’
‘Fletcher?’
