‘Is that the computer?’
‘Why?’ Fletcher asked. ‘Why did you go with him?’
‘To talk to him about Karim. Why else?’
Fletcher sighed. ‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing useful. Maybe you’ll have better luck with him.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Hog-tied in the trunk of my car. I brought him here in case you wanted to speak to him. I relieved him of his clothing in case he was wearing some sort of device that would allow the FBI to track him.’
‘And his car?’
‘Someplace where they can’t find it — unless it has a hidden GPS or tracking unit. I also disconnected the battery from his phone, tossed everything on to the highway. Give me your computer. I want to get to work.’
Fletcher handed it to her, and told her the name of the software program he used to analyse cell-phone data.
‘I’m assuming you have a location where you can work safely.’
‘I have everything I need.’
‘Any news from Karim’s Baltimore contact?’ Fletcher asked. M had emailed the homicide detective several images of the disfigured man who had killed Boyd Paulson and abducted Nathan Santiago and Dr Sin.
‘He left a message,’ she said. ‘The disfigured man is named Brandon Arkoff. He’s the co-owner of the funeral home in West Baltimore, Washington Memorial Park. His partner is a woman named Marie Clouzot. He said he released their images, along with the ones I gave him for Nathan Santiago, to the Baltimore press. He released copies to the newspapers. This morning he’s going to hold a press conference asking the public for help. Maybe something will come of it. Karim is awake.’
‘When?
‘As of an hour ago,’ she said. ‘I spoke with Karim’s bodyguard.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Being moved to Manhattan. He’ll be heavily guarded. Do you want to speak with Borgia, or do you want me to take care of it?’
‘I’ll take care of it.’
‘The keys are in the ignition. I also left a disposable cell on the seat. I wrote my number on it. I’ll get to work on analysing Corrigan’s cell-phone data. I’ll contact you when I’m finished.’
Fletcher was about to speak when she turned abruptly on her heel and marched around the front of the Jeep.
‘M?’
She looked at him from across the Jeep’s roof.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
M seemed genuinely puzzled.
‘For what?’ she asked.
She didn’t wait for an answer. She slipped behind the wheel and drove away.
Fletcher would have preferred someplace private to conduct his questioning. While Karim owned a good amount of both commercial and residential property within the state of New Jersey — some of which, M had told him, was unoccupied — Fletcher did not want any evidence of what he was about to do to be traced back to Karim. There was no need to give the FBI’s case against Karim any additional ammunition.
The small town of Monroe, New Jersey, was a fifteen-minute drive from New Brunswick. Named after the fifth President of the United States, James Monroe, the picturesque town offered an abundance of farmland and thickly settled forests.
Fletcher stopped when he spotted an ideal location: an undeveloped field that stretched for miles in every direction, no homes or buildings anywhere in sight. He scouted the edge of the forest and found an area where he could park without being seen from the main road.
He performed a final check and, finding no witnesses or approaching cars, pulled off the road and drove across the field of frozen ground and dead grass. He parked in a spot offering a good amount of tree cover, popped the trunk and got out to speak with Alexander Borgia.
77
Having spent the last hours caged in darkness, Agent Borgia winced in the sudden light. Naked except for a pair of grey boxers, he lay on his side against a bright blue polyurethane tarp, his arms stretched behind him. M had used several zip ties to bind the man’s ankles and arms together and then used a final pair to hog-tie him.
She had also worked him over. His face, a swollen, pulpy mess of split skin and drying blood, was almost unrecognizable. Fletcher put his foot up on the back bumper and rolled up his trouser leg, wondering what Borgia had done to provoke her.
Fletcher removed the knife from its sheath. A favorite among scuba divers, this knife had a long blade with a serrated edge that could cut through cartilage and muscle with minimal effort and, if needed, bone.
Borgia groaned as he turned his head, his good eye staring up at the knife. He tried to speak, but his words were muffled by the rag that had been stuffed in his mouth.
‘Relax, Mr Borgia. I have no intention of treating you the same way Miss White did. I promise you, I won’t be anywhere near as kind.’
Fletcher slit the zip ties binding the man’s ankles. He tucked the knife into his pocket and hoisted Borgia out of the trunk — an easy task, given the man’s rather diminutive size.
Fletcher searched the trunk, found the usual assortment of offerings: jumper cables, reusable shopping bags and a plastic container stocked with bungee cords. He selected the jumper cables, shut the trunk, and, with one hand gripping the back of the Borgia’s neck, marched the barefoot man across the bumpy mat of dead leaves, twigs and small rocks.
Fletcher didn’t speak as he led Borgia deeper and deeper into the woods. The only sounds were Borgia’s footsteps and his laboured breathing.
The man’s frame held barely any body fat. Without this much-needed insulation, he couldn’t stop shivering. He fell several times. Fletcher lifted him to his feet, and he kept stumbling about, disorientated, until he fell again.
Ten minutes had passed; it was enough. Fletcher shoved Borgia face first against a tree. He used the jumper cable to secure the man’s neck against the trunk.
Borgia had turned his head so he could watch the forest with his working eye.
‘Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “A man must ride alternately on the horses of his private and public nature, as the equestrians in the circus throw themselves nimbly from horse to horse.” Emerson was referring to a man’s conscience.’ Fletcher tapped the blade against Borgia’s forehead. ‘Now let’s see if we can find yours.
‘I don’t know what you’ve read or heard about me, Mr Borgia, but know this: I find dishonesty unspeakably ugly. Please bear that in mind before you answer.
‘We’ll start with the most obvious question: why did you order one of your HRT operators to kill Ali Karim?’
Fletcher pulled the rag from Borgia’s mouth. More than one tooth had been knocked loose during his altercation with M.
‘You forgot something, Malcolm.’
‘Please, enlighten me.’
‘I’m not afraid to die.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ Fletcher said, and grabbed two of Borgia’s fingers. A quick turn of the wrist and they broke.
Borgia screamed. Spittle mixed with blood sprayed against the tree bark.
‘Why did you try to kill Ali Karim?’
Borgia started to giggle.
