I pressed back in the darkness and waited. The scene in front of me was absolutely deserted. Occasional cars or taxicabs on Madison. No traffic at all on 58th. No pedestrians anywhere. No dog walkers, no partygoers staggering home. Garbage collection was over. Bagel deliveries hadn’t started.
The dead of night.
The city that doesn’t sleep was at least resting comfortably.
I waited.
Three minutes later the phone in my pocket started to vibrate.
I kept my eyes on the restaurant building and opened the phone. Raised it to my ear and said, ‘Yes?’
She asked, ‘What happened?’
‘You didn’t show.’
‘Did you expect me to?’
‘I didn’t give it much thought.’
‘What happened to my people?’
‘They’re in the system.’
‘We can still deal.’
‘How? You can’t afford to lose any more men.’
‘We can work something out.’
‘OK. But the price just went up.’
‘How much?’
‘Seventy-five.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Right outside your house.’ There was a pause.
There was movement at a window. Fourth floor, the left-hand of two. A darkened room. Faint, ghostly, barely perceptible from fifty yards.
Maybe the shift of a drape. Maybe a white shirt. Maybe imaginary.
She said, ‘No, you’re not outside my house.’ But she didn’t sound sure.
She said, ‘Where do you want to meet?’
I said, ‘What does it matter? You won’t show.’
‘I’ll send someone.’
‘You can’t afford to. You’re down to your last six guys.’
She started to say something, and stopped.
I said, ‘Times Square.’
‘OK.’
‘Tomorrow morning at ten.’
‘Why?’
‘I want people around.’
‘That’s too late.’
‘For what?’
‘I want it now.’
‘Tomorrow at ten. Take it or leave it.’
She said, ‘Stay on the line.’
‘Why?’
‘I have to count my money. To check that I have seventy- five.’
I unzipped my jacket.
I put my glove on.
I heard Lila Hoth, breathing.
Fifty yards away the black door opened. The covered alley. A man stepped out. Small, dark, wiry. And wary. He checked the sidewalk, left and right. He peered across the street.
I put the phone in my pocket. Still open. Still live.
I raised the MP5.
Sub-machine guns were developed for close-quarters combat, but many of them are as accurate as rifles out to medium ranges. Certainly the H&K was reliable out to at least a hundred yards. Mine was fitted with iron sights. I moved the selector lever to single shot and put the front sight square on the guy’s centre mass.
Fifty yards away he stepped to the kerb. Scanned right, scanned left, scanned ahead. He saw the same nothing I was seeing. Just cool air and a thin night mist.
He stepped back to the door.
A taxicab passed by in front of me.
Fifty yards away the guy pushed the door.
I waited until I judged his momentum was all set to move forward. Then I pulled the trigger and shot him in the back. Bull’s-eye. A slow bullet. A perceptible delay. Fire, hit. The SD is advertised as silent. It isn’t. It makes a sound. Louder than the polite lithe spit you would get in a movie. But not worse than the kind of thump you would get from dropping a phone book on a table from about a yard. Noticeable in any environment, but not remarkable in a city.
Fifty yards away the guy pitched forward and went down with his torso in the alley and his legs on the sidewalk. I put a second bullet into him for safety’s sake and let the gun fall against its strap and took the phone back out of my pocket.
I said, ‘You still there?’
She said, ‘We’re still counting.’
You’re one short, I thought.
I zipped my jacket. Started walking. I hugged the far side of Madison and overshot 58th by a couple of yards. I crossed the avenue and came around the corner with my shoulder tight against the frontage of the buildings. I needed to keep below her line of sight. I passed the first old building. Passed the second.
I said from forty feet below her, ‘I have to go now. I’m tired. Times Square, tomorrow morning at ten, OK?’
She answered from forty feet above me. She said, ‘OK, I’ll send someone.’
I clicked off and put the phone back in my pocket and dragged the dead guy all the way into the alley. I closed the door behind us, slowly and quietly.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
There was a light in the alley. A single dim bulb, in a dirty bulkhead fixture. I recognized the dead guy from the photographs in Springfield’s Homeland Security folder. He had been number seven of the original nineteen. I didn’t remember his name. I dragged him the length of the space. The floor was old concrete, worn to a shine. I searched him. Nothing in his pockets. No ID. No weapon. I left him by a small wheeled trash receptacle covered in baked-on grime so old it didn’t smell any more.
Then I found the inner door to the building, and unzipped my jacket, and waited. I wondered how long it would take for them to get worried about the missing guy. Less than five minutes, I figured. I wondered how many there would be in the search party. Just one, probably, but I hoped for more.
They waited seven minutes and sent two men. The inner door opened and the first guy stepped out. Number fourteen on Springfield’s list. He took a pace towards the alley door and the second guy stepped out after him. Number eight on Springfield’s list.
Then three things happened.
First, the first guy stopped. He saw that the alley door was closed. Which did not compute. It could not be opened from the outside without the key. Therefore the original searcher would have left it standing open while he prowled the sidewalk. But it was closed. Therefore the original searcher was already back inside.
