Dan O'Shea - Penance

“I thought about that. Won’t be the first time a cop had somebody come after him. I’m taking precautions.”

“I am glad. And the mayor will be as well. The Hurleys have always felt indebted to your family.”

“Anyway, I figured you’d know who to get word to and how to get it there. I solve crimes, I don’t create dirty laundry.”

“I appreciate your sensitivity, young Lynch.”

“I was also wondering if there was anything you could add that might shed some light. Any other potential targets? The mayor we got. Riordan’s sister, Eddie Marslovak we got. Stefanski or Riley have any relatives we should watch out for?”

“Alderman Riley is a nephew, of course, and he has a family. Sadly, Riley’s son died very young, and his wife is long dead. Stefanski was a bachelor.”

“Heard he sowed his share of wild oats, though. Anything ever come of that?”

“So long ago, young Lynch. Certainly nothing that I recall.”

“OK, well get the word to whomever, and let me know if there’s anything I need to watch.”

“I shall, young Lynch.” Wang rising from behind the desk to show Lynch out. “And now, of course, you must attend the Connemara Ball.”

“Come on, Paddy, you ever going to give up on that?”

“It is the algebra of favors. You have asked for my intervention. Only for the good of my friends, granted. But now I ask that you and your striking new companion grace my festivities tonight. I must insist.”

Uri, team leader for Weaver’s lend-lease Israelis, sat in the rented Ford watching the blips for Ferguson’s and Chen’s phones on the nav application that Paravola had uploaded onto his phone. They were booked into adjoining rooms at the Palmer House on State Street. Chen was in her room, or her phone was anyway, and she was online. Paravola was working on hacking her feed, but she was doing some kind of non-standard encryption, backing up what InterGov already had. Paranoid little bitch. Weaver said they were good.

Ferguson had been out since the team arrived, GPS from his phone bouncing around the south side. But now it looked like he was headed back to the hotel. So the Israeli waited. Better to take them both at once.

Uri watched the side mirror, saw Ferguson coming down Wabash on foot. Must have parked in the garage up the street, keeping his transportation separate, not wanting to rely on the valet. Uri let Ferguson pass, let him get to the intersection. Ferguson was stuck, waiting to cross the street, waiting for the light to change. Uri got ready to move, just waiting for a bus to pass the car, give him a little cover.

Uri watched the bus, watched Ferguson, didn’t see the bicycle messenger speeding along the edge of the parked cars, going against the one-way traffic. As Uri swung his door open, the bike messenger slammed into it, bike crashing over, the messenger taking the spill in a roll, popping back up on his feet, coming at the Israeli.

“Fuckin’ tourist,” the messenger yelled, extending his arms, locking them to shove Uri.

Ferguson had just started across the street when he heard a crunch behind him. Didn’t turn his head to look, too many years of tradecraft. Instead he checked the reflection in the big plate-glass windows that lined the arcade of shops on the ground floor of the hotel. In the reflection, he saw the bike on the ground, the open car door, saw the messenger roll up, spring at the guy getting out of the car. The guy slipped the shove easily, quick move, great balance, then an elbow into the bike messenger’s ribs as the momentum of the shove carried him past. Krav Maga move — that home-grown shit the Israelis taught all their guys. Mossad move. Three other guys had gotten out of the car, too. All the right age, right size.

Four Mossad guys popping out of a car behind him? Ferguson didn’t know what it meant, beyond nothing good. Meant they were waiting for him, though. Which meant they knew he was coming. Probably the damn phone. Probably Weaver.

Ferguson continued across the intersection, watching the window. The Mossad guys were spreading out, two heading north up Adams, two continuing after him. Not hurrying, trying to look casual.

Ferguson kept on Wabash and then turned into the retail arcade on the ground floor, below the lobby, saw a guy coming toward him carrying a shopping bag. Face wasn’t a good match for him, but the guy was the right size, was wearing the same type of nondescript raincoat, same color hair. Ferguson dropped his phone into the guy’s shopping bag and then ducked into one of the shops, turned behind a display.

He saw two of the Israelis come through the revolving door into the arcade, scanning. They stopped. The taller one, the one who had dropped the bicycle messenger, pulled a smartphone out of his pocket, checked the screen. Guy scrunched up his brow, nudged the other guy, and they went back out the door. Turned north. Same way shopping bag guy had gone.

That proved it.

“Fuck,” said Ferguson.

“May I help you?” A voice behind him, a little disapproving.

Ferguson turned. Little, nattily dressed guy, maybe five and a half feet, might go one hundred and twenty-five with a pocket full of change. Gelled hair, manicure.

“No,” said Ferguson. “No, I don’t think you can.”

Uri and his wingman were most of the way up the block, Uri splitting his attention between the screen on the phone and the pedestrian traffic. Sidewalks were crammed. Had to get a good look more than a couple of people ahead. Then he saw the guy in the raincoat. Short, salt-and-pepper hair, right size. Could be. Sped up. Drifted left. His wingman knew the drill, drifted right so they’d come at Ferguson from both sides. Only a couple yards back now. Readout on Uri’s screen said he was right on top of Ferguson’s phone and pacing it. But he was close enough to see this guy wasn’t Ferguson. Fucking bike messenger. Should have killed the son of a bitch.

He stopped, punched the team button on the phone. The other two should have been coming in the west end of the arcade just after he left the east.

“You guys see Ferguson go out that way?”

“No. He didn’t come west.”

The Israeli thinking Ferguson was probably gone. Probably got a sniff because of the damn bike messenger, planted his phone on this schmuck for cover and took off. But the Israeli still had numbers and firepower on his side. Attack, always attack. That was the Israeli way. Both at once was better, but one was better than none. Get Chen, then run Ferguson to ground.

“OK, screw Ferguson for now. We take Chen. Cover the arcade, both ends, watch the elevators and escalators. Looks like she’s still in her room.”

The Israeli and his wingman jogged back toward the door.

Ferguson figured the other two would be spreading out to cover the arcade. Best move would be to break contain, get outside, get clear. But only if he wanted to sacrifice Chen. Figured it was time to decide whether he believed his own bullshit. Called out Weaver because he’d lost his moral compass, such as it was. Now he had to decide. Did he throw Chen under the bus to save his own ass or did he stand up?

Big crowd coming, trade show group or something, all in suits, those lanyards with name tags hanging around their necks. Ferguson used them as cover to cross the arcade, got into the knot of suits, went up the staircase to the lobby. He was all in now. Only way back out was through the Israelis. One of the suits split left, texting away on his BlackBerry, heading for the men’s room. Ferguson needed comms, trailed the guy into the john, gave him an elbow across the base of the skull as soon as they cleared the door, dropped him to the floor like a bag of flour. Grabbed the BlackBerry, hoping to hell Chen was online. He knew she used some kind of tech voodoo to keep her connections secure, mostly just to piss off Paravola. Didn’t know whether that would help with an incoming message, but it was the only chance they had. Ferguson started texting.