Chris Mooney - The Killing House

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Five, maybe eight minutes. I want to go take a look at the SUV.’

‘You’re familiar with the term CYA?’

Wolfe nodded. Cover Your Ass was rule numero uno of every federal investigation.

‘Let me call upstairs,’ Ratner said, reaching for his radio, ‘see what they want us to do.’

M stood by the elevator, alongside the agent who had accompanied her upstairs. Alexander Borgia had excused himself to answer a phone call. She was too far away to hear what he was saying, but his gaze was locked on her.

The first part of the plan had worked out perfectly. Entering the garage at this late hour, she had found only one agent inside. Now he was standing next to her on the fourth floor and no one was inside the garage, not as yet. Fletcher was no doubt already underneath the Jaguar. No one could see or hear him. He had told her about the EMP device that would scramble the cameras.

Alexander Borgia may very well be inside your father’s home, Fletcher had told her. If he is, he’ll want to question you. You’re to fight back verbally — act upset and put out at being detained when you’re in a rush to get a list of Karim’s medications faxed to the hospital. I doubt they’ll waste time trying to track down the doctor by phone to see if such a request was made.

This afternoon, M had prepared for the possibility that Borgia or another federal agent would try to contact Karim’s physician, Dr Segal, who was, in fact, at the Cape May Hospital in New Jersey. Karim’s bodyguard, Bar Lev, had explained the situation to the doctor. Segal had agreed to cooperate to keep Karim safe.

Karim is a powerful man, with a cadre of lawyers at his disposal, Fletcher had told her. They’ll be fearful of a wrongful-death lawsuit and, most likely, allow you to collect Karim’s medications under the supervision of an agent. The important thing is to give me enough time to secure myself inside the Jaguar’s hidden compartment. It should take no more than ten minutes. I’ll contact you once I’m inside.

Borgia hung up and approached her. He didn’t dress in the usual drab colours she associated with federal agents. He wore a pinstriped grey suit with a pale lavender tie and good shoes. Gold cufflinks. The suit, along with his grey hair and the stiff way he walked, gave him the appearance of a private Swiss banker — someone who dealt exclusively with rich clients because he could be trusted to keep their secrets. She saw smudges of TV makeup on his starched collar.

‘My apologies for keeping you waiting, Miss White.’ He glanced at her hearing aid. ‘Am I speaking loud enough for you to hear me?’

‘You are. Now may I go to collect Mr Karim’s medication?’

‘I have someone doing that.’

‘I need to do it. Mr Karim is a bit of a slob. This person you assigned won’t know where they all are.’

‘I think we’ll manage just fine.’ Borgia pressed the elevator button.

‘Where are you going?’

‘ We’re going downstairs,’ Borgia said. The doors chimed opened and he motioned with a hand for her to enter. ‘Mr Ortega, you can remain here. I’ll contact you when I’m done.’

Fletcher hadn’t contacted her yet; she needed to stall Borgia.

‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ she said. ‘Privately.’

‘You can tell me downstairs.’ When she didn’t move, Borgia smiled politely, grabbed her forearm and escorted her into the elevator.

Fletcher, lying on his back in the tight space underneath the Jag, had just unlocked the levers for the false bottom when he heard M’s conversation with Borgia.

There’s something I need to tell you, M had told Borgia. Privately.

What was she doing? Fletcher had discussed this with her earlier in the day. Under no circumstances was she to be alone, anywhere, with Borgia — or any other federal agent, given what had happened to Karim.

They were coming down in the elevator. Over his earpiece he heard Borgia say: ‘Strangest thing happened when you pulled into the garage. The surveillance cameras? They suddenly stopped working. Nothing but snow on the screens, from what the technical engineers told me.’

Fletcher grabbed the handles disguised as pipes and pulled down. Now he slid the door across him, revealing the false bottom.

‘Any idea what may be causing it?’ Borgia asked M.

‘I’m a secretary, Mr Borgia, not a bloody engineer. I need to get Mr Karim’s med — ’

‘I understand Karim’s personal physician is in New Jersey.’

Fletcher picked up his tactical belt and tossed it inside.

‘Yes,’ M said. ‘Dr Segal.’

‘Dr Segal doesn’t know Karim’s medications?’ Borgia asked.

Fletcher grabbed the fibre-optic camera and tossed it inside.

M said, ‘I was told he couldn’t access them from the hospital’s computer system.’

‘Someone from his office couldn’t fax or email Karim’s file to the hospital?’

‘Dr Segal’s office is closed. Do you know what time of the morning it is?’

Fletcher had grabbed the interior handles; he lifted himself into a sitting position, the undercarriage’s pipes and metal edges rubbing against his chest, ripping his shirt.

Borgia said, ‘He couldn’t call someone from his office, ask them to — ’

‘I was asked, since I live near by,’ M said.

‘The doctor called you?’

‘No. Bar Lev did.’

‘Who?’

‘Karim’s personal bodyguard,’ M said.

Fletcher threaded his way inside the cramped compartment, his head, elbows, knees and feet bumping 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.’