Andrew Grant - Even

Several of my previous assignments had been missing from Rosser’s file.

A number of them had taken place in the United States. One was in California. I’d been sent there to infiltrate a cell phone company where we suspected some employees were selling transcripts of sensitive short message service messages. The scheme had been well hidden. It took three months to flush out. I’d felt strange working in the same office for so long, but in the end a little part of me was sorry to leave. Not because of the people, though. Most of them were crooks. It was more about the way you were looked after. There was gym membership. Concert tickets. Discounts at local stores. You don’t even get free parking in the navy.

Another strange thing was the company newsletter. Different departments telling each other what they were doing. That’s a weird concept. The magazine was nicely produced-glossy paper, plenty of photos-but the lack of real news meant they had a lot of ads and bogus articles. One was written by a psychologist. Every month someone gave him pictures of a manager’s office and he revealed all kinds of insights based on how they kept their workspace. Once we learned that the papers strewn all over the desk of the president of Human Resources showed she was a really caring person. The next month we found out that the way the VP of engineering arranged his stationery demonstrated a sound grasp of complex technology. I was certainly convinced.

That psychologist would have loved the large rectangular room the tall guy took me to next, at the end of the landing corridor. It had a white-stained wooden floor, plain white walls, and a white ceiling that sloped sharply to one side. There was a wide window at the far end and double closet doors built into the wall on the left. An L-shaped desk ran along the other wall and stuck out halfway across the room. Behind it was a single chrome and black leather chair. There were no piles of papers or letter trays or pen holders. The only thing anywhere on the desk was a small, white laptop. Its screen was folded down and there was no sign of it being connected to anything. And there was no printer, router, fax, or phone.

The space between the desk and the door was filled with a boardroom-style table. It was made from light wood with rounded corners and beveled edges. The tabletop was polished like glass and I couldn’t see a single mark or scratch or blemish. There was a flap, eight inches by twelve, set into the surface at both ends. They were probably to conceal power outlets. Three chrome and leather chairs were arranged along each side-precisely parallel-and two more were lined up at each end.

A projector sat in the middle of the table with its cable in a neat coil at its side. It was pointing at a screen on the wall next to the door. The other walls were bare, except for a print of Magritte’s Ceci n’est pas une pipe, which hung over the desk. The original is in the L.A. County Museum. I noticed it when I was tailing a couple of suspects on that mobile phone job. I remember liking it. Finding a copy of it here seemed strange.

“Take a seat,” the tall guy said. “Won’t be long.”

I chose the chair in the center on the far side. He took the one nearest the exit. Farther down the corridor a door slammed. Footsteps approached. One set, light but confident, moving fast without rushing. They paused, and then a woman entered the room. The way she strode in made it clear that we were the ones invading her domain, not the other way around.

The woman had ginger hair. Fiery red, not orange. It was cut long at the back and sides to emphasize her long, slender neck and delicate jaw. Her skin was pale and flawless, and her wine-red lipstick brought out a wild green glint in her eyes. Her clothes-jacket, vest-style top, slacks, and pumps-were all black. They looked expensive. From a distance I put her at around thirty-five, but when she came over and took the seat opposite me I guessed she was at least a decade older.

She sat and looked straight at me for a full fifteen seconds. Her eyes seemed to glow from behind her bangs like a cat’s and she had the calm, unrushed air of someone in complete control of herself and everything around her.

“You’re from out of town, so you probably don’t know who we are,” she said.

I didn’t answer.

“So we’ll start with some ground rules,” she said. “We’re not like the police. Or the FBI. We don’t care about guilt or alibis. We have no rules or procedures. All we’re here to do is talk about a proposition. Something we can both benefit from. Any bullshit from you, and the conversation ends.”

“OK then,” I said. “No bullshit. What can we do for each other?”

“We can help with your current problem. You can do us a small favor in return.”

“What current problem?”

“Your FBI problem. They don’t like you very much. Not anymore. Not now they think you killed their agent.”

“They’re mistaken.”

“We know.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we killed him.”

“You did? Why?”

“No reason. We have lots of balls in the air, any given moment. Every now and again one gets dropped. It’s no big deal.”

“It is from where I’m sitting.”

“OK,” she said, after a moment. “Truth is, it was a mistake. Our guy didn’t watch him long enough. We didn’t know he was an undercover agent.”

“An agent disguised as a tramp,” I said. “But why kill a tramp?”

“That’s not relevant.”

Then I made the connection. The Social Security cards. Raab was carrying one. It was old and filthy and used. The guy downstairs had another. They were stealing identities. From tramps. And probably selling them. Rosser had mentioned illegal immigrants using the railroads. They were exactly the kind of people who’d need new papers. Maybe that was how Raab had got caught up with these guys.

“So Agent Raab was killed by mistake,” I said. “That’s nice to know. His family will be delighted. But how does it help me?”

“It doesn’t,” she said. “In itself. But if we give you the guy who pulled the trigger, that would work. Might even throw in the gun. They run ballistics, you’re free and clear.”

“Why would you do that?”

“When the FBI pulled you in, you met three main guys?”

“Right. Rosser, Varley, and Breuer.”

“Good. That’s what we heard. So this is what you do. Contact the FBI. Tell them you have the real shooter, and you want to bring him in. But you’ll only hand him over to the same three guys you already met. Say you don’t trust anyone else. Can you do that?”

“I know someone. They could set it up. But why those three guys?”

“We have a problem with one of them.”

“Which one?”

“Mitchell Varley.”

“What sort of problem?”

“His continued existence.”

“Intriguing. Why?”

“Ancient history.”

“Not that you’re one to bear a grudge…”

“Let’s just say our paths have crossed before. More than once.”

“They have? Excellent. I always enjoy a good bit of vengeance. What did he do?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, and I saw her left hand slip down from the table into her lap. “But my guy’s going to correct the situation.”

“How?” I said.

“With a. 22. One shot, close range. Straight through the temple. But don’t worry. You’ll be in no danger. The bullet won’t even come out the other side. It’ll just rattle around, turning his worthless brain to mush.”

“And that’s your small favor?”

“Put our guy and Varley together. That’s all we want.”

“Then I’m sorry. I can’t help.”

Air hissed from between the woman’s clenched teeth.