Andrew Grant - Even

“So?” I said.

“To win that kind of business, your reputation is everything. There’s no room for anyone with the slightest question mark over them.”

“Even if they haven’t actually done anything wrong?” I said.

“Look, it’s not like we just cut these guys loose. We gave them three months’ money. And there’s plenty of other work for them, over there. They’ll get other jobs if they want them.”

“Three months’ money?” Weston said. “What’s that in dollars?”

“Ballpark? Somewhere between $40K and $60K each. Can’t remember the exact package all our guys are on.”

“Big numbers,” Weston said.

“Above average, yes. But that’s what we’re about. Above-average people, above-average risks, above-average rewards.”

“The team you let go,” Lavine said. “Who actually fired them?”

“You mean who sat in the room and gave them the bad news? Me.”

“Who else knew?” Lavine said.

“A couple of people in HR. Another couple in operations. Why?”

“We’ll need their names,” Lavine said. “And a list of people with access to your payroll system.”

“What’s that-”

“Excuse me a minute, guys,” I said. “I need to use your bathroom. No need to call anyone. I saw it on our way in.”

No one was speaking when I came back. Lavine had moved to the far side of the wolframite globe. Tanya glowered at me, as if she were annoyed I’d left the room. Taylor was standing with his back to the others, staring blankly out of the window. He looked pale. In his place at the table was a line of four-by-six photographs. If he was telling the truth, the last time he’d seen the people in those pictures, they’d just finished being his employees. And they’d still been alive.

“He was lying,” Lavine said, back in the car. “He knew something. You can forget all that friend-of-the-people bullshit. I mean, please.”

“It’s about the money,” Weston said. “Always the same.”

“It’s not about the money,” I said. “I agree with Tanya. It’s about the hospital. Something happened over there. Someone did something. Or saw something. We just have to figure out who. Or what.”

“How?” Tanya said. “Asking Taylor didn’t do much good.”

“We can start with this,” I said, taking a CD out of my jacket pocket.

“What is it?” Lavine said.

“Debut album from a new Icelandic band,” I said. “Bjork’s brother-in-law. Played the Bowery Ballroom the other night. Heard of them?”

“No.”

“Go ahead. Put it on the stereo. It’ll help us concentrate.”

“Don’t think so.”

“Well, you’re probably right. It might not sound too good. Because it’s not really music. It’s actually Tungsten’s phone bill. Brand-new, fresh out of the envelope.”

“On a CD?”

“Of course. Itemized corporate phone bills always come on CD. Unless they want twenty boxes of paper every month.”

“Where did it come from?”

“The phone company, would be my guess.”

“I mean, how come you’ve got it?”

“Use your imagination.”

“So you didn’t really need the bathroom, back there,” Tanya said.

“You stole it?” Lavine said.

“That makes it compromised,” Weston said. “We can’t use it.”

“You can’t,” I said. “But we can. Tanya, could you get some people to take a look?”

“Sure,” she said. “Drop me at the consulate. I’ll get them straight on it.”

“What’s it going to give us?” Lavine said.

“Who knows?” I said. “Maybe everything. Maybe nothing. We’ll let you know in a couple of hours.”

“Worth a try, I suppose,” Weston said. “Call us when you’re done. Meantime, we’ll head back. Check on the other hares we’ve got running.”

“You can drop me at a hotel on the way,” I said. “I’ll need a room, now that I’m staying a while.”

“No problem,” Weston said. “Which one? Same as last night?”

“No,” I said. “I fancy a change. My favorite room’s not available in that place.”

“Want us to have a word?” Lavine said. “When we ask, rooms get made available.”

“Wouldn’t work this time,” I said. “They’re not done repairing it after the bureau’s last visit.”

A few years ago I remember there was a craze for “magic pictures.”

They were really just psychedelic blotches that people would stare at for hours, willing their eyes to somehow make coherent images out of the brightly colored speckles. Intelligence analysts wouldn’t admit it, but the bulk of their everyday work is very similar. It all hinges on the same skill. Identifying hidden patterns. Only they’re not trying to conjure people’s faces and mountain ranges out of paint splatter. They’re looking for bomb plots and assassination attempts in financial transactions. Currency transfers. Phone calls. E-mail traffic. Internet searches. Passenger manifests. Freight receipts. University registrations. Job applications. Tax returns. Red-flagged purchases. Even old-fashioned letters and faxes.

It’s a similar story for us, in the field. Only we have less material to work with.

Less support.

And less time to join the dots.

The first guy was waiting near the crosswalk, half hidden behind a street vendor’s refreshment stand. He wasn’t buying anything. Or eating anything. Or reading anything. He was just waiting, watching the traffic. And occasionally glancing across at the disused store, fifteen yards away. That’s where the second guy was, prowling up and down, keeping track of the cars’ reflections in the blank glass.

The lights changed, but neither guy made a move toward my side of the road. The lights changed again, and a BMW 5 Series approached. A woman was driving, on her own. The first guy stiffened. The car drew nearer. The guy’s weight shifted forward, and he took half a step toward the street. Then he suddenly relaxed and melted back away from the curb. The car cruised past and I saw there was a baby in a child’s seat in the back. It was fast asleep.

The lights went through three more cycles and the first guy remained like a statue until another car caught his attention. It was an Audi A6. Another woman was driving. Again, she was on her own. She picked up a little speed, trying to get through the intersection without having to stop when he sprang out into her path. She hit the brakes. The tires screamed. The car’s nose pitched down as if it were trying to burrow into the asphalt. The front fender hit the guy below the knees, flipping him into the air. He came down headfirst onto the hood, stuck to the shiny metal for a moment, then slithered forward and tumbled limply into the gutter.

The driver jumped out and raced to the front of the car. The vendor ran to join her. The people who’d been waiting to cross the street quickly gathered round, anxious for a glimpse of blood. And beyond all of them, the second guy peeled away from the store window and casually drifted across the sidewalk.

I crossed the street, heading for the back of the car. The second guy didn’t see me. He was too focused on the crowd. He reached the open driver’s door without anyone noticing him. He reached inside. The woman’s briefcase and purse were lying on the floorboard, on the passenger’s side, where they’d fallen. The guy stretched across, hooked his fingers through the handles, and smoothly backed out of the car. It had taken him less than two seconds, and no one else had seen what he was doing.

I let him get clear of the trunk before hitting him. I didn’t want him to land on the car, or make any noise when he fell. My fist made a good clean contact and he went down like a stone, the side of his face banging against the base of a mailbox. I quickly checked him over. He was breathing, but out cold.