Andrew Grant - Even

Tanya’s phone rang as we were trudging back through the aimless clusters of people still frittering their time away in the fading afternoon sunshine. It was Lucinda, her assistant at the consulate. They’d finished crunching Tungsten’s phone records ahead of schedule and wanted to talk her through the results. Tanya listened intently. A satisfied smile spread across her face. And finally she said if they could knock out five copies in the time it would take us to collect Weston’s car and get over to Third Avenue, she’d stop by and collect them herself.

The detour via the consulate didn’t add much journey time. The traffic was light for a Wednesday, and Weston left the engine running while Tanya ducked inside to pick up the stack of fat manila envelopes. She got back in the car without a word, and no one broke the silence until we were away from the curb and moving again.

“I better call the boss,” Lavine said, taking out his cell phone. “Tell him we’re coming in.”

The call lasted the rest of the way back to the FBI garage.

“Varley’s not here,” he said, after Weston had finished tucking the car neatly into its bay. “He’s gone to sort out some other crisis. So there’s no point going all the way upstairs. May as well just head for the twenty-third.”

Tanya wouldn’t part with the reports until Lavine had collected the chair from his desk and wheeled it into the glass booth with the others.

“You can skip section one,” Tanya said, when everyone had finally opened their plastic binders. “That covers landlines. People have seen too many cop shows to use a regular phone for anything suspicious. They always use their cell phones for that. Psychologically it seems like no wires, no records. The fools.”

“Section two’s just a list of numbers,” Weston said.

“Correct. We pulled out the numbers of all Tungsten’s own handsets. Then we looked at the itemized records and identified all the calls from company cell phones to other company cell phones, and from company cell phones to company landlines. Everything not on that list was a cell phone call to someone outside the company. That’s all in section three.”

“Long list,” Lavine said.

“Correct again. So we narrowed it down. First with a reverse directory. Then with Google. That took care of 95 percent of the numbers. My people called the rest. Said they were from the phone company, checking records, if anyone answered. They kept trying, or took the details off their voice mail greetings if no one picked up. Tedious work, but worth it. Take a look at what we found. That’s section four.”

“Six numbers,” Weston said. “With dates against five of them.”

“That shows when the last calls were made from Tungsten to those numbers. The dates don’t stand out?”

“They do to me,” I said.

“They should to all of you. They’re also the dates that Simon and the four Americans were killed.”

“They all received a call from the same cell phone the day they died,” Weston said.

“Correct.”

“From someone going after the money,” Weston said.

“Not necessarily.”

“It had to be,” Lavine said. “But who?”

“Don’t know. We only have the originating number, not a name. We called it, but no one answered.”

“Voice mail?” Lavine said. “Did you leave a message?”

“No. It didn’t go through to a mailbox.”

“What about the sixth number?” Weston said.

“There’s something about it…” Lavine said.

“It’s the only one we couldn’t account for. It received its last call from Tungsten the day after Simon’s, but before two of the Americans.”

“It’s James Mansell’s phone,” I said.

“I think so, too. It has to be. Which means…”

“Mansell’s dead as well,” I said.

“Oh, no,” Lavine said, standing up and striding toward the door. “It doesn’t. Stay there. Don’t move. There’s something I’ve got to show you.”

Lavine rummaged through the clutter on his desk for over a minute, then came back into the booth brandishing a blue Post-it note.

“Take a look at this,” he said.

It was the same number.

“Where did you get that?” Tanya said.

“In Raab’s paperwork,” Lavine said. “It’s the number of the guy he was planning to meet, Sunday night. When he was killed.”

“It was Mansell that Mike was due to meet?” Weston said. “No. How could that be?”

“Mansell must have survived the attacks on his buddies,” Tanya said. “Then tried to get help when he realized the trouble he was in.”

“Needing help, I understand,” I said. “But how on earth did he end up in touch with Raab?”

“It makes sense, if you think about it,” Lavine said. “It’s standard procedure. Mike’s team floods everywhere they work with flyers. They ask people to call a hotline. The calls are screened. Anyone genuine would have been passed up the chain.”

“All the way to Mike?” I said.

“Absolutely,” Lavine said. “Mike was a hands-on guy. He liked to judge for himself whether people were on the level.”

“It does fit,” Weston said. “We know Mike was meeting someone with a British accent, remember. That’s why the NYPD suspected you. One reason, anyway.”

“Then why meet in an alley?” I said. “Why not an office, or police station?”

“To keep the killer in play,” Lavine said. “In case he was watching. Mike didn’t want to scare him off.”

“So what went wrong?” Tanya said.

“Mansell must have arrived after Mike was already dead,” Lavine said.

“He would have seen what happened, and figured the Tungsten guy got there first,” Weston said. “The same guy who killed his buddies.”

“Then he would have run, figuring there was a leak from the bureau,” Lavine said. “He’d have thought, how else would the Tungsten guy know about his meeting with Raab?”

“That’s pretty much the same assumption we made,” Weston said.

“And it’s not impossible,” Lavine said. “Tungsten is hooked up with the DOD. Why not with the bureau, as well?”

“I’ll tell you something else it explains,” Weston said. “Why Mike didn’t put up a fight.”

“Right,” Lavine said. “That part never sat right with me. But now we know. When this guy from Lesley’s scam walked into the alley, Mike thought it was Mansell.”

“It explains a lot,” Weston said. “And it proves Mansell is alive. Or was, at least up to Sunday night.”

“Poor fellow,” Tanya said. “His friends are dead, he’s been scared off the bureau, and he thinks the guy from Tungsten is still after him.”

“The guy from Tungsten probably is still after him,” I said.

“Then we’ve got to find him,” Tanya said. “And stop him. Fast.”

“We need a warrant,” Weston said. “Then we can go back to Tungsten’s compound. Tear the place apart.”

“How long will that take?” I said.

“A day?” Lavine said. “A couple of days? We need to convince a judge. Which will be hard, since we can’t use any of this evidence. You poisoned the fruit, my friend.”

“We could be a little more direct,” I said.

“And what, break in?” Weston said.

“No,” I said. “We have Mansell’s number. We could use that.”

“I already tried,” Lavine said. “I called it as soon as we found it in Mike’s papers. There was no answer.”

“Same for us,” Tanya said. “That’s why we couldn’t identify it, remember?”

“Where did you call from?” I said.

“Here,” Lavine said.

“The consulate,” Tanya said.

“If you were Mansell, would you have answered those calls?”

“I guess not,” Lavine said. “I didn’t know what he was likely thinking, when we tried it.”