Andrew Grant - Even

“I am sorry,” she said. “I only flew in yesterday. Started here this morning. Didn’t know you were even in town till I heard the call come in from the detectives. Then I had to check a couple of things. It’s been a while since I crossed swords in the American courts.”

“You’re fresh in and they gave you the case?” I said.

“I took it. I didn’t give them a choice. My stock’s risen a little, these last couple of years. And I couldn’t leave it to anyone else. Not once I realized they were talking about you. I’m the only here who knows what you’re really like.”

“What am I really like?”

“Oh, no. I’m not answering that one. So. I haven’t seen you for a while. How’ve you been?”

“Can’t complain. Still in one piece. You?”

“Fine. Or I will be, once I get you out of here.”

“Heard the latest?”

“Think so. I spoke to the detectives before I came in. They have one dead body and a pretty strong impression you’re responsible for it. Plus lots of circumstantial evidence. And a recording from an eyewitness. It sounds like a mess, David, quite frankly.”

“It’s bogus, is what it is.”

“I know that. But the point is, we’ll have to work a lot harder. Knowing they have that kind of testimony will make you more of a flight risk. And with you being a foreign national, it could be a problem.”

“Flight risk? What do you mean?”

“When we ask for bail. The judge won’t agree if it looks like you could run.”

“Sorry, Tanya-what bail?”

“To get you out of here. Oh, hold on. Wait a minute. You weren’t going to ask London for…?”

“Tanya,” I said, nodding toward the observation mirror.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “They can watch us, but not listen. Not while I’m present. They wouldn’t risk it. So, tell me you weren’t about to mention the d-word?”

I didn’t answer.

“You were, weren’t you?” she said. “You were going to ask to be hooked out. From the U.S.A. Are you mad?”

“Is that a problem?” I said.

“Don’t you get operational bulletins anymore, David?”

“Of course.”

“And do you read them?”

“Absolutely. Whenever I’m in an office, with nothing better to do.”

“You don’t, do you? Our people make the effort to put out useful updates so you know what’s what, but do you take any notice? No. You’re still ignoring our advice. Until you’re in trouble. Then you expect us to wave a magic wand.”

“What’s magic about getting me pulled out? Embarrassing-yes. Heavy on paperwork-yes. But hardly out of the ordinary. I worked with a fellow in Nairobi who got dip-exed from three jobs in a row. Admittedly, he did get canned after the last one, but this is my first time. What’s the problem?”

“Diplomatic exfiltration may have been common practice in the past. It isn’t now.”

“Why not?”

“Does the name David Robinson mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

“Surely you’ve been briefed on this. Didn’t you read… Oh, all right, I’ll spell it out. Robinson was a U.S. Marine. He was posted to Grosvenor Square. Last year, just before Christmas, he was picked up by the Met. Charged with indecently assaulting a female student in the toilets of a nightclub in Soho, somewhere. Washington came through. Wanted him pulled out. London refused. Said it was a civilian offense, in civilian premises, while he was off duty. Insisted he stay in the U.K. to stand trial like anyone else.”

“Seems fair. Did they nail him for it?”

“It never went to court. Robinson killed himself in jail the night before the hearing.”

“Good result.”

“Maybe. But that’s not the point.”

“What is?”

“The liaison protocols. Washington tore them up.”

“But that’s not workable. How can you-”

“Officially sanctioned operations are still covered. But that’s all.”

“Problem solved, then. Tell them I was sanctioned.”

“I can’t do that, David. These guys aren’t fools.”

“So what do we do?”

“Go for bail, like I said.”

“Don’t know. How long will it take?”

“Depends when your arraignment is. The DA will argue you should stay in custody. We’ll argue you should get bail. Then it’s up to the judge.”

“What’s the earliest it could be? I’m due back in London tomorrow. I’m on a flight out this afternoon.”

“David, it’s time for you to face facts. You’re not going to be on that plane. And being late home is the least of your worries. First we have to get you out of here. Then we go to work on your defense. As for the arraignment, I’ll push for an early hearing. Otherwise they’ll move you.”

“Where to?”

“A regular jail. They only have holding facilities here.”

I looked at Tanya, and it was obvious she could tell what I was thinking. We both knew what kind of place she was talking about. Outdated. Overcrowded. Unsanitary. Crawling with degenerate criminals.

“David, think about this,” she said, reaching across and placing her hand over mine. “Don’t do anything stupid. Ever since this Robinson thing, Washington has been looking for payback. They want their pound of flesh. Give them the chance, and they’ll take it from you.”

The droplets of blood from the Nazi’s face had congealed on the bench legs and turned a dirty brown, like specks of rust. Harris spotted them when the detectives returned me to my cell. He went straight over for a closer look. Maybe word of the incident had spread around the building while we’d been upstairs.

“Know anything about this?” he said.

“Absolutely nothing,” I said.

“Nothing, huh? Just like you know nothing about the guy in the alley? Well, we do know something, David. We know you killed that guy. So what you need to do is stop lying and tell us what happened, while we can still help you.”

“What I need to do is sit here and wait for my lawyer to get me released.”

“You can try,” Harris said. “But trust me. You’ll have a long wait.”

Harris was wrong. I only had to wait forty minutes. At dead-on one o’clock he was back with Gibson, standing outside my cell, waiting for Cauldwell to work the lock. Only this time, he had his handcuffs ready.

“On your feet,” he said. “Turn around. Show me your hands.”

He fastened the cuffs and gave each one an extra squeeze, making sure they were clamped really tight around my wrists.

“Ms. Wilson works fast, doesn’t she?” I said.

“What?” Harris said.

“Ms. Wilson. My lawyer. Works fast, to get me released already.”

“You’re not being released, jackass. And this has nothing to do with your lawyer.”

“No? So where are we going?”

“We’re not going anywhere. You are. The FBI is here.”

“Why? What do they want?”

“Like you don’t know.”

“I don’t know. Why is the FBI involved?”

“Enough. Shut your mouth. Not one more word, or you’re going to take a beating right here.”

Three men were waiting for us near the reception desk. I’d never seen any of them before. The little glass gate swung open as we approached and the oldest of the group stepped forward. He had short, graying hair and a bulging stomach that hung down over his belt.

“My name is Lieutenant Hendersen, NYPD,” he said. “I’m here to inform you that at 12:05 P.M. today, jurisdiction in your case was assumed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. These gentlemen are agents. We’ve completed the paperwork. They’ll take it from here.”

“I’m Special Agent Lavine,” the taller of the other two men said, stepping up alongside Hendersen. He was a shade over six feet tall, slim, with broad shoulders and short blond hair. His gray single-breasted suit was well cut, and his white shirt looked crisp and new next to his dark, striped tie. Cuff links peeped out from under the sleeves of his jacket, and I caught sight of initials embroidered onto his shirt pocket when he moved. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in a tailor’s window, other than for his face. It looked tired and drawn, with deep lines etched into the skin around both eyes. The third guy looked much more awake, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. His clothes were similar, but he was an inch taller, six inches wider, and a good ten years younger. He stepped into line a moment later, moving slowly as if working hard to resist the urge to reach out and grab me.