Ridley Pearson - Choke Point

“He said a warning. I swear.”

“You negotiated.”

“I did. But, I swear—”

“I saw you on television,” he says, interrupting. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“What other girls?” She must know about the discovery of the dormitory and the knot shop by now. She has nothing to say about his successes.

“I can’t be in two places at once,” he says, tapping Grace’s laptop. “I need you to monitor the laptop while I do something.”

“Such as?”

“I’m going to shut him down.” He doesn’t need to tell her whom he means. “It’s what we all want and what I happen to need. You just do the monitoring. Keep the laptop safe.”

“You cannot possibly trust me for such a task. How can you possibly do this—whatever your name is?”

“Knox. It’s John. And yes, I do trust you to do this. I’m afraid there’s no other way.”

“You are desperate.”

He shrugs. A gnarly-looking waitress arrives—half sex kitten, half dominatrix. Amsterdam. Knox orders a coffee; Sonia waves the girl off.

“It’s over,” she says.

He takes that to mean many things, none of which he wants to face. Nor is he sure how to respond. She is beyond beautiful, without trying; she amplifies the light emitted by the pathetic candle that’s trying to stay lit. The sound of her voice is music and he’s suddenly so bone-tired he wishes he could just put his head back and listen to her speak. She could read the menu for all he cares.

His coffee arrives. It’s freshly brewed and surprisingly good.

“I want to hate you,” she whispers, hanging her head.

“That’s a start,” he says.

“No. It is an end.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

“It is less than nothing.”

“For now,” he says.

She looks up through glassy eyes. “We both got what we wanted,” she says.

“Not even close,” he tells her.

“What do I do?” She’s looking at Grace’s laptop.

“Mainly, keep watch. I can’t very well set it on a table and hope it will be there when I return. It must remain on, connected to the Internet. Running. There’s a screen capture key that I need you to operate. It will shorten the analysis time.” They spend nearly twenty minutes at the keyboard together. Knox works her through what little he knows.

“Natuurhonig,” she says.

“Why would you say that?” He has trouble keeping suspicion from his voice. He fears a second betrayal.

“It is less than two blocks from here.”

“She’s a coworker, nothing else. This is her laptop.”

“She’s under arrest.”

Sonia knows more than he suspected. She must be in direct contact with Brower to know their status. “There have been shootings. Deaths. It is serious for her.”

“For all of us,” he says.

“Natuurhonig,” she repeats.

“The less you know, the safer for you.” He wants to avoid the melodramatic because she’ll call him out for it. Sees no other way. “If I’m not back, if you don’t hear from me within the hour—”

“Oh, please.”

“You need to get this to her. Don’t even think about hacking it—it’ll zero itself with any attempt at that. You turn it over to Brower, or anyone else, and it’s useless. In her hands, only.”

“There is no way I can accomplish this.”

“You’ll think of something.”

Some of the ice is gone from her eyes, but there’s a veil of self-preservation in place that feels impenetrable.

“It’s operating now,” she points out. “Unlocked. If I take it, I do not need the password.”

“Which is why I need someone I can trust.”

She stares.

“I can end this.”

“It’s over.”

“You don’t believe that. Not for a second. You want it over or you wouldn’t have come.”

He finishes the coffee. Removes Grace’s power cord from the Scottevest. “In case it runs low on battery.” He adds, “I’ll give you exclusive rights to the story.”

“You do not know me so very well.”

“I’d like to,” he says.

He leaves by the back door, pausing at the narrow hallway to look back at her. She’s looking at him, her face unreadable.

Knox is not built for second-story work. He’s more of a ground-floor man. The Kreiger tactic is a risk. Calculated or not, he cannot allow it to backfire; there’s more to accomplish.

Using the pick gun, he enters a darkened souvenir shop, and turns to relock the door as the security alarm begins beeping its warning to enter the alarm code. He’s upstairs in a matter of seconds. The alarm begins whooping moments before he’s out the third-floor window, which he carefully returns to closed. He’s methodical, having rehearsed this in his mind a dozen times.

With the front door relocked, it will look like a false alarm, which accounts for over ninety percent of such calls. The interlocking roofs remind him of being above the knot shop. He walks carefully, avoiding breakable tiles, staying to the structurally sound and supported valleys and seams. It seems much farther than it should be, but at last he faces a peaked roof sandwiched between two flat, tarred roofs that are hidden behind ornamental Dutch facades. The skylight to his left offers a clouded aerial view down into Kreiger’s office.

He makes the call while watching the man at his desk.

“Ya?” Kreiger answers.

“I have the contents of your safe,” Knox says. “You know who this is. Either get me the goddamn rugs, or some people are going to be very angry with you.” He ends the call.

Below him, Kreiger heads directly to a large Asian floor urn. The urn separates at the rim. The silk plant rotates out of the way. Kreiger leans over. Knox sees only the man’s back as he’s leaning over the urn. He never for a moment doubted that the hyphenated number at the bottom of the man’s own contact information was a safe combination, but he gambled it was an office safe and not in the man’s home. Grace’s work has borne fruit. She reported watching over the computer’s webcam as he counted a great deal of cash, of hearing noises, and his return to the desk without the cash.

Kreiger returns everything as it was and leaves the office, presumably to have a talk with Usha.

Knox has just minutes. He retraces his steps, jimmies one of the windows in the peaked roof and lowers himself through. All the third-floor bedroom doors hang open. The brothel won’t be at capacity for another several hours. Business is confined to the second floor for the time being.

He can only hope the damage to the upper window won’t be noticed in the next few minutes. He’s into the man’s office and has the safe open on the first try. Empties it into the marijuana duffel, relocks it and slides the plant back into place.

He leaves a handwritten note on Kreiger’s keyboard. He winks at the screen, assuming Sonia is watching. Taps his wristwatch to let her know her part in this has come.

Returns to the hallway, the duffel slung over his back. There was a good deal of money in the safe, along with a pair of external hard drives and, more intriguing, no fewer than a dozen plastic bags containing what appear to be pubic hairs.

He’d planned to stash the duffel, surprise Kreiger by being in the man’s office upon his return, and to later leave by the front door. But he has misgivings about such brashness. He can hear Grace cautioning him.

The hallway’s overhead window is too high, even given his enormous reach. He jumps, trying to catch his fingers on the window frame, but it’s no good with the duffel awkwardly weighing him down.

The sound of someone climbing the stairs drives him into one of the open bedrooms. There’s an antique hand mirror on a dressing table; Knox uses it at an angle to scout the hallway.