Martinez hesitated and took the bag. Logan left his on the concrete and followed Cahill past Martinez and into the back of the car. He looked up to see Martinez set his mouth in a thin line before picking up his bag and heading to the back of the car. He could’ve sworn that Ruiz smiled a little before he closed the door.
‘Game on,’ Cahill said, rubbing his hands together.
The air con was on full all the way in from the airport and Logan felt gooseflesh rise on his skin. Both agents wore aviator-style sunglasses like in the movies and Logan swallowed an urge to laugh. The journey along the interstate was uneventful and the traffic fairly light. The city looked compact to Logan, the real centre of it probably no bigger than Glasgow. High-rise buildings stretched up with the mountains looming in the background.
Logan did not know the geography of the city centre or the outlying suburbs so he was content to watch the world go by outside. They stopped at a set of traffic lights and two city cops on horseback stopped beside the car. Logan looked up at the men and saw that they wore dark-coloured Stetsons to match their uniforms. One of the officers looked down at Logan and raised a hand in greeting.
‘Welcome to the wild west,’ Logan said quietly.
‘What?’ Cahill asked.
‘Talking to myself.’
They drove on for another few minutes before the driver, Ruiz, indicated to turn left and slowed the car. Logan looked out of his window as they drove through the entrance to an underground garage that lay below an eighteen-storey office block.
The agents said very little after parking in a bay next to an elevator and going round to the back of the car to retrieve the bags. Logan pulled at the handle on his door but it was locked.
‘We’ll have to sit tight and wait for them,’ Cahill said.
Logan looked out into the garage and saw Martinez and Ruiz carry their bags over to another agent who had emerged from a door to the right of the elevator. He took the bags from them and went back through the door.
‘They took our bags,’ Logan said.
Cahill glanced out of his window as the agents walked back towards the car. Logan stepped out when the door opened and asked what they had done with the bags.
‘Don’t worry, sir,’ Ruiz told him. ‘We took them for safe keeping.’
His overly polite and officious language was beginning to grind on Logan.
‘You don’t have permission to open and search the bags. You know that, right?’
Ruiz said nothing for a moment.
‘Is there anything in the bags we should know about?’
‘No.’
They stood looking at each other.
‘Follow me please, sir.’
Ruiz walked towards the elevator while Martinez waited behind them.
Cahill motioned with his head for Logan to follow Ruiz, which he did. Martinez stayed five paces behind them until they got to the elevator. Inside, Ruiz pressed the button for the eighteenth floor and the doors slid shut quietly. No one said anything and there was no horrible muzak playing. Talk about uncomfortable silences.
The reception area of the FBI field office was decorated in muted earth tones with a representation of the shield on the wall behind a desk. A young black woman sat at the desk and smiled when they approached.
‘Where are we, Martha?’ Ruiz asked the woman.
‘Meeting room four.’
‘They in there already?’
‘Sure are. Go on ahead and I’ll let them know you’re coming.’
Logan had no idea who ‘they’ were, but was intrigued to find out.
He and Cahill dutifully followed behind Ruiz again as he used a swipe card to open a secure, frosted-glass door and walked along a narrow corridor past a series of meeting rooms.
They stopped outside a room near the end of the corridor and Ruiz knocked on the door before swiping his card to open it. Inside, two men sat at the far side of a long table. The sun shone in through high, narrow windows.
Both men stood as Ruiz held the door open and motioned for Logan and Cahill to enter the room. When they were in, Ruiz pulled the door closed leaving the four men alone.
One of the men took the lead, walking around the table and holding out his hand. He was a fit-looking black man just under six feet tall. Logan found it difficult to judge his age. Looked like he ran a lot, his smooth skin tight against the contours of his face. Logan stepped forward and shook his hand.
The other man stayed on the far side of the table. He was taller, probably six-two, with greying hair and small, frameless glasses. He clearly kept himself in shape too and his black suit was cut to fit his long frame just so.
‘Gentlemen,’ the shorter of the men said when he shook Cahill’s hand. ‘I’m Special Agent in Charge Randall Webb, head of the Denver field office.’
Logan nodded at him.
‘And this is Special Agent Cooper Grange. He leads the Joint Terrorism Task Force out of this field office. Have a seat.’
Logan wondered if Webb’s use of the word ‘Terrorism’ was supposed to scare him. It was working.
8
‘What brings you to Denver for the first time, Mr Finch?’ Randall Webb asked.
‘Tim Stark,’ Cahill answered.
Webb’s eyes flicked to Cahill but the smile stayed on his face. Grange continued to stare at Logan. Webb leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him on the table.
‘You prefer the direct approach, Mr Cahill, is that it?’
Cahill nodded.
‘I do.’
‘Fair enough.’
Webb sat back and turned to Grange.
‘It’s all yours, Coop.’
Grange took his time, showing them that he was in control of the room and would dictate the pace of the conversation. He reminded Logan of Tom Hardy in the power that clearly lay behind his languid surface.
‘Gentlemen, I’m sure you will appreciate that there’s very little information that we are able to disclose concerning matters under inquiry.’
‘So there is an active FBI inquiry underway into Tim Stark’s death?’ Logan asked.
Grange regarded him like a lizard does an insect it’s considering for breakfast.
‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your trip if you came to find out what’s going on.’
‘Is that what we tell Tim’s wife?’ Cahill said, his tone even. ‘I mean, that his death is not important enough for anyone even to tell her about it?’
‘You keep talking about his death…’
‘That’s because he’s dead.’
‘… but no one here has confirmed that.’
Logan was concerned that Cahill would use the information they had got from DHS and land his contact in a disciplinary process. Or on the receiving end of a prosecution for revealing sensitive material.
‘Why don’t you confirm that now for us?’ he said. ‘Clear everything up, you know.’
‘Like I said-’
‘I get it. You can’t say.’
Cahill stood and pushed his chair back. Grange watched him but did not move.
‘I guess’, Cahill said, ‘that if we’re not under arrest and you’re not going to tell us anything, there’s no reason for this meeting to continue. We’re free to go.’
‘Any time you like.’
Logan looked at Webb, noticed a tension in his body language that had not been there before.
‘Look,’ Logan interrupted. ‘Why don’t we all save some time and effort and talk about why you pulled us in. I mean, Alex and I are tired and pretty cranky after being on the go all day. I know I need a good night’s sleep. So why don’t you come out and say what you’ve got to say without all the dancing.’
Webb put a hand on Grange’s forearm.
‘You’re a lawyer back in Britain, Mr Finch. Is that right?’ Webb asked.
‘I’m sure you know it is.’
Webb smiled and nodded. Cahill sat back down.
‘And you’ve done some business with our government?’
‘Yes.’ He was cautious now.
‘So you know how we like to operate. Take our time. Check all the angles.’