“All I did was to give a sick man vital treatment. I’m a doctor. It’s my sworn duty. And now I want to go. Right now.”
“Did you report it? The gunshot wound? To the police?”
He didn’t answer.
“Talking of your duty,” I said. “Did you report it?”
“I guess not,” he said. “I was too busy saving his life. Why? Does it even matter?”
“It does. Because that’s a felony, right there. As a physician, you’re obliged under several laws—state and federal—to report all gunshot wounds. Immediately. Before the patient even leaves your care. If you don’t do that, you’re screwed.”
“Wait. I didn’t know. I’m a cosmetic surgeon, for goodness’ sake. I’m not used to criminals. Or crazy soldiers, or whatever he is.”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s an absolute offense. There’s no way to mitigate it. If I hand you to the police, you’re toast. And that’s what I’m going to do. Right now. Unless . . .”
“Unless what? What do you want?”
“Information. I want to know everything about the guy’s situation, upstairs.”
“No problem. I’ll tell you. I’ll draw you diagrams, if you want.”
“Just tell me. That’ll be fine. Oh, and one other thing.”
“What?”
“I’m going to make a call to my office. Then I want you to go back up there with me.”
“Why?”
“I thought you might like to knock on his door, one more time.”
FOUR
When I was a kid I loved watching movies. All different kinds. Cops and robbers. Spies. World War II. Disaster films. Comedies. Anything that could transport me to another world. Looking back, I’d sit through pretty much everything I could find on the box.
Except musicals, obviously.
There were fewer channels on TV in those days, and no video or DVD, but I still seemed to have plenty of choice. The BBC showed at least one movie every Saturday, for example. Early in the evening. Often Westerns, for some reason. They must have been cheap. But I didn’t mind. I enjoyed them. There was bound to be a gallant hero to cheer for. A cruel villain to despise. A beautiful girl to rescue. Plenty of fighting to act out in the playground at school the next week. The knowledge that good would always overcome evil.
And however dicey things became, there was no need to worry.
Because, when the chips were down, you could always rely on the cavalry to arrive.
I stopped Rollins midway up the second flight of stairs. I’d made him describe the entrance to the apartment McIntyre was holed up in four times, but I still wanted to see it for myself. I didn’t trust amateurs. Especially not ones who gave me the feeling they’d say just about anything to save their skins. The mirror I’d taken from his medical kit was small, but it gave me a good enough view to suggest that his account was reasonably accurate. There was nothing obvious to derail the plan I’d just briefed Fothergill on. So, I took out my cell phone, turned the ringer volume up to one notch above silent, set its alarm for four minutes’ time, and handed it to Rollins.
“OK, Doctor,” I said. “Where will you wait?”
“Here,” he said. “Right where I am now.”
“Will you move?”
“No. Not a muscle.”
“How much noise will you make?”
“No noise. None at all.”
“The alarm on the phone will sound. What will you do?”
“Silence it. Immediately.”
“And?”
“Go up to the door. Knock three times, then pause, then knock three times again. Just like he told me to when he summoned me before.”
“Good. And when you hear footsteps inside the apartment?”
“Run. Fast. And don’t look back.”
It wasn’t the world’s greatest plan, but I didn’t have many options. Normally, once I had a confirmed target securely squared away, I could stand back and hand the reins to a snatch team. From the SAS. Or SBS. Or the host country’s police or special forces, if we trusted them or had told them in advance what we were doing. But whoever took it over, they’d take care of the rest. Forcing an entry. Avoiding booby traps. Cleaning up afterward. It was a very satisfactory division of labor. But this time, London hadn’t sent anyone to help. And they’d ruled out involving the Chicago police any further. I was sorry the twelve o?cers outside were fictitious because that left me with just Dr. Rollins at my disposal to create a diversion. Not a very promising position. And not very much time. Four minutes wasn’t long to get myself into position. I’d have liked more, but I knew I couldn’t risk it.
A drawback of being a new recruit in the navy is that you’re used for all kinds of psychological studies. The results are fed to us during training, so I knew I was seriously pushing the limit of how long a frightened person would remain compliant. Give him much longer and his brain would start to reboot itself. He’d start to question everything I’d told him. See that some things weren’t quite the way I’d painted them. Begin to doubt everything else. And most likely run for the hills. So the moment I left him I headed back down one flight of stairs and into the apartment I’d gained access through. I climbed back out through the window. Then I crept along the fire escape and made my way up one story, testing each footstep carefully before trusting my full weight to the grimy, corroded metal.
Rollins had confirmed that the apartment McIntyre was squatting in had the same basic layout as the one below, so I edged along to the bathroom window and checked my watch. There were eighteen seconds to go. I pried the frame away from its mounting and wriggled my fingers into the narrow space. The wood around this window was drier and less decayed, and as I waited for the time to pass I could feel the points of several splinters slowly burrowing into my skin. A thin trace of blood had just reached my palm when the second hand finally reached the twelve. I knew the alarm on the phone should be starting to sound. I pictured Rollins switching it off. Standing up. Climbing the final few stairs. Approaching the door. Raising his hand. Knocking. McIntyre hearing it. Focusing on it. Recognizing the agreed pattern. Moving to investigate. And leaving his back momentarily unguarded.
I took a deep breath and heaved sharply backward.
McIntyre had left nothing in the bathroom that would reveal the apartment was occupied. But a few sheets of dusty newspaper were lying on the floor beneath the window, artistically off-center, where an intruder’s foot would naturally land. The positioning was too perfect to be a coincidence. So I stretched to the side, got my right foot on the rim of the tub, and bypassed them. Then I checked underneath. Something was hidden there. A strip of bubble wrap. I don’t know where he got it from, but it made a half-decent perimeter alarm—for something improvised out of scrap. The guy was certainly thorough. It was just a shame he hadn’t put his skills and training to their proper use. We’d both have been spared a whole lot of trouble if he had.
There were no further obstacles between me and the door so I crossed the room and paused for a moment, to listen. At first I heard nothing. I was beginning to think that Rollins must have bottled and run away when I picked up a slight sound. It was coming from my left. From the far end of the corridor, where the main living room would be. Maybe a chair leg scraping lightly over a wooden floor. And it was followed by footsteps. One set. They were cautious. Coming my way. They reached the door in front of me, but I let them pass. Even with him injured, I saw no reason to get into a fight with McIntyre if I could reasonably avoid it. So I gave him another couple of seconds to make up some ground on the front door. Then I stepped into the corridor and raised my Beretta so it was pointing at the back of his head.
“Commander McIntyre,” I said. “Stop. Blue on blue.”
He stopped, arms by his sides, a Beretta matching mine in his right hand.