The guy froze, but the knife stayed in his hand.
I kept going. I was nearly there.
“Armed police,” I said. “Drop your weapon. You’ve been warned.”
He slowly turned to face me, raising the knife and angling it toward my chin.
“Now, it seems you have two problems,” he said, in a flawless BBC accent. “You don’t look like a policeman. And you don’t look like you’re armed. So tell me again, why I should drop anything?”
“We’re looking for a missing person,” I said. “Another Englishman. We’re worried about him. All we need to know is who you are, and where you got that phone. Tell us, and there’s no need for anyone to get hurt.”
“Firstly, I’m not English, you presumptuous ass. I don’t care what happens to your countrymen. And secondly, who is going to hurt me? You? Or these women?”
“No one wants to hurt you. We just want your help.”
The guy snorted disdainfully.
“OK,” I said. “If that’s not a good enough reason, how about money? Put the knife down and we’ll talk. Dollars, pounds, euros-whichever you prefer.”
The guy pursed his lips, nodded thoughtfully, and began to lower the knife. He traced an imaginary line down the center of my body from my throat, past my chest and stomach and as far as my waist. Then he lunged at me, thrusting forward and trying to drive the blade back up under my rib cage. I jumped back and shot out both arms, crossed at the wrists, trapping his hand and stopping him an inch short of skewering me. The guy tried to pull away so I grabbed his wrist with my left hand, forced it over, and jabbed one knuckle from my right fist into the fleshy part of his forearm. He yelled. The knife clattered onto the sidewalk. I kicked it aside and flicked my right fist up square against his cheekbone, disorienting him. Then I punched him hard in the solar plexus, doubling him over, and slammed my fist upward into his face to stand him upright again. He was sagging now, bleeding heavily from the mouth and nose, barely able to breathe. The job was nearly done.
I drew my arm back, ready to unload the final blow, but before I could launch it his whole body was suddenly bathed in light. It was coming from the street. I realized a car engine was running, close by. It was stationary. Then a door opened, followed by another a second later. I heard footsteps. Two sets. One moving straight toward me, the other peeling away to the right.
“NYPD,” a woman’s voice said. “Stand still. Nobody move.”
“The phone,” I said to the guy. “Where did you get it? Tell me and we’ll help you. We can make this go away.”
“Shut up,” the officer said. “Hands where I can see them. All of you. Do it now.”
Tanya and Lucinda complied straightaway. I gave the guy another couple of seconds to answer, then let go of his wrist and raised my own hands. He staggered sideways, slumped against the wall, and struggled to get his arms up to chest level.
“You, in the leather coat,” the officer said. “Turn and face me.”
“Can’t do that,” I said. “Can’t turn my back on this guy. He’s a psychopath. Wanted by the FBI. Multiple homicide.”
“Shut up. Turn around. Do it now.”
“Listen to me. My name is David Trevellyan. I’m working with the FBI. Special Agent Lavine is in charge. His number is in my phone. I’m going to reach inside my jacket and-”
“No. Don’t move. Hands where I can see them.”
“David, quick,” Tanya said. “Stop him.”
The guy from the pub was smiling. But not an ordinary smile. A fervent, ecstatic smile. And his right hand was moving again. It was snaking back toward his inside pocket. This time the officers didn’t bother with a warning. They just fired. Two rounds each. Tight pattern, to the center of his chest. After that-epiphany or not-there’s really no way back.
“Too slow,” Tanya said. “Damn it. We needed him alive.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Look at his hand.”
The officers had shredded a number of the guy’s vital organs, but they’d missed the thing he’d been reaching for.
Mansell’s phone.
TWENTY-SIX
My first cellular phone was enormous.
It was so big it had to be fixed permanently in my car. I remember watching it being installed. The engineers had to dismantle half the interior, like customs officers searching for drugs. They put in amplifiers, speakers, microphones, antennas, miles of wiring, separate fuses, a big cradle for the handset. And even then it didn’t work very well. Today’s phones are much better. They’re smaller. More powerful. More reliable. Easier to use.
And able to do more than just make calls.
Lavine thought the events outside the Bulldog were significant enough to bring back his boss, so Varley was called in for the next morning’s meeting. That meant heading up to the boardroom. The three FBI guys were already there when Tanya and I arrived, just shy of eight thirty. Varley was waiting in his seat. Someone had left a tray of coffees on the table next to him. Weston was helping himself to one. And Lavine was busy setting out piles of papers in the places we’d each used last time we’d met.
I gathered up the thicker pile he’d left near my seat and started to flick through it. The top sheet was a list of calls. Next were transcripts of text messages, including the ones Tanya had sent yesterday about meeting Mansell. The rest were photographs. There were seventeen. They’d been blown up to eight by ten inches, leaving the color washed out and the images grainy and fragmented. Typical of a low-resolution camera-phone.
“Morning,” Varley said. “Come on, join us. Grab a coffee. Take a seat. Don’t want to waste any time, today. Bartman, lead off, please.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lavine said, holding up the thinner stack of papers. “This is the list of calls made from one of the phones recovered in last night’s incident. It corresponds exactly with the records David acquired at Tungsten’s offices, and it shows a call to each of our previous victims shortly prior to their deaths.”
He paused and looked in turn at each person in the room, as if inviting questions. No one spoke.
“So, it’s safe to conclude we know who murdered the five ex-Tungsten employees,” he said. “The owner of that phone. The same guy now lying in the morgue, courtesy of the NYPD. Anyone disagree?”
No one spoke.
“Which is great news,” Varley said. “Case closed. A little unorthodox. Not quite the result I’d expected, but good work anyway, guys. Let’s chalk this one up to Mike. We should have more than coffee in here. And of course special thanks go to you, Ms. Wilson.”
“To me?” Tanya said. “Why?”
“Your input was crucial,” Varley said. “Recognizing the crime-scene photos was a huge break for us. We may never have found the link to Tungsten without it. You put us on the right track.”
“Don’t mention it,” Tanya said. “I’m glad to help catch the man who killed my brother’s friend.”
“Oh, my,” Varley said. “Aren’t I the sensitive one. I forgot how you knew the guy. I hope this leads you to some sort of closure.”
“Thank you,” Tanya said. “I’m sure it will. I’m just sorry that no one will stand trial for it. Doesn’t feel like proper justice, this way.”
“The guy’s dead,” I said. “That works for me.”
“No, I’m with Ms. Wilson,” Varley said. “The outcome was regrettable. Obviously we can’t go back and change it now. But what we can do is make sure the case holds together. So Kyle, first thing, I want you to sit on forensics.”
“Sir,” Weston said.
“Make sure they stay the course on this one,” Varley said. “It would be nice to tie the guy in a little tighter than just the phone calls.”
“He also had Mansell’s cell,” Weston said.
“He did,” Varley said. “That’s got to be significant. But what else do we know about him?”
“Not much, to be honest,” Lavine said. “His name’s Salih Hamad. Iraqi citizen. Entered the U.S. legally, eight weeks ago, via JFK. Employed by Tungsten Security, which is no surprise. But there’s a lot else we don’t know. I wouldn’t be hanging the flags out yet, if it was me.”