A few years ago I remember there was a craze for “magic pictures.”
They were really just psychedelic blotches that people would stare at for hours, willing their eyes to somehow make coherent images out of the brightly colored speckles. Intelligence analysts wouldn’t admit it, but the bulk of their everyday work is very similar. It all hinges on the same skill. Identifying hidden patterns. Only they’re not trying to conjure people’s faces and mountain ranges out of paint splatter. They’re looking for bomb plots and assassination attempts in financial transactions. Currency transfers. Phone calls. E-mail traffic. Internet searches. Passenger manifests. Freight receipts. University registrations. Job applications. Tax returns. Red-flagged purchases. Even old-fashioned letters and faxes.
It’s a similar story for us, in the field. Only we have less material to work with.
Less support.
And less time to join the dots.
The first guy was waiting near the crosswalk, half hidden behind a street vendor’s refreshment stand. He wasn’t buying anything. Or eating anything. Or reading anything. He was just waiting, watching the traffic. And occasionally glancing across at the disused store, fifteen yards away. That’s where the second guy was, prowling up and down, keeping track of the cars’ reflections in the blank glass.
The lights changed, but neither guy made a move toward my side of the road. The lights changed again, and a BMW 5 Series approached. A woman was driving, on her own. The first guy stiffened. The car drew nearer. The guy’s weight shifted forward, and he took half a step toward the street. Then he suddenly relaxed and melted back away from the curb. The car cruised past and I saw there was a baby in a child’s seat in the back. It was fast asleep.
The lights went through three more cycles and the first guy remained like a statue until another car caught his attention. It was an Audi A6. Another woman was driving. Again, she was on her own. She picked up a little speed, trying to get through the intersection without having to stop when he sprang out into her path. She hit the brakes. The tires screamed. The car’s nose pitched down as if it were trying to burrow into the asphalt. The front fender hit the guy below the knees, flipping him into the air. He came down headfirst onto the hood, stuck to the shiny metal for a moment, then slithered forward and tumbled limply into the gutter.
The driver jumped out and raced to the front of the car. The vendor ran to join her. The people who’d been waiting to cross the street quickly gathered round, anxious for a glimpse of blood. And beyond all of them, the second guy peeled away from the store window and casually drifted across the sidewalk.
I crossed the street, heading for the back of the car. The second guy didn’t see me. He was too focused on the crowd. He reached the open driver’s door without anyone noticing him. He reached inside. The woman’s briefcase and purse were lying on the floorboard, on the passenger’s side, where they’d fallen. The guy stretched across, hooked his fingers through the handles, and smoothly backed out of the car. It had taken him less than two seconds, and no one else had seen what he was doing.
I let him get clear of the trunk before hitting him. I didn’t want him to land on the car, or make any noise when he fell. My fist made a good clean contact and he went down like a stone, the side of his face banging against the base of a mailbox. I quickly checked him over. He was breathing, but out cold.
The woman’s purse had rolled a few feet away across the sidewalk so I retrieved it, scooped up her briefcase, and tossed both bags back into the car. I took the keys from the ignition and found the button to lock the doors. Then I dropped my shoulder and waded into the gawking crowd.
“Let me through,” I said. “I’m a medic. Out of the way.”
“Don’t touch him, man,” one of the onlookers said. “He’ll sue you.”
“He won’t,” I said.
“Is he dead?” the driver said. “Have I killed him? I didn’t see him. He came out of nowhere. Just stepped out…”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s not hurt at all. Not yet, anyway.”
I took hold of the guy’s fake Armani lapels and hauled him up until he was slumped on his back across the Audi’s hood.
“Stop,” the same onlooker said. “You can’t move him. He might have a neck injury.”
“He might now,” I said, leaning down and pressing the point of my elbow into the guy’s throat, just above his collarbone.
“The hell are you doing? How’s this going to help him?”
“It’s a new resuscitation technique, from England. Twenty seconds. Thirty max, and he’ll be awake. Trust me.”
It actually took fifteen. The guy started to twitch. Then wriggle. Then thrash about, clawing at my arm and trying to wrench it free. I let him squirm for another moment then took hold of his right hand, locked his wrist, and flipped him over onto his front.
“See?” I said, handing the keys back to the driver. “It was a scam. This guy, to make you stop. His buddy back there to grab your stuff.”
“Well, I’ll be…” the onlooker said.
“I don’t believe it,” the driver said. “I was so worried. The assholes.”
“Want to stick one on him?” I said. “I’ll hold him.”
A phone started to ring. I realized it was mine.
“Excuse me a moment,” I said, pulling the phone out left-handed.
It was Weston.
“Got a breakthrough,” he said. “Where are you?”
“Shopping,” I said. “I need clean clothes.”
“Time for that later. We need to move. Where can we collect you?”
“Back where you dropped me. In five.”
“Be there,” Weston said, hanging up.
I put the phone away.
“Feeling better?” I said to the driver. “OK then. Time to call 911. These guys have done this before. They need to be stopped. Now that’s up to you.”
Weston’s Ford was already waiting at the side of the street when I got back. Tanya was in the backseat. She looked a little confused.
“I don’t see it,” she said. “That doesn’t prove anything, either way.”
“What doesn’t?” I said, getting in.
“Tungsten made another set of payoffs,” Weston said. “A year ago. To another team of six guys.”
“How do you know?” I said.
“Our forensic accountants found it. They started digging this morning. Got an early break. But listen to this. The other team-it was also assigned to the hospital right before getting fired.”
“So the hospital is the link.”
“No. It can’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Because none of the six we just found out about are dead.”
“So?”
“If the hospital was the link, they’d have been killed, too.”
“No. That’s backward. If the payoff money was the link, they’d have been killed.”
“See?” Tanya said. “It’s totally inconclusive. The hospital and the money are both common factors. And at this moment, there’s just no evidence to place one above the other.”
“Has any money been taken from the current six?” I said.
“Not from two of them,” Lavine said. “We’re still checking the others.”
“Not very convincing,” I said. “Whereas both teams were definitely working at the hospital. That’s the clincher. Something about the place got them fired. Has to be.”
“Right,” Weston said. “They were fired because of the hospital. But not killed because of it. It has to be two separate things.”
“Taylor called them tough clients,” Lavine said. “Maybe he was right about that.”
“Otherwise, why bring the team home?” Weston said. “Why pay them off? Why not just kill them in Iraq?”
“That would be cheaper,” Lavine said. “Easier. Less risky.”
“Could make it look like another mob got them,” Weston said. “Or an ambush. Or friendly fire. No one would think twice. And there’s no one like us over there to sniff around.”
“Will you three stop speculating?” Tanya said. “You’re wasting time. Let’s just talk to this guy. We should get it from the horse’s mouth.”
“Which guy?” I said.
“From the original team,” Tanya said. “Five have gone overseas again, but one of them’s here in New York.”
“Didn’t we tell you?” Weston said. “I spoke to his wife before I called you. That’s how we knew about him working at the hospital.”
“So where is he?” I said. “Your office?”
“No,” Weston said. “At his job. He works construction, now.”
A framed, five-foot-square artist’s impression was attached to every panel of rough blue hoarding that separated the pedestrians on East Twenty-third Street from the spindly steel skeleton rising out of the narrow lot on the other side. There were eight pictures altogether. Each one gave a different vision of the finished building, from a grand marble-lined lobby to a serene Japanese roof garden, complete with tiny bronze sculptures.
Weston pulled up next to a designer couple power-snacking at a granite breakfast bar, and we had to walk past the view from one of the balconies to reach the foreman’s compound.
“How tall is this place going to be?” Tanya said, staring at the pictures.
“Not tall enough,” Weston said, hammering on the wooden gate. “Except for maybe the penthouse. Won’t see the Chrysler, lower down. The Met Life’s in the way.”
“And the Empire State’s not that high,” Lavine said.
“Shame,” Tanya said. “Three buildings, each the tallest in the world at one time, all from your living room window. What a view that would be.”
Eventually the foreman ambled across to talk to us.
“Yeah?” he said. “What? I’m busy here.”
“FBI,” Weston said. “Looking for Julio Arca.”
“Not here.”
“His wife said he was working today.”
“He is. Not back yet.”
“When do you expect him?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where did he go?”
“The park. ’Cross there. With the other guys.”
“His coworkers?”
“No. Guys in suits. Like you.”
“Like us? How many?”
“Two.”
“When did they go?”
“Don’t know. Ten minutes ago. Fifteen maybe?”
“What does he look like, this Julio?”
“Like a regular guy.”
“Age?”
“Thirties, I guess.”
“Height?”
“Five ten, maybe.”
“Hair?”
“Buzz cut. But he had a hard hat on.”
“Mustache? Beard?”
“No. Shaved.”
“Clothes?”
“Boots. Coveralls, like me. And a fluorescent vest.”
The little park was swarming with people. They were sitting on benches, sprawling next to statues, lying on the grass, walking their dogs, lining up to buy coffee from an outdoor cafe. Some were on their own. Others were in groups. Some were wearing suits. Several were in work clothes. But none matched the description we had for Arca.
The path from the gate at the southeast corner was one of six that radiated out from an ornamental fountain on the far side of the cafe. Another oval path crossed in front of us, a few yards in. Lavine paused when he reached it.
“Better split up,” he said. “I’ll go straight on. Kyle, you go left. Dave and Tanya, you go right. You on the air?”
Tanya patted her bag.
“Good,” he said. “RV at the fountain if you don’t find anything.”
Weston was the first to come through on the radio.
“On me,” he said. “Statue, southwest corner. Code blue.”
Lavine reached him just before us.
“What have you got?” he said.
“Found him. But there’s a problem. I think we’re too late.”
Weston led the way round the outer path until we reached another monument. From a distance it looked like a giant candlestick, but as we drew closer I saw it was actually a stout, white flagpole with a five-pointed star at the top. Seven people were gathered around its square stone base. A woman, eating sandwiches. Another listening to an MP3 player. Another on the phone. Three teenagers, sitting together at the far corner, talking. And one man. He was leaning back against a carved plaque. His hard hat was lying on the plinth next to him, upside down. Clumps of fresh mud had fallen from the cleats on his work boots and the leather on the toes was torn and scuffed. His yellow vest was rucked up under his arms as if he’d slumped down from a standing position. His neck was twisted sharply to the right. His eyes were shut. And his tongue was lolling out from his mouth like a giant pink slug.
“See what I mean?” Weston said.
“How did this happen?” Lavine said.
“Must have been the two guys he left his job with,” Weston said. “I already checked for them. No sign.”
“What about these people?” Tanya said. “Someone must have seen something.”
“Wouldn’t count on it,” I said.
“Kyle, call it in,” Lavine said. “I want the place sealed off. Nobody leaves. Everyone gets questioned. Twice. See if there’s any CCTV from the streets or the park. Or the construction site. Get forensics here. And the ME. Tell them to put a rush on it. We’ll make a start with these guys.”
“Hang on a second,” I said. “Who checked his vitals? Or are we just making assumptions, here?”
“Kyle?” Lavine said.
“No,” he said. “I pulled back and called you guys.”
“You don’t think…?” Tanya said.
I stepped forward and reached toward his neck with two fingers. But before I made contact the guy’s right arm whipped up and his fingers clamped tight around my wrist.
“Afternoon, Julio,” I said. “Or should we call you Lazarus?”
Lavine and Weston wanted to arrest the guy on the spot, but I persuaded them that a sandwich and a coffee at the park cafe would be a more productive option.
“OK, then,” Lavine said, after taking a swig of cappuccino and munching through a couple of biscotti. “I’m ready to talk. What was that about, back there, Julio? Are you a Boris Karloff fan or something?”
“Relax, man,” Arca said. “I was just checking you out.”
“Checking us out? Who do you think you are?”
“A guy with a cell phone.”
“Meaning?”
“You think people don’t talk, because we’re not in the service now? You think I don’t know six more Tungsten guys got canned, the same as me? And five are dead?”
“Let me see the phone,” Weston said.
Arca took a small silver Motorola from his coverall pocket and put it on the table. Weston picked it up and prodded a couple of buttons.
“It’s not the phone that called Raab,” he said. “But your wife called you. Right after we spoke to her.”
Arca didn’t reply.
“She told you we were coming. That’s why you tried to run. Doesn’t make you look good, Julio.”
“Five guys are dead,” Arca said. “My wife gets a call out of nowhere. You tell her you’re the feds. How does she know?”
“So you set this up with your boss? You’re getting paranoid.”
“He established a viable cover,” I said. “Headed for a populated area. Created a diversion. Observed our reactions. Pretty smart, I’d say.”
“We’ll come back to that,” Lavine said. “But right now, tell me why you got fired from Tungsten.”
“Don’t know,” Arca said.
“You got fired from a job paying you a couple of hundred grand a year, and you didn’t ask why?”
“Oh, yeah, we asked. Fed us some ‘client complaint’ bullshit.”
“Why did the client complain? What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“What about your buddies?”
“Nothing.”
“So they fired you for no reason. How’d that make you feel?”
“Great.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. They gave me fifty-five grand. The chance to retrain. Now I got money in the bank. I don’t have to go overseas to earn a living. And people don’t try to kill me every day.”
“What did you do at the hospital?” I said.
“In Iraq? Premises team.”
“There was more than one team?” Lavine said.
“Right. There were three teams. Premises-that was us. Supplies-they guarded the medicine trucks coming in. And close protection-they went with the doctors when they were off-site.”
“What about the team that just got fired?” I said.
“Premises team, the way I heard.”
“These overseas guys, they have weird traditions,” I said. “They can be very sensitive. Easy to offend. Are you sure…”
“I know about their traditions. We get training before we go over there. I’d been three times, already. And we did nothing wrong. None of us.”
“Then did you see anything strange? Out of place? Maybe something that didn’t hit you till later?”
“No. Nothing like that. It was a hospital. Sick people, funny smell. It was boring. Why are you asking me these things? When are you going to ask me about James Mansell?”
“Why ask about him?”
“Because he killed those other guys.”
“He did? Why? How do you know?”
“Look. Six people get payouts. They go freeriding together. Nothing unusual about that. Lots of guys do after their final tour. But then five of them don’t come back. You do the math. And do it quick. I’m the only ex-Tungsten guy left around here. Don’t want him coming back for my slice of pie.”
Lavine kept himself under control until Arca had disappeared through the trees. Then he slammed his palm down on the table so hard it sent a wave of leftover coffee slopping into his saucer. People glanced at us from other tables. Tanya fidgeted, uncomfortable with the attention, and began to chew her lower lip. Weston stayed still, but I saw his knuckles whitening around the arms of his chair.
“What now?” he said.
Tanya shrugged.
“Anyone got a quarter?” Lavine said.
“Feel a big tip coming on?” I said.
“I’m thinking about James Mansell,” he said. “Heads, he’s in mortal danger. Tails, he’s a mass murderer.”
“But which?” Tanya said. “Or maybe both?”
“Doesn’t matter right now,” Weston said. “Either way, we’ve got to find him.”
“Agreed,” Tanya said. “But how? Arca was useless as a lead. Tungsten was a dead end. And now we’re looking for one guy who could be anywhere in the whole of the United States.”
“Or Mexico,” Weston said.
“Don’t forget Canada,” Lavine said.
“Anywhere in the world, then,” Tanya said. “And that’s some haystack for the four of us to comb through.”