I was sent to a company in France once, where the entire office was obsessed with milk.
A list had been drawn up to determine who had to fetch each day’s supply from the local shop. It sounded easy. But the system never worked. People would forget to pay their dues, so the club ran short of money. Others would say they couldn’t find time to leave the premises. Or they might refuse to go because someone else had missed their turn the previous week. And so it went on until a kind of anarchy broke out. Factions sprang up that brought their own provisions. They refused to share. Then tried to steal from each other if they didn’t have enough. The organizers took steps to hide their supplies. One old guy went to incredible lengths to conceal his. He’d secretly decant his milk into all kinds of unlikely containers, then distribute them all around his workspace.
I wasn’t interested in the milk-I drink my coffee without-but the job was so boring I needed something to amuse myself. So I came up with a game. Trying to locate each day’s hiding place. I was considerate, though. I didn’t root around in the old guy’s stuff. All I did was watch him. I would drop a hint about being thirsty then deliberately hang around in different areas of the office and observe his reaction. I wasn’t concerned with the exact spot-which bookcase, not which book-and my method worked every time. It formed the bones of a strategy I would use for years to come.
It might not tell you the precise location of the thing you’re searching for.
But it will confirm the direction you should look.
Taylor opened the door to his apartment the moment I knocked and then stepped aside, gesturing for me to come in. He didn’t say a word-just stood back and waited. I guess that was a favorite act of his, because as hallways go his was pretty unusual. Apart from the external door the space was completely circular. The floor was covered in five-bar chequer plate like you find in factories and warehouses, only his was polished to a flawless shine. The paintwork was plain white, and if you looked carefully you could just see the outline of concealed, curved doors set into the walls on the right and the left. A corridor led through an archway in front of us, presumably to the bedrooms and bathrooms. The center of the space was filled by a spiral staircase. The frame was gleaming metal. All the bolts and structural parts were exposed, and the treads were textured to match the rest of the floor.
“There’s nothing to see down here,” Taylor’s said, when he’d finished enjoying my reaction. “Let’s go up. After you.”
The higher floor of Taylor’s duplex had been knocked through to form a single, continuous rectangle. The floor, walls, and ceiling were made from some kind of granitelike material. It was crisp white with tiny silver flecks, and it must have been somehow molded in place like an inner skin because there were no joins or seams visible anywhere.
All the power cables were carried externally in round zinc-coated conduits. These were connected to heavy, industrial-style switches and ran up to three parallel lighting bars hanging on chains from the ceiling. The one on our right was above a dining table. It was made of greenish glass with flowing irregular edges, three-quarters of an inch thick, supported by adjustable metal trestles. Eight chairs surrounded it. They were covered in suede. There was one in each color of the rainbow, plus one in plain black.
“Is that a dumbwaiter?” I said, nodding toward a square steel hatch set into the right-hand wall.
“Sure,” he said. “The kitchen’s downstairs.”
The other two lighting bars were on our left, hanging over a large white leather sofa. It was L-shaped. The two segments were the same length, and it was set up so you’d be equally comfortable watching TV or looking out of the floor-to-ceiling windows opposite us.
The TV was huge. At least fifty-two inches, set into rather than hung on the far wall. There was no sign of any cable boxes or DVD players to drive it. But whatever AV equipment Taylor had hidden away, it would be hard-pressed to compete with the view. First your eyes were drawn to the lavish green of the park, twenty-one floors below. Then the jagged gray and brown buildings of the Upper West Side. And finally the cold blue of the Hudson. Individually each swath of color was fascinating. Together they were hypnotic. No wonder Taylor didn’t feel the need for pictures on his walls.
“Do you live here alone?” I said.
“At the moment,” he said. “Why?”
“I’m just looking at what you’ve done with the place. It’s hard to be so focused if you’ve got to compromise with someone.”
“That’s true. Can I get you a coffee?”
“Please. No milk, no sugar.”
“I’ve got a pot brewing downstairs. It’ll be ready in a minute. Meantime, take a seat. Let’s talk. Tell me what’s got the feds all riled up.”
“Down to business already. OK then. Well, remember your dead ex-employees? We talked about them yesterday. It turns out they were killed by someone from Tungsten.”
“No way. Who?”
“A guy called Salif Hamad.”
“Hamad? I got a call about him, this morning. He’s dead.”
“I know.”
“Hamad killed those guys? Are you sure?”
“Oh, yeah. No doubt.”
“Salif Hamad. Would you believe it? Such a quiet guy. But if it was Hamad, it kind of begs the question, why are you here? The feds aren’t going to get their warrant, now.”
“Want to bet?”
“What’s to search for? You’ve got the guy. End of, surely?”
“Sorry, Kelvin. This isn’t going away. Not yet. The feds are suspicious people. They hate mysteries. Who did it is only half the story. They’ll keep on coming till they find out why.”
“Why has nothing to do with us.”
“I believe you. But the feds think otherwise.”
“How come?”
“Hamad worked for you. The other dead guys worked for you. They don’t think that’s a coincidence.”
“Of course it is. And you need more than a coincidence to get a warrant.”
“They do have more.”
“Like what?”
“I have it here. I can show you. But before I do, I want to get something straight.”
Taylor’s phone began to ring before he could reply. He excused himself, answered it, and listened for a few moments.
“Sorry,” he said. “My housecleaner’s on the way up. I need to go let her in.”
His feet clattered down the metal steps. The door opened. Footsteps came into the hall. Two sets. Both heavy. Then the door closed again and Taylor started back upstairs without a word being spoken.
“I’m back,” he said, emerging from the stairwell. “Sorry about that. What were you saying?”
“Does your housecleaner come up here?” I said.
“Yeah, she will. But not for an hour or so. She does downstairs first. And don’t worry. She doesn’t speak English. So, you wanted something?”
“Yes. Assurances. I’m taking a big risk. No one knows I’m here. If anyone finds out what I’m showing you…”
“Understood. And don’t worry. Discretion is my biggest virtue. Now, let’s see what you’ve got and maybe we can help each other.”
I took out the set of photos Lavine had given me from Mansell’s phone and handed them to Taylor.
“It looks like Iraq,” he said, studying the first one.
“It is,” I said.
“Where did you get them?”
“One of your ex-employees took them. On his phone.”
“Which one?”
“James Mansell.”
“I remember him. He wasn’t one of the five victims, though?”
“We’re not sure. We know Hamad tried to kill him. If he succeeded, we haven’t found the body. But he certainly took Mansell’s phone. He had it with him, last night, when he died. He was trying to protect it.”
“Strange.”
“Very. And the question the feds are asking is, why did he want the phone so much?”
“No idea. Call records? People’s numbers?”
“No. The FBI have analyzed everything. There must be something else.”
“I can’t imagine what.”
“They’re thinking, maybe the photos?”
“Surely not. How could someone’s vacation snaps be worth five lives?”
“I don’t know yet. Have a look. Tell me what you see. If I can convince the feds the photos aren’t significant…”
“Got you,” he said, starting to thumb his way through the pile. “I’ll try. Let’s see what we have. Guys in their barracks. Guys in the desert. More guys in the desert. Some girls-not ours. Guys in vehicles. One of our convoys. One of our trucks.”
“What’s that Arabic writing on the back?”
“ ‘Danger. Keep Back. Authorized to use lethal force.’ ”
“Is that normal?”
“Completely. All private contract vehicles have signs saying it. In English, and in Arabic.”
“Oh. OK. Keep going.”
“This next one is, this one is, well, it looks like it could be the inside of one of our trucks.”
“What are all the containers?”
“Organ carriers, for transplants. Big on the black market.”
“Valuable?”
“Very. That’s why we have to guard them. Those and the drugs, obviously.”
“Why would Mansell photograph them?”
“No idea.”
“They don’t look like regular ones. Usually they’re like picnic boxes.”
“Right. These are special. The country’s in a mess right now, so most of the organs have to be flown in. They need built-in monitors, fluid pumps, all manner of gizmos. Because of the time from harvesting.”
“OK. So what about the rest. Anything?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, glancing at the remaining pictures. “They just look like souvenirs.”
“I see.”
“So that’s cleared things up? We’re good?”
“No. Sorry, Kelvin, but that’s nowhere near good enough. I can’t go back to the FBI with ‘they look like souvenirs.’ I need more.”
“There is no more. I looked at the pictures. I told you what I saw.”
“The SWAT teams are suiting up, right now. They might not wait till tomorrow morning…”
“So, stop them.”
“Then give me something to work with.”
“Like what? There’s nothing in those pictures. They’re irrelevant.”
“Then I’ll see you in the morning,” I said. “And I’d wear old clothes, if I were you.”
“No, wait,” he said. “Forget the photos. Let’s try another approach. We work with the government all the time. It’s a complex machine. Sometimes the wheels get a little jammed up. I’m thinking, maybe that’s the kind of situation we have here?”
“I don’t know. What do you do, in that kind of situation?”
“We unjam the wheels. Lubricate them. Get them moving again.”
“How?”
“Money usually works.”
“How much?”
“Depends how many wheels are jammed.”
“Say, three? Aside from me.”
“A hundred thousand. You keep whatever’s left.”
“How about a million?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“I wonder if they’ll raid this place, too?”
“Five hundred thousand.”
“Imagine them checking these walls, digging around for concealed hiding places…”
“Seven fifty. Fifty now, the rest when the case is closed.”
“I keep whatever’s left, after the wheels are moving again?”
“Right.”
“How about the coffee?”
“Forget the coffee. I’ve got the fifty downstairs. I’ll go get it.”
“Thanks. And tell your guys they can stop hiding.”
“What guys?”
“The guys you just let in. Unless it really was your housecleaner. And she’s got four legs.”
“Oh. The metal floor. Not the best for subtlety.”
“No.”
“OK, this is embarrassing. We still good?”
“We are. What if I’d not taken the bribe? You couldn’t meet me here alone. Only a fool would have done that. And I don’t do business with fools.”