The Temporary Agent (24 page)

Forty-Eight

Hammerton sat on the edge of an old desk as Stella wound silver duct tape around his bare torso to ease the pain caused by even the slightest movement.

Despite Hammerton’s refusal to admit the reality of his condition, Tom knew that for even the toughest and most determined person, the body had its limits.

The potential for Hammerton’s condition to turn from bad to worse was enough for Tom to start thinking moves ahead as well.

He recognized that this was another reason for Stella to come along.

Should he need to leave Hammerton behind at any point, Hammerton would have her to rely on.

And Stella would have Hammerton.

In the darkest corner of the retail space, Tom put on a pair of work gloves and field-stripped the 1911 to confirm that it was in working order.

Every piece was close to pristine, every mechanism operating as it should, including the firing pin.

Wiping the individual parts down, he reassembled the pistol, then inserted the original magazine and repeatedly racked the slide, ejecting the live rounds into a small cardboard box till the magazine was empty and the slide locked back in the open position.

The springs in old Colt mags could be finicky, he knew, and better that they failed to feed now than in a firefight.

But the mag had performed perfectly, so Tom inserted one of the McCormick mags into the 1911 and depressed the catch lever, sending the slide forward with a sharp snap and chambering a round.

Ejecting that mag, he topped it out with a round from the cardboard box, reinserted the fully loaded mag into the grip, and set the thumb safety before laying the pistol down on the table, the muzzle pointed in a safe direction.

Reloading the original Colt mag with the ejected rounds, he placed it in his left hip pocket along with the second McCormick mag.

Seven rounds in the Colt mag, eight in each of the McCormicks, and one in the chamber.

Twenty-four total.

Stella had six in her .357, Hammerton just ten in his SIG.

Hardly a well-equipped force.

But it would have to do.

Tom was aware that New York State law not only banned the possession of magazines with a capacity greater than ten, it also required that ten-round magazines only be loaded with seven rounds.

His eight-round McCormicks and Hammerton’s ten-rounder put them both in violation of state law.

But like those who were likely to oppose them tonight, Tom didn’t care about that.

He couldn’t care about that.

He had no intention whatsoever of losing those he cared about.

And he had every intention of getting them—and himself—out of New York alive.

For the first time in Tom’s life, he was about to intentionally step outside the law.

His only consolation was Carrington’s favorite John Locke quote.

The first law of nature is self-defense.

It would be his mantra for the night.

The retail shop below Stella’s apartment had a rear door, and they exited through that.

Tom’s pickup had been out of his sight since morning, so he got out his flashlight and made another bumper-to-bumper sweep of the vehicle to make sure no tracking device had been planted.

After that, he steered out of the parking lot and onto Main Street, Hammerton by the passenger door and Stella between them.

There was comfort in having her so near.

But there was also concern.

This was his razor’s edge to walk.

It would be a two-hour-plus ride to White Plains, south at first on a two-lane country road that wound through farmlands and historic villages and small towns, then on a state highway past failed industrial cities, and from there an interstate freeway west, which would carry them across the state line and into New York.

And, for two of them, into lawlessness.

It was during the final leg of their journey, south on I-684, that Tom realized the true nature of their situation.

The problem with being outside the law was that you could no longer count on it for protection.

The list of those against them had just multiplied exponentially.

In every way imaginable, they were on their own now.

Forty-Nine

White Plains was a quiet city.

There was barely any street traffic as they crossed through the business district, and no vehicles parked at the curb for blocks at a time.

In fact, the only businesses open were a handful of restaurants that appeared all but unoccupied.

Tom understood the reasoning behind choosing such a sleepy place as a fallback position, if that was in fact what Carrington had done.

Tom had recognized similar advantages when he first arrived in Canaan.

The monument was located off Battle Avenue, between the Bronx River and Chatterton Parkways.

A small, tree-lined park on a slight incline with a narrow paved path led to the less-than-impressive memorial.

And if the city of White Plains was quiet, the park was desolate.

Tom parked in a deserted municipal lot.

Together, he and Stella and Hammerton exited the truck and approached.

The tape around Hammerton’s ribs helped him stay upright and move, but even with his well-practiced SAS stoicism, the exertion showed.

Both Tom and Stella saw it.

As Tom led, she remained close to Hammerton.

They paused when they reached a grove of trees at the park’s northern edge.

These trees were half-bare, so the cover they offered was minimal at best.

The lawn in front of them was blanketed with yellow and orange fallen leaves that appeared untrampled.

Perhaps even when the city was busy, this landmark remained unfrequented.

The only sounds that could be heard were the vehicles passing on the Bronx River Parkway.

A hiss that, while steady, rose and fell in volume as vehicles from two directions approached, passed, and then sped away.

Looking behind them, Tom saw a number of streets, some of which were one-way.

These streets were not set up on a grid pattern like Manhattan’s Midtown but rather at angles that created a confusing geometry more like Washington, DC.

One glance showed at least a dozen means of approach and egress.

Carrington couldn’t have picked a more suitable location for the meeting.

The only thing missing, really, was high ground from which Carrington could observe them.

But a position behind any of the trees surrounding the park would provide close to the same advantage.

Tom looked forward again, scanning the area.

“I don’t see anyone,” Stella whispered.

“We wouldn’t,” Hammerton said.

Tom told them to wait there and stepped onto the lawn.

He took a few steps—noisy, due to the brittle leaves—and stopped.

Scanning again, he saw nothing—no hint of movement, no figure in any of the shadows of the trees.

He continued walking, the leaves announcing every step he took.

Even the paved path, which he eventually reached, was covered.

He approached the monument, stopped a few feet from it, casually looking around again before closing the remaining distance.

And that was when he heard the sound of a cell phone ringing.

Both muffled and echoing.

It took a few seconds for Tom to determine that the ringing was coming from the mouth of the cannon.

Leaning close to it, he reached inside and felt a vibrating phone.

When he answered, Carrington said, “Is that Stella with Hammerton?”

“Yes.”

“She’s a beautiful woman, Tom.”

Tom ignored that. “Cahill thinks you ordered the hit on him.”

“I figured that out, yeah.”

“The way Hammerton and I see it, Raveis was the one behind it. But I need to prove that to Cahill.”

Tom heard only silence from the other end.

Several seconds of it.

“You still there?” he said finally.

“I am.”

“The only real evidence against you is Simpson’s cell phone,” Tom said. “A burner phone with only two numbers in it. One of them was yours, and the other was linked to a Russian named Israilov, who is the bodyguard to a weapons dealer named Kadyrov—”

“Tom,” Carrington said.

“Simpson was working for Kadyrov, and Kadyrov is somehow linked to Raveis. He has to be—”

“Tom, Israilov is dead. Shot in the head a few hours ago in the city.”

“Cahill?”

“Yes. My sources say there’s surveillance footage from a street camera. It shows the whole thing.” Carrington paused. “Cahill crossed a line, Tom. He murdered a man in broad daylight.”

Tom was silent for a moment.

He thought about Cahill’s promise in the bunker.

In twenty-four hours, they’ll all be dead.

Finally, Tom asked about Kadyrov.

“It seems he got away. The man’s not without friends. Or resources of his own. Cahill has a war on his hands now. It’s bad, and it’s only going to get worse.” Carrington paused. “I’m going to give you an address. It’s not far from here. The three of you will meet me there, and we’ll talk about this in person.”

Tom hesitated, remembering the last time Carrington had sent him to an address.

Sent him and Hammerton then, but was also sending Stella now.

Carrington obviously understood Tom’s hesitation, because he said, “It’s a house in a residential neighborhood. I rent the basement apartment. No lease, all cash. It’s safe. Trust me. Okay?”

Tom glanced back at Stella and Hammerton standing among the trees.

They were watching him intently but were too far away to hear what was said.

But not so far away that they couldn’t see the look of concern on his face.

Turning back and facing the monument, Tom said, “What’s the address?”

Fifty

Robertson Avenue was just as Carrington had described it.

A residential street in the heart of White Plains, a mix of prewar and postwar homes, the majority of which were three stories tall.

Yards nonexistent, the houses crowded together.

Nothing, then, like Front Street.

The opposite, in fact, of the relative privacy offered by a semi-industrial area located on the far edge of a large city.

Violence here would not go unheard.

And response time, once the authorities had been called by countless neighbors, would certainly be swift.

The address Carrington had given Tom was the last house on the right before Robertson crossed with Harding Avenue.

Just past that house was a sloping driveway leading down at a steep grade to an exposed basement at the building’s rear.

Tom parked his pickup at the curb, killed the lights and the motor, and saw that Carrington was standing at the top of the driveway.

The man scanned the street quickly, then turned and started down the slope, waving for Tom and the others to follow.

There was something in the way Carrington moved that struck Tom as odd.

He had wavered slightly as he turned, lumbered just a little as he walked.

Tom had no time to study him. The driveway was so steep that it only took a few clumsy strides for him to completely disappear from Tom’s line of sight.

Tom’s first thought was that Carrington’s basement apartment must be a stripped-down version of Cahill’s underground bunker.

A place to stash gear and supplies and, should it come to that, to lay low for as long as necessary.

It was a single large room in a roughly finished basement, containing a bed, a desk with computer and printer, a table with a television, and a small kitchenette.

Exposed sheetrock, cement floor with a ratty throw rug, stale air.

Canned goods, bottled water, a small safe—likely for firearms and emergency cash.

Nowhere near as fortified or elaborate as Cahill’s safe house, but ideally located just thirty miles north of Manhattan—accessible by train and several different highways and parkways.

If Carrington had taken the steps necessary to keep this place a secret, then it would do its job despite being so decidedly low-tech.

Carrington was on the verge of doing what Tom had done five years before. Roam from place to place, leaving as small a footprint as possible—even none at all when he could.

But Tom had drifted to wash away the effects of war, and had done so causally.

Carrington would have to drift to avoid being pulled into war, and would have no choice but to do so expertly.

Stella led Hammerton to the table and helped him down as easily as she could onto one of the two chairs. All this moving around was clearly taking its toll on the man.

Tom stepped farther into the room. Carrington stood at the computer, his back to his visitors. The printer kicked on.

Next to it was a bottle of Oban scotch and a glass.

The bottle was more than half-empty, and the glass contained an inch of amber-colored liquid.

Tom recalled when he had arrived at the Gentleman Farmer in New York.

Seeing Carrington seated at a table, a drink before him.

And Carrington quickly downing his glass of liquor as he rose to greet Tom.

What was it Raveis had said in the limo?

He drinks too much now and then, but not so much that it interferes with business.

At least it hasn’t yet.

Carrington reached for the paper being ejected from the high-speed printer, and Tom finally recognized what it was about the man’s movements that had struck him as odd.

Carrington was drunk.

Taking the printout from the printer tray, he turned and faced Tom.

His breath reeked of booze.

In all the years he had known Carrington, Tom had never seen him inebriated.

“You okay?” Tom said.

Carrington nodded and offered the page to Tom.

Looking at it, Tom saw what appeared to be a screen capture of a smartphone’s display.

As Tom studied the photo, Carrington said, “I took this before I destroyed my phone. Like you, I don’t answer calls from numbers I don’t recognize. There are two calls in my call history from a number I’m now guessing is the number of Simpson’s burner phone. As you can see, both calls are labeled as missed calls, meaning I didn’t answer them.”

“He called your phone from his burner so there would be a record of him contacting you,” Tom said. “To frame you.”

“It’s starting to look that way, yes. As you can see by the time stamp and date, the calls came the morning after you and Savelle were attacked. A few hours before you and I met at Tallmadge’s grave.”

Tom wondered if Simpson had made the calls while he was removing the firing pin from the Beretta.

Which of course raised a question.

“When did you tell him to bring a sidearm for me?” Tom said.

“That morning.”

“Before the calls to your phone started.”

“Yes. Why?”

Hammerton answered, “Because the Beretta had been tampered with, Jim. It was inactive.”

Carrington looked at Tom.

“Simpson put a tracking device on my pickup while I was meeting with Raveis and Savelle,” Tom said. “The same make as one found on the car belonging to Cahill’s dead girlfriend. We need to connect Simpson to Raveis if I’m going to convince Cahill. Hammerton says you hired Simpson as a favor to someone. Was it Raveis?”

Carrington looked at Hammerton.

It didn’t take long before his eyes shifted to Stella.

Tom said, “Was it Raveis who asked you to hire Simpson? As a favor? And asked you to put him on your private detail?”

Carrington looked back at Tom.

The man’s processes were slowed significantly.

“Yes,” he said finally. He paused, then added, “Well, sort of.”

“What do you mean?”

“Raveis doesn’t give orders. Not directly. The request came to me via Savelle. Just like when I sent you to that building in New Haven.”

“What was the reason Savelle gave for asking you to put Simpson on your private detail?”

“I didn’t ask for one. You don’t question it when one of Raveis’s people asks for a favor. But I’m guessing Simpson was related to someone important to Raveis. And that he left the Treasury for reasons that would keep him from landing work without Raveis’s help.” Carrington glanced at Hammerton, then said to Tom, “Hammerton never liked the guy. Said he was too gun-happy. Too . . . reckless. I could see that kind of thing not going over well with Treasury.”

“And you never talked to Raveis about that? Complained about the guy, asked if you could take him off your detail?”

“I don’t think you understand, Tom. I don’t interact with Raveis. I don’t have direct contact with him. He’s high up in the food chain. At the end of the day, I’m just a recruiter.” Carrington paused, then said, “I’m sorry for the runaround these past few days. For withholding certain things from you. I swore an oath when I signed on with the Agency. I couldn’t tell you about me or Cahill. I tried to tell you as much as I could without actually coming out and saying it. But I never lied to you for the sake of manipulating you. And I wouldn’t have sent you to Front Street if I even suspected a trap.”

Tom glanced at Stella and Hammerton.

Carrington followed his line of sight and took his first good look at Hammerton.

He said to Tom, “What’s happened to him?”

“He took a fifty-cal to the torso. Luckily, it was a glancing blow and he was wearing a vest.” Tom paused. “It’s been a shitty few days for all of us.”

“I’m sorry I got you involved in this, Tom.”

“Then help me get out of it. Help me get out of it with a clear conscience.”

“How?”

“Give me something I can use to prove to Cahill it was Raveis behind the attack on him, not you. After that, we’re all on our own, right? I have to do this much, though. For you and for Cahill.”

“Raveis is too smart, Tom. He knows how to move the pieces without leaving any prints—always does.”

“Savelle said that the building on Front Street had been purchased through a series of holding companies and dummy businesses. If we can tie that building somehow to Raveis—tie it and the weapons it contained, one of which was found outside the motel where Cahill was attacked—then Cahill has to at least begin to suspect him.”

“It’s not going to work, Tom. If Raveis wants to hide his hand, it stays hidden. That’s his genius. That’s his bread and butter.”

“Back up a minute,” Stella said.

Tom and Carrington looked at her.

“You said the building where you were almost killed had been purchased through a series of holding companies.”

Tom nodded. “That’s what Savelle said, yeah.”

“But that’s not really how that works.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was in real estate, remember? People—famous people, rich people, investors—often don’t want their names to be linked to the properties they own, for privacy or inheritance reasons. You don’t need to use holding companies or dummy businesses to hide ownership. Actually, that would do the opposite of what you’d be trying to achieve.”

“How so?”

“It would catch the eye of the IRS or FBI—or these days, the Department of Homeland Security. Especially if the property is an abandoned workshop or warehouse. Either way, a property changing hands several times over a short period would send up red flags.”

“So how can someone buy property anonymously?” Tom said.

“It’s easy—that is, if you aren’t looking to get a mortgage. Create a land trust and appoint a trustee with yourself as beneficiary. The only name connected to the property would be the trustee, who is forbidden to reveal the name of the beneficiary. Or you could create an LLC and appoint an attorney as its sole member. Like I said, it’s actually very easy, and common. But if you don’t have the cash and need to get a mortgage, there’s going to be a paper trail leading back to the holder of the mortgage.”

Hammerton observed that he didn’t imagine Raveis having a problem coming up with the cash necessary to buy a derelict workshop.

“And isn’t he a walking, talking corporation, anyway?” Tom said. “I would bet nothing he owns is actually in his name.”

“We can find out one way or another right now,” Stella said.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s all online. Current owner, complete deed history, tax information—everything. I can find out who holds the deed from this computer right here. All I have to do is log in to the MLS. It should only take a few minutes.”

Tom looked at Carrington.

The man nodded and swiveled his chair so it was facing Stella.

“Let the lady her do her thing,” he said.