I took a step back, scooped up the discarded gun and waited in silence. The guy from McIntyre’s room lay as still as the wooden floorboards beneath him. He stayed that way for just over a minute. Then, very slightly, beginning with his left foot, he started to fidget.
“Take out your phone,” I said.
My plan was to offer him one last call. I didn’t care who to. His wife, maybe. His girlfriend. Or a significant other of whatever kind. Because whoever he spoke to, if I could get him to say goodbye to them, to hear his own voice announcing out loud that he only had moments left to live, I knew he’d be on the verge of believing it himself.
Things didn’t start out very promisingly. The guy glanced to his left and his eyes settled on the shattered remains of the Nokia that Fothergill had given me. One of his bullets must have caught it when he shot up the door. The corners of his mouth curled into a tiny smile, but other than that, he didn’t move. Then confusion spread across his face, followed by a tinge of hope.
“Wait a minute,” he said, in a faded Newcastle accent. “You’re English?”
Nothing like that ever happened to the Danish anarchist. No one had shown the slightest interest in his dialect, and I’d seen him use the same trick four times in two months.
“Get your phone, Einstein,” I said. “It’s not for me. It’s for you.”
“Are you from the Wrigley Building?” he said. “You know, UK Trade, et cetera?”
An intriguing question, from a civilian.
“Get the phone,” I said. “Do it now.”
“Oh, I get it,” he said. “I know who you are. You’re Green Slime.”
That was even more intriguing. Green Slime is generic British Army slang for military intelligence, but I hadn’t heard it used in years.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” he said. “But I know you won’t admit it. So let’s stop talking about the phone, and start talking about how I can help you.”
Maybe things would work out after all. People always ended up helping Kaspar the anarchist, but even with him they didn’t usually volunteer so readily.
“You think you can help me?” I said. “With what?”
“Can I sit up?” he said. “This is getting uncomfortable.”
“No. Help me with what?”
“Finding Tony.”
“Who’s Tony? And why would I want to find him?”
“Tony McIntyre.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Look. Three people in the world knew Tony was in the United States. Me. Richard Fothergill, Tony’s old mate in the Slime, who’s now here in Chicago. And one other guy.”
“So?”
“Well, I didn’t tell you. And the other guy didn’t tell you.”
“How do you know the other guy didn’t tell me? How do you know I’m not the other guy?”
“He’s a government employee. A government that only employs people from its own country. And that country isn’t England.”
“What country is it?”
“Some tiny one, in Africa. The name escapes me.”
“I can wait. Or I could help you remember, if you’re struggling.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll come back to me. But the point is, it must have been Fothergill who told you. About Tony.”
I didn’t answer.
“Don’t try telling me that you showing up here, outside his door, is some kind of coincidence,” he said. “I’m not new.”
“How did you know he was here?” I said.
“It was me who told him to come here. I gave him the address.”
“When?”
“Twelve days ago.”
“Why?”
“We served together, in another life. Stayed in touch. I help out once in a while, when Tony needs something done on the q.t. Everyone in the Slime has a back-door man, don’t they?”
“How did this other guy know?”
“He’s got lots of fingers in lots of pies. Like a giant octopus. Found out Tony was coming here. Then followed him.”
“How did he find out?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did he follow?”
“Tony had something he wanted.”
“Something Tony was selling?”
“No. Tony wasn’t selling anything. The thing he had, he wanted to destroy.”
Or at least, he didn’t want to sell till he had a scapegoat lined up, I thought. People don’t destroy big heaps of their own money. Maybe this was big enough to be his pension fund. He could sell it, deflect the attention, and disappear into the sunset.
“What is this thing he had?” I said.
“I don’t know, exactly,” he said. “But Tony thought it was bad shit. He wanted to get rid of it. Safely.”
“Why weren’t you here, taking care of things, if you’ve got Tony’s back?”
The guy shrugged.
“I got here as quick as I could,” he said.
“Where does Fothergill fit into it?” I said.
“Tony needed help. Fothergill was his last hope.”
“What kind of help?”
“Getting rid of this thing—whatever it was—and getting the other guy off his back.”
“Sounds straightforward. What went wrong?”
“I don’t know. Something came off the rails. Fothergill was on board. He’d agreed to help. Tony was on his way to see him. I guess he never got there.”
“Really?”
“No. But where are you going with this? You’ve been briefed, right?”
“You know bureaucrats. Fothergill plays his cards pretty close. He only paints in the broad strokes. So, McIntyre never made it to the rendezvous, do you think?”
“Right. He got hurt. Wound up with a slug in his side.”
“How?”
The guy shrugged.
“Someone pulled a trigger on him,” he said. “Don’t know who. Don’t know why. I just know he needed surgery.”
“Where?”
“At a place I know.”
“What place?”
“A clinic. In the center of the city. Does cosmetic work, normally.”
“Why there?”
“I own it. Or a piece of it. I told Tony about it ahead of time, just in case. That’s standard planning, for us.”
“What’s your name?”
“It doesn’t matter what my name is.”
Something creaked downstairs. I raised my gun, lining up on the bridge of the guy’s nose, and held my breath until I was sure no one was coming. His eyes locked onto the muzzle. He swallowed. Twice. Rapidly, like his Adam’s apple was trying to break through his skin.
“It matters to me,” I said, when I was satisfied we were still on our own.
“Young,” he said, after a couple of seconds. “Gary Young.”
That tallied with what Fothergill had told me in his office, two days ago. Gary Young was the person McIntyre had blamed for corrupting him, so I slowly lowered the Beretta. Some of the way. Using a recognizable name was a good start, but it didn’t explain everything.
“McIntyre’s accident with the 9 mm was nearly a week ago,” I said. “Why are you just looking for him now?”
“I have my reasons,” he said.
“Could they include, now, let’s see—you not really being his friend, for example?”
He didn’t answer.
“Or that really you’re here to buy this evil stuff he had, but you’re a little off the pace?”
“Look,” he said. “I had to get into the country. That takes time. See, the authorities would prefer I stayed out. There’s no welcome mat for me. Then, ’cause I hadn’t spoken to Tony since he got hurt, I didn’t know which safe house he’d be using to recover in. He wasn’t answering his phone. I couldn’t find out from his doctor—the one from the clinic—’cause he’s disappeared, too. So, I had to start at the first location and work my way down.”
“How many safe houses have you got?”
“Five.”
“That’s not possible. McIntyre wasn’t here long enough to scope out that many.”