“Of course.”
“And do you read them?”
“Absolutely. Whenever I’m in an office, with nothing better to do.”
“You don’t, do you? Our people make the effort to put out useful updates so you know what’s what, but do you take any notice? No. You’re still ignoring our advice. Until you’re in trouble. Then you expect us to wave a magic wand.”
“What’s magic about getting me pulled out? Embarrassing-yes. Heavy on paperwork-yes. But hardly out of the ordinary. I worked with a fellow in Nairobi who got dip-exed from three jobs in a row. Admittedly, he did get canned after the last one, but this is my first time. What’s the problem?”
“Diplomatic exfiltration may have been common practice in the past. It isn’t now.”
“Why not?”
“Does the name David Robinson mean anything to you?”
“Should it?”
“Surely you’ve been briefed on this. Didn’t you read… Oh, all right, I’ll spell it out. Robinson was a U.S. Marine. He was posted to Grosvenor Square. Last year, just before Christmas, he was picked up by the Met. Charged with indecently assaulting a female student in the toilets of a nightclub in Soho, somewhere. Washington came through. Wanted him pulled out. London refused. Said it was a civilian offense, in civilian premises, while he was off duty. Insisted he stay in the U.K. to stand trial like anyone else.”
“Seems fair. Did they nail him for it?”
“It never went to court. Robinson killed himself in jail the night before the hearing.”
“Good result.”
“Maybe. But that’s not the point.”
“What is?”
“The liaison protocols. Washington tore them up.”
“But that’s not workable. How can you-”
“Officially sanctioned operations are still covered. But that’s all.”
“Problem solved, then. Tell them I was sanctioned.”
“I can’t do that, David. These guys aren’t fools.”
“So what do we do?”
“Go for bail, like I said.”
“Don’t know. How long will it take?”
“Depends when your arraignment is. The DA will argue you should stay in custody. We’ll argue you should get bail. Then it’s up to the judge.”
“What’s the earliest it could be? I’m due back in London tomorrow. I’m on a flight out this afternoon.”
“David, it’s time for you to face facts. You’re not going to be on that plane. And being late home is the least of your worries. First we have to get you out of here. Then we go to work on your defense. As for the arraignment, I’ll push for an early hearing. Otherwise they’ll move you.”
“Where to?”
“A regular jail. They only have holding facilities here.”
I looked at Tanya, and it was obvious she could tell what I was thinking. We both knew what kind of place she was talking about. Outdated. Overcrowded. Unsanitary. Crawling with degenerate criminals.
“David, think about this,” she said, reaching across and placing her hand over mine. “Don’t do anything stupid. Ever since this Robinson thing, Washington has been looking for payback. They want their pound of flesh. Give them the chance, and they’ll take it from you.”
The droplets of blood from the Nazi’s face had congealed on the bench legs and turned a dirty brown, like specks of rust. Harris spotted them when the detectives returned me to my cell. He went straight over for a closer look. Maybe word of the incident had spread around the building while we’d been upstairs.
“Know anything about this?” he said.
“Absolutely nothing,” I said.
“Nothing, huh? Just like you know nothing about the guy in the alley? Well, we do know something, David. We know you killed that guy. So what you need to do is stop lying and tell us what happened, while we can still help you.”
“What I need to do is sit here and wait for my lawyer to get me released.”
“You can try,” Harris said. “But trust me. You’ll have a long wait.”
Harris was wrong. I only had to wait forty minutes. At dead-on one o’clock he was back with Gibson, standing outside my cell, waiting for Cauldwell to work the lock. Only this time, he had his handcuffs ready.
“On your feet,” he said. “Turn around. Show me your hands.”
He fastened the cuffs and gave each one an extra squeeze, making sure they were clamped really tight around my wrists.
“Ms. Wilson works fast, doesn’t she?” I said.
“What?” Harris said.
“Ms. Wilson. My lawyer. Works fast, to get me released already.”
“You’re not being released, jackass. And this has nothing to do with your lawyer.”
“No? So where are we going?”
“We’re not going anywhere. You are. The FBI is here.”
“Why? What do they want?”
“Like you don’t know.”
“I don’t know. Why is the FBI involved?”
“Enough. Shut your mouth. Not one more word, or you’re going to take a beating right here.”
Three men were waiting for us near the reception desk. I’d never seen any of them before. The little glass gate swung open as we approached and the oldest of the group stepped forward. He had short, graying hair and a bulging stomach that hung down over his belt.
“My name is Lieutenant Hendersen, NYPD,” he said. “I’m here to inform you that at 12:05 P.M. today, jurisdiction in your case was assumed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. These gentlemen are agents. We’ve completed the paperwork. They’ll take it from here.”
“I’m Special Agent Lavine,” the taller of the other two men said, stepping up alongside Hendersen. He was a shade over six feet tall, slim, with broad shoulders and short blond hair. His gray single-breasted suit was well cut, and his white shirt looked crisp and new next to his dark, striped tie. Cuff links peeped out from under the sleeves of his jacket, and I caught sight of initials embroidered onto his shirt pocket when he moved. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in a tailor’s window, other than for his face. It looked tired and drawn, with deep lines etched into the skin around both eyes. The third guy looked much more awake, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. His clothes were similar, but he was an inch taller, six inches wider, and a good ten years younger. He stepped into line a moment later, moving slowly as if working hard to resist the urge to reach out and grab me.
“This is Special Agent Weston,” Lavine said. “You’re with us, now. Come on. Time to go.”
“The FBI are taking over?” I said to Hendersen. “Why?”
He ignored me.
“What about my arraignment?” I said. “Does my attorney know about this?”
Hendersen sneered at me.
“Good-bye, Mr. Trevellyan,” he said, and turned to walk away.
Gibson handed my bag of possessions to Agent Weston, and Harris removed his cuffs from behind my back. I went to rub my wrists, but before I could get the circulation going again Lavine had grabbed them and snapped on his own cuffs. They were of a slightly different design, but every bit as uncomfortable.
Weston took my arm and guided me out through the main door. He led me along the sidewalk to a plain white van parked at the end of the line of vehicles. Lavine opened the rear doors and Weston bundled me inside. The load space was empty apart from an old gray blanket like the kind moving companies use to protect furniture. It was crumpled and stained, and smelled of mildew. I pushed it away with my foot. I didn’t like to think what it might have been used for.
I don’t know which agent took the wheel, but whoever it was had a heavy right foot. The rear tires screeched as we lurched forward, and the van crunched into every pothole and swerved around every corner after that. The interior was pitch-dark, and as I bounced helplessly around, banging and bruising myself on the hard metal surfaces, it reminded me of a story I’d once heard. Something an old-time U.S. Army intelligence guy had told me. About the CIA in Vietnam. He said they used to load Vietcong suspects onto helicopters, put sacks over their heads, and fly them around for a while before taking them in for questioning. They got the most drugged-up, whacked-out pilots they could lay their hands on and just let them go crazy for a couple of hours. Then the prisoners would come staggering out, sick to their stomachs, totally disoriented. Much more likely to talk. Apparently a couple of times the poor guys were so out of it they actually believed they’d landed in the United States, and gave it all up straightaway.