“That’s weird,” said Harry. “Who do you think it was?”
“I have no idea, and I don’t care. Can you guys meet me or not? I’ve got to get the fuck over there. The caller warned me to be fast.”
“Okay, we’ll come, but Wimbledon is clear across London. It’s going to take us a while.”
“Well, get there as soon as you can. I might need backup.”
Burim hung up. Then, as he hurried toward the entrance to the Underground, he called George.
“Where are you?”
“Hammersmith,” said George. “You heard something, I can tell.”
“You have to meet me right now. It’s a place in Wimbledon. I will give you the details. Pia is there, I hope. Grab a cab and and wait for me, but don’t do anything until I’m there. Even if you happen to see her, don’t interfere, just follow. Got it?”
“Okay, okay. Oh, my God. Just tell me where to go.”
Burim gave him the address and repeated the admonition not to do anything before he arrived. He added that it could be dangerous for him and for Pia. As he started down the stairs he cursed the fact that he might have to rely on a goddamned stupid college kid like George.
Jimmy felt a twinge of compassion for Zachary Berman, then discarded it. He was a weak man, after all. He had succeeded so well in life, yet had failed to control himself when it mattered. It had been easy for Jimmy to gain access to Nano’s secrets, but still, it all could have turned out differently if Berman had been more of a man. Jimmy was so sick of Berman’s whining that he rode in a separate car. After Berman had climbed into his, Jimmy had guided Whitney Jones into the second car and got in after her.
“You should have come to me earlier,” said Whitney. “I would have talked to him. It might have worked out differently.”
“I know you would have talked to him. But I think he was always going to be besotted with this woman. But his feelings will pass, and he will stop hating me. Or he won’t. It’s all the same to me.” Jimmy smiled.
“Nano will be fine,” said Whitney.
“I know,” said Jimmy. “Mostly thanks to you.” He looked at his watch. Everything was running like clockwork. They were already close to the airport, and it was important that Berman was safely in the air before the last act played out.
“Midnight,” said Jimmy. And he sat back in his seat.
Although he made his connection quickly at South Kensington station where he had momentarily considered exiting from the Underground and finding a taxi, Burim strained every sinew willing the Underground train to go faster. Why was the train so slow? Why did the stations need to be so close together? Burim found a passenger who was alighting at Wimbledon, and he found out from her that he needed to be at the front of the District Line train to make the fastest exit. He barged from car to car through the happy and mostly drunken Friday-night crowd, who all took one look at the man and gave him leeway without complaint, realizing he shouldn’t be messed with.
Burim knew that Hammersmith was closer to Wimbledon than Piccadilly, and he had told George to hail a taxi, meaning he was bound to get there faster. Burim hoped to hell George could contain himself and wait for him. His job was to make sure Pia wasn’t moved anywhere before Burim arrived.
Finally, the train arrived and Burim burst out of the car. It was about a mile to the home whose address he had and there were no taxis in sight. Burim busted a gut running there. He knew the route from the guidebook, and as he approached the address, he could see George Wilson standing in the street, and he ran toward him. This was a quiet residential street, a richer part of town than the one where he had been staying. The houses were all four stories tall.
“Have you seen anything?” Burim managed. He was totally out of breath gasping for air.
“Nothing,” George said, offering no greeting. “I think it’s the top flat, second house from the end. The one with the lights on. What are we going to do?”
Burim didn’t answer but rather took out his handgun and cocked it, putting a bullet into the chamber before tucking the gun into this belt. With one more glance up to the lighted apartment, he ran across the street toward the building’s front door.
For a second, George hesitated. The sight of the gun had unnerved him. But then, without really thinking about what he was doing, he took off after Burim. Burim was at the door, pulling a short-handled crowbar from the backpack he’d taken off his shoulder.
Wedging the crowbar into the doorjamb, Burim leaned into it, and the door gave way easily. He rushed through and charged up the stairs to the top level. George followed suit. On the top level, Burim raced to the appropriate door, 4A. Using both hands, he wedged the crowbar between the door and the jamb just above the lock. Then pulling out the gun from his belt with his right hand, he pushed the crowbar with his left, putting all his weight onto it. The door was dead-bolted and had a chain, but Burim was like a man possessed — his strength splintered the door and yanked it off its hinges.
A heartbeat later Burim was in the apartment, now holding his gun in front of him in both hands. Inside were two men on a couch, moving now, guns on the table, lines of cocaine…. Burim squeezed off two shots in the direction of each man aiming at their surprised faces — the first went down, but as the second reached for his gun, Burim fired again, with truer aim.
George pushed into the room and felt immediately sick. The two men were obviously mortally wounded. Both were lying in grotesque positions: one was moaning, the other gurgling. Burim’s aim was good — both had been hit in the head, sending bits of bone and brain splattering on the wall behind the couch. A TV was on and a late-night host was still chatting with his guest as if nothing had happened. On the coffee table with the guns and cocaine was a large brick of 100-euro notes.
“Jesus,” said George.
Still holding his gun out in front of him, Burim searched the apartment, first looking into the kitchen area. It was a mess, with dirty dishes piled on the countertops and in the sink. Wasting no time, Burim dashed to the back of the living room. There were two closed doors that led, he assumed, to bedrooms. Burim held the handle to the first, clutching his gun in his other hand. He opened the door quickly, and rolled around the door into the room, ready to fire again. There was an unmade double bed, an open wardrobe and not much else. Burim checked a small bathroom. It was empty.
Burim went to the second door off the living room. He ignored George who was frozen in place two steps into the apartment. Burim grasped the doorknob of the final door, holding this pistol at the ready alongside his head. He then yanked open the door.
Jimmy Yan yawned. It had been a hell of a day. But Zach Berman’s plane was now ready to head back to Boulder, and in a few minutes, Jimmy’s car would be roaring on the motorway up the spine of England to Manchester and another airport, and a plane that would take him home and to a powerful new life of his own.
Jimmy moved over to the base of the airstairs leading up to Berman’s plane. Berman was standing on the tarmac off to the side, and looked crushed and a little drunk. Jimmy nodded that it was time, and the guards let Berman go. Berman walked unsteadily toward the stairs. Jimmy held out his hand to shake if Berman was so inclined, but he wasn’t. He stopped for a moment, glared at Jimmy for a beat, then climbed the stairs. At the top, he didn’t look back.
Berman turned to the right and sank into one of the leather swivel chairs. He leaned back and closed his eyes. The pilots were going through their last preflight checks. A few moments later as the door to the Gulfstream banged shut, Berman opened his eyes and nodded to the cabin attendant. It was only then that he made a point to turn and look into the depth of the plane. He was surprised. He was the only passenger. Whitney Jones had never got on.