Blood From A Shadow (2012) Page 29

  She was already there, waiting for me right where she said she would be. Gallogly had said I was nuts, I was walking straight into a trap, he fucking wasn’t tagging along, told me I was on my own. I didn’t care, worked better on my own anyway, didn’t need anybody. But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t give up on me, so now he tailed 20 yards behind me as I approached Times Square from Seventh Avenue, the bullpup shotgun stowed under his coat. Artie had preached at me about having faith in my friends, and he was at least right about this one thing, right about the famously selfish Gallogly. He could have picked up his wife and sat it out in his little house over in Hampton Bays, that would have been the smart thing to do. Funny, I had always figured Gallogly would go for the smart thing way before this faith and friend thing. And I always thought I was better than him.

  Almost 3am now on Sunday morning, and this was the slice of the city that wouldn’t sleep. Tourists behind wide-eyed cameras, punters circling after the show, pleasure hunters desperate to stay out of their hotels for as long as they could. The only New Yorkers on the street were the pissed off cops and the hosts of the night time economy, good and bad. I kept walking, the red steps of the TKTS booth to my right, and she was there, beside the statue of Father Duffy, the 69th Regiment’s soldier priest of World War 1. Half a dozen Europeans knotted outside the Times Square Information Center, shielded me, a chance to measure the ground before me, between me and Conroy. There were a hundred skulking figures could have been her hounds, ready to snare me, you never can tell who somebody is just by looking at them. Gallogly stopped at the corner of West 47th Street, I hoped he would pick the smart thing now, if it came to it.

  Conroy was bold and confident, as always, her yellow hair ordered over her fur lined white parka jacket, looking down Broadway, like a woman waiting on her date, with indifference. I watched her, framed against the green granite memorial, thought of Artie. This Celtic cross mirrored that other one, in honor of General Corcoran, that Artie had shown me in Ireland. He had lectured me about my responsibilities that night, about 9/11 and right and wrong, but my head was too full of all those images and sounds and smells, and everything that had happened since that raw night was twisting in my brain now like that Siberian wind and wet Irish snow. What would Artie think of me now, what would they all think, if I couldn’t hold this together, if I let Conroy fuck with my head again? A street bum hassled me for money, the image of Artie at Corcoran’s memorial snapped, I shouldered the bum aside and crossed towards her, no use thinking about it so much, just let it be action and reaction, the rest would look after itself.

  A squall of dark rain slanted over Father Duffy’s bronze shoulder, made her incline her head away from me, let me into her zone, no chance to signal, I clasped her waist with my left arm, pressed the 45 hard into her diaphragm, I was her date, gazing deep into her eyes. But it wasn’t her, not the real Conroy, it was her younger clone, Duffin’s messenger from the hotel in Rome.

  “Miss Conroy is waiting for you, sir,” she said, cool and collected, still indifferent.

  “I guess that sucker Duffin thought you were loyal to him, right?” I said.

  “I am loyal to the United States of America, sir,” she said, as she deflected my grip and turned towards 47th Street, trawling me behind her.

  Gallogly was still right behind me, swivelling his skull like an owl, searching for the outriders. She strode right along, as if we were heading to Eighth Avenue, until a yellow cab pulled in beside us, she gestured for me to jump in the back, she hopped in beside the driver. I crouched to see who or what was inside, Gallogly caught up, tugged back my sleeve, had the shotgun half out of his coat.

  “It’s ok, Jack,” I said. “Our driver is Florencita Conroy, my Combat Stress Practitioner, surely I can trust her with my life, can’t I?”

  Gallogly sprawled behind me into the back seat, twisted his torso to cradle the shotgun barrel in the angle of his elbow, levelled at Conroy’s head.

  “Sure, Con,” he said. “I’ll trust anyone as long as I have a 12-gauge against their head.”

  Conroy was unimpressed, Conroy lite didn’t even look around.

  “That is unnecessary,” Conroy said. “I said we needed to talk. If I had intended any harm to you, you know you would never have reached the taxi. Relax, Maknazpy, I’m taking you to a safe place.”

  I dismissed that idea with a shake of my head, Gallogly used the shotgun to direct Conroy, down to Tenth Avenue, back up 48th Street, down 49th Street. We channelled through the streets in silence, stopped outside the apartment where Eddie had tried to baby-sit me.

  “You can wait here, please, Cora,” Conroy instructed her double.

  I didn’t like that idea either, so Cora and Conroy traipsed up to the apartment in front of me, Gallogly hung back to check we hadn’t been tailed.

  Inside, I kept the 45 straight at Conroy’s chest, ordered Cora to lie face down, hands behind her head. Cora looked to Conroy first, then lay down, still couldn’t care less.

  “Where are my wife and my son?” I said. “Don’t waste your time trying to smooth talk me. I saw what happened to Kaffa, I know about Duffin, so just forget all that shit from before. It won’t work on me this time.”

  Conroy glanced down at Cora, Cora kept her poker face.

  “You have really screwed up this time, Con,” she said. “I’m trying to help you out here, but nothing is ever easy with you, is it?”

  I angled around behind her, snaked my left arm around her throat, screwed the 45 into the cleft below her right ear.

  “Where are they?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Why would I know? Your friend McErlane made those arrangements, he made all the arrangements.”

  I tightened my grip, she braced herself, but she had no fear.

  “You caused those two Iranian operatives to be eliminated today,” she said. “We had everything under control, but you couldn’t leave it alone, could you, Con?”

  She was smarter than me, I knew that. They all were, Conroy, Kaffa, Duffin, Lutterall, Cora, all of them. They all knew about more stuff than me, but that was only part of it. What made them smart was that they could twist things, so that they were always right, could make other people think they must always be right, just because everybody knows they are so smart.

  “What are you trying to sell here?” I said.

  “Nothing. But we had a gameplan to ensure the security of the United States, worked out at the highest level,” she said. “McErlane was part of that, so were the two Iranians. You took him out of the game. You took the Iranians out. Now it is a new game. Ok, we can live with that, we can adapt. But we can’t allow you to screw things over again. You don’t have to understand every little detail, you just need to accept it is your duty to back off, let the proper authorities mind their business.” She stood taller now, more authority in her voice. “And wherever your wife and son are, I’m sure they will be kept safe if you agree to do your duty.”

  I didn’t have to be smart to recognize her flaw. She, and all those smart people who were better than me, were so accustomed to being smart that they couldn’t recognize their own bullshit, the bullshit they had to create to cover their mistakes, when they were so smart that they screwed up. Gallogly came in, stood at the door, I answered his look.

  “We’re going after the Israelis,” I said. “Conroy here is coming with us.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  The grunge arrived 30 minutes later, another SUV, an eight seater with blacked out windows. We tied their hands behind their backs, then drove slowly back up to the Bronx apartment, stopped to collect the firepower from the Chevy, Gallogly kept Conroy and Cora spiked with his shotgun. But Conroy still thought she could manipulate me, thought all she needed were her words and my history, tried to work on me before we reached the apartment, telling me how much I had improved, how proud she was of me, all I needed to do was to trust her again. I didn’t answer, didn’t look at her, but it was a struggle. When the SUV
stopped, I dragged her out by the hair and punched her in the gut.

  “I told you to lay off that shit from before, Florencita,” I said. “Think you can threaten my family? I’ll allow that? Just forget that headshrink crap, the only one you are fooling is yourself! This is my gameplan now, ok?”

  She doubled up, couldn’t breath, Gallogly pushed her into the hallway. The grunge pulled Cora by her collar, she brushed past me, her eyes cold, no fear for herself, no sympathy for Conroy, a blond robot, no way was she just a messenger.

  Somebody had left bedding and pillows, a flask of coffee and a bag of sesame and sourdough rolls from the Terranova, the Italians still baking the best bread in the Bronx. It was almost 4am, I was exhausted, I could keep going, but I knew I was going to need all my sharpness. I had to sleep. We tied Conroy and Cora to separate radiators, the grunge sat cross legged in front of them, the other Kel-Tec bullpup on his lap. Gallogly pulled a hip flask and offered it to me.

  “Daniels?” I asked.

  “Jamesons,” he said.

  I took a swig, and savored the aftertaste for the few seconds it took for me to crash into my comatose sleep. And it started again, I knew it would, my deranged nightmare full of frenzied terror and absurd faces, all laughing at me, the child who didn’t know his own mother. All the faces, with a thousand eyes bouncing in the dark, all mixed up in some other world membraned in my head without anchor of cause or consequence. Gallogly shook me, I heard him, but the nightmare cycled on, spinning its horror and panic, released back to its own time and space. Gallogly stood over me, tried to shake me out of it, I knew he was there but I couldn’t come back yet, because now I could taste the aniseed moonshine and her cheap musky perfume, that was real, it had to be. I heard her voice, her face was hidden, in shadows or mist, but a bright vision of light or grace bloomed in front of my eyes, killing the dark energy for once, and I heard her whisper, “But there are no accidents, Gavur, these things must be, how could they happen if there is no purpose?”

  I woke up with Gallogly shining a torch in my eyes, but that wasn’t the blue light of my dreams. I was calm and relaxed, none of the palpitations and gasping for breath that usually happened. I felt as if I had slept for a week, I was energised, released, a heavy weight off my shoulders. My ankle was strong, no problem with my ribs. Gallogly had an anxious look on his face, but I was ok, never felt better.

  “It is 6am, Con. You told me to wake you,” Gallogly said.

  * * *

  It was still dark at 6.30am, the high lights of the Financial District mimicked the early morning stars as the SUV came down Broadway. Conroy’s training should have kept her ticking, manipulating, regaining her ground. Instead, she was sullen and bitter, her head was down, her psychology shit only worked on her patients or targets. I sat behind her, speaking into her ear, didn’t let her blank me. I told her their plan must have sounded good. Worked out in somebody’s fine study, all of them feeling important around a nice walnut table, expensive suits, shiny tablets, brandy and cigars. She wouldn’t have been there, of course, probably no women, only the strong guys who were made of the right stuff, knew what was best. Conroy sighed out her frustration, muttered to herself. I kept needling her. They were ready, public opinion would be managed, they could see into the hearts of the American people, nothing left to chance. Just this small sacrifice, a firecracker to ignite our national spirit, get us back on track, then America would be great again, our troubles would be over. The people would be grateful, but no need for them to know.

  “People like you don’t know shit, Maknazpy,” Conroy said.

  I told her I knew the Israelis had screwed them. A biological bomb to take out the heart of New York, traced straight back to Iran, Israel horrified, but vindicated? Who could prove otherwise? The good old boys that had set it up, that thought they had it under control but had fucked up? Conroy clammed up, but, for the first time, I saw a twitch of light in Cora’s eyes. She glanced over her shoulder to Conroy, got no response, went back to looking out the window.

  Gallogly’s cellphone trilled, a journalist who had heard about the weird calls he had been making around town last night. Gallogly told her to wait and see, and not to believe everything she would read in the papers.

  “She mentioned some of those names I’ve heard you talking about,” Gallogly leant over to tell me. “That guy Lutterall. And Florencita Conroy, she asked about her, too. She said there are these incredible rumors about an imminent attack. People are talking.”

  Conroy was fazed, and couldn’t hide it. Success depended on the intell staying in-house.

  “Wasting your time, Maknazpy,” Conroy said. “It will be a minor event, in terms of collateral damage, and nobody will seriously be concerned about the details afterwards, the project will generate its own momentum, you’ll see.”

  “You can tell me all about collateral damage afterwards, Flo,” I said. “Because you are going to be standing right bang in the middle of it when it happens, so you can go tell your good old boys just how collateral it was later, ok?”

  Conroy didn’t reply, but her lips plugged into a tight purple seam and her throat pulsed, she tossed her hair back, tried to look nonchalant.

  “Your name is out there already, Florencita,” I said. “You think the guys in that nice wood panelled study are ever going to give their names up? Think they’ll do shit to save your ass?”

  I could feel the stress and tension straining out of her skin. Conroy wasn’t meant for this dirty work, she should have stayed behind a desk.

  Gallogly’s cellphone again. I knew who it was from the slice of the conversation I caught. Detective Ed Dart, he was down here already, I was the only one who had a good look at the Israelis, they needed me.

  “We can’t trust that fucker, Jack!” I said.

  “You can trust him,” Gallogly replied. “It might cost me a bucketload of cash, but you can trust him.”

  Dart and McAnespie were waiting for us at the corner of Broadway and Canal St. Their black Chevy Impala was lurched carelessly onto the sidewalk, a blue and white prowler with four uniforms sat behind them. The grunge pulled in front of the Chevy, and Dart and McAnespie jumped out. I sat the Kimber 45 on my lap, had the Heckler & Koch Ump at my feet.

  “Take it easy, Con,” Gallogly soothed. “You have to let them act the big guy, it doesn’t mean anything.”

  McAnespie stuck his head in the passenger door, looked over Conroy and Cora, nodded to Gallogly, gave me the evil eye. I stared through him, he went back to Gallogly.

  “Security is tight down here, you are getting nowhere near it unless you stick close to us, get me?” McAnespie said.

  “Where are we going?” I said.

  McAnespie spat on the road, red and black swaggered back to their automobile, took off, we followed, the patrol car linked behind us. Down Broadway, cops at the street corners, black uniformed shooters at Chambers Street, we followed the Chevy right at Murray Street, going back towards River Terrace, where the Iranians went down. Down River Terrace and back into Vesey Green, about twenty uniformed and plain clothes cops and some shooters huddled under the overhanging limestone plinth of the Battery City Parks Hunger Memorial. Dart brought a senior cop over to the SUV, the uniforms made sure we weren’t going anywhere. No names, this guy was too important to waste an introduction on me. Dart spoke for him.

  “The hotel round the corner,” Dart said. “We have three men, military type, Irish passports, don’t know who the fuck they are, but we don’t like them. You are going to have a look, that’s all, wiseguy, have a look. If it’s the faces you recognise, you say so, into this.”

  He pinned a mike behind my lapel, tested it, got the ok from a guy with headphones across the street.

  “I just walk in and start banging on doors?” I said.

  “They booked an alarm call for 6am, dickhead!” McAnespie said. “They’ve booked their car to be outside for 7.30, so they’re probably sitting eating a nice 5 star breakfast right now. You just
get in there and wait until you see them. Think you can manage that, or does that make your brain hurt?”

  On a normal day I would have punched him right in his bloated red face, but this wasn’t the time. I got out, Dart frisked me, felt the Kimber 45, he froze, I told him to forget it, I wasn’t walking in there without it. He gave me his dirty look, but then let it pass, he knew he would do the same. I whispered to Gallogly, told him to keep a hold of Conroy, and not to be fooled by Cora’s looks. Dart pushed me on, told Gallogly to get that SUV to fuck out of there, before Dart changed his mind. Gallogly patted my shoulder, wished me good luck. The cops craned their red necks to follow me around the corner, like a flock of flamingos. I stopped and looked back, gave Gallogly a wave, caught Conroy’s eye, couldn’t read her, but I knew everyone was watching, waiting on me, and it gave me that good feeling again, deep inside.

  “Are you forgetting about your family, Maknazpy?” Conroy called to me.

  But this was what it had all been for. All I had to do was walk around this corner and all the shit in my life would be wiped clean. I wouldn’t stop now for anybody. And Rose would understand, she always had.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The concierge had a nose for trouble, probably an ex-cop, moved to intercept me as I revolved through the doors.

  “NYPD,” I mumbled. “Where’s the breakfast room?”

  He was a heavily built man in his early sixties, white bristles wired out of the grainy pore craters of his nose, shoulders made for bouncing the lowlifes and carrying the highlifes. He took a second to decide I was somewhere in between, and nodded towards the escalator.

  “Second floor, officer.” His tone declared he would know a real cop when he saw one.

  The escalator floated me up to the second floor. A clutch of hungover middle-aged men waited at the restaurant door for a waitress to seat them. I angled around them, could scan most of the tables from here, they weren’t there. The conference delegates filtered into the restaurant, another waitress saw me, invited me in with a pleasant smile. I hung back.