The black town car was waiting outside Walcott’s building when we arrived. It was sitting at the curb, its passenger door lined up with the entrance and its engine running. That was a good sign, I thought. The woman must still be on the premises. Maybe there was still time…
Atkinson sent one cop to arrest the driver and the rest of us ran inside to reception. The lobby was deserted so we went straight for the elevators. I knew from my previous visit that riding up to Walcott’s floor was a non-starter. The corridor was straight and narrow and it only had two doors: one to Walcott’s apartment, and one to his neighbor’s, which had been commandeered for the day for use as a command post by the NYPD and FBI. If the woman was waiting for us with any kind of automatic weapon, things could get very ugly, very fast.
There wasn’t time for too much fancy planning—Robson, the cop, and the agent were still not answering their phones—so Atkinson and I took the first elevator car that came. We rode to the twenty-ninth floor, which was one below Walcott’s. Then I went straight for the emergency staircase and crept up the last flight. Atkinson stayed and held the elevator for sixty seconds, then reached in and hit the button for thirty. I waited till I heard the muted ting as it arrived, then eased open the fire door and peered into the corridor.
Our attempt at a diversion hadn’t been necessary. We were too late. The door to Walcott’s neighbor’s apartment was standing open and an arm in a dark blue sleeve, its hand slick with blood, was reaching out into the corridor. I ran forward and looked through the doorway. The police officer was lying on his side, one leg curled under his body, his eyes open but unfocused. A pool of blood the size of a dinner plate had formed under his abdomen. Beyond him, sprawled facedown beneath an archway leading to the living room, I could see another body. A woman’s. I felt a tiny flicker of hope. Then I registered her height. Her shoes. Her clothes. Her hair color. Nothing corresponded with what I’d seen of Madatov’s mistress. Meaning she had to be the federal agent. And she was completely motionless.
Atkinson caught up to me twenty seconds later. He grabbed hold of the doorframe and froze for a moment, then crouched down and checked the cop’s neck for a pulse. I left him to figure out if there was any point in calling for the medics, and continued down the corridor.
I kicked Walcott’s door just below the lock and dived through the gap as it flew open, rolling immediately to the side in case the woman was there waiting for me. My acrobatics were greeted by an ironic round of applause. It was coming from Robson, who was sitting on one of the couches in the living room.
“John?” I picked myself up and hurried along the hallway. “Are you OK?”
“Of course I am.” He reached for a bottle of Heineken from the side table.
“Where’s the woman? Madatov’s mistress. Did she get here yet?”
Robson gestured toward Walcott’s bedroom. I went in and saw a woman lying on the floor. She was definitely the same person I’d watched leaving Madatov’s house, but now she was tied and gagged with strips of torn bedsheet. When she saw me she started struggling to free herself. When that didn’t work she tried to wriggle closer and kick me, so I left her to her futile efforts and returned to the living room.
“You dodged a bullet there, John.” I sat down on the couch next to Robson. “You resisted her. You might be the only one who ever has.”
“I didn’t resist her, Paul.” He looked at me and winked. “I’m naturally immune.”