‘Out,’ said Pockmark.
Jowls had opened the van’s door, and Pockmark was standing a short way off, covering us with the MP5. We’d been on the road at least three and a half hours, and about fifteen minutes ago, we’d joined what had felt like a dirt track. And though I’d no clue where we were, I reckoned we’d driven at least 150 miles, which left room for speculation. If we’d gone south, we’d be near Mexico. West, back in LA. East, Arizona. North, Death Valley.
I let Ellen hobble out first, then stepped out.
I was confronted with a sterile landscape of dunes and rocks, and knew we’d gone north. There wasn’t a jot of fog, and dead ahead was an abandoned lime quarry behind a fairly large, horse-shoe shaped temporary office structure – the only sign of civilization in sight. And perhaps a hundred yards to the left was a particularly large dune – perhaps 400 feet long, 150 high – which, because the dirt track went round it, blocked the quarry from view of anyone who might get near.
‘Scream all you like, nobody’ll hear,’ said Jowls, noticing my gaze.
The van’s passenger door opened, and the third man – the sniper – appeared, carrying my valise, the rucksack from LA, and a metal suitcase that I knew contained the sniper rifle. He was lanky, serious-faced; but while I wanted to get a closer look to see if I recognized him, he headed straight for the temporary structure.
His shirt clung sweatily to his back. It was hot for December. Maybe sixty-five degrees.
‘Follow him,’ said the more professional Pockmark, nodding at the sniper. Ellen and I started for the office.
As we did so, my eye was drawn to five steel barrels at the corner of the building, next to which was a large fuel canister. These were tools with which to incinerate a body: shove the body in the barrel, douse with fuel, and you’re good to go. And if that was jet fuel, it’d take no more than a couple of hours to reduce the teeth themselves to dust.
This was what they were planning to use to dispose of their accomplices.
We walked through the front door, and entered a rectangular reception space, with solid metallic interior walls, and sleeping bags off to one side, as well as basic furniture: chairs, a sofa, a table. This team had been using this place as an out-of-the-way pit-stop.
While the sniper settled on the sofa, Pockmark and Jowls herded us through a thin yet sturdy door, with two dead-bolt locks, to the right-hand side. We entered a windowless room at right-angles to the first, with six small office cubicles – three against one wall, three against the opposite one, a corridor down the middle – separated by six-foot plastic partitions. And immediately I was struck by the smell of sweat and shit and fear: they’d used this room as a holding pen before. Perhaps even for some of the previous victims.
I was led into the cubicle nearest the door, and Jowls cuffed my wrist to a pipe that went from floor to ceiling. A pipe that wasn’t about to come loose any time soon.
I was like a mutt chained to a stake. I couldn’t even reach the partitions.
I scanned the cubicle, but could see nothing to use to break the handcuff – it was empty. But then I turned my gaze to the two men, and suddenly I caught a glimpse of something: a small, decorative metal bit on the front of Jowls’s loafers.
The two men, turning their attention to Ellen, led her to the cubicle furthest from the door, on the same side of the room as mine, and secured her in place – though, because of the partitions, I couldn’t see how.
Then they headed for the exit.
I had to act. But it had to be done carefully.
‘So you’re not going to tell us where we are?’ I said calmly.
They had to think my plan was to glean information, not antagonize.
They didn’t reply.
‘Why the hell are you waiting for tomorrow to kill us?’
Still, they said nothing. Just continued for the door.
‘Fine then, go incinerate your buddies – I’ll enjoy the thought of their flesh burning as much as I enjoyed blowing their brains all over the garden.’
Even Pockmark flinched at that. But I had to go further. Had to get Jowls to come for me physically.
‘And once their faces have melted, you’ll no longer have to feel quite so self-conscious, eh, Jowls?’
Jowls looked at Pockmark. Pockmark gave a nod, and Jowls started in my direction.
My heart was in my throat. I was playing a dangerous game. I needed him to lay into me, but prayed to God he wouldn’t go too far—
His fist jabbed my neck and his leg swept both my ankles and I fell hard on my right shoulder with a gasp of dizzying pain. Next thing, he was kicking the shit out of me: blows to the chest, midriff, legs – and my eyes went hazy with screaming agony and lack of air…
But I had to concentrate; had to make this punishment worthwhile—
His foot struck my stomach again, and I shot my hands there, as though reacting to the pain, and clutched pathetically to his foot, and then—
Then he tore it away and kept on pounding…
Eventually – an indeterminate time later – he gave up, and they left.
But though I hardly registered them do so, there was one thing I did register: the cool metal bit clutched in my palm.
Thirty minutes later, the pain had subsided enough for me to take a mental inventory of my state. My chest was worst off: possibly a broken rib. And my left leg was in fair amount of pain. But then, beyond that, I was largely okay. Bruised and tender, but okay.
The blow to my neck had been the most dangerous thing: if the guy’d weighted it any different, I’d have been a goner. But I’d got lucky.
In fact, I’d got lucky all round. I’d survived, and I’d gotten the little piece of metal.
Ten minutes later, I shifted into a sitting position. And no sooner did my shackle clatter against the piping than Ellen whispered: ‘What the hell was that?’
She wasn’t concerned: she was pissed. This was understandable: her survival depended on my wellbeing, and I’d put it at jeopardy.
I waited a moment to see what I could hear of the men. Then, since their voices were faint, and they seemed to be a good distance from the door, I judged it safe to whisper.
‘The metal bit on his shoe – I needed it. And couldn’t think of a better way to get it.’
Silence. ‘Did you get it?’
I grunted.
‘I don’t understand: are you planning on picking the cuff? Surely it’s not flexible nor small enough to fit in the lock.’
‘Not pick the lock. Shim the lock. Thrust something this size into the gap where the bow slots into the shackle arm, and you can force apart the teeth and ratchet. Makes it tighter at first, but does the trick.’ I paused. ‘Once they left the room, did you hear how long it took for them to lock the door?’
‘Maybe ten seconds. Fifteen, tops.’
‘So that’s how much time we have to put the cuffs back on again if they come back.’
Groaning with the exertion, I pincered the metal bit between thumb and forefinger and started working it into the gap. As I did so, I said:
‘What you secured to? Is there anything in your cubicle?’
‘A radiator. And yes, a metal table, though it’s well beyond my reach. But I can see the legs aren’t soldered: they’re bolted. So if we can unscrew one, it could be handy.’
I grunted, and continued coaxing the metal into the gap. Ten seconds later, the bow tightened, then suddenly popped out the shackle arm.
I paused, straining to hear the goings-on in the next room. The voices were still faint.
I got quietly to my feet; then I limped to the door: both bolts were engaged.
I hobbled to Ellen’s cubicle. Sure enough, her left wrist was secured to a radiator, and there was a metal table by the cubicle’s entrance.
Ellen gave me a look that said “you look like hell,” and I crouched, and examined the table’s underside.
The legs were affixed to the table with bolts and wing nuts. And though three wouldn’t yield to my sweaty fingers, the fourth shifted slightly.
‘Undo my cuffs. Then I can unfasten the leg, while you stay in your cubicle.’
I nodded, approached Ellen, and started shimming her cuffs.
‘The leg nearest to you – its wing nut’s loose. I reckon we could remove the nut, but leave the leg in place, propping up the table. That way, it’s a concealed weapon. The important thing is to bide our time and wait for the perfect chance.’
Ellen’s cuffs came loose, and she rubbed the flesh where the shackle had been.
Almost in the same moment, there was the sound of a key working one of the dead-bolts in the door.
‘Put the cuffs back on,’ I hissed, and painfully hobbled out of the cubicle – hobbled along the central area on my screaming leg. The sweat rolled from my pores as I heard him move onto the second bolt. Then I ducked into my cubicle, and, as the door handle shifted, I clicked the shackle onto the pipe and sat on the floor.
Had Jowls realized the metal bit still in my hand was missing from his shoe?
Keep calm. You need to look like you’ve had half an hour to recover.
One pair of footsteps. Then the sniper, Lanky, entered my cubicle, the MP5 in his arms.
I stared at him. He was distinctive-looking – sharp features, severe eyes, slicked back hair – but I wasn’t sure I recognized him in the same way I did the others.
‘Agent Saul Marshall of the FBI?’ Like the others, he had a neutral American accent.
I gave a non-committal shrug. But I knew what this meant: they’d found the secret compartment in my valise and the defunct FBI ID. And of course, deep down, I’d known they would. It’d been a precaution against a cursory browse, not a careful examination.
But presumably the worrying thing from their point of view was that they could be dealing with a bona fide FBI agent…Yet I would gain nothing from running my mouth. On the contrary: it could only leave me more vulnerable.
He looked at me patiently. ‘If you’re thinking of playing dumb, you can save your breath: I found the ID. So I’ll ask again: are you an FBI Agent?’
I looked him over. If he was worried, he wasn’t showing it. I chanced another shrug.
He blew through his teeth. He was irritated, but not all that much. He had a longer fuse than his buddies.
‘The thing is: I’ve made inquiries, and it seems that you’re not on their books as an agent – which gets me thinking you’re not an FBI agent at all.’
He let that hang. It told me that, while they might have influence over someone with access to FBI records, it wasn’t someone with the clearance to know who I was. And that was unsurprising, since only the folk at the Hoover Building in DC – that is, FBI Headquarters – were privy to my history. Agents at FBI Field Offices up and down the country – one of whom they must’ve contacted – wouldn’t have had a clue.
It was all to do with the events in 2013. While trying to retrieve my son, I’d withheld information from the FBI, and, as a result, they deemed I was in part to blame for the attacks that unfolded. But because it would’ve been a fiasco to publicly announce that an ex-FBI agent was wanted in relation to the attacks, they never did.
However, I reckoned that if I was ever to wind up arrested for an unrelated reason, the police department responsible – once they’d put my details into their computer system – would receive a call from Hoover arranging to take custody of me. Similarly, if my fingerprints or DNA ever happened to be run by local law enforcement, I imagined Hoover would get wind, and use it to try and hunt me down.
‘Well, there’s your answer, Sherlock. Maybe you should join the FBI?’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘But it’s not that simple, is it? Because we both know that your ID isn’t fake. So how does a guy who doesn’t work for the FBI get an FBI ID?’
I returned his gaze, and made a decision: he wasn’t gonna lash out if I dodged the question. He considered that sort of grunt work beneath him – and was merely trying his luck.
‘Is it by standing on a goddamn ice-cube, or am I thinking of a different riddle?’
He smiled, but was unamused. ‘Is your name even Saul Marshall?’
Again, trying his luck.
‘If you’re asking for the sake of my tombstone, that’s real kind of you – murderers tend not to bother these days.’
His smile grew, and he crouched down.
‘When a man’s burnt alive, it tends to take at least five minutes before they lose consciousness. That’s five minutes of watching your own flesh cook.’
At that Lanky, still smiling, stood and left the room.