The Zombie Room (26 page)

Mohammed’s fist clenched reflexively around the briefcase handle as Mohammed walked through a herd of teenagers. They converged again once he had passed without breaking stride. An unshaved man in a sheepskin coat busked outside of a shoe store, strumming an out-of-tune guitar. His eyes seemed to follow Mohammed who hurried across the plaza and into the nearby shopping mall. The clatter of shutters being pulled down outside an ice-cream parlour momentarily startled him. He bit down onto his cheeks again, hard enough for the bitter, metallic collusion of his own blood to pique the interest of his taste buds. He tried to relax a little, and snatched a look over his shoulder. No one was openly following him, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

He cut into an apartment store and almost knocked over an assistant who was refilling a rack of expensive-looking blouses. He mumbled an apology, quickly righted himself and resumed a quick pace. Then Mohammed forced himself to take a breath and slow a little. Getting picked up by a security guard mistaking him for a shoplifter was the last thing he needed. Mohammed jumped onto an escalator and walked through an electronics section. The flashing TV images and booming stereos made him feel less conspicuous. Again he looked back, but none of the faces around him appeared familiar.

He turned a corner, went down a short flight of stairs and followed a sign pointing towards the elevators and stairwell up to the parking garage. An attractive young woman wearing black stilettos and white earphones walked past, clumsily reciting something in Spanish. Mohammed forced another deep breath and pushed at the door to the stairwell. He stepped inside and collided
with an old Sikh wearing a thick winter coat, a Santa-like white beard and a turban the shape and colour of a beehive.

‘Watch where you’re going, you old bastard,’ Mohammed snapped, scrabbling to pick up the briefcase which he’d dropped in the collision. He started up the stairs.

The disquieting aroma of urine and disinfectant irritated him and he held his breath. At the next level he stopped by the door to the parking lot, and breathed again. Mohammed stole a glance at his watch, and then back at the pay phone he waited beside. Any second now, he told himself.

A good-looking couple in smart business attire, each holding the arm of a little girl in a frilly pink and white dress, who swung between them, walked past and out onto the parking lot. The woman had shoulder-length blonde hair worn conservatively in a bob. She stopped, released the girl’s hand, and began to fish through her bags. The man had smoothly combed, glossy brown hair, like the ‘after’ shot in a commercial for hair dye. Mohammed watched the man for a moment as he patiently waited, then turned around and glanced back down the empty stairwell.

‘Honey, you take Karen back to the car. I forgot to pick up the perfume,’ the woman said, and handed over a set of keys.

Behind Mohammed the phone rang, a harsh sound that bounced off the enclosed brick walls. He snatched up the receiver.

‘Yeah … yeah, I’m out OK. No worries. Make the call, I’ll see you soon.’

He dropped the phone back onto its cradle, began to turn around and felt a sudden ice-cold furrow open up in his side. Strength drained from his legs, and a moment later he sank to his knees. There was warmth now that ran over the initial and persistent cold.

Mohammed was confused, and barely noticed the briefcase being removed from his grip. He heard the click of a cell phone opening, and a soft beeping as a number was dialled.

‘The package is in my possession,’ a female voice said and the phone clicked shut.

More warmth now, lots of it, this time spilling down his front. But by now everything had turned black.

Back in the car Sadiq dialled the number for the payphone which was answered abruptly after one ring. ‘Mohammed? … Everything good? … OK, see you when you get back.’

He terminated the call and dialled the number for the phone given to Raymond Burgess. ‘Here’s my end of the deal,’ he said as a tense voice answered the call, and informed him of a meeting to take place soon at a disused bakery.

After hanging up the call Sadiq pocketed his phone. Slowly, he peeled off the thick white beard, dropped it onto the floor beside him, and then removed the turban. He started the engine, smiled at himself in the rear-view mirror and patted the brown leather briefcase with nickel bar lock that sat on the passenger seat beside him.

Mangle, having foregone Tazeem’s more noticeable Mercedes, chose to drive the compact red Nissan that was stored at the back of the garage. The Volkswagen they had been driving was still, he assumed, parked outside Sadiq’s apartment, but going back there didn’t seem a viable option.

Mangle wanted to retrieve the gun Sadiq had dropped during their escape from the bungalow the night before. He felt he should have something with him in case things turned nasty, so allowed himself enough time for the detour before his meeting with Bryson.

They’d agreed that Sadiq and Tatiana would travel independently. If Steiger had something else in mind – and undoubtedly he would – at least they would have a chance to escape. Mangle left the highway and its perceived security of blending in with other motorists and began what he hoped would be the final chapter of his ordeal, but hopefully not of his life.

The bungalow appeared to be empty as Mangle approached from the rear. An old man, two gardens down, caught sight of
his unfamiliar face, and the eager snipping of his hedgerow’s first pruning of the year fell silent. Mangle hunched down below the level of the greenery and hurried towards the fence. He plunged his hands into a thicket of small shrubs, and after a few seconds of scrabbling around they closed around the barrel of the gun. He tucked it into the waistband of his pants, stood up and walked briskly back out onto the street. A few seconds later a tentative snipping continued, but Mangle was already out of earshot and climbing back into the car.

The bakery was as Sadiq had told him it would be. A large sandstone building with boarded-over windows. An unrecognisable ghosted outline was all that remained of the bakery’s wooden sign on the front. Decades of weather erosion had crumbled the sandstone below one corner of the heavy roof, which tilted down with the lack of support like a hat worn at a jaunty angle. Mangle drove the Nissan around the back to where he expected to find the detective.

A balding man with a middle-aged paunch stood beside a dark blue Subaru, greedily inhaling from a cigarette. He checked his watch as Mangle pulled up, and gave a cursory glance around the perimeter.

‘Mr Garrett, I presume,’ he said and flipped open a wallet displaying his detective’s badge.

‘You presume right,’ Mangle said.

Bryson nodded. ‘Let’s have the disks, then. You don’t want to keep Steiger waiting,’ he said, putting away his wallet.

‘First show me the blanks. If they aren’t exactly the same you can forget it.’

Bryson laughed and reached inside his jacket. Mangle stiffened and had to restrain himself from grabbing for the 9mm Colt that lay in the pocket of the driver’s door. He relaxed again when Bryson’s hand withdrew nothing other than five DVDs in a clear plastic envelope. The detective tossed them into the car. Mangle took them out and inspected them one by one, flipped them over and held them up beside the originals. Both sets were black on
either side and had the same green triangle logo. He could see no differences.

‘How do I know he won’t check them before he hands over Tazeem?’

Bryson chuckled again and shook his head.

‘Where the hell would he think you had got more disks from? Do they look like something you could pick up in your local computer store?’

‘No, but …’

‘But nothing. Take the blanks and let’s get this over with,’ Bryson said impatiently, and flicked away his cigarette butt.

Mangle eyed detective Bryson with disdain. He realised time was of the essence, but should he really be speaking to someone about to go into a life-or-death situation in that manner? He turned the car around and drove away from the bakery. Bryson’s reflection continued to watch him in the rear-view mirror.

He skirted the road on the perimeter of the grounds and started down the track to the southern quadrant as Bryson had instructed on the phone. What had seemed like a bad idea at the time now seemed ludicrous, and he couldn’t believe he was going through with it; but now there was no alternative. If he drove off, then Tazeem would surely be killed, and for all he knew Steiger could have his own trap waiting to spring if Mangle attempted to back out of the deal.

He continued the slow approach, scanning around him for any evidence of vehicles or men with guns. It was useless, though: the deluge of abandoned properties meant that he could never conceivably know for certain if he were alone.

He pulled up at the end of the track. Mangle could see the logic in selecting this particular location amidst the morass of dejected real estate. The reinforced fence that had been erected to separate the esplanade from the industrial grounds was the only visible intervention against decline the area had seen in over a decade. It stood proudly at around fifteen feet and the original black paint still covered the majority of the steel. A cluster of buildings that had once housed restaurants and other small, tourist-attracting
businesses lay a stone’s throw away on the south side of the perimeter fence. There could be people waiting inside, but they couldn’t get any closer without clearly being seen. Mangle checked his watch again. Steiger should be here already.

One more nervous glance around and he saw a car making its way along the track he’d driven down a few moments earlier. A black Mercedes with tinted windows crunched over the gravel and cracked asphalt on its lackadaisical approach.

Ermina turned in sharply and pulled up beside Bryson’s Subaru. In one hand he held a forgotten cigarette that had burned down in a cylindrical line of ash, and in the other was a phone, pressed tightly against his ear. If anything had gone wrong it was her phone that would have rung, so Ermina knew it must be an unrelated call. She got out, squared her shoulders and walked towards him, waiting for his call to end before she spoke. Ermina knew how to be careful.

‘I’m in the middle of something,’ the detective said into his phone. He glanced nervously at his watch, briefly at Ermina and then turned away, listening to the voice on the other end of the line. ‘I know you don’t call unless it’s urgent … A bit of a hole? What the hell does that mean? … Alright, look, I’ll set off now. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

He turned back to face Ermina and held out the disks. She took them, watching Bryson for any hint of deception.

‘Thank you, Detective.’

He nodded and climbed back into his car.

‘I’ll talk to Steiger another time to arrange payment.’

‘Alright.’

‘Duty calls,’ he said stiffly, and drove off, his tyres scattering pebbles around her feet.

Feeling extremely pleased with herself, Ermina climbed back into her car. She’d hung around with that idiot Sadiq, waiting for an opportunity to elevate herself, and as soon as Jupiter arrived on the scene she knew she’d found it. But now, having been asked
by his boss, Steiger, to perform tasks for him, Ermina felt she was on the rise again. Jupiter was just a stepping stone, as Sadiq had been before him. Ermina knew she was of higher quality, and therefore deserved – no, demanded – the highest quality in return. She smiled and started the engine, drove slowly around the bakery and began to turn back onto the deserted stretch of road.

The roar of another engine alerted Ermina a moment too late to the danger. The sudden impact, and the crash of broken glass all around her, the sound of buckling and twisting metal, were the last things Ermina heard before she blacked out.

‘Grab the disks,’ Raymond Burgess ordered as the back doors of the dark grey Humvee were flung open.

Even if Ermina were conscious, she wouldn’t have recognised the man and woman from the parking garage who Mohammed had had the misfortune of meeting a short time earlier. The man quickly walked around, tugged open the passenger door and picked up the disks that had spilled onto the floor during the collision. The woman reached through the broken driver’s side window and felt for a pulse.

‘She’s alive but out cold.’

‘Get rid of her anyway,’ Burgess said. ‘No loose ends.’

The woman deftly removed a black carbon steel Remington 1911 from a holster inside her jacket, and fired two shots point-blank into the base of Ermina’s skull. They climbed back into the waiting vehicle and sped away.

Steiger climbed out of the car, ended a phone call and walked towards the spot where Mangle stood waiting. The driver’s window rolled down a few inches, revealing Jupiter’s steely glare above the tinted glass.

‘Mr Garrett. I’ll forego the formality of a handshake.’ Steiger’s eyes flashed with the same confidence he’d exuded during their time playing poker, but the look didn’t betray any sign of malevolence. Hope fluttered briefly within Mangle.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ Mangle said. ‘I want to see Tazeem.’
Steiger motioned to the car, the electronic lock was released and Tazeem stumbled cautiously out from the back seat.

‘That’s far enough,’ Steiger said when Tazeem had crossed roughly half the distance between them. ‘Toss over the disks.’

Mangle reached into his jacket, clutched the blanks and silently prayed the plan would work. Again his eyes flitted across the possible locations either Steiger’s men or the police may be waiting to spring from. He threw the disks, which landed 6 feet from Steiger. Mangle waited but the man made no move to pick them up.

‘Aren’t you going to get them?’ Mangle asked in what he hoped was a casually curious tone. Tazeem began to edge slowly over towards him.

‘I know as well as you do that there’s nothing on them, Mr Garrett.’ He raised his hand to halt the stammering protestations. ‘I needed something to lure you out of hiding. You more than rode your luck during our friendly game of poker, but I knew you wouldn’t be so cavalier when your friend’s life was at stake.’