Unmanned (9780385351263) (12 page)

Hagan locked the card back in his desk and cleared his throat.

“Should your labors in this case ever reach a dead end, Captain, or should you ever find yourself in need of any, ah, tactic or consideration or
methodology
that is beyond your reach, then I suggest you contact this individual. With all due discretion, of course.”

“What’s his affiliation, sir?”

“I’m not in a position to answer that. But, as I said, if a need arises …”

“Of course, sir.”

Now he was almost as curious about Walsh as he was about Cole. He also felt a stirring of self-interest. Walsh was probably some sort of security privateer, and not for the first time Riggleman wondered whether his own talents might be more gainfully employed out in the world at large as a specialist in “information pursuit,” as he liked to call it. This gun for hire. A sort of ground-bound air ace with unerring aim. At the very least, this Walsh fellow might have a few insights on the going rate for his brand of skills.

Then again, help from people like Walsh tended to come with certain risks attached. Riggleman had always been wary of seeking aid from the shadows, so to speak, and unless he could find out more about Harry Walsh’s bona fides—his employer or sponsor, his usual clientele—then he would contact the man only as a last resort. Fortunately, that also seemed to be the approach Hagan preferred.

“To be perfectly blunt, Captain, I suppose what I’m really trying to say is that while I expect you to keep this clean, don’t be overly concerned with playing by the rules. As long as your work remains neat and compartmentalized, do whatever needs to be done. Just find him.”

“And when I do?”

“The exact parameters of any follow-up have yet to be determined. The loop is very tight on this one. But, rest assured, when the time comes you’ll be fully involved in whatever sort of wrap-up is deemed necessary.”

The general’s wording was a jolt. Riggleman had only heard General Hagan use the term “wrap-up” in the context of war gaming, when it had always been slang for “the kill.” Did the general mean it literally this time?

Riggleman swallowed. Then he nodded.

“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

TACO ROJO WAS
a tidy establishment with chrome tables and a scrubbed tile floor. It was on O’Donnell Square, a half-gentrified block of restaurants, cafés, and taverns along a village green that managed to look pleasant even under the streetlamp glow of a gloomy December evening. They parked around the corner on a cramped street of formstone row houses.

“It’s after the dinner rush, so it ought to be pretty quiet,” Steve said.

“How do we want to do this?”

“Why don’t I go in first? You can come in a few minutes later, maybe ask whoever’s working the counter whatever happened to that guy Mansur.”

“Isn’t that kind of obvious?”

“Completely. And I’m open to any better ideas. Got any?”

He didn’t.

So Steve went in while Cole made another circuit of the block. The square’s more rough-and-tumble past showed itself here and there, but some of the newer proprietors seemed determined to resist any backsliding. A sign in a pub doorway forbade entry to anyone wearing “urban wear, baggy clothing, large chains, skullies, wife beaters, doo-rags, long shorts, etc.”

Yeah
, Cole thought,
I get it.

By the time he entered Taco Rojo, Steve was seated at a table to the left, already eating a burrito. Barb’s spaghetti sauce was decent enough, but the noodles had been a pasty mess, glued together like the pages of a wet phone book, and both men were still pretty hungry. As the door
closed behind him, Cole spotted the requisite security camera just as its red light came on, activated by a motion sensor. The counterman was a hulking fellow with a trimmed mustache. A clock in the back showed 8:09. Steve was the only other customer.

“Can I help you?”

Cole scanned the menu on the wall.

“Beef burrito with black beans and pico de gallo. And a large iced tea.”

“For here or to go?”

“I’ll eat here.”

“Eight forty-eight.”

He gave the man a ten as he pondered what to say next.

“Utensils are along the wall. It’ll be a few minutes.”

“Thanks. How long you guys been here now?”

The counterman impaled the order on a spike and shrugged, looking bored.

“Few years.”

“Whatever happened to that guy who worked here a while back? Mansur, I think it was. We used to talk when I came in.”

The counterman snapped to attention and narrowed his eyes. He tilted his head and gave Cole a long, quizzical stare.

“I doubt that. His English sucked, and he worked in the back. Who are you?”

“Hey, no big deal. It’s just he was a nice guy and I hadn’t seen him in a while.”

The man’s voice slammed down like a cleaver. “Who
are
you? What do you want?”

“Skip it, okay? Maybe I’ll take that burrito to go.”

But by then the counterman had snatched the wall phone from its cradle and was punching in a number, like one he’d memorized. Following orders? A prearranged alert? Cole glanced at Steve, who shrugged, chewing. He backed away from the counter toward the door. The red light on the camera was still shining as he turned the knob.

“Don’t forget your food, sir!” More demand than plea. “Only a minute more!”

Cole stepped outside into a gust of sleet, an icy blast that seemed
determined to scour the block of all newcomers. He flipped up the collar on his jacket and set off toward the car, not daring to look back even as he heard Steve coming through the door in his wake. He had asked a very simple question, really. A small, tentative step. Yet it had set off some sort of alarm.

“Shit,” Steve said, trotting up beside him. “That was weird. What do you think it was all about?”

“No idea. When the Bureau came poking around earlier it must have freaked them out. Maybe now they think Mansur’s some kind of terrorist. Who do you think he called?”

“The Bureau?”

“Maybe. Jesus, what’s happened to the weather?”

Another blast of sleet raked them like birdshot. They crossed the square and walked around the corner to take shelter in Steve’s Honda. Cole was glad they hadn’t parked on the square, where some camera might have picked up their tags. Sleet bounced crazily off the windshield. The sidewalks were empty. People on the block had started turning on their Christmas lights—blue-clad plastic Madonnas face-to-face with faded Santas, flanked by three-foot candy canes on marble stoops.

“Maybe I should have taken it slower,” Cole said.

“It wasn’t you. It was him. Like he was expecting it. The minute he heard the name Mansur he was reaching for the phone. And he didn’t look happy about it. Shoulda seen his face when you were leaving. Pissed, but also scared, like he knew he’d fucked up.”

“What do we do now?”

“Not sure there
is
a next move. Not with that guy.”

“We could check their dumpster, look for old paperwork. It’s probably out back.”

“Like from your Infowar training? I guess. But isn’t that kind of risky?”

“How much worse can it get? We’re already on camera. And I doubt he’ll be looking for us out back.”

Steve thought about it.

“Why not? Won’t be the first time I’ve gone through somebody’s garbage.”

They got out of the car, checked their flanks, and doubled back to O’Donnell Square, giving the storefront a wide berth before heading up a side street to an alley running behind Taco Rojo. It was dimly lit and lined with small green dumpsters. Cole heard the skitter of rats, assembling for their own dinnertime rush. One panicked at their approach, nearly running over his feet.

Each dumpster was marked with the name of its owner. Steve had just thrown open the lid for Taco Rojo’s when Cole spotted a pair of blue recycling bins—one for glass, the other for paper—just down the way. These seemed to be shared by the whole block.

“Let’s try those first.” Steve, already recoiling from the stench of the dumpster, nodded and let the lid slam shut.

The paper bin was about a quarter full. Cole leaned inside until his feet left the ground and grabbed an empty cardboard box. He handed it to Steve, then pulled out a second.

“Hold these,” he said. “I’ll grab the loose papers and pile them in.”

It was mostly unopened junk mail, empty cups, old newspapers. But there were also torn envelopes and loose papers, some stacked, some crumpled. He took it all, eventually filling both boxes and then a third while Steve kept watch over the alley. No cops, thank goodness, although they’d both spotted a camera mounted at the end of the alley. Their only live audience was a young couple who passed up the side street, a man and woman in black leather who paused at the mouth of the alley just long enough to shake their heads in either pity or disgust.

They carried the boxes to Steve’s Honda.

“Back to the house?” Cole asked.

“Somewhere closer. Where we can ditch this stuff once we’re through with it. Some parking lot, where we won’t stand out as much.”

They drove northeast a few miles, crossing beneath the Beltway before pulling into the vast lot of a Walmart. Steve switched on the dome light and starting sorting through items from the first box. Cole climbed into the backseat and started in on the second one. They proceeded carefully, tossing loose newspapers aside to focus on mail and crumpled papers. Most of it was bills, receipts, or sales pitches from vendors of restaurant equipment. There was an unintentionally hilarious letter from a customer, complaining that a take-out meal had poisoned
her pet hamster. Form letters from the block’s landlord warned three different tenants about overdue rent.

Twenty minutes into their search, Cole struck gold—a stack of printouts from Taco Rojo payroll records for September and October. Eleven employees were on the report for September, ten for October. The extra name in September was Mansur Amir Khan. His last day on the job was September 6, probably about the time the FBI came looking for him. The Social Security number was probably bogus, but Steve wrote it down. There was no phone number, but there was a Baltimore address on Gough Street, in care of a Consuelo Reyes.

“Whaddya think?” Steve asked. “Strike while the iron is hot?”

“Sure. But maybe this time we should try a different approach.”

“Keep that sheet handy, with his name and address. I’ve got an idea.”

STEVE WENT INTO
the Walmart and bought a business envelope with a plastic window. He folded the payroll report inside it so that Mansur’s name and address showed through the window. Then they headed for Gough Street.

No gentrification there. There were more boarded-up windows than Christmas lights. So many houses were empty that there was plenty of on-street parking. To be on the safe side Steve pulled into a space around the corner. He rubbed his hands together in the cold, then held aloft the envelope as if it was their ticket to the Promised Land.

“This time I’ll do the talking. You watch our backs.”

The sky was clearing, the temperature dropping. Fallen sleet filled sidewalk cracks in glowing white seams. At the address on Gough Street the outside door was unlocked. A mailbox in the foyer showed a Reyes on the second floor. The door to the stairwell was ajar, so they went on up. Reyes was the middle apartment. A television blared from the place on the left, shouts and laughter from the one on the right. Steve’s knock was answered by the bark of a dog—it sounded big—followed by shuffling footsteps. A deadbolt shot back and the door opened to the limit of a security chain, spilling a yellow band of light onto the landing. A middle-aged woman in a bathrobe eyed him suspiciously. A cigarette smoldered in her right hand.

“Qué?”

Steve showed her the envelope just long enough for her to read the name and address.

“I have a check for Mansur Amir Khan. Does he still live here?”

A thin arm darted through the opening like a striking cobra. Steve barely kept her from snatching the envelope.

“The check is mine!” she said. She unleashed an agitated burst of Spanish.

“Does Mansur still live here?” Steve asked again.

“Who are you?” she asked in English. Same question as at Taco Rojo. Same narrowed eyes and tilted head.

“Unless I see Mansur, I can’t leave this.”

She switched back to Spanish and pulled a cell phone from the pocket of her robe. Another trip wire, another alarm.

“Let’s get out of here,” Cole whispered. Steve nodded, and they took the stairs two at a time, pursued by shouts all the way to the ground floor, where an arriving tenant stood by an open mailbox.

“She’s nuts,” he said, circling a finger by his ear.

“You got that right.” They brushed past him toward the door.

“Did I hear you say you were looking for Mansur?”

Steve turned in the open doorway. The guy was mid-twenties, T-shirt and jeans, a white hard hat tucked under his right arm.

“We’ve got a check for him,” Cole said. Steve showed the envelope. “She wanted us to leave it with her, but, well, like you said. Nuts.”

“Never knew why he put up with her. Screaming, taking his money. I saw him over on Broadway a few days ago.” He shook his head. “Clueless as ever.”

“Mansur?” Steve said. “Where?”

“One of those Latino bodegas, buying a candy bar. Almost jumped out of his skin when I called his name. Like somebody was after him. Of course, maybe somebody
was.
” He nodded upstairs, where the woman was still muttering on the landing. Then he paused, as if he’d already said too much, and eyed them with renewed scrutiny.

“Maybe you could find a way to get this check to him?” Cole said, hoping to establish some trust. The man’s expression softened.

“No need. He’s living on Pickard now, not far from here. Being Mansur, he didn’t remember the address—you know how he is, and his English still sucks. But he said you couldn’t miss it. Called it the tall house, whatever that means.”

“Pickard?”

“Right off Fayette.”

“Thanks,” Steve said. “The tall house?”