Incitement (32 page)

“I’m saying he might have,” he cautioned.

“How did these allegations against Spartan come to light?”

“They terminated a contractor who they’d used down there, saying he couldn’t provide the skills they’d contracted for. He contended it was his refusal to participate in
unsanctioned missions that led to his dismissal and threatened a breach-of-contract suit against them.”

“So what happened?”

“Nothing as far as I could ascertain. The case was never brought. I’m going to try to track the contractor down when I get back.”

“What’s his name?”

“Will Pickroom. Look, I don’t want you doing anything on your own, wait until I get back.”

“I promise all I’ll do is try to find an address. It makes sense. I’m not going to have anything to do my last few days and it saves us some time.”

“Okay, fair enough.” He glanced at his watch quickly and stood up. “I’d better get back, how about I drop in tonight on my way to the airport, about seven?”

“Great.”

She pulled the car in and turned off the engine. There was time to spare before the meeting and this diversion had seemed appropriate. She could see the house, partially hidden
by the row of mature trees lining the street. Even at night with driving rain obstructing her view, it was clear that this was an exclusive neighbourhood, with the kind of properties she would have
expected someone like Lawrence Wallace to choose. She knew the odds of him being there were slim. He probably had countless properties scattered across the globe but this one was in DC and it was
nice to think that he might be inside, unaware of her attention.

Who knows? If it goes well with Pickroom you could be paying a visit to that very house soon enough.

She had managed to find a Baltimore address and phone number for the ex-contractor easily enough and had tried to follow Tom’s instruction to sit tight until he returned. But two nights
after he had left, she had been sitting on the sofa at home, bored, fiddling with a note containing Pickroom’s details. She lasted about half an hour.

A woman’s voice had answered her and initially it had not looked promising. She said she was Pickroom’s wife but he no longer lived there. She was clearly agitated and Diane sensed
she would not react well to pressure. Identifying herself as a DEA agent, she had asked if she could simply leave her number, in case the woman talked to her husband. The woman said it was up to
Diane if she wanted to waste her time.

A couple of hours later the call had come. When she picked the phone up and announced herself, all she had heard was someone breathing. “Mr Pickroom?”

“What is it you want?”

“To talk. About what happened in Colombia, the circumstances surrounding your departure.”

“Departure, huh, why don’t you call it what it was? I was hounded out.”

“So you said, but you dropped the suit, the chance for compensation?”

The line went quiet for so long she wondered whether he was still there.

“Money’s no good if you’re not around to spend it,” came the reply at last.

“Are you saying you were threatened, Mr Pickroom?”

Another long pause.

“Forget it, it doesn’t matter, it’s all done with now. Why am I even bothering with this conversation? Adios.”

“Wait, wait, don’t hang up,” she had pleaded, knowing if she was brushed off there might not be another chance. “Mr Pickroom, I don’t know what happened to you but
I can guess. I’ve heard a little about some of your grievances against Spartan and ... and I believe them. I think Spartan had their own agenda. Can’t we just talk?”

“I know all about Spartan’s agenda. Believe me, you can’t guess the half of it but why should I talk to you? Where were you a year ago?”

“You were coerced into dropping your case for compensation?” she said, trying to coax him into opening up.

“They did more than coerce. Someone interfered with my aircraft in Colombia. I was lucky to survive. They tried a hit-and-run when I got back here before I dropped the suit. I
haven’t worked in a year; they’ve made sure of that. I’m a nervous wreck, waiting for them to come. Tell me, why should I talk to you? I may be in a world of shit but at least
I’m alive. Why take the risk of talking to you?”

“I want to know about what happened down there and I think you want to tell someone, otherwise you wouldn’t have called. After everything that’s happened, you must want some
kind of payback. Will you talk to me?”

“No,” came the answer, followed by a dead line.

He had hung up and she had been convinced she had screwed it up. Maybe it was for the best. If there was any truth to Tom’s speculation about a connection between what Pickroom alleged and
the manufactured feud, she should not have been taking the risk. Pickroom’s account of what had happened to him was unsettling but what he had hinted at, concerning Spartan in Colombia, was
intriguing.

Five minutes later the phone had rung again.

“I’ll meet you – tomorrow night, eleven o’clock.”

That was after she would have officially started her period of leave. “Can’t you talk now?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Alright. Somewhere in Baltimore?”

“You know Canton?”

“By reputation. You’re not suggesting we meet there, at night?”

“I’m safe in Canton; I’ve got friends. Look, I’m ready to hang up and this time I’m not calling back. Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

He watched the car park, and moments later a woman emerged. She hugged her jacket around herself to guard against the rain, and walked away from where he was parked,
disappearing from sight. A few minutes later he caught sight of her again, approaching on the opposite side of the street. She gradually came back into clear view, passing directly in front of
Wallace’s house, making a surreptitious attempt to glance in as she came level. He knew she would see nothing; the main living area was raised eight steps above street level. She continued on
about twenty paces and then scurried back through the downpour to her car.

She closed the door, happy to get in out of the rain. Hoping to catch a glimpse of Wallace, all she had accomplished was to get thoroughly soaked. She checked her watch again and decided it was
time to leave.

He watched her pull out, waited ten seconds and then followed.

Canton was exactly what she had expected. None of the streetlights were working and many of the buildings’ ground-floor windows were boarded up. Here and there groups of
youths congregated, staring malevolently at anyone who passed by. She pushed back her feelings of unease, telling herself her nervousness was really just anticipation. Most of her time, since her
conversation with Pickroom, had been spent trying, unsuccessfully, to avoid speculation on what Spartan had been up to during the Plan Coca campaign.

She found the address Pickroom specified and drove her car around to the lot behind the building, as directed. She parked the car, praying it would be there when she returned, and entered the
building. Once inside, it became apparent that the place had seen better days. The lighting was barely sufficient to illuminate a few paces inside the doorway and all of the original mailboxes had
been vandalised beyond repair. She could feel bits of plaster and other matter crunching under her shoes as she made her way haltingly down the hall. Pickroom had told her to go to apartment 502,
on the fifth floor. The elevator was out of order, meaning the trek up was going to be even more unpleasant. She started up the first flight, trying to stick to the middle of the stairs and avoid
putting her hands anywhere near the filth-covered banisters or walls. She thought she heard a door swinging shut below her as she passed the first landing halfway between the ground and first
floor.

Between the poor light and filth-strewn stairs, her ascent was slow. There were two sets of stairs and a landing to climb for each storey. It was only when she was halfway there that she
realised there was something peculiar. Pickroom had said this was an apartment block, but for somewhere supposedly occupied, it was eerily quiet. She stopped on the third floor, to check that she
had not mistakenly entered the wrong building. It looked fine, the doors were all there, solid and locked, which would not have been the case if the building was derelict. She stepped close to one
of the doors and a television was just audible. She was worrying about nothing. The lack of activity was probably due to the lateness of the hour, she decided, and she resumed her climb.

She reached the landing between the fourth and fifth floors and had turned to take the last series of stairs when a youth emerged on the fifth-floor corridor ahead of her. He looked like he was
dressed in some kind of gang regalia and she panicked briefly before remembering Pickroom’s reference to his friends.

“I’m here to meet someone.”

Her question was still forming when the gun appeared. There was no doubting his intention. She threw herself backwards off the step she was on and felt the gunfire pass, missing her by inches.
Falling back to the landing heavily, she scrambled up and ran down the next flight of stairs, taking them two and three at a time. Behind her, she heard the landing she had just been on being torn
apart by the hail of bullets. She continued down, almost making it to the third floor when the gunfire ceased.

“Chop, you stupid mutha’fucka, I said to wait,” a voice below called out.

Christ, how many of them were there?

She froze, unsure of what to do. Drawing her sidearm, she raced back up. If she could get to the fourth floor before the youth who had fired on her reached it, she might gain some time. As she
reached the last couple of stairs, he came into view, only a few feet above her. His surprise at seeing her coming back towards him was evident and allowed her to open fire first. Ducking away, he
scurried up to the cover of the landing above.

She crouched down in the corridor, only feet from the stairwell but out of the line of fire, and tried to regain her breath after the sprint. She could hear the youth on the landing above,
cursing her.

“Dammit, Chop, what the fuck’s going on?” came the same voice from below.

“Bitch’s on four. She shot at me.”

The alarm in his voice made her smile in satisfaction.

At least she had given them something to think about. Maybe it would convince them to forget about her. It dawned on her then that this was not random; they had been waiting for her. If that was
the case, they were not going to be put off by her being armed. They would have been prepared for that. The most she had done was buy herself a little time.

A different voice rang out from below.

“You hit?”

“No but damn close. I thought you said this would be easy, Derrell?”

“Shut the fuck up,” came the angry retort.

So, there were at least two below her. She took out her cell phone and cursed the lack of signal. She looked around frantically. All the doors in this corridor remained firmly shut; no one was
interested in seeing what was going on. She realised the probable futility of looking for help, but did not see many other options. If the youths decided to rush her she would have no chance of
holding them off. She ran to a door and slammed her hand against it repeatedly, shouting loudly.

A hostile reply was enough to prompt her to move to the next door. A handful of rapid, similarly unsuccessful attempts confirmed her worst suspicions. There were few remaining options. Even if
it was feasible to shoot her way into one of the apartments, all that would accomplish would be to endanger the occupants. In the course of trying the apartments she had moved down the corridor
away from the stairwell, and while trying to decide on her next move, she spotted a door forty feet away at the end of the corridor. It could lead anywhere but she hoped there was a rear staircase
behind it. Sprinting towards it, there was a moment of relief when she pushed the heavy door open to confirm her suspicions.

The door had not even swung shut behind her when her hopes plummeted. A barrage of fire strafed the wall to her left and bit into her arm. There was another one below her on this exit route. Not
even bothering to attempt to return fire, she grabbed the door before it closed fully and retreated back into the corridor. She moved back along the passage until she was halfway between the two
sets of stairs. A burst of sustained gunfire from the main stairwell froze her in her tracks. The entire stairwell was briefly lit up from the effects of their gunfire. She figured they were
preparing themselves to rush her.

Diane pressed her back to the wall and slid down heavily, feeling herself starting to lose it. Her shoulders shook and, despite her best efforts, the tears began trickling down her face.
Cornered by at least four of them, each more heavily armed than she. Her arm was beginning to hurt from where the bullet had grazed her, bringing back all the unpleasant memories from the last
shooting and its aftermath. She tried her phone again but there was no change.

“Fuck!” she shouted in frustration, throwing it against the wall.

It was over, there was no way out of this. A wave of bitterness swept over her. After everything she had been through, this was not fair. How much was she expected to take?