Salvation Row (22 page)

He took the bolt cutters, placed the jaws around the hasp of the padlock, and squeezed the levers together. The hasp was sheared through, and the padlock dropped to the ground. Milton opened the trunk. The contents had been refreshed since his previous visit. The M16 was still there and there was a long rifle and a fresh Sig Sauer P226 to replace the one that he had taken. He hadn’t been able to properly assess the threat that Izzy faced, but the attack on the way to court was ample evidence of her enemies’ determination, so Milton was minded to err on the side of overpreparedness rather than run the risk of being caught outgunned. He took the M16 and laid it on the ground. He collected the P226 and pushed it beneath his belt, the steel sliding down into the small of his back. There was a Heckler and Koch MP5 machine pistol, the abbreviated version, and he took that, too. He added a pair of LUCIE night vision goggles and ammunition for all of the firearms and then, making two trips, ferried everything to the Corolla.

He returned to the trunk and took out one of the waterproof polythene baggies. He opened it, sliding his finger between the seal, and pulled out a block of bank notes. It was twenty thousand dollars. There were fifty bags in total, each containing twenty grand. A million bucks. Milton dropped the cash in the trunk of the Corolla atop the weapons.

He pushed the trunk back into the gash in the earth, shovelled the spoil over the top of it and, covered in dust and dirt, went back to the car. He tossed the shovel and the bolt cutters into the back, started the engine, and turned around to head back for the city.

MILTON BOUGHT a change of clothes from the same Walmart that he had visited earlier, and then returned to the motel. He parked the Corolla, reversing right up against a wall that was wreathed in bougainvillea so that it was impossible to get to the trunk to open it. He would not be able to transfer the bulky weapons into his room without being noticed, and he wanted to have them close at hand. He locked the car, went to his room, and showered until the grime and muck had been washed from his body and hair. He dressed in his new clothes, stuffing the old ones in the Walmart bag and dumping them in the trash can outside. He field-stripped the P226, checking that it was still in good condition after being in the ground, reassembled it and pushed it into his waistband. Then, feeling fresher and better prepared than he had all day, he took his cellphone and sent an email. Then he called a taxi and asked the driver to take him into the city.

He found an Internet café, Krewe de Brew, bought an hour’s worth of credit, and took a unit in the middle of the room, not obviously observed by any security cameras. He opened a browser and opened two windows. One for his Gmail account, stuffed full of spam in the months since he had last checked it. The other for a forum dedicated to the music of The Smiths. He concentrated on the latter, logging on with his old account and checking that the account was still linked to his Gmail address. The fansite had been online for nearly twenty years, and he remembered it from the last time he had relied upon it. It had been busier then, but there was still enough traffic for his simple message—a careful, precise extolment of Morrissey—to pass unnoticed amid the usual traffic. In truth, Group Fifteen had appropriated the forum and others like it as modern-day dead drops. It had been monitored by certain operatives in the employ of Group Fifteen, but that was two years ago now, and Milton had no idea whether that was still the case.

He didn’t want the Group.

He wanted someone else.

Five minutes passed, and then ten. Milton was almost ready to conclude that he had struck out when he refreshed his Gmail account for a final time and noticed that he had a new message.

He opened it and saw a single HTML link.

No comment, no explanation, just the link.

He clicked, and a chat window opened.

The cursor blinked, and then scurried across the screen.

—Who is this?

—Number Six.

There was a long pause. Milton watched the cursor blinking.

—Fuck off.

—I’m serious.

—Wait.

Milton did as he was told. He stared at the screen, at the blinking cursor, at the decals that had been stuck to the edges and at the graffiti that had been scratched into the old case.

—Shit. Number Six. I believe you.

—You’re sure about that?

—I can see you. The webcam. You haven’t masked your IP.

Milton gazed at the top of the screen, at the tiny black hole almost invisible against the black bezel. He thought about Ziggy Penn, somewhere in the world, hijacking the webcam and God knew what else besides. He thought of his face, filling Ziggy’s monitor, and he smiled and gave a tiny wave with his fingers.

There was a pause before the characters filled the next line, more quickly now, a rush of them as, somewhere, Ziggy’s fingers flew across a keyboard.

—Ground rules. All non-negotiable. No names, under any circumstances. Nothing that could be used for ID. No chat. This isn’t a secure medium. You read the news, you’ll understand.

—Understood.

—What do you want?

—Help.

—I’m not in that game anymore.

—Neither am I.

—I heard. So?

—You know where I am?

A pause.

—Yes. New Orleans. 1610 St. Charles Avenue. Third row from the back, second unit from the wall.

—And you remember Katrina?

There was another pause. Milton stared at the screen for thirty seconds, still nothing, and he wondered whether Ziggy had signed out.

Three characters appeared, the cursor blinking after the last.

—Yes.

—The people who helped us. Who saved your life. They need us.

—I told you. I’m not in that game anymore.

—For this, you are. You owe them. Don’t make me come and find you.

—Like you could find me.

Milton smiled at the webcam.

—Want to gamble on that?

A pause, and then:

—LOL LOL LOL LOL LOL LOL.

There was another pause, the longest yet, and Milton was convinced that he had gone too far and had scared him off. He stared at the little camera, knowing very well the effect that his eyes had when he fixed them like this, deadened, cold, full of the promise of ice.

—FFS, Six, this is ridiculous.

—It’s easy. And I’ll make it worth your while.

—How much?

Milton tried to find a number that would work. Not so much that he would reduce his capital—he had other uses for that, after all—but not too little that Ziggy would dismiss it.

—10k.

—20.

—Okay.

—Plus expenses.

—Reasonable expenses.

—What do you want?

—Where are you now?

—Don’t be silly. Just tell me what you need.

—I need you to get on the next plane to New Orleans.

JACKSON DUBOIS parked his Jaguar on River Road, beneath the Huey P. Long Bridge. The struts of the structure ascended high overhead. To the left was a grassy bank topped by a wire-mesh fence and then, beyond that, the river. To the right was a rough parking lot filled with the vehicles from the construction crews that were tending to the bridge’s feeble structure. There were pickups, several temporary cabins, a row of Port-A-Johns and, stretching above them, a crane.

Dubois got out of the car, collected a flashlight from the glove compartment, and walked into the yard. He felt the comforting bulk of his shoulder-holstered pistol, and he still had the combat shotgun in the car. He didn’t expect trouble, but there was no sense in going into a situation unprepared.

He saw the shape of the man leaning against the side of a Ford. He swung the light up into his face.

“All right, pal,” Detective Peacock said. “Put it down.”

“Dragging me all the way out into the boonies, this better be good.”

“You want us to be seen together? Your boss want that?”

Dubois felt his temper bubbling. He bit his tongue.

“Anyway,” Peacock went on, “you’re gonna want to hear this. Your friend. The English guy. I got something on him.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is John Milton.”

Dubois frowned. “They said his name was Smith.”

“Not true. I’m guessing a lot of the stuff he says isn’t true.”

“All right—go on.”

“I know that there’s more to him than meets the eye.”

“I don’t have time for twenty questions.
Specifically
?”

“Can’t say for sure, but it looks like he’s worked for the bureau before—”

“The
bureau
?”

“—I think as a confidential informant.”

“Informing on what?”

“Haven’t been able to find that out.”

“That doesn’t make me very confident.”

“Whatever it is, it’s been sealed pretty tight.”

“So, what? He’s a criminal? Giving evidence for amnesty?”

“Don’t necessarily mean that. A CI could just be someone with information that he’d only give on the condition that he was kept out of whatever it was. Impossible to say. I’m still looking, but don’t hold your breath.”

“That’s useless. What are we supposed to do with that?”

Peacock ignored him. “The other thing I found,” he said instead, “is that he does have a record. Arrested in Texas last year. They think he might have come across the border. Got into a brawl, knocked out a couple of local toughs, one was the sheriff’s son. They were going to throw the book at him until he got pulled out by an FBI agent who—get this—turns out not to be an agent after all.”

“So, he either works for the feds or he doesn’t work for the feds. That makes him… what?”

“Like I said. Until I know better, someone to be careful of.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Got a couple of friends in the bureau. They owe me a few favours, I called them in. Very reliable.”

Dubois straightened his jacket. “It’s more questions than answers,” he said, making no effort to hide his disdain.

“Yeah, well, that’s life. And I don’t answer to you or your boss.”

“Mayor Chalcroft answers to Mr. Babineaux,” Dubois corrected. “And your boss answers to the mayor. That means you answer to us, Detective. Mr. Babineaux has high standards, and, frankly, I’d be embarrassed to bring this to him like this. I want to see better results next time.”

“Yeah,” the detective said, “and I’d like to fuck Scarlett Johansson, except that ain’t gonna happen.”

Dubois already had his cellphone out of his pocket by the time he was in his car again. He thumbed through the contacts until he found the number for Melvin Fryatt. He pressed call and put the phone to his ear.

JACKSON DUBOIS arranged to meet Fryatt and Crossland in the Lower Ninth. They were waiting for him on Surekote Road. The road had been abandoned, with vegetation reaching up high into the air. The tumbledown houses that were still standing had been claimed by nature, and the empty lots where shacks had been washed away thronged with substantial growth. Dubois rolled up behind their car and killed the engine. He could see them both inside. He wound down the window and sampled the atmosphere. He could hear the bass of a distant boom box, the buzz of the city, the chirping of the nocturnal wildlife that had claimed the street for its own. There was no one else around.

That was good.

The two of them got out of their car. Melvin came up to him. The white guy, Chad, pimp rolled behind him.

Dubois stayed in his car. The two of them came up to the open window.

“Just you,” Dubois said, pointing to Melvin.

“Say what?” Chad protested.

“Say get the fuck back into the car, you fucking junkie.”

Chad looked as if he was going to protest, but Melvin turned back to him and said something that Dubois couldn’t hear. He shrugged, his expression morose, and did as he was told.

“Get in, Melvin.”

He came around the car and got into the passenger seat.

“What happened?”

“She got away.”

“I know that, Melvin. I saw that. What I want to know is
how
it happened.”

“I don’t know, man. We hit the car, but I guess we didn’t get it good enough. We came out to finish her off, but the car drove off. I put a couple of rounds into it, but, well, you know…”

“It was a simple thing to do, Melvin. Very simple.”

“We tried, man. I don’t know what else I can say.”

“You know what? It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re not mad about it?”

“I’m not happy, but mistakes happen. This time, I’ll let it ride. There won’t be a next time, though. You hear me?”

“Sure, boss. Thanks. No more fuck-ups, I got it.”

“There’s something else you can help me with, and then we’re done.”

Dubois took out the printout of the photograph that Travis Peacock had given him and laid it on the dash.

“The man who attacked you. Is this him?”

Melvin squinted at it, his brow clenching into an angry frown. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s him. That’s the motherfucker. Dude was driving the car today, too. Who is he?”

“Do you think he’d recognise you if he saw you again?”

“Probably,” Melvin said. “Dude was talking to us, like you and me are talking, right before he hit me upside of my head.”

Dubois took the photograph. “Thank you, Melvin.”

“That it?”

“That’s all I needed to know. We’re done here. I’ll be in touch.”

Melvin shrugged, knowing better than to outstay his welcome, pushed the door all the way open, and stepped out. He closed the door, rapped his knuckles against the roof, and slouched back to his car.

Dubois corkscrewed in his seat and reached down into the footwell between the back and front seats. He picked up the shotgun that he had laid down carefully before setting off that evening, opened the door and, the gun held loosely before him, walked briskly to the other car. It was gloomy, the street lit by the glimmer of the moon overhead, and it was only when Melvin started his engine and flicked on his headlamps that he and Chad could see that they had just a few seconds left to live.

Dubois raised the combat shotgun. It was a semi-automatic, tubular magazine-fed weapon chambered for twelve-gauge cartridges, and allowed the shooter to apply a rapid rate of fire over a large area. It was also very accurate for a weapon with a reputation for being indiscriminate. The choke barrel was about the same diameter as a dime and, up to ten feet away, the pattern of the buckshot wouldn’t stray outside the edges of a six-inch circle. Dubois fired it from the waist. The first shot shattered the windshield, hitting Melvin. The second spread drilled Chad. The third and fourth shots were, in all likelihood, superfluous. But since Dubois had not gotten to be as successful as he was by being lackadaisical, he fired them both anyway.