The Equalizer (27 page)

“I'd say in bed those glasses are
all
she'd have on,” McCall said.

Brahms looked at the girl through the open doorway, as if he was picturing that. He smiled, felt guilty about it, wiped the smile off his face, and stood. He went rummaging through what looked like more electronic junk on a table. There was no space in the cramped office that didn't look like you could rummage.

“What's your assistant's name?” McCall asked.

“Mary.”

“It should be Audrey. Like Hepburn in
Breakfast at Tiffany's
.”

“They don't serve breakfast at Tiffany's. But I like the fact that you think they should. Brahms was a child of romanticism. There's a touch of that in you, McCall. Somewhere, buried deep. Why don't you ask her out for a coffee? She's a fun person. You could do with some fun in your life.”

“You're rummaging.”

“Sure, ignore the old man, like a little friendly advice would harm you. Here!”

He came up with a small, square silver device, not much bigger than a matchbox. He slipped it into McCall's jacket pocket.

“This is fixed onto the same frequency. You can hook it up to your laptop, listen into Dolls anytime of the day or night. You don't have to come bothering me. Here's my last piece of advice. Listen in—don't go back there.”

“Thanks, Brahms.”

McCall stood and walked to the open doorway.

“Are you thanking me for the little gizmo I just gave you, for my advice, or for staying out of your way while you get yourself killed?”

“For letting me back into your life. You said that would never happen.”

Brahms looked suddenly embarrassed. He shrugged and moved away.

“We all say things we regret, McCall. That wasn't one of them, but you're back, so what can I do?”

“You can tell me to stay out of your life.”

“As if you'd listen to me.”

“I listen to you, Brahms. That kept me alive a few times.”

Brahms turned and looked at him fondly. He just nodded. “So those Chechen gangsters we were listening to were talking about this young woman you saved. One of them sounded like he was more afraid of someone else than of you. Who would that be?”

“I haven't the faintest idea.”

McCall had disappeared into the shadows of the electronics store. Brahms saw Mary give him a smile and a wave. Brahms sighed. Thought about her with her glasses on and everything else off. Decided not to do that again. It would only lead to heartache.

Like allowing Robert McCall back into his life.

*   *   *

In his alcove, sitting in shadows now, only the kaleidoscopic colors revolving across him, Borislav Kirov debated what to do. On the one hand, this was a local matter, one he could take care of without any further problems. He would not want the circumstances of it to be known to his boss. On the other hand, there was
something
about this man—this Bobby Maclain—or
whoever
he really was. It made him uneasy. And that was a feeling he had not experienced in a long time.

The past haunts us,
he thought.

Or was he making much too much out of this? A misguided white knight who could be swept away like so much garbage.

And yet …

Kirov took out his cell phone and scrolled through images until he found the picture of McCall that Kuzbec had sent to him from the surveillance camera.

He debated what to do with it.

*   *   *

McCall knew where to find him. He was sitting at one of the chess tables in Central Park, dressed in a blue jean shirt, dark blue jeans, Nike Ken Griffey high-top basketball shoes in green and white with the Nike swoosh in black. He was in his late forties, dirty blond hair, a little gaunt in the face, wearing square-cut, very distinctive granny glasses with green-tinted lenses. McCall knew his real name, but never bothered to use it. No one did. Everyone just called him “Granny.” There was a stillness about him. Very pale blue eyes could fix you with a laser stare. McCall would not want him as an enemy. But then, Granny
had
no enemies.

They were all dead.

He was playing an intense young man who leaned across the chessboard like a predator, ready to pounce on a careless move and capture his opponent's knight or rook. Granny had lifted his eyes once from the game to note McCall's approach. If he was surprised to see him, he didn't show it.

“Hey, McCall.”

His opponent made his move. Hit the timer. Granny appeared to be studying the board, but McCall suspected that was for show. He was already several moves ahead of the kid in his mind.

“Granny,” McCall said.

The young man looked at his opponent.

“You let people call you that?”

“It's the glasses, not my age or sexual predilection,” Granny said. “Mind you, I've spent some very special time with some pretty spectacular grannies.”

“You still hitting the party scene?” McCall asked.

Granny moved his knight, hit the timer. “I got invited to a ritzy shindig last weekend. Lady of the house was a socialite with bedroom eyes. Asked me what I did for a living. I said I played chess. She said, before that. I told her I killed people. I wasn't invited back.”

“Imagine that.”

Now Granny had the young man's full attention.

“You used to kill people?”

“Only slow chess players.”

McCall looked down at the battlefield. “How many moves do you need to beat him?”

“If I revealed that, it would take all the fun out of it.”

“Do it in three. I need some intel.”

The young man made his next move, almost defiantly, and hit the timer. Granny moved his knight again. The young man was in check. He moved out of danger, but it was too late. Granny slid his queen across the board and the young man was checkmated.

McCall nodded. “In two moves is good.”

Granny got up. His chess opponent stared down at the pieces on the board as if they'd betrayed him. McCall and Granny walked away from the tables.

“You've been off the radar for a while,” Granny said.

“You could have found me.”

“I wasn't looking. You resigned. I only work for the Company on a part-time basis.”

“Otherwise you're a mercenary for hire?”

“Other people's wars are easier to fight. You know Control's looking for you.”

“He found me, he just hasn't made his grand entrance yet. I did something stupid. Stepped into a situation I should have left alone.”

“You were always good at that.”

“I'm glad to see you're still alive.”

“I felt good about that this morning, too. What do you need, McCall?”

“I stumbled into a black cipher.”

Granny stopped. He took off his square-cut glasses and polished them with a handkerchief. His pale blue eyes bored into McCall's face.

“That was careless of you.”

“Pure accident.”

“And you don't know where to go or what the time frame is.”

“That's right.”

Granny searched the crowd around the chess tables without seeming to.

“I wasn't followed,” McCall said.

“You were never followed unless you wanted to be. But things change. We get older. Better The Company doesn't know you've been in contact with me.” He put his glasses back on. “The rendezvous location changes every month. This is May. So it must be Grand Central Station. Twenty hours. How long have you got?”

McCall glanced at his watch. “Forty minutes.”

“You'd better hurry.”

“Thanks, Granny.”

“You've got a haunted look in your eyes, McCall. Like you're not sleeping well at night.”

“I sleep just fine.”

“No. You let the nightmares come. We've both had to do things we regret. It's like being burned by a match. It hurts, even later on.”

“You can't stop it from hurting.”

“No, but you can stop caring that it does.”

“You wouldn't be fun to torture.”

“There are terrorists who found that out. You need backup?”

“Not for this.”

“You can always call Kostmayer. He likes to worship at your feet.”

“You should cut him some slack.”

“He's reckless.”

“He's young. Weren't you ever young, Granny?”

“I was born an old man. When the doctor spanked me my teeth fell out. You know the difference between us, McCall?”

“What's that?”

“I really
do
sleep well at night.”

McCall smiled. “Good thing you fight on the side of the angels.”

Granny smiled and nodded. “Good thing.”

“Where can I find you these days?”

“Right here.”

McCall walked away from him and turned in some trees. Granny was sitting back at the chess table, this time facing a businessman in a black silk suit and red-and-white striped tie who looked as if he'd wandered into the park directly from the Stock Exchange floor. He moved his pawn and hit the timer.

Granny gave him a wolfish smile and moved his pawn to match.

*   *   *

McCall walked out onto the main lower concourse. He liked the energy of Grand Central Station. The floor glowed with reflected gold light from the three huge windows above the upstairs level. The large marble columns looked like gold sentinels guarding the concourse on both sides. In the center of the concourse was the information kiosk with the big round gold clock above it. The concourse was jammed with people. They were walking swiftly toward the ticket booths below the
HARLEM LINE DEPARTURES
, or running down the two big staircases from the terrace above, or just milling around in groups.

McCall remembered a screen writer friend of his, gone now, who had lived in Los Angeles before moving up to Carmel, California, to write thriller novels. He would routinely go to Disneyland, but never went on any of the rides. He would take a green notebook with him, sit on a bench in the Main Street Square, and watch the families going past as he wrote his plot and character notes. It was the
people
he was interested in. And the joy that permeated that happiest place on earth. There was no particular
joy
on the lower concourse of Grand Central Station, but there were lives being played out with energy and urgency. McCall liked that. He was used to isolation, but now it felt good to occasionally be around the pulse of humanity.

He didn't see the Slavonic thug from Dolls—the one who had frisked him—moving through the crush of people from one of the entrances to the lower concourse.

The man was still dressed in black. His big hands hung loosely at his sides. His dark eyes searched the crowd and found his quarry. McCall was facing away from him, toward the big sweeping staircases on either side of the grand concourse. The Slav reached into his leather jacket pocket to where a .22 Magnum black-and-chrome pistol was nestled. His fingers coiled over the grip, one finger over the trigger. He did not expect his quarry to react to his presence. The concourse was noisy and a train announcement—a track change—was being broadcast.

He walked right up behind his target.

The figure whirled suddenly and gripped the Slavonic man's right wrist.

The Slav froze, his hand on the gun, unable to bring it out of his jacket pocket. He looked into the figure's face.

“Just what the hell are you doing, McCall?” the Slav asked.

 

CHAPTER 20

McCall hadn't seen Danil Gershon in eight years. He'd aged. He'd hardened. He was one of the best agents The Company had. And McCall had walked in on a covert operation and could have blown it wide open. He let go of the Slav's right wrist.

“Good to see you again, Danil.”

“I wish I could say the same. I didn't really expect you to be here. I came because it's protocol, and you know how Control is about that. How'd you know the rendezvous point? And the hour count?”

McCall didn't answer.

“I guess you've still got your sources. I heard you resigned.”

“I did.”

“Then what the hell were you doing walking into that Dolls nightclub and confronting Kirov? Did Control send you?”

“I was there as a private citizen. I had no idea I might be compromising a Company mission. Let's get out of here and find somewhere quieter to talk.”

Gershon nodded curtly.

They started to walk through the crowded concourse. There was another train announcement. McCall continuously swept the space in front of them. There were no signs that anyone had followed Gershon. But McCall sensed something.

“How long have you been working undercover with the Chechens?” he asked.

“Almost a year. I'm not the only one. There are two other operatives at Dolls' nightclubs. One in Dubai and one in Vienna.”

“Since when is The Company interested in the Chechnya Mafia?”

“They're not. The nightclubs are a front. Sure, the one here in Manhattan, they're extorting money from the merchants in their local neighborhood. They're breaking some legs. They've killed some drug dealers who didn't like these bad boys opening a club in their territory.”

“But they're not running prostitutes,” McCall said. “They're collecting information from politicians and diplomats. According to Kirov.”

Gershon looked at him. “How do you know that?”

“I planted a bug under his table. I wanted to make sure Katia was going to be left alone. She will be.”

“For now. The dancers have a handler.”

“Bakar Daudov. Katia talked to me about him.”

“A killer. A real piece of work. You don't fuck with him.”

McCall smiled to himself. Gershon may have been born and raised in Kosovo, but he'd lived in New Jersey since the age of twelve and that attitude was as ingrained in him as his loyalty to his homeland and to The Company.