The Old Man(40)

Julian’s phone vibrated and he looked at the text: “Pay your check and come upstairs.”

He left a twenty-dollar bill on the table and slid out of his booth, then walked out of the bar. He used the stairs at the side of the lobby because stairs were part of his discipline. One set of stairs was nothing. A thousand staircases were a way to build a lean, powerful body and enough speed to get to an adversary a step before he expected you.

He reached the fourth floor, went to the room, and gave a military knock, a single slap on the door with the palm of his hand. The door swung open and he stepped in past Waters, one of the two contact men for this operation.

The room wasn’t what he had expected. This was a suite, with a long, narrow hallway that opened to a living room with two couches and a pair of matching armchairs. In an alcove to his right was a long conference table. Its surface was littered with coffee cups and saucers, trays that had once held food but now held crumbs and cloth napkins. There were papers and scratch pads and three laptops.

In front of him, seated in the living room, were three men. One of them was Harper, his other contact man. The remaining two men were older, one of them with gray hair, and they were both wearing expensive, well-cut dark suits.

Waters walked past him and sat down. He said, “This is Carson.” He didn’t introduce the two strangers.

Harper said, “Carson was our man at the fuckup here in Chicago. We found him gift wrapped in duct tape with a bump on his head.”

At one time Julian Carson would have felt he had to answer that, but he had learned that it was always better not to say anything unless they asked him a direct question.

“Okay, Carson,” said Harper. “Tell us what happened.”

“I found the subject a couple of months ago.”

“Where?”

“He was out at night walking his dogs. I reported that to you at the time, so you may have the date.” He stared at Harper, his face blank. Then he resumed. “I needed to learn where he lived, but because of the dogs I couldn’t follow him without his knowing. Also because of the dogs I thought he was likely to live within an hour’s walk from the spot, but normal walking speed puts that at up to three miles.”

“Skip that. You looked in the area and found his apartment. You drove Mr. Misratha and Mr. Al-Jalloud to the apartment. What then?”

“I repeated the warnings I’d given them. That the subject had a pair of big dogs that would probably hear or smell them coming. And the subject was old, but he was trained, in great shape, and probably armed. I took the Libyans to the building and picked the lock on the front door. Inside was a small foyer, with a staircase leading up to the subject’s apartment.”

“What did the two say?” This time it was one of the two gray-haired men on the couch.

“They didn’t take my warnings seriously. I believe it was Mr. Misratha who said, ‘Just be quiet, wait outside, and watch the back door in case he hears us coming and runs.’ They screwed the suppressors on their weapons and climbed the stairs.”

“And you did what they said? Kept quiet and waited outside?”

“Yes. I was told at the start that this was their operation. I went to the back of the building and stood by the garage so if the subject came down the back stairs and went for his car, I could stop him.”

“Did he?”

“No. After a couple of minutes I heard two rapid shots—bang-bang. Like one shot, and then one more a half second later. The two dogs barked. I guessed that the subject must have gotten to a gun and double tapped the trigger but missed, and when they shot him with their silenced weapons, a muscle reflex fired off the last round. To me the sounds indicated the subject was dead, since his shots took only about a second and stopped. At least one of the Libyans must be alive and unhurt, and probably both. So I waited for them to come downstairs.”

“How long?”

“Five minutes.”

“Then what?”

“I took out my phone and text messaged Mr. Al-Jalloud. He didn’t answer. It occurred to me that they might be doing something they hadn’t told me about, like cutting off a finger to prove they had killed the right man. I sent another text. By then I thought they must be searching the apartment for the money he had diverted. They were very sure of themselves, and it had occurred to me that they might not know how quickly the Chicago police might respond to a call about gunshots and the commotion from the dogs. I wrote: ‘Get out now.’“

“Of course Mr. Al-Jalloud didn’t answer.”

“No, sir. While I was busy with the phone, the subject climbed out a side window of the building, sneaked around to the back, saw me in the glow of the phone’s screen, and clubbed me in the head.”

“You’ve been in some tight combat situations,” the man said. “You never heard him coming, or noticed a change, a shadow, or anything?”

“I did, right at the last moment. But I was expecting one of the Libyans, not him. Then I was out. I became conscious when I saw him carrying a woman to the garage. He had tied me up with duct tape. He had her tied that way too—arms behind her, ankles together, then wrapped around and around. He put her in the car and strapped her in with the seat belt.”

“I hear he talked to you before he left.”

“Yes, sir,” said Carson. This was the part that Julian had been dreading, but he had given the old man his word. “The subject said to tell you that he had never intended to steal the money. He just took it back to return to the government because the go-between had kept it. When the subject’s contact cut off his communication, he felt he was being set up. He got home on his own. He says he’s still willing to give back the money. He’ll do it if you tell the Libyan who sent the shooters he was killed in the operation. He promises that after that he’ll disappear.”