phone and dialled Nina’s cell phone.
After two rings she answered. There was a lot of background noise, the hectoring, muffled sound of a voice on a public address system.
‘What’s going on?’ he said.
‘Are you in the cab?’
Her voice was excited, and for some reason he found this irritating. ‘No. What are you doing at LAX?’
‘I got a call from the guy I had monitoring the Web. We got a hit on “The Upright Man”.’
‘It’s three words, Nina. It could be an exhibition of Robert Mapplethorpe photographs. And presumably the Feds are already on the case.’
‘It wasn’t a Fed trace,’ she admitted, annoyed. ‘I did it independently.’
‘Right,’ Zandt said. ‘Figures.’
‘He logged the IP address of the computer that made the search, and hacked out the access line of the call. Come on, John. It’s the first time this has come up in two years. I never handed in the note you got. As far as the world at large is concerned, he’s still called The Delivery Boy.’
There was an explosion of noise from the handset, as someone bellowed another announcement at the other end.
Zandt waited for it to be over, and then said: ‘I told Michael Becker.’
‘The hit’s not from LA,’ Nina snapped.
‘Where, then. Where?’
‘Upstate. Some burg near the border with Oregon. A Holiday Inn.’
‘Have you called the local Bureau?’
‘The nearest SAC hates me. There’s no way he’ll send anybody out for me.’
Right, Zandt thought. And in the unlikely event that this turns out to be more than a wild goose chase, you want to be the one making the arrest. Through the door he could see the cab driver still waiting, hopping from foot to foot.
‘Too risky, Nina.’
‘I’ll get some local cops for an escort. Whatever. Look John, there’s a plane leaving in forty minutes. I’m going to be on it, and I bought two tickets. Are you coming or not?’
‘No,’ he said, and put down the phone.
He went back to the door and told the driver he wasn’t going anywhere, giving him enough money to make him go away.
Then he swore, grabbed his coat and a handful of files, and was able to throw himself in front of the cab before it left the driveway. He told himself that he had enough on his conscience without adding Nina to it.
That it was nothing to do with wanting to protect her.
When I woke at nine the next morning, sprawled over the bed as if dropped from a great height, I found Bobby had left a note on the bedside table. It suggested I meet him in the lobby as early as possible. I showered myself into a semblance of humanity and headed down there, shambling along the corridors like a sloth forced to walk on its hind legs, a sloth well past its best. The night’s sleep had made me feel different, though not necessarily better. My thoughts were blurred and sluggish, as if full of crushed ice and an unfamiliar alcoholic drink.
The lobby was mainly empty, just some couple standing over by the desk. Soft music was playing in the background. Bobby was sitting in state in the middle of a long couch, reading the local paper.
‘Yo,’ I mumbled, when I was standing in front of him.
He looked up. ‘You look like shit, my friend.’
‘And you’re as annoyingly spruce as ever. What’s the deal? You climb into an egg each night and emerge reborn? Or is it an exercise thing? Do tell. I want to be just like you.’
Outside the sky was cloudless and bright, and it was all I could do to stop myself from yelping. I limped across the parking lot behind Bobby, shielding my eyes.
‘Your phone’s on? And juiced?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Though frankly I don’t see the point. Either Lazy Ed hasn’t been home, in which case we’re wasting our time heading out there, or he has and doesn’t want to talk.’
‘You are beink very negative, Vard,’ Bobby observed in a Germanic accent. ‘Hand me the keys. I’ll drive.’
‘I feel negative,’ I said. ‘Good thing I’ve got a happy android for company. But if you use that voice again I’m going to knife you.’ I tossed the keys to him.
‘Stop right there.’ This was said clearly and firmly, and it wasn’t Bobby who was talking. We looked at each other, and then turned.
Four people were standing behind us. Two were uniformed cops, locals: one was in his late fifties and trim and lean, the other about thirty years old and a good forty inches around the gut. Off to one side stood a man in a long coat. Standing nearest to us, about ten feet away, was a slim woman in a neat suit. Of the group, she looked easily the most intimidating.
‘Put your hands on the top of the car,’ she said.
Bobby smiled ominously, and left his hands exactly where they were. ‘This would be a joke of some kind?’
‘Hands on the fucking car,’ the younger cop said. He moved his hand closer to his holster, clearly itching to use it. Or at least hold it.
‘Which one of you is Ward Hopkins?’ the woman asked.
‘Both of us,’ I said. ‘Weird cloning thing.’
The young cop abruptly started walking toward us. I put a hand up at chest height, and he walked straight into it.
‘Take it easy,’ the woman said.
The deputy didn’t say anything, but he stopped coming forward, and just glared at me.
‘Okay,’ I said, keeping my hand in place but not pushing with it. ‘Let’s not let this get out of hand. Local PD, I take it?’
‘That’s correct,’ the woman said, flipping identification. ‘They are. And I’m a federal agent. So be cool, and let’s see some hands being put on that car.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Bobby, still resolutely underwhelmed. ‘Guess what? I’m with the Company.’
The woman blinked. ‘You’re CIA?’ she said.
‘That’s right, ma’am,’ he said, with ironic courtesy and a hick accent. ‘All we need is some boys from the navy and we could have us a parade.’
There was an awkward moment. The younger cop turned to his older colleague, who in turn raised an eyebrow at the woman. None of them looked as confident as they had a second before. In the
