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Chapter 8

They sat in the back of the stretch Bentley. Win had put the money in a rather elegant leather suitcase. Myron read the label.

“A Swaine Adeney Brigg bag for a ransom drop?”

“I had nothing cheaper on hand.”

“Do you know Fulham Palace Road?” Myron asked.

“Not well.”

“So where should we drop me off so we won’t be seen?”

“Behind Claridge’s Hotel.”

“That’s near this bank?”

“No. It’s approximately a twenty- to twenty-five-minute ride.”

“I’m not following.”

“I switched out your phone last night.”

“Right, I know.”

“When your rotund friend from the arcade temporarily confiscated said phone, he put a tracking chip into it.”

“For real?”

“Yes.”

“So he’s been keeping tabs on my location.”

“Well, not yours, of course. I had one of my men bring the phone to Claridge’s. He checked into the hotel under the alias of Myron Bolitar.”

“Did my alias stay in the Davies Suite?”

“No.”

“My alias is used to luxury.”

“Finished?”

“Just about. So Fat Gandhi thinks I’m at Claridge’s?”

“Yes. You’ll go in through the side employee entrance. My man will give you back your phone. He will also place two listening devices on your person.”

“Two?”

“Depending on where you go, they may search you again. They probably won’t find both.”

Myron understood. When Win put tracking devices on cars, he always put one under the bumper-where it could easily be found-and one in a more difficult space to find.

“Use the same safe word,” Win said.

“Articulate.”

“Yes, very nice that you remember.” Win turned and looked at Myron full on. “Use it even if you do not believe it will do any good.”

“Huh?”

“We’ve spent the evening with eyes on the arcade,” Win said. “Your chum Fat Gandhi has not left. No one matching either Patrick’s or Rhys’s description has entered.”

“Theories?”

“He may be holding them in the arcade. We’ve seen signs of”-Win paused, tapped his lip with his finger-“signs of life coming from the basement.”

“Like there’s someone down there?”

“Like there’s more than one someone down there.”

“You using a thermal scanner?”

“We are, but the basement walls are thick. Still…”

“What?”

Win shook it off. The car stopped.

“My man is directly inside on the left. Go in, get your phone, get wired up, catch a taxi to that address on Fulham Palace Road.”

Myron did as Win asked. He had brief flashbacks to his last time in the hotel, to the death and destruction and mayhem that followed, but he pushed them away. Myron didn’t recognize the man who helped him. The man went about his tasks in silence. First, he put a listening device on Myron’s chest under his shirt.

“Yikes, that’s cold,” Myron said.

Nothing.

The man put the second device inside Myron’s shoe. Myron headed out the front door. A uniformed doorman complete with top hat said, “May I help you, sir?”

Gripping the money bag a touch too tightly, Myron did his subtle scan, searching for someone suspicious who might be watching him. There was no one out on the streets yet-no guy leaning against a wall pretending to read a paper or stopping to tie his shoelaces or anything like that.

The only thing maybe worth noting: a gray car with tinted windows down the block on his left.

“Taxi, please.”

The doorman blew a whistle, even though a black Hackney carriage was a car’s length from where Myron stood. He made a big production of opening the door for Myron. Myron fumbled for some change, didn’t have any, gave the doorman a hopeless shrug. The doorman seemed unimpressed. Myron slid into the back, digging the legroom, and gave the driver the bank’s address on Fulham Palace Road.

After three blocks it was clear to Myron that the gray car was following him. Myron knew the line was open between him and Win so that Win could hear everything. But there was no reason to play games with that yet. Myron picked up the phone and put it to his ear.

“You there?”

“I am.”

“There’s a gray car following me,” Myron said.

“Make?”

“I don’t know. I’m not good with cars. You know that.”

“Describe, please.”

“The logo looks like an aggressive lion standing.”

“Gray Peugeot. It’s French. You love the French.”

“Indeed I do.”

Despite its being five A.M., Fulham Palace Road still had plenty of traffic. The taxi dropped Myron off in front of the NatWest Bank. It was, of course, closed. Myron paid the driver and stepped out. The taxi drove off. Myron stood in front of the bank, holding the bag of cash. The bills were “marked”-that is, Win knew the serial numbers on them-but Fat Gandhi had not asked for unmarked bills. Or was that another movie trope? Who checked the serial numbers of bills when you spent money?

After a full minute of standing like a dope, Myron’s cell phone rang. The number was blocked, but it had to be Fat Gandhi. Myron picked it up, put on a bad fake British accent, and intoned in his best Alfred the butler, “Wayne Manor. I’ll summon him, sir.”

“A Batman reference,” Fat Gandhi said with a chortle. “Who was your favorite? Christian Bale, right?”

“There is only one Batman, and his name is Adam West.”

“Who?”

Today’s youth.

“Do you see the gray car with the tinted windows?” Fat Gandhi asked him.

“The Peugeot,” Myron said, showing off his new car knowledge.

“Yes. Get in.”

“What about Denise Nussbaum at the bank?”

Fat Gandhi hung up.

The car pulled up. The thin black guy from the arcade’s back room opened up the back door and said, “Let’s go, mate.”

Myron checked the car. One driver. One thin guy.

“Where are the two boys?”

“I’m taking you to them.”

Thin Guy slid over, making room for Myron. Myron hesitated but got in. Next to him, the thin black guy was on a laptop. “Give me your phone,” he said.

“No.”

“It won’t do you any good anyway.” He smiled widely. “I got your cell jammed.”

“Pardon?”

He smiled at Myron. “This here laptop? I’m using it to scramble your signal. So like yesterday, when you had all that data going back and forth between you and whoever was listening? Well, he can’t hear you anymore. Oh, and if you put any kind of wire or listening device on yourself? Same thing.”

“Just so I’m clear,” Myron said, “your laptop is cutting off all signals?”

The guy’s grin grew. “Exactly.”

Myron nodded. Then he slid open the car window, snatched the laptop from the skinny guy’s hands, and tossed it out the window.

“Hey! What the-?” He looked out the back window to where his smashed laptop lay, guts split open. “Are you for real? Do you know how much that cost?”

“A billion pounds?”

“This ain’t funny, mate.”

“I’m sure it’s not. Now, enough games. Call Fat Gandhi.”

The kid looked as though he might cry. “Ah, you didn’t have to do that,” he said in a high-pitched whine. “I was just doing what I was told.”

“Now do what I’m telling you. Call Fat Gandhi. Tell him I got the money. I want the boys.”

His shoulders dropped. “You know how much that laptop cost me?”

“I don’t care. If you piss me off again, I’m going to throw you out that window. Now, call him.”

“No need to call.” He pointed toward the front windshield. “We’re here. Couldn’t you have just been patient?”

Myron looked out the window. That same arcade was up the block.

The Peugeot cruised to a stop. Myron got out without bothering to apologize. Two guys in camouflage pants opened the door. The skinny kid followed, pleading his case. “The bastard threw my bleeding laptop out the window!”

It felt as though someone had pulled the plug on the entire arcade, which, for all Myron knew, was exactly what had happened. No sounds, no lights, no movement. The entire arcade, so bursting with furious light and color a few hours ago, seemed shades of gray now. With all the machines off, their shadowy outlines felt odd, menacing, grotesque. There was an almost postapocalyptic feel to the whole place.

“Let’s go,” Pants One said to Myron.

“Where?”

“Back room.”

Myron didn’t like this. “The place is deserted. We can make the exchange out here.”

“That’s not how it works,” Pants Two said.

“Then I think I’ll leave.”

“Then I think”-Pants One crossed his arms and tried to flex his biceps-“the two of us will beat the hell out of you and take the money anyway.”

Myron’s grip on the bag tightened. He could take them both out, no problem-he was actually rehearsing his first strike in his head-but then what? For better or worse, he had to play it out. So he followed the same path he’d taken the last time he was here, when Dog Collar was with him, and stopped at the exit door.

There was the surveillance camera by the door again. Myron looked up, gave it a bright smile and cheery thumbs-up. Mr. Confident. Rule 14 of ransom drops: Never let the bad guys see you worried. The door opened. The Camouflage Pants Guys emptied Myron’s pockets. The wand found the listening device on his chest.

They were about to take the device off him when Fat Gandhi opened the door to the back room, stuck his head out, and said, “No weapons?”

“None.”

“It’s fine, then; let him keep the rest.”

Myron didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

He entered that same room with all the computers and flat-screens. The skinny black kid was already back at his station. “He broke my bleeding laptop!” he cried out, pointing at Myron. “Just threw out it out the window like it was last week’s rubbish.”

Fat Gandhi was resplendent in what looked to be a yellow zoot suit. “The cash is in that bag?”

“It isn’t in my underwear,” Myron said.

Fat Gandhi frowned at the joke, which was fair.

“There is someone listening on the other end of your phone,” Fat Gandhi said.

Myron didn’t bother denying or agreeing.

“There is only one entrance into this lair,” Fat Gandhi said. “Do you understand?”

“Did you just call this a lair?”

“We have cameras everywhere. Derek and Jimmy, raise your hands.”

Two guys staring at their monitors raised their hands.

“Derek and Jimmy are watching the surveillance cameras. If someone tries to get in, we will see them. The two doors you entered to arrive here are steel reinforced, but you probably know that already. In short, there is no way anyone could get into this room in time to save you, even if they were fast and heavily armed.”

No fear. Show no fear. “Yeah, okay, cool. Can we move this along now? You said something about cybercurrency.”

“No.”

“No, you didn’t say-”

“It makes no sense, Mr. Bolitar. You’d have to get the Bitcoin or more fashionable assorted cybercurrency in the first place. Then I would have to give you a long public key address, which is basically the equivalent of a unique bank account. You would then transfer the money via a network, and, poof, gone. That was how I originally planned to make the exchange.”

“But not anymore?”

“No, not anymore. See, it works fine for small amounts, but something this big, well, it would be tracked. Cybercurrency is too public nowadays. You want to know the truth?” He leaned in as though to whisper something conspiratorial. “I think cybercurrency has turned into a giant sting operation so law enforcement can gather intel on the black market. So I started thinking. Why do Somali pirates always demand cash?”

He looked at Myron as though he expected an answer. Myron figured that if he didn’t reply, maybe the guy would stop talking.

“Because cash is easiest, simplest, and best.”

Fat Gandhi reached out for the bag.

“Hold up,” Myron said, “we had a deal.”

“You don’t trust my word?”

“This is how it will go,” Myron said, trying to take some semblance of control. “The two boys leave here. They go outside. Once they are outside, I give you the money.”

“Go where outside?”

“You said you knew someone was listening to us.”

“Go on.”

“He knows where I am. So he’ll pull up in a car. The boys go in the car, I give you the money, then I leave.”

Fat Gandhi made a tsk-tsk noise. “That won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because I told you something of an untruth.”

Myron said nothing.

“Your friend is not listening to you. All devices, including our own cell phones, are jammed right now. That is how this room is designed. Just to be completely safe. Our advanced Wi-Fi is working, but it’s password protected. You’re not on it, I’m afraid. So whatever devices you may have hidden in whatever crevices are completely useless.”

The fingers typing on the keyboards seemed to slow down a bit.

“Doesn’t matter,” Myron said.

“Say again?”

“I smashed your friend’s laptop.”

Thin Guy: “Cost me a fortune! The bastard-”

“Quiet, Lester.” Fat Gandhi turned back toward Myron. “So?”

“So the phone wasn’t jammed when I arrived. My people know I’m here. They’ll be waiting outside. You send the two boys out; they’ll pick them up. Easy, right?”

Myron gave them all Smile 19: The “We’re All Friends Here” deluxe.

Fat Gandhi stuck his hand out. “Give me the bag, please.”

“Give me the kids.”

He waved his chubby hand, his bracelet tight on his wrist, and the big flat-screen on the wall lit up.

“Happy?”

It was the cell again. The two boys were seated on the floor, their knees up, their heads down.

“Where are they?”

Fat Gandhi’s smile felt like a dozen snakes running down your back.

“I’ll show you. Wait here, please.”

Fat Gandhi pressed a code into the door’s keypad, making sure that Myron couldn’t see him. He stepped out of the room. Two more camouflaged guys stepped in as he left.

Hmm, why?

The room grew quiet. The typing came to a stop. Myron tried to read their faces.

Something wasn’t right.

Two minutes later, Myron heard Fat Gandhi’s voice say, “Mr. Bolitar?”

He was on the big flat-screen now.

In the cell with the two boys.

Win had gotten it right. They were being held right here in the arcade.

“Bring them out,” Myron said.

Fat Gandhi just smiled into the camera. “Derek?”

One of the guys said, “I’m here.”

“Any movements on the surveillance cameras?” Fat Gandhi asked.

“None.”

Fat Gandhi waved his finger. “No cavalry on their way to rescue you, Mr. Bolitar.”

Uh-oh.

“Rescue me from what?”

“You killed three of my men.”

The temperature in the room changed, not in a good way. Everyone started moving slowly.

“I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Please, Mr. Bolitar. Lying is beneath you.”

Pants One took out a large knife. So did Pants Two.

“Do you see my dilemma, Mr. Bolitar? It would have been one thing if you and your partners had approached me in a respectful manner.”

A third guy rose from behind his computer. He also had a knife.

Myron tried to work it through. Grab Pants One’s knife, then go after the guy on the right…

“You could have come to us. Like businessmen. You could have asked for a fair exchange. An arrangement. We could have worked with you…”

No, that wouldn’t work. Too much distance between them. And the door is locked…

“But you didn’t do that, Mr. Bolitar. Instead you slaughtered three of my men.”

Derek took a knife out. Jimmy too.

Then the skinny kid produced a machete.

Six guys, all armed, in a small room.

“How can I let you just walk out of here after that? How would it look? How could my men ever trust me to take care of them?”

Maybe duck down, throw a back kick… but no. Have to get the machete first. But he’s farther away. Too many of them, the space too tight.

“I would stay in the room and observe the outcome, but in this suit? It’s new and rather lovely.”

There was no chance. They started coming closer.

“Articulate!” Myron shouted.

Everyone stopped for a second. Myron dropped to the floor and braced himself.

That was when the wall exploded.

The sound was deafening. The wall gave way as though the Incredible Hulk had burst through from the street. The others were caught off guard, Myron not so much. He knew that Win would come up with something. He had figured that Win would find a way past the cameras. He hadn’t. He said he had cased the place last night. He had found the exterior wall to this room. He had probably placed a strong listening device on it, so he would know when to make a move.

Had he used some sort of dynamite or rocket-propelled grenade?

Myron didn’t know.

Shock and awe, baby. Win’s forte.

The guys in the room didn’t know what hit them. But they would.

Myron moved fast. From his position on the floor, he snaked his leg out and took one of the guys down. It was Pants Two. Myron grabbed the man’s knife hand. Pants Two, running on pure survival instinct, held on tight. That was okay. Myron counted on that. He had no intention of trying to wrestle the knife away. Instead, holding the man by the wrist, Myron jerked his hand upward.

The blade, still being gripped by the guy’s hand, lodged into Pants Two’s throat.

Blood spurted. And the hand dropped away.

The knife made a noise like a wet, sucking pop as Myron pulled it free. The rest was pandemonium. The dust from the collapsed wall made it difficult to see. Myron could hear coughing and shouts. The commotion must have gotten the attention of the guy standing guard in the corridor.

When he opened the door, Myron was on him. He landed a punch straight to the nose, driving the man back into the corridor. Myron stayed on him. He didn’t want to kill anyone else if he didn’t have to. He threw another punch. The guy staggered back against the wall. Myron grabbed him by the throat and placed the tip of the bloody knife right up against the guy’s eye.

“Please!”

“How do I get to the basement?”

“The door on the left. Code 8787.”

Myron punched the guy in the stomach, let him slide to the floor, and ran. He found the door, hit the code, pushed it open.

The first thing that hit him, almost knocking him back, was the stench.

There are few things that cause déjà vu like powerful odors. Something like that was happening here. Myron was traveling back to his basketball days, to the stink of a locker room after a game, the wheeled laundry carts loaded up with the sweat-filled socks, shirts, and athletic supporters of adolescents. The smell had been awful, but after a game or practice, when it was something as pure as previously clean boys playing basketball, there had been an underlying sweetness that made the smell, if not pleasant, tolerable.

That wasn’t the case here.

It was dirt filled and rancid and bad.

When Myron looked down from the top of the stairs, he couldn’t believe what he saw.

Twenty, maybe thirty teenagers were scampering like rats when you hit them with a flashlight beam.

What the…?

The basement looked like a bad refugee camp. There were cots and blankets and sleeping bags. No time to worry about that. As Myron started down the stairs, he saw the cell.

Empty.

He reached the bottom and turned to his right. The kids clambered toward that corner like something out of a zombie film-like they were climbing over one another and feeding on something stuck there. Myron started toward it. Kids got in his way. Myron pushed them aside. They were boys mostly, but there were a few girls sprinkled in too. They all looked at him with hollow, lost eyes, still pushing forward.

“Where is Fat Gandhi? Where are the boys he had in that cell?”

No one answered. They kept pushing and shoving toward that corner. Was there a door there or…

A hole?

The kids were disappearing into some kind of hole in the concrete.

Myron picked up his pace now, even if it meant being rougher than he wanted with these kids. One of them started screaming and clawing at Myron’s face. Myron knocked him away. He moved like a linebacker now, lowering his shoulder, throwing body blows, until he got to the hole.

Another kid started to climb into it.

It was a tunnel.

Myron grabbed the kid from behind. Other kids pushed in, trying to get to the opening. Myron held firm. He pulled the kid so that his face was right up against his.

“Is that where Fat Gandhi went? Did he take two boys with him?”

“We’re all supposed to go,” the boy said with a nod. “Otherwise the coppers will find us.”

They were pushing in again. Myron had two choices. Move to the side or…

He dived into the hole and landed on the cold, damp floor. When he stood up, his head whacked concrete. He saw stars for a moment. The tunnel’s ceiling was low. Shorter guys could probably run. Myron was not so lucky.

Other kids started flowing in behind him.

Have to move, Myron thought.

“Patrick!” he screamed. “Rhys!”

For a moment, he could hear only the scraping sounds of kids escaping through this dark tunnel. And then he heard someone scream: “Help!”

Myron felt his pulse race. The scream might have been short and only a word, but Myron knew one thing for certain.

The accent was American.

He tried to pick up his pace. There were boys already crowded into the tunnel, blocking his progress. Girls too. He swam past them.

“Patrick! Rhys!”

Lots of echoes. But no one returned his call.

The tunnel’s height and thickness were inconsistent, constantly changing. It twisted and turned in unexpected ways. The walls were black and old and wet. The few dim lights made the place feel more ghostly.

There were teenagers on either side of him, behind him, in front of him. Some rushed forward; some fell behind.

Myron grabbed one harder than he meant to and pulled him up to his face: “Where does this tunnel lead?”

“Lots of places.”

Myron let him go. Lots of places. Terrific.

He reached a fork and stopped. Some kids went left, others right.

“Patrick! Rhys!”

Silence. And then a voice that sounded American: “Help!”

To the right.

Myron hurried after the voice, trying to move faster, trying so hard to keep a pace and yet not whack his head on the ceiling. The stench was starting to make him gag. He kept moving. He wondered how long these tunnels had been here-centuries maybe-the whole place feeling suddenly like something out of Dickens, when he saw two boys up ahead.

And a fat man in a yellow zoot suit.

Fat Gandhi turned toward him. He took out a knife.

“No!” Myron shouted.

There were still more teenagers in front of them. Myron sprinted as hard as he could toward the boys, lowering his head, pumping his legs.

Fat Gandhi raised the knife.

Myron kept moving. But he could see he was too far away.

The knife came down. Myron heard a scream.

A boy collapsed to the ground.

“No!”

Myron dove toward the fallen body. The zoot suit started to run away. Myron didn’t care. More teens were starting to push on through. Myron crawled on top of the stabbed boy.

Where was the other boy?

There. Myron reached out and grabbed his ankle. He held on. Other teens scrambled over him. Myron kept his grip on the ankle. He stayed on top of the stabbed boy, using his own body as a shield. He found the stab wound and tried to stem the flow with his forearm.

Someone’s foot landed on Myron’s wrist. His grip on the other boy’s ankle was starting to loosen.

“Hang on,” he shouted.

But the ankle was being pulled away.

Myron gritted his teeth. How much longer could he keep this up?

Myron held on, even as the boy tried to pull away, even as a kick landed hard on his face, even as the second kick landed. And then, on the next kick, his grip slipped.

The boy was swept away in the river of other teenagers.

Gone.

“No!”

Myron kept low, making his body a protective shell for the injured boy. He pressed his forearm down hard on the wound.

You aren’t dying. You hear me? We didn’t come all this way for you…

When the current of teenagers passed over him, Myron quickly ripped off his shirt and applied pressure to the wound. He finally looked down at the boy.

And recognized his face.

“Hang in there, Patrick,” Myron said. “I’m taking you home.”