The Killing House

72

Fletcher, lying on his back in the tight space underneath the Jag, had just unlocked the levers for the false bottom when he heard M’s conversation with Borgia.

There’s something I need to tell you, M had told Borgia. Privately.

What was she doing? Fletcher had discussed this with her earlier in the day. Under no circumstances was she to be alone, anywhere, with Borgia — or any other federal agent, given what had happened to Karim.

They were coming down in the elevator. Over his earpiece he heard Borgia say: ‘Strangest thing happened when you pulled into the garage. The surveillance cameras? They suddenly stopped working. Nothing but snow on the screens, from what the technical engineers told me.’

Fletcher grabbed the handles disguised as pipes and pulled down. Now he slid the door across him, revealing the false bottom.

‘Any idea what may be causing it?’ Borgia asked M.

‘I’m a secretary, Mr Borgia, not a bloody engineer. I need to get Mr Karim’s med — ’

‘I understand Karim’s personal physician is in New Jersey.’

Fletcher picked up his tactical belt and tossed it inside.

‘Yes,’ M said. ‘Dr Segal.’

‘Dr Segal doesn’t know Karim’s medications?’ Borgia asked.

Fletcher grabbed the fibre-optic camera and tossed it inside.

M said, ‘I was told he couldn’t access them from the hospital’s computer system.’

‘Someone from his office couldn’t fax or email Karim’s file to the hospital?’

‘Dr Segal’s office is closed. Do you know what time of the morning it is?’

Fletcher had grabbed the interior handles; he lifted himself into a sitting position, the undercarriage’s pipes and metal edges rubbing against his chest, ripping his shirt.

Borgia said, ‘He couldn’t call someone from his office, ask them to — ’

‘I was asked, since I live near by,’ M said.

‘The doctor called you?’

‘No. Bar Lev did.’

‘Who?’

‘Karim’s personal bodyguard,’ M said.

Fletcher threaded his way inside the cramped compartment, his head, elbows, knees and feet bumping against the walls, creating noise.

Borgia said, ‘Why does your employer have a bodyguard posted at his bedside?’

‘I suggest you direct these questions to Bar Lev and Karim’s doctor. I’m just Mr Karim’s assistant.’

Fletcher, wedged inside the hidden compartment’s cramped space, was about to slide the false bottom’s door shut when he remembered his smartphone. He’d left it on the floor. He couldn’t see it, then remembered he had left it lying next to his head.

Quickly he snaked the upper half of his body out, his fingers splayed across the floor as though he were about to perform a push-up. The phone sat near the rear wheel. Slowly he crawled his way to it.

A door slammed open, shoes clicking their way across the garage.

‘Bobby,’ a woman’s voice called out, ‘take cameras three and four.’

‘It’s not the damn cameras, it’s the SUV,’ Bobby replied. ‘You said so yourself.’

‘Yeah, well, the boys upstairs want someone else to take a look at it. We’re ordered to examine the cameras.’

Fletcher, his weight balanced on his left hand, grabbed the phone. He placed it inside his mouth and, biting down, crawled backwards slowly and carefully.

A pair of shoes whisked past the Jaguar’s back bumper.

The elevator doors chimed open.

The man named Bobby said, ‘You need help with the ladder?’

The woman answered from the other end of the garage: ‘I’m a big girl. I think I can manage.’

Fletcher’s arms trembled slightly as he inched his way back, sweat from the exertion and increased adrenalin dripping from his face and leaving small puddles on the floor. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of M’s boots and Borgia’s polished black loafers heading down the steps.

Borgia said, ‘Would you mind if I take a look at your vehicle?’

‘As you Americans say, knock yourself out,’ M said.

‘So I have your permission to examine it?’

‘You have my permission. I have nothing to hide, Mr Borgia.’

‘You said you wanted to tell me something.’

‘I do. But I prefer to have the conversation privately.’

Borgia didn’t reply, possibly mulling over the question.

With much effort and concentration, Fletcher had managed to hoist himself back inside the compartment. He couldn’t move any further without making noise. He hovered over the opening, muscles straining, sweat pouring freely down his face and splashing against the floor.

A cell trilled inside the garage and then stopped as Borgia said, ‘Go ahead.’

Fletcher needed to create a diversion. He grabbed the phone from his mouth.

Borgia said, ‘Good news, Miss White. The list of Karim’s medications has been faxed to the hospital.’

‘Thank you,’ M replied. ‘I still want a copy. I was told to personally hand-deliver it to the hospital.’

‘I had a copy emailed to my phone. We can print it out at the hospital. I’ll drive you.’

‘I think I can manage, Mr Borgia.’

‘I want to speak to Mr Karim’s physician, so we might as well go together. We can speak along the way, privately, like you asked.’

No, Fletcher thought. Don’t go with him.

M’s voice inside the garage: ‘Where are you parked, Mr Borgia?’

‘I’ll have a car meet us — where are you going?’

Fletcher didn’t hear M’s reply; the garage door was rising, the sound loud enough for him to mask his movements.

Clever girl, he thought, and grabbed the door, gently slid it forward and quietly locked it into place. Now he was safely hidden inside the cramped, dark chamber.

His thoughts turned to M. Her safety.

She’s quite capable of handling herself, Karim had said.

Phone in hand, Fletcher counted off time in his head. He would wait twenty minutes — that should give M enough distance from the house. Then he would use the phone and turn up the EMP unit’s frequency to its maximum setting and escape.