Tracer, page 9
‘So either an unlucky man or a stupid one.’
‘Probably a little of both,’ Natasha said, nibbling at her own omelette. ‘This is very good, by the way.’
‘I’ll tell the chef. What else?’
She continued speaking between mouthfuls. ‘He’s twice divorced, and now lives alone. He and his most recent wife had two children, but she was awarded full custody in the separation and they all now reside in another state. He rarely sees them. He currently works as a security guard for a local auto parts business. Or, rather, he did. Now… who knows?’
Korso wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘And your people got all that in less than an hour? That’s fairly impressive.’
‘No less than it should be for the money I am paying them.’
‘That your employer is paying them.’
‘Semantics.’
‘Anyway, it looks like we’re taking a trip over the border. Let me have your phone.’
She passed it and returned to her food. Korso called the number James had given him. He finally got an answer on the seventh ring. The pilot clearly sounded out of breath. Korso didn’t ask what he’d been doing, or with whom, but just instructed him and Paulo to get out to the airport as soon as possible, as they were leaving for Texas within the hour.
‘I think I interrupted him from something,’ Korso said, after ending the call.
‘Do you care?’
‘Not really.’ He raised his hand to signal for the check. ‘Are you all right to enter the United States? What I mean is, is your passport completely legit?’
‘As legitimate as yours,’ she said, finishing off the last of her food. ‘I will have no problems at US Immigration. I never have before.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe you should worry more about yourself, Korso.’
Fourteen
75 hours, 28 minutes and counting…
Less than five hours later, Korso and Natasha were sitting in a Chevy Impala rental parked outside a dollar store in the Northside area of Fort Worth. Each of them was carefully studying the terrain.
Although it varied from block to block, Korso’s impression was that Northside wasn’t one of Fort Worth’s more affluent neighbourhoods. Which suited their purposes perfectly. He felt the area’s residents were far less likely to call 911 for suspicious behaviour. The dollar store was situated on the northeast corner of a crossroads, with an auto-insurance place located on the opposite corner. There was a Texaco station a half-mile west, but everything else was residential. Mainly one-storey houses in varying conditions, set back from the tree-lined streets, usually with two or three cars in the driveway.
He checked the dashboard clock again. The time changed to 12:33.
Sardoca had dropped into his life like an atom bomb last night at 18:00, Bermuda time, along with his laughable ninety-six-hour deadline. Which meant they now had just over seventy-five hours left. Three days and change. Barely any time at all. If they hadn’t chartered the plane for the extended period, it would have been an impossible task.
It could still be.
As it was, the flight to Fort Worth International Airport had used up three hours, and then another forty minutes before they passed through immigration. Once they’d navigated that obstacle course, Natasha got them a rental from Hertz, and Korso drove them here in just over thirty minutes.
Time ticking away.
A pick-up pulled in to the parking area, settled into a spot two spaces down from theirs. The driver adjusted his Stetson, got out and locked his vehicle. Korso watched him go into the store, then looked in the rear-view again at Adamson’s place behind them.
Seventy-two Willoughby Avenue was a neat, one-storey brick house set on a large plot, with a wide driveway leading to a double garage at the side, also made of brick. The grass in the front yard was faded and hadn’t been cut in weeks. There were no vehicles in the driveway. No other obvious signs of habitation. Still, it was one of the more impressive-looking houses in the area. And plenty of tree cover at the front and back.
‘What do you think?’ Natasha asked, also watching the house from her side mirror.
‘Possibly a revolutionary new chemical nerve agent,’ he said. ‘One that attacks the central nervous system and kills immediately before dissipating, leaving no trace in the victim’s body. A perfect weapon for those in the market for that kind of thing.’
Natasha turned to him with heavy-lidded eyes. ‘Again with this.’
‘Am I hot or cold?’
‘How should I know?’ She sighed. ‘I already told you, I’m not privy to Mr Nikolic’s private plans. I think we should use our time better by concentrating on the task at hand.’
‘I am,’ he said, and opened his door. ‘Let’s see if Mr Adamson’s at home.’
The sun was still out, but the air was fairly cool. Good spring weather. Crossing over to the pavement, they waited for two cars to pass, then confidently walked across the street without hesitation. Looking for all intents and purposes as though they belonged.
Korso let Natasha go up the driveway first. They reached the front door of the house and Natasha rang the bell while Korso casually turned round and assessed the line of sight. They could be seen from the road, but only by anyone passing directly in front of the house. And the large sycamores out front and the smaller maple trees on the side borders also gave them ample cover from any neighbours. Not perfect, but better than nothing at all.
Seconds passed. There was no answer. And no sounds of movement from within.
‘We’ll try round the back,’ Korso said.
They walked down the driveway, slipped past the garage at the end, and entered the backyard. The grass was discoloured and messy back there as well. Two huge oak trees at the end of the garden provided excellent cover from the neighbours at the back. A large wooden picnic table lay on its side, its usefulness apparently a thing of the past.
Natasha led him to a portico rear entrance and stood there, waiting. Korso joined her, looked at the door’s lock and was glad to see it was another deadbolt. He got out his lockpick tools and crouched down in front of the door. He was about to go to work when Natasha placed a hand on his wrist.
‘Will you teach me?’
‘All right.’ He stood up and let her take his position in front of the lock. Handing her the snap gun and tension wrench, he said, ‘Now what this gun does is create a short, sharp impact within a pin tumbler lock, allowing it to be opened without a key. You saw me do it before, so first you want to insert the thin wrench into the keyhole, and then the needle of the gun just above it.’
He waited as she performed both actions.
‘Like this?’
‘Right. Now the way it works is, once the steel rod is in the lock like so, pulling the trigger fires that rod against all of the bottom pins at the same time, bouncing them upward. And this momentarily frees the lock cylinder, allowing it to be turned with the tension wrench. You understand?’
‘I think so. And this technique works on all locks?’
He shook his head. ‘No, just those with simple pin tumbler mechanisms. All right, so what you need to do is pull the trigger, but don’t apply any pressure to the tension wrench until a split second after the needle has snapped against the bottom pins. Because that allows the top pins to shoot straight up into the shell before the plug is turned. It’s all about timing. Often it takes over a dozen pulls of the trigger to open a lock, but like everything, practice makes perfect. Just remember to keep the tension light and try not to force it or you might damage the mechanism. Okay, give it a try.’
He watched as she squeezed the trigger, listening with great concentration, and gently turned the tension wrench. No result. Then again. And again, after that. She stayed calm with each failure, never losing patience. She tried again. Failed again. He nodded in silent appreciation. She had the right attitude.
On the thirteenth attempt, she turned the little wrench and heard something. She turned to him and smiled. Pushing the door open, she passed him his tools back and entered the house. Korso followed close behind.
They were in a kitchen. Unlike Kujan’s apartment, there were no dirty plates lying around, and the room looked clean and tidy. Adamson clearly took a little more care of his domestic surroundings. Korso listened hard, but heard nothing except their own movements. And no musty smell, either, which meant the place hadn’t been uninhabited for very long.
Korso watched as Natasha stepped through the open doorway and disappeared from sight. He continued to inspect the kitchen, looking at the floor for any tell-tale food bowls, and was glad to see none. Half-starved attack dogs he could do without. He also checked the pantry and the utility room, finding nothing of interest in either.
Passing through the same doorway as Natasha, he entered an open space that ran down the centre of the house, with more rooms leading off from it. The two on the left were bedrooms. On the right was a well-fitted bathroom and an empty-looking dining room. At the end, at the front of the house, was a large living area. He saw Natasha down there, moving around. He also noticed an access panel right above his head, flush with the surface of the ceiling, which obviously provided access to the attic.
Korso checked the smaller bedroom quickly, found nothing, and tried the larger one next. The bed sheets were clean. No old clothes on the floor. He opened the built-in wardrobe and saw twenty or thirty shirts and jackets hanging inside. He was about to check the pockets when he heard a female voice coming from another room. One that wasn’t Natasha’s.
He exited the bedroom, turned left and saw Natasha was still in the living room, alone. She was standing next to a bookcase, frowning at the telephone on the middle shelf as she listened to a recorded message: ‘…wrong with you these days, Joel, because I’m sick and tired of constantly chasing you up for my goddamn back alimony. They’re your kids too, you know, and while we’re on the subject, that’s another—’
‘Adamson’s ex-wife, no doubt,’ Korso said over the tirade. ‘When was this call?’
Natasha leaned in closer to check the small display. ‘April 8. Last Wednesday. There are three more messages after this.’
‘Skip to the next. I can already see where this one’s going.’
Natasha pressed the arrow button on the handset. There was a beep, then a man’s voice: ‘Adamson? It’s Ryan. You there, man? If you are, you better pick up. ’Cause this is the second day this month you’ve taken off without warning me. I covered your ass with Williams twice before now, but I ain’t doing it again, and he told me if you ain’t in today, not to even bother turning up tomorrow. You hear me, man? He’s seriously pissed, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ There was a click as Ryan hung up.
‘That was also the same day,’ Natasha said, pressing the arrow button again.
The next message was another man’s voice: ‘Adamson, this is Gary Williams at Lantern Auto. Since you’ve now failed to turn up to work for two days in a row, or even to contact us by phone, you can consider your employment with us terminated immediately. We’ll send your final check in the mail tomorrow, along with the standard letter of termination. Don’t bother asking us for a reference.’
While Natasha pressed for the next message, Korso walked over to the front door where he noticed a small pile of mail on the floor mat, maybe a dozen envelopes of various sizes, along with a number of local flyers. He vaguely heard some kind of sales call on the machine as he found the envelope from Lantern Auto. It was near the bottom of the pile. There were some more official-looking envelopes that seemed like bills, some junk mail, and even one that was addressed to a Victor Jimenez at 72 Goulding Avenue, which was the next street along. He’d seen it on the rental car’s GPS. He dropped the mail back on the floor.
‘That was the final one,’ Natasha said. ‘From three days ago. A salesman wanting to know if Adamson would like to change his internet provider.’
Korso nodded. ‘So if we assume Adamson was working on the 7th, then he’s been missing since Wednesday.’
‘Or dead, like Kujan.’
‘Nothing would surprise me. You find anything else?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Let’s keep looking.’
Korso walked back to the bedroom, and was about to start checking the clothes in the wardrobe when he looked down and noticed the shoes on the floor. Or more specifically, the carpet underneath. It was made up of six separate tiles, one of which was slightly out of line with the rest. He knelt down, pulled this tile up, and saw a square, hinged, wooden panel in the floor underneath. It was about eight inches by eight, with a simple cylinder lock on the right side. Fifteen seconds later, he had the thing unlocked.
The hiding space was maybe three inches deep. Inside was Adamson’s hidden stash of handguns – a Sig Sauer P938 semi-automatic, a Ruger .38 compact pistol, a S&W Model 17 revolver – along with some boxes of ammunition and two belt holsters. It wasn’t exactly what he’d been hoping for, but nor was it surprising. This was Texas, after all. He took the compact Ruger, checked the magazine was full, and left the other two. Wherever Adamson was, Korso doubted they’d be of any use to him anymore.
He stood up and carefully went through the man’s clothes, checking every shirt pocket, every jacket pocket. After five minutes of searching, all he’d found of value was half of a crumpled boarding pass. It was for a United Airlines flight from Tijuana to Fort Worth on February 16 at 16.55, which chimed with Yolanda’s account of the three men meeting at Kujan’s apartment. She’d said it was sometime around mid February.
Korso returned to the living room where Natasha was perched on an easy chair, leafing through paperwork. There was another small pile on the coffee table in front of her.
‘Any luck?’ he asked.
‘Very little,’ she said, still thumbing through the papers slowly. ‘On the top there, on the table, is something that might be relevant. Also, some photos. I’m still checking the rest.’
Korso went over the paperwork on the table. On the top was a sheet of stationery that looked like a bill of some kind. He picked it up. Underneath the sheet was a strip of three passport-sized photos. They showed the face of a dark-haired, Caucasian man in his thirties, with large eyes under pale eyebrows, pronounced cheekbones and a widow’s peak. The typed letterhead confirmed it was from the Motel Neuvo Cortez in Tijuana, with an address not far from the red light district. There was no phone number, email address or website listed on the page. Clearly not one of the more upmarket hotels. The bill was for two nights’ stay, the 14th and 15th of February.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘this tallies with a boarding pass I found for a flight back to the States on the 16th, which more or less confirms Yolanda’s version of events. Also, Adamson hid a small stash of handguns in his wardrobe, so you won’t have to send any of the locals to intensive care this time.’
‘I’ll look,’ she said, dropping the rest of the paperwork on the table. ‘Apart from that hotel bill, I’ve found nothing else of interest to us. And also no cell phone.’ She stood up, stretched, then went off to the main bedroom.
Korso was about to join her when he heard a car door slam on the street out front. Then another. He also heard what sounded like chitter-chatter from a walkie-talkie. Pocketing the hotel bill, he went over to the main front window and peered through the thin net curtains.
There was a black and white police cruiser parked on the street directly outside.
Two uniformed policemen stood by the driver’s side door, conferring with each other as they looked toward Adamson’s place. One of them already had his hand resting on his belt sidearm, as though expecting the worst.
Fifteen
75 hours, 11 minutes and counting…
Korso ran to the bedroom and poked his head round the door. Natasha was kneeling in front of the wardrobe, inspecting the Sig Sauer.
‘We’ve got problems,’ he said.
‘What kind?’
‘The worst. Someone called 911, or we tripped a security alarm. Maybe both. We need to move right now.’
She got to her feet and joined him in the hallway. ‘How many?’
‘Two uniforms.’ He closed the bedroom door behind her. ‘And they’re already approaching the house. Any second now.’
‘Can we not exit the way we came in? There are plenty of houses at the rear. We can use them for cov—’
‘Not enough time. One will cover the rear while the other tries the front entrance. It’s standard procedure. If we run now, they’ll spot us and we’re done. They may even start shooting right away.’
‘Then the choice is simple.’ She racked the Sig’s slide. ‘I’ll not be placed under arrest, Korso. Am I making myself clear?’
‘As glass. But let’s try stealth first.’ He closed the other three doors in the hallway, concealing them from view from the outside, then pointed to the access panel in the ceiling. ‘Come over here and give me a boost.’
She paused a moment, then tucked the gun into her waistband and joined him. When she was directly underneath the hatch, she spread her legs wide and interlocked her fingers at waist level to make a pair of stirrups.
The front doorbell suddenly rang, the chimes echoing loudly throughout the house. Then came three hard knocks on the door. A stern, muffled voice called out, ‘Mr Adamson? This is the police. Open up.’
Korso stepped onto Natasha’s hands and let her take his weight as he raised himself to his full height. He pressed one hand to the ceiling to steady himself. There were three more loud knocks as he reached up with his right hand, pushed the wooden panel inward and slid it to the side. He saw nothing but blackness up there. The air smelled stale and dank. He grabbed both sides of the opening and used just his arms to pull himself up until both elbows were able to take his weight, then hauled his body all the way up. Once he was all the way in, he quickly slid his body round and extended his right arm through the opening, motioning for her to take his hand.
