The October List

dating.’
    Daniel seemed to be using all his willpower to control his voice. ‘Understood.’
    The click of his disconnecting seemed like a gunshot.
    Gabriela sank back on the couch. She looked too drained even to cry.
    Andrew rose. ‘All right. Let’s get the money, Daniel. We don’t have much time. Sam, you stay with Gabriela.’
    Sam Easton nodded. ‘Sure.’
    Daniel turned to her and pulled her close. He whispered, ‘We’ll make it work, Mac. I promise.’
    Then the two men were gone, the door closing with its distinctive two-note tone.

CHAPTER
33
     

3:30 p.m., Sunday
30 minutes earlier
     

 
     
     
     

 
     
    Detectives Naresh Surani and Brad Kepler were sitting in yet another operations room in the NYPD Big Building, main headquarters. The third one in three days. Government. Fuck.
    Third – and the worst. The view here was of a pitted wall of City Hall and a smooth wall of a bank, pigeons, a sliver of sky, pigeon shit. And whatever had been rotting away behind the file cabinets of the last room didn’t come close to the chemical weapons here.
    Kepler muttered to his partner, ‘Are they ready?’
    Surani hung up the phone. ‘They’re ready-ish.’
    Which sounded flippant and wrong, given the circumstances, Kepler thought. You know, people’s lives are at risk here.
    Maybe Kepler’s face revealed that he was pissed off; Surani seemed to understand. He added in a graver tone, ‘They’re assembled and staging. That’s the last I heard. It’s like they’re too busy to talk to us.’
    He was referring to the NYPD’s tactical team, the Emergency Service Unit boys – and probably a girl or two as well. All the fancy weapons, machine guns, helmets, Nomex, boots.
    Ready to swoop in nail the perps.
    ‘Too busy to talk to us?’ Kepler repeated, his voice gravel. ‘The FCP Op didn’t originate with them.’
    The name of the operation had, in the past few hours, morphed from the official ‘Charles Prescott Operation’ down to ‘the CP Op.’
    Then, thanks to the complications that had surrounded the case, the inevitable modifier, commencing with the sixth letter of the alphabet, now preceded the name. Cops. Naturally.
    FCP Op …
    Kepler continued, ‘It’s our investigation. We should be all over it like … like …’ His voice faded.
    ‘Couldn’t think of a good metaphor?’ Surani offered.
    Kepler rolled his eyes, grimacing. ‘They’re sure where Gabriela is?’
    ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don’t worry. They’re tracking her.’
    Wait, Kepler thought: Like beetles on shit, like frat boys on kegs, like frat boys on coeds …
    But too late.
    ‘Call Surveillance again. Make sure there’s a signal.’
    Surani sighed. But he did as requested. Had a brief conversation. He disconnected and turned to Kepler. ‘Yeah, they have a good signal on her. A humongous signal. A hard-on of a signal. Is it okay if I say that, or do my people not refer to erections?’
    Kepler didn’t even bother. ‘Where exactly ? Do they know exactly ?’
    ‘Yes, they know ex-act-tily. Which is where, like I said before, ESU is staging. They’re ready to move in for the take-down as soon as we give the word.’
    But, of course, it wasn’t we who would give the word; it was he . Captain Barkley.
    Kepler grumbled, ‘I’d like to see pictures. I’d like to be on the ground. They have fucking cameras, ESU does. They should be beaming us pictures.’
    ‘It’s been hard enough to track her—’
    ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
    ‘—track her in the first place. You’re not going to get high-def video, for Christ’s sake. Oh, is it okay if someone of my persuasion says—’
    ‘Enough with that.’ Kepler noted the grimy windows, the clutter, the bile-green paint, the smell: food once more. But, unlike earlier, this time he was anything but hungry.
    Surani glanced down and brushed at his brown suit jacket, which, Kepler thought again, clashed badly with the man’s gray complexion. His own skin tone was a hard-earned tan, but his suit, unlike his partner’s, was wrinkled and – he now noticed – bore an embarrassing stain on the sleeve. In the shape of Mickey Mouse ears.
    He sat forward in the truly uncomfortable orange fiberglass chair, and thought: So is this how it ends? I’m balls-deep in an operation where people may get dead and no one knows exactly what’s going on. And if it goes south, the brass’ll need a scapegoat. Hello, Detectives Surani and Kepler.
    There are of course a