IT WAS SNOWING heavily when I left the library. I was wearing the Arc’teryx jacket I’d found in the Nissan’s trunk and had the hood up, but the chill still bit me. Williamsburg was eerily quiet. I could see lights in the apartment buildings that lined Leonard Street, but the road itself was empty and the snow was piling up quickly. Deep drifts formed against the wall of a dairy warehouse. Even when I reached Metropolitan Avenue, there were hardly any cars on the wide street. Snow deadened the sound of the few that passed and sidewalks were empty as people avoided the worst of the storm. The sense of otherworldliness was high-lighted by the presence of a ghost on my phone. Mo-bot and I were connected via Zoom and she was simultaneously sending me pulled footage from neighborhood police and traffic cameras that showed Karl’s journey from the library. I was tracing the steps he’d taken two days earlier.
“He went west along Metropolitan,” Mo-bot said. “Let me pull up the next camera.”
I looked at my screen and saw the footage change to show Karl walking along Metropolitan Avenue. There was snow on the ground but it was nowhere near as thick as it was now, and there were people all around him. Every so often, he’d glance in the direction of the camera. He’d deliberately chosen a location that was well monitored by cameras, but why had he gone to such lengths to conceal whatever it was he wanted me to know? His message had clearly been designed for one person. The book had been addressed to me. The Marine hand sign was something only leathernecks would recognize and there were few people in the world who would have the resources and skills to hack the neighborhood cameras. Whatever he wanted me to know, Karl Parker had gone to great pains to ensure no one else would find it.
I pressed along Metropolitan Avenue through snowfall so thick it was settling on my eyebrows and lashes. I wiped my face and pulled my hood tighter as I passed a large store that sold vaping gear. Two men were inside, puffing on their machines, indistinct shapes beyond a steamed window. A short while later, I came to the intersection with Lorimer Street and stopped outside a bagel store that was filling the cold air with the scent of warm dough.
“Which way?” I asked.
“Just checking,” Mo-bot replied.
She’d spent almost an hour hacking various camera networks and setting up her system to relay to my phone. I understood the big-picture theory of what she’d done, but was in awe of people who could manipulate the digital world so effortlessly. Mo-bot and people like her were the architects of the future.
“Got him,” she said. “North along Lorimer.”
The image on my phone changed, and I saw Karl walking up Lorimer Street, past the medical center and subway station. I followed his route past the low-rise, traditional apartment blocks. There were no chains or fancy stores in this blue-collar neighborhood, just a bunch of local businesses struggling to survive. The weather wasn’t helping. At the next corner I passed a dry cleaner that was open but empty. The man at the counter mimed shivering when he saw me and gave a sympathetic nod as I went by.
I continued along Lorimer Street, following my friend’s footsteps. I couldn’t stop wondering why he hadn’t done more. If he’d known his life was in danger, why hadn’t he done something to stop his murder? Why hadn’t he spoken to me? Why leave a trail that was clearly designed only to be used after his death? I thought I knew Karl and understood how his mind worked, but this didn’t fit with the straight shooter who’d trained me, a man who had never been one for manipulation or subter-fuge. This trail was the product of a cunning, possibly paranoid mind, and I didn’t recognize my friend in its thinking. I questioned how well I really knew him if he’d been keeping a secret that required this level of concealment. A secret big enough to get him killed.
As I continued along Lorimer Street, I started to see subtle changes in the neighborhood. Graffiti marred the walls of the apartment buildings that lined the street, and some of the store signs had been tagged. When I crossed Skillman Avenue, I noticed many of the stores had barred windows. I could see the outline of the Brooklyn–Queens Expressway cutting across Lorimer Street a block down. There were hardly any vehicles on the high overpass, but those that I could see were moving incredibly slowly.
I looked at my phone and saw we’d reached the very limit of the traffic camera’s capabilities. Karl Parker came toward me, a tiny speck who’d materialized on screen somewhere near the overpass.
“You got another camera?” I asked.
“I can’t find any by the Expressway,” Mo-bot replied. “Can you see any from where you are?”
I squinted through the snow and searched the surrounding lights for signs of cameras. I hurried past a bike-repair store and a Catholic veterans’ mission to the spot where the last camera had picked up Karl, a short way beyond the intersection with Jackson Street. I glanced
around and checked the buildings. The storm made it difficult to see, and it was possible there were security cameras concealed by the snow that covered the tops of lampposts, signs and rooftops.
“I can’t see any,” I told Mo-bot. “Why would he go to all this trouble and then let the trail run cold?” I stamped my feet and rubbed my sides. “I’m going to keep heading in the same direction. See if I can find anything.”
I was very close to the Expressway now. The abandoned store on the ground floor of the two-story apartment on the corner of Jackson was covered in graffiti. I studied the tags, looking for some clue, but there was nothing, so I moved up the street. I could see a few cars parked beneath the overpass, and drifts of snow blown by the swirling winds had piled beside them. The building next to the apartment block was a single-story redbrick warehouse that stood on the corner of Meeker Avenue, directly below the Expressway. It was accessed by a steel roll shutter, which was closed. I walked to the corner and looked left and right. A tiny garage protruded from the side of the warehouse, covered by another shutter. I scanned for clues.
And then I saw it. Hidden in plain sight, amidst all the graffiti near the top of the roll shutter. A series of seemingly random shapes scored into the brickwork. Light pink etched dots and lines. Anyone familiar with Morse code would have recognized they formed the word “inside.”
CHAPTER 23
“I THINK I’VE found it,” I told Mo-bot, and I used my phone’s camera to show her the message.
“I’ll be there in five,” she said, before hanging up.
I glanced around, and then, seeing there was no one watching, I took a running jump, kicked off the warehouse wall, grabbed the garage roof and hauled myself up. I ran across the roof and jumped into a yard that was full of high drifts. I could see lengths of scaffolding and metal protruding from the mounds of snow. It looked like some kind of junkyard. A narrow snow-free gully had been created on the leeward side of a graffiti-covered fence and I hurried down it, past the piles of metal to the back of the warehouse, where I saw a steel door that stood beside a tiny, barred window.
I grabbed a length of rusting iron rail that had a flat, razor-sharp end, and trudged through thick snow to get to the steel door. The yard was overlooked by a windowless warehouse and an apartment building that was undergoing refurbishment, and it couldn’t be seen from the Expressway overpass, so I had no eyes on me when I forced the jagged end of the makeshift crowbar into the gap between the doorplate and the frame. Even through my gloves, I could feel the freezing chill of the metal, but I ignored it and applied as much pressure as I could. The plate bent, the lock snapped and the door swung open.
I stepped into a gloomy corridor that smelled of decay. An ancient toilet lay to my left and a space that might once have been an office opened up on my right. The walls were marred by damp and the floor tiles were rotten. I walked along the corridor, checking the place for tripwires and booby traps. Karl might have wanted me to find this place, but there was no guarantee it wasn’t hostile, so I moved with caution.
The corridor took me to the main workshop, a thirty-by-fifty-feet space that would have suited a mechanic or body shop, but which was now empty. A steel balcony hung at the rear of the space and I climbed the rickety stairs that led up to it, but found nothing significant. Just a bare brick wall and a tiny, barred circular window that overlooked the yard. I peered down at the gloomy workshop space, wondering why Karl had brought me to a derelict, empty building. Then I noticed something on the floor below. I hurried down the steps and approached a dust-covered indentation in the concrete. I crouched and brushed away the dust to reveal a carved pair of naval aviator wings. I stood, puzzling over their significance, and as I moved around them, I felt the tone of my footsteps change. I looked down, scuffed my shoe through the thick dust and noticed a regular indentation. I bent down and traced the outline of a two-by-two-foot panel. I got my fingers beneath one of the edges and lifted the heavy square. Someone had covered a thick steel plate with concrete to conceal a manhole. A short, steep run of steps led to a basement. I pulled a flashlight from my jacket, switched it on and went down.
The steps led to a small antechamber and there was another steel door, this one controlled by a numeric keypad. There was a note stuck to the wall beside the keypad. I shone the light on it and saw it read, “Happy Birthday.”
I punched the month, day and year of my birth into the keypad and a green light flashed and the lock disengaged. I pulled the door open and pointed my flashlight into the room beyond. I was shocked by what I saw.
Arranged on shelves around the room were surveillance cameras, directional microphones, location transmitters, audio and video bugs. A desk in the center of the room was covered with passports from different countries and beside them were stacks of foreign banknotes. Lying next to the passports and money was a large black diary. Lining the back wall was a gun rack that was covered by a steel mesh. The rack held assault rifles, grenades, pistols, knives and stacks of ammunition.
I approached the desk and opened one of the passports. Looking every inch an authentic document issued by the French Republic, the photo that stared up at me was Karl Parker’s but the name beside the image was Claude Morel. I checked the other passports and found they all contained Karl’s photo and that each was issued in a different name. These weren’t the possessions of a successful CEO. This was the lair of a criminal, terrorist or spy. Who the hell was my friend?