The Eternity Project

44

HARLEM, NEW YORK



Donovan strode across the intersection between 7th Avenue and 112th and onto the boulevard, using a row of trees as a shield against surveillance cameras watching traffic behind him. His collar was up against the cold night air, and he wore a cap pulled down over his eyes as he walked.

The caller from the CIA had requested a meet in a vehicle, but Donovan had refused. He preferred to be on his feet with room to move. Although he did not expect the agent to suddenly turn and attack him, the speed with which the meet had been arranged and its covert nature had alerted his suspicions. Whatever he had stumbled on with Warner and Lopez was important enough to the agency that they were following up fast.

Donovan spotted a non-descript sedan parked beneath the trees, and, as he approached, a man climbed out from the driver’s side onto the sidewalk and looked at him. The agent made no attempt to conceal himself, a shock of gray hair framing sepulchral features and cold gray eyes.

‘Detective,’ he greeted Donovan without preamble. ‘Mr. Wilson. This way, please.’

The agent shoved his hands in his pockets as they walked, presumably to show Donovan that he was not going to attack him.

‘Why the cloak-and-dagger routine?’ Donovan asked outright.

‘There’s no threat to security in our meeting,’ Mr. Wilson said. ‘But I always prefer caution to carelessness.’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ Donovan agreed and then cut to the chase. ‘You’re interested in Ethan Warner and Nicola Lopez.’

‘I am,’ Wilson replied. ‘They are a thorn in the side of the CIA. I have been authorized to apprehend them for detention in a military prison.’

Donovan raised an eyebrow. ‘Seriously? What did they do?’

Wilson’s cold gaze turned to meet Donovan’s as they walked. ‘They got too curious.’

Donovan took the hint and refrained from asking what had attracted Warner’s curiosity, figuring that whatever it was it was probably better that he didn’t know.

‘Do you know where they are?’ Mr. Wilson asked.

‘Right now, no,’ Donovan admitted. ‘But their boss has gained jurisdiction of a case we’ve been working on, a guy called Jarvis. Seems they’re real interested in it.’


‘What case?’ Wilson asked sharply. ‘How long have they had jurisdiction?’

‘Twelve hours,’ Donovan replied, ‘and they’re goddamned welcome to it. You wouldn’t believe what’s been happening.’

Wilson’s expression did not flicker. ‘Try me.’

Donovan shrugged as they walked and spilled the details of the case and of the bizarre nature of the killings. He refrained, however, from mentioning the fact that the killer may possibly be targeting members of his own team.

‘Damn thing nearly killed us all,’ he said as he finished. ‘Sooner it’s gone, the better.’

‘Do you know the source?’ Mr. Wilson asked.

‘The what?’

‘The source of the anomaly?’ Wilson snapped. ‘Do you know who’s causing it?’

Donovan shook his head, wondering just what this man was pursuing. ‘No. It was suggested that it could be the spirit of people killed on Williamsburg Bridge a couple of days ago. The murders didn’t start until after that event.’

Wilson nodded as they turned the corner of the block. He kept walking and seemed to Donovan to be deep in thought.

‘What do you want, exactly?’ Donovan asked.

Wilson emerged from his reverie and looked at the police chief.

‘You will keep me informed at all times of how the investigation is progressing. As soon as you know Ethan Warner’s location, you will contact me immediately.’

Donovan considered the man beside him. Normally, if he had been spoken to in such a way, he would not have hesitated to pin the offender to the wall and remind them in no uncertain terms of their place in the pecking order. But now he hesitated. There was something about Mr. Wilson that suggested restrained violence, a man more than capable of defending himself. Donovan could not afford to take the risk that he would come off worse in a fight, not with everything else that was happening. The less attention he attracted, the better.

‘Fine,’ he replied. ‘And what do I get for my efforts?’

‘The gratitude of your country,’ Mr. Wilson replied without emotion.

Donovan let a cold smile creep across his features. ‘I’ve been serving the New York Police Department since I was twenty-two years old, pal, and I’ve had about my fill of my country’s gratitude.’

Mr. Wilson stopped in the street and turned to confront Donovan. Wilson still had his hands in his pockets but he was also still wearing the same uncompromising expression.

‘This is not a debate.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Donovan corrected him. ‘Whatever’s going on down here, I can tell from a lifetime’s experience that it’s off the record. You’re not here to apprehend anybody, are you?’

Mr. Wilson did not respond, but he looked up and down the silent street as though checking for witnesses.

‘I’ve got my people watching the cameras,’ Donovan lied, and glanced across at the nearest intersection maybe fifty yards away. ‘You pull anything here, it’ll be on the news before dawn.’

Mr. Wilson looked back at Donovan, and his angular features cracked into a grin that was entirely devoid of warmth. A blade flashed in the pale streetlight as Mr. Wilson whipped the weapon up toward Donovan’s belly, the serrated tip pushing against his jacket as he was propelled backwards against iron railings.

Donovan raised his hands in surprise, unprepared for the speed of Wilson’s attack. The agent stared at him as though he were an insect caught between finger and thumb, only the application of a little extra pressure between Donovan’s life and death.

‘I know more about what you’ve been up to than you realize,’ Wilson hissed. ‘Whatever you’ve done, chief, will come out eventually, if I decide it should.’

‘You’ve got nothing,’ Donovan replied, managing to mask his fear. ‘Empty threats aren’t going to win you any friends here in the NYPD.’

‘I don’t make threats!’ Wilson snapped back. ‘I state facts. We already know about the discrepancies in the reports from Williamsburg Bridge, about how the robbery went down.’

Donovan’s eyes widened as he looked at Wilson. ‘How could you know about . . .?’

‘We make it our business to know, because we have the technology to find out,’ Wilson said as he pushed the blade a little harder against Donovan’s belly. ‘It’s remarkable what a spy satellite can see. You fail to comply with our demands, then your little indiscretion will find its way to local media and from there to the courts.’

Donovan refused to cower. ‘Then we have a bargain,’ he replied. ‘I’ll bring you Warner and Lopez. You ensure that nothing, ever, gets exposed that shouldn’t.’

Wilson did not withdraw the blade, as though sizing Donovan up. Fact was, Donovan figured that a compromise would likely be more convenient for the agent than icing a police chief and having to find somebody else inside the department to pressure.

‘I see no need to disrupt the status quo,’ Wilson replied finally as the blade vanished ghost-like into his sleeve. ‘If you discover who the source of these . . . disturbances, is, inform me immediately. And I want you to keep your eyes open for a person by the name of Joanna Defoe. The FBI’s missing-persons database will contain an image of her. If she should surface at any moment, contact me immediately.’

Wilson turned his back and stalked away, leaving Donovan against the railings.

‘It’s a person?’ Donovan asked.

Wilson did not respond, but Donovan did not really need a reply. Although his common sense wailed to him that it could not be possible, somehow he knew that Mr. Wilson would not have asked if he did not believe it so. The CIA agent had listened to the description of everything that had happened in the case with complete attention.

Donovan realized that there was only one person alive who had a motive for the killings.

He started walking and pulled out his cellphone.