“This is going to hurt, isn’t it?” Munroe asked.

“Not now,” al Din said. “But later, yes. I will offer some information for you to consider before our next conversation. A name. You may consider that name to be my bona fides. Bona fides, am I using the term correctly?”

“Depends on the name.”

“Dr Mark Heinz.”

Oh shit, Munroe thought, just before al Din hit him behind the ear with the butt of his pistol and the lights went out.

CHAPTER 68

Lynch was headed out of the squad room, headed home, when he heard the phone ring back at his desk.

“Slo-mo, wanna grab that? Let me know if I need to turn my ass around?”

Bernstein picked up the phone, listened for a moment, hung up.

“Woman down at the desk looking for you, Magnus?”

“From the shelter,” Lynch said. “I’ll talk to her on my way out.”

Kate Magnus was standing by the desk when Lynch came down, same windbreaker on over a heavy cable-knit sweater. Colder tonight.

“Ms Magnus,” Lynch said.

“I thought we’d settled on Kate to ease your confusion. At least you didn’t call me Sister this time.”

“I try not to make the same mistake three times,” Lynch said. “What can I do for you?”

“I talked to Momolu. A couple of times, actually, before he’d say anything. I lost your card, with the number, but I remembered the address. I live a few streets over. I was on my way home. So, it appears, are you.”

“Not a problem. I keep funny hours. Do you want to come upstairs and talk, or can I get buy you a cup of coffee somewhere?”

“Coffee detective? I’m Scottish. And I really am not a nun. If you want to buy me a real drink.”

“A real drink sounds good,” said Lynch.

“You’re a little famous, you know.” Magnus, with a double Laphroaig, neat.

“My girlfriend’s famous,” Lynch said.

“More famous maybe. But I remember all of that from last year. Right after I got here from Liberia. You were on the news several times. Your arm has healed?”

“Yeah,” Lynch said. “It’s fine.”

“You’re not happy with the famous part? Isn’t that the American ambition?”

“I’m a lousy American,” said Lynch. “I like ObamaCare. I think taxes are too low, even mine.”

Magnus made what passed for a smile, took a sip of her drink. “I’m not used to it here yet. Not sure I’m going to be.”

“Take some getting used to, I imagine, after Africa. Where was home originally? Scotland?”

“Aberdeen. Jesus seemed less complicated when I was a child. And the sisters were the only ones I knew that weren’t pregnant and married off to some drunk by 19. Thought I’d be one of them. Mostly am, I guess.”

Lynch took a pull on his bourbon, quiet for a minute. “I am sorry,” he said, “about Membe.”

She nodded.

“Momolu knew this al Din?” Lynch asked.

She nodded. “A gunman, an enforcer I suppose is the term. Some diamonds had been stolen. Not one or two by the miners, but a shipment of them. Al Din came and killed several people, Lebanese mostly. Men that Momolu thinks were responsible for moving the diamonds. Not just the men, their families too.”

“Killed a family here, too. Last night.”

“My God,” Magnus said. “Why?”

“Don’t know. Lawyer named Ringwald, his wife, their son and daughter. Ringwald was the mouthpiece for Tony Corsco. He’s the mob boss around here.”

“And he killed Membe? And that Stein man?”

“And a few others. It’s about diamonds somehow. Maybe something more. Some funny types from DC have horned in on things, using us as gofers, so there’s more going on. And whatever that is, they’re welcome to it. But al Din’s a killer, and he’s killing people here. Not gonna have that.”

“Is Momolu safe?”

“Can’t think al Din’s got any reason to go after him, probably doesn’t even know he’s there. I wouldn’t take Momolu on any field trips until this is over.”

Magnus finished her drink, set the glass down, stared down into it for a minute.

“I knew a girl in Scotland, a friend. My best friend, I guess. She was 16. She took up with this guy, older guy, worked the oil rigs. He had money, most guys didn’t. He’d come in off his shift, they’d be out on the rigs for a couple of weeks, and everything would be great. Trips into Glasgow, all that. But he’d drink, and then he’d beat her. And then he killed her. And I thought it was the times or the drink. And then Africa, and everyone was killing everyone, and I thought it was just Africa.”

She looked up at him. He was expecting tears, but there weren’t any.

“It’s everywhere, isn’t?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“And there’s never a reason, is there?”

“Never a good one.”

CHAPTER 69

Late that night, the Eagle sat with Franco in the back of a six-passenger Citation on the way to Chicago. The plane added five figures to Corsco’s bill, but that was Corsco’s problem. A private plane meant no security, no screwing around trying to get weapons on the other end. It meant getting in when you wanted, getting out when you wanted. Usually the Eagle drove, unless the job was overseas, but Corsco sent this goombah out, wanted a secured target hit on two days’ notice because he cocked up some dumb-ass DIY job. Hookers and a bag of coke? Jesus. Amateurs.

Plans for Northwestern Hospital scrolled across the laptop. The Eagle had bought everything – floor plans, wiring, HVAC. That was another couple Gs on Corsco’s tab. Worked hospitals before. Hospitals were good, especially big ones like this – mess of buildings, lots of floors. Lots of people coming and going, lots of elevators, lots of stairs, lots of exits. The target was under police guard, though, that would complicate things. But the target had been in for four days, comatose supposedly, no real threat to anyone right now. Security’s guard would be down. Probably one cop watching the room. Still, the hospital would have its own security, and some of them would be off-duty cops.

At least Corsco didn’t want cute. No air bubble in the IV line, no smothering with a pillow. That made things simpler. Quick hit and run. Probably the .32 with the heavy suppressor. Made the pistol bulky, but it would be bagged up in the special rig, catch the brass and everything. No problem there. Get in the room, shut the door, five rounds center mass. You’d have to be right outside the door to hear it, and you’d have had to have heard a light pistol with a heavy suppressor before to know what it was. Target was medically fragile already; one round close to anything vital should be enough. Pride in the work, though. All five rounds would be right on target. Two rounds for the cop if that was necessary, enough to make sure he went down for the duration. Didn’t need him dead. Better if he wasn’t. That left five rounds in the clip just in case.

Northwestern was wired up, all the camera locations on the blueprints. So what? Cameras everywhere these days. Still, you study the placements then you know which side of the hall to walk on to give them a bad angle. Put the high lifts in a pair of loafers, those would add a few inches. The gray wig probably. People weren’t suspicious of old people. Those silicon cheek inserts with bite wings, add weight to the face, mess with the telemetry if anyone was running any facial recognition stuff, wear the fat vest under the shirt, look forty pounds heavier. A hat. Pick up a Cubs hat somewhere, seemed like the right look for plugging a loser like Fenn.

Get a sweater, something easy to slip on over the rest of the get up, something easy to take off, a cardigan, something like that. Something bright, a solid color, say yellow. It was spring, yellow was a spring color. Give anybody that catches the action something easy to remember. The way it worked with witnesses, you give them one, big flashy detail, they seize on that. So if anybody pulls their shit together quick enough to call security, they’d tell them look to look for the yellow sweater. Security’d ask the usual stuff – height, weight and such, and the witness would be all “I dunno, it happened so fast. But a yellow sweater. I remember that.” Dump the cardigan in the stairwell, and boom, you’re invisible.