“It’s an FBI-DOJ-approved Group Two undercover operation,” he says. “Do this for us, and we’ll rehire you and pay you what you would have been making now had you stayed at the FBI all these years, including benefits.”
“Metcalf, let go of my wrist—”
“Plus we’ll reinstate your pension and backdate it. It’ll be like you never left.”
“I said let go. You’re hurting me.”
“The previous ten years? Let’s just call that an extended sabbatical. That’s all anyone has to know. Oh, and we’ll throw in a GOV starting right now. What do you think?”
I hate what I’m thinking.
Cash. My pension back. Health insurance. Long-term disability. A chance to reclaim my reputation. And a government-owned vehicle.
Even with all that, I want to say no. But I can’t. And I’m embarrassed to say what finally tips the scales in his favor.
I’m a New Yorker. He agreed to throw in free garage parking.
CHAPTER 5
ALAN METCALF IS DRIVING. He does not notice that this bright, brisk day has turned into a dark, cold night. Ordinarily, Metcalf fights the traffic in the Queens-Midtown Tunnel and then drives on to his apartment in Oceanside, Long Island. But tonight is different. Tonight, he’s driving west on Canal Street. Those are his instructions.
It doesn’t take long before he pulls into a very dark and very empty parking lot at a construction site on the Hudson River in Lower Manhattan.
He turns off his car’s headlights and is almost startled by the brightness of the flickering lights across the river on the New Jersey side.
But it’s dark in the car. Metcalf sits in the dark.
Darkness has always been a major theme in his life. That’s been especially true since he started at the FBI. Dark days, evil people. Dark assignments. Secret. Lonely. Shadowy.
Once he had hoped to find love, was sure he would find it. But those times now rest in the shadows of his personal history.
Oh, hell. Forget the past, Alan. It’s over,he tells himself.
He hears the screech of a car approaching. Metcalf watches as the vehicle pulls in a few hundred yards away. It’s a boring old-model gray Toyota Corolla. The headlights turn off. Metcalf watches the driver step out of the car.
This guy is tall, looks about fifty years old, and is wearing a long navy-blue overcoat and pigskin gloves. He holds up his hand to signal that Metcalf should stay where he is.
Metcalf watches the man in the dark blue coat walk slowly past the piles of steel beams and concrete blocks. Past the two towering building cranes and the cluster of porta-potties.
The man gets close to Metcalf’s car. When he nods, Metcalf gets out. The two men face each other—no greetings, no smiles.
“Well?” the man says.
Metcalf nods, but barely. “She’ll do it,” he says. Then he can’t help adding, “I told you she would.”
“I must say, I’m really surprised. After what you did to that woman. Amazing.”
Metcalf smiles. “That’s history.”
“I hope so.” A pause. Meeting over.
If Metcalf was waiting for aNice jobor aWell done,it’s not going to happen.
The man in the blue coat turns and walks away. Metcalf watches as the guy gets in his car and starts the engine.
As soon as the other man drives away, Metcalf gets into his own car. The whole encounter has left a very bad taste in his mouth. Nothing he can do to change things.This is my life. I should get a medal.
He starts his car and pulls out of the construction site. Then, just as he turns onto Twelfth Avenue, he gets an idea. Maybe it’s a stupid idea. Maybe it’s just pathetic.
