Dirty Work sb-9

by Stuart Woods

  “You know it is,” she replied, moving to the touch of his hand, then to the touch of something even warmer.

  He slid into her from behind. “What a wonderful way to start the day,” he breathed, as he established a rhythm.

  Hattie shortly did what she did two or three times a week: She came in a series of snorts and cries, grabbing hold of the fax machine for support. The papers in her hand fell and scattered as Jamie joined her chorus.

  Five minutes later, when the other workers began to arrive, Jamie was at his desk at the other end of the room, and Hattie was on her hands and knees, scooping up the stack of faxes that had slipped from her grasp.

  “What’s going on?” her boss asked sharply.

  “Nothing, Mr. Peterson,” Hattie said, her search interrupted before she could see the single sheet of paper that had landed under the fax machine. “I just dropped the morning faxes.”

  “Deal with them at once,” Peterson said grumpily.

  “Yes, sir,” Hattie replied, taking her seat at her desk. Coffee would have to wait. She stacked the papers evenly and ran through them quickly. All were copies of transfers wired that morning or during the night from banks around the world. Except one sheet, which was a request for notification. One hour after opening time, she was to fax a number in Switzerland, to report receipt of a transfer of 750,000 euros from Manhattan Trust in New York. If the funds were received into the St. George’s account, she was to immediately forward them to an account in the Swiss Bank, holding out only the fifty-dollar transfer fee. If the transfer from New York had not arrived, she was to report that fact to the Swiss Bank.

  She went through the other sheets again; the transfer had not arrived. She checked her watch: twenty minutes before nine. She opened her coffee. Plenty of time to have breakfast before checking the fax machine again at nine. She began to munch her sandwich and sip her coffee.

  At nine o’clock, she checked the fax machine again. A number of other transfers had arrivied, but not the one from Manhattan Trust. She opened a fax form in her computer and typed a short message: “Subject: wire transfer, 750,000 euros, from Manhattan Trust not received. Please inform client.” She moved the cursor to the send button and clicked. This whole business would have been easier if her bosses had completed the computer setup that would handle everything automatically, but they were waiting for the end of the fiscal year to spend the money.

  Five minutes later, she received an e-mail from Switzerland. “Please confirm receipt or lack of receipt of Manhattan Trust transfer at your 2:00 p.m. cutoff time.”

  Hattie logged in wire transfers all morning, getting hungry as one o’clock passed. She could not have lunch until the two-o’clock cutoff time. At two, she checked the fax machine once more and found it empty. She grabbed her handbag and headed for the door. Then, as she was about to leave, she remembered.

  She returned to her desk, checked the transfers once more, then tapped in a message to Switzerland. “Manhattan Trust transfer of 750,000 euros not received this day. Please inform client.” Then she went to lunch.

  Marie-Thérèse was having breakfast in her suite at the Carlyle when her cell phone rang. “Yes?”

  “Good morning, it’s Dr. von Enzberg, in Zurich,” a deep male voice said.

  “Good morning, Dr. von Enzberg,” she replied. “I’m glad to hear from you.”

  “Saint George’s Bank has informed us that the transfer from Manhattan Trust has not been received,” he said. “However, it will almost certainly come later in the morning. I’ve asked them to contact me at their two-p.m. cutoff time, to let me know if it has arrived.”

  “Thank you, Dr. von Enzberg,” she said. “I’ll expect your call.” She closed the cell phone and went back to her breakfast. Then she stopped, nervous. She found the sheet of paper Sir Edward had given her and dialed the phone number at the top.

  “Wire transfer room,” Marjorie Harris said.

  “Yesterday I gave instructions for a transfer to Saint George’s Bank in the Caymans,” Marie-Thérèse said. She gave the woman the account number.

  “Oh, yes,” Marjorie replied, checking the number on her computer. “That went out first thing this morning. It should be in your account now.”

  “Thank you,” Marie-Thérèse said, then hung up, feeling better. She finished her breakfast, then drew a bath and got in. Where would she go? she asked herself. The world was her oyster now. Even the countries where she had been a fugitive were now open to her, as long as she had a good European Union passport, and she could manage that in a day. She thought about England: perhaps a nice, little Queen Anne house in the country, not too far from Heathrow. The Cotswold Hills were appealing, and she liked the irony of living in Sir Edward’s own country. The thought made her laugh. Some shopping before leaving New York would be in order.

  Marie-Thérèse was trying on a dress in the Armani shop a little after two, when her phone rang again. Finally. “Yes?”

  “It’s Dr. von Enzberg. I’ve had notification from Saint George’s Bank that no funds were received into your account from Manhattan Trust.”

  “They’re certain?”

  “I asked for confirmation and received it. What are your instructions?”

  “None,” Marie-Thérèse replied. “I will handle this myself.” She closed the phone. “I’ll take this dress and the tweed jacket,” she said to the saleslady.

  “They’ll both be wonderful for traveling,” the woman said.

  “Oh, I’m not traveling just yet,” Marie-Thérèse replied. “I have a few things to do in New York over the weekend, before I leave.” Clearly, the phone number for Manhattan Trust was manned by someone from British Intelligence. They would not fool her again.

  Just at closing time, a cleaning woman came into the wire transfer department of St. George’s Bank and made ready to mop the floor. “You going to be long?” she asked the young woman still seated at her desk.

  “I’ll be out of your way in a moment,” Hattie replied.

  The cleaning woman took hold of the cart that held the fax machine and rolled it away from the wall. A single sheet of paper lay on the floor where the cart had been. She picked it up and handed it to the woman at the desk. “This yours?”

  Hattie examined the document. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Where did you find it?”

  “It was under the fax machine.”

  “I was waiting for it all morning,” Hattie said, laughing. She checked her watch: after closing time in Switzerland. She typed a message confirming receipt of 750,000 euros from Manhattan Trust and clicked on the send button. It was Friday night in Switzerland. They would receive the e-mail when they opened on Monday morning.

  48

  Marie-Thérèse yawned. It was boring, this sort of surveillance, but at the moment, it was her only way to keep track of these people. She had been waiting for nearly two hours in that most anonymous of vehicles in New York City, a black Lincoln Town Car.

  “How much longer?” the driver asked. He had been provided by her friend at the embassy.

  “As long as it takes,” she replied. “Read your paper.”

  “I’ve read it.”

  “Then do the crossword.”

  “I can never do those things in English.”

  “Then shut up.”

  He was silent.

  They were parked in a legal spot on Third Avenue, near the anonymous building that housed the people she wanted. She had a good view of the front door, and her eyes rarely left it. Then, finally, something happened. Three large, black SUVs with darkened windows passed her car and turned left into the street. They drew up to the front door of the building, and immediately, four men came out the front door and began looking up and down the street.

  “Now,” she said aloud. “Wait until the three black vehicles move, then start the car.”

  “Right,” her driver replied.

  A man and a woman emerged from the building and quickly got into the middle SUV, and the three cars began
moving.

  “Let’s get going,” she said. “Stay as far behind them as you can without losing them.”

  The driver did as instructed, and the trip was short. The three cars drove to Park Avenue, turned, then turned again into Fifty-second Street and stopped at an awning protruding from the lower level of the Seagram Building. Four men emerged from the first and third vehicles, had a good look around, then, at a signal from one of them, the rear doors of the middle SUV opened, and three men and a woman got out and went inside. The three SUVs drove off, no doubt to find a convenient parking spot.

  Marie-Thérèse, whose car was waiting on Park Avenue, spoke. “Drop me at the awning, then drive around the block and park where you can see the doors. If the police hassle you, show them your diplomatic passport, but don’t move from the spot until I appear.”

  The car stopped before the awning, and Marie-Thérèse got out, smoothing her little black dress and pulling on a pair of short, black kid gloves. Her hair was long and dark for the occasion. She went inside and started up the broad staircase. Her quarry was only yards ahead, and as she emerged on the second floor, his group, along with two bodyguards, were disappearing down a hallway toward the pool room of the Four Seasons.

  This was not good. There was no way in or out of that room except by a hallway, perhaps ten feet in width, except maybe a kitchen door that she didn’t have access to. She took a seat at the corner of the large, square bar, facing east, with the hallway on her left. One of the bodyguards returned after a couple of minutes, presumably having completed his scan of the large dining room, while his companion had stationed himself there. The man took up a station across the bar from Marie-Thérèse, facing west, so that he could watch the hallway from his seat. He ordered a mineral water and sipped it slowly.

  He was not British, she thought. His suit was wrong, and his hair cut too short. He looked like a very boring young businessman.

  Marie-Thérèse put a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and glanced at her watch. “I’m early,” she said to the bartender. “A very dry Tanqueray martini, straight up, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the bartender replied, then went to work.

  How long would this take? Her man was in his mid-sixties, so probably not all that long. Before the main course was served, was her guess.

  The young man sitting across the bar from her picked up his drink, walked around the bar, and sat down next to her, facing south. Now his back was to the hallway he was supposed to be watching. “Good evening,” he said. Yes, American.

  “Good evening,” Marie-Thérèse replied coolly.

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” the man said, “but I find you very attractive. May I buy you a drink?”

  “Thank you, I already have a drink. And my date will be arriving in a few minutes.”

  “May we talk until then?”

  “All right.”

  “My name is Burt Pence,” he said, offering his hand. “And yours?”

  “Elvira Moore,” she replied, shaking his hand.

  He moved the fifty away from the bartender, toward her purse. “Please put this away,” he said. “This is on me.”

  Marie-Thérèse picked up the fifty and stuck it into her large handbag, which rested on the stool next to her. “Thank you, Burt. Tell me, what sort of work do you do?”

  “I’m an FBI agent,” Burt replied.

  “Oh, sure. I’ve heard that one before.”

  Burt reached into an inside pocket, produced a wallet, opened it, and laid it on the bar.

  “Oh, my, you’re telling the truth,” she said, picking up the wallet and examining it. “What on earth are you doing at the Four Seasons? I hope you’re on an expense account.”

  “Actually, I’m not dining this evening,” Burt replied. “I’m on duty.”

  “Really?” She tried to look very interested. “What sort of duty?”

  Burt looked slyly from side to side, as if he feared being overheard. “I’m protecting the director of the FBI and the head of British intelligence.”

  Marie-Thérèse looked around. “Where are they?”

  “In the other dining room, down the hallway. My partner is on duty in there.”

  “What are you protecting them from?”

  “Oh, nothing in particular. I mean, there’s no specific threat at this time, but the director always has a bodyguard.”

  “I see. What about those people there?” She nodded at a couple who had come up the stairs and were being escorted down the hallway. “Would they be a threat?”

  Burt looked down the hallway at their backs. “Probably not, but my partner will observe their actions in the dining room.” He suddenly stood up. “Uh-oh, you’re going to have to excuse me.”

  Marie-Thérèse looked down the hallway to see Sir Edward Fieldstone walking briskly toward them.

  “That’s my British subject,” Burt said out of the corner of his mouth. “Probably going to the can.”

  “Well, you’d better go and hold his . . . hand,” she said, laughing.

  Sir Edward started down the stairs, and Burt fell in behind him.

  Marie-Thérèse put her fifty back on the bar and hopped down from her stool. She began walking down the stairs and stopped on the landing. Sir Edward was standing outside the men’s room, and Burt was nowhere to be seen. Then Burt came out the door, nodding, and held it open for Sir Edward, who disappeared inside. Burt took up his station outside the door.

  Marie-Thérèse walked quickly down the stairs and over to Burt.

  “What, you’re leaving?” he asked. “I’ll be right back.”

  “My date called me on my cell phone and canceled,” she replied.

  “I’m off in a couple of hours,” he said. “Want to meet somewhere?”

  Marie-Thérèse looked around. The coat-check girl had momentarily disappeared. “Are you carrying a gun, Burt?”

  Burt grinned and opened his jacket, revealing a 9mm semiautomatic.

  “Oh, good,” she said, sticking her silenced pistol into his ribs and backing him against the wall. “I’ll have that, Burt.” She pulled his pistol from its holster. “Now, let’s go to the men’s room.” She shoved him with her gun barrel.

  “Hey, lady, what’s going on?” Burt asked, as if she were joking. But he went through the door into a little vestibule.

  Marie-Thérèse hit him, hard, in the back of the head with his own pistol, then tossed it onto his crumpled form. “Sorry about that, Burt.” She pushed open the door to find Sir Edward standing at a sink, washing his hands. An attendant stood by with a towel. She shot the attendant first, to get Sir Edward’s attention.

  Sir Edward stood up straight, holding his wet hands out before him. “No, no,” he said. “I paid the money, really I did.”

  “A liar to the end,” she said, and shot him once in the chest. He fell to the floor, then she walked over and put a round into his head.

  She dropped the pistol into her bag, left the men’s room, stepping over Burt’s inert form in the vestibule. He began to stir. She thought about it, then picked up his pistol and hit him with it again. “This is your lucky day, Burt.” Then she peeked out the door. The entrance hall was empty. She walked casually from the men’s room and out the front doors, looking for her car. Spotting it near the corner, she beckoned, then waited, and the driver drove quickly up and stopped.

  “Slow down, for Christ’s sake,” she said as she got into the car. “Just drive away in a leisurely fashion.” She looked back at the three SUVs parked at the curb. They remained where they were.

  “That went very well,” she said, removing her gloves. “Drop me at Madison and Seventy-second Street.”

  She got out of the car and began window-shopping her way back toward the Carlyle.

  49

  Carpenter sat in the pool dining room of the Four Seasons with the director of the FBI and his deputy. Their main course arrived, and Sir Edward had not returned from the men’s room.

  “I’d better go and ch
eck on him,” she said to the director.

  “Keep your seat,” he replied, and waved over his bodyguard. “Find the men’s room and check on Sir Edward,” he said to the man. “He may be ill.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Carpenter said. “He probably ran into someone he knew. I think we should start without him.” She picked up her knife and fork and cut into the venison on the plate before her.

  “How long have you been an intelligence officer, Felicity?” the director asked.

  “Twelve years, sir,” she said. “I read law at Oxford, then joined the service.”

  “Sir Edward tells me your father was also in your service.”

  “That’s correct,” she said, “and my grandfather, as well.” Something across the room caught her attention. The director’s bodyguard was crossing the big room, walking fast, nearly running. He arrived at their table.

  “What’s wrong?” the director asked. “Is it Sir Edward?”

  “Yes, sir,” the agent replied. “Please follow me, and let’s move quickly.”

  Everyone left the table and followed the agent from the dining room, drawing stares from other patrons. They entered a kitchen area, then came to a large door with an EXIT sign above it.

  “What’s happened?” the director asked.

  “Please wait here just a moment, sir,” the agent said. He walked out the door and returned a few seconds later. “Please hurry, your car is waiting.”

  Carpenter followed the three men into one of the black SUVs, and it drove away quickly.

  “Now tell me what’s happened,” the director said.

  Carpenter thought she knew what had happened. She got out her phone.

  Stone and Dino were finishing dinner at Elaine’s when Dino’s cell phone went off.

  “Bacchetti,” he said into the phone. He listened for a moment, then spoke. “I’m on it. You on your cell phone? Don’t go back to where you came from, go somewhere else. I’ll get back to you.” He hung up.

  Stone looked at Dino. “What’s wrong? You don’t look good.”