I craned my neck, looking down the avenue for the yellow of an approaching taxi, the pieces of Farquart's plan starting to fall into place in my mind.
"So he stashed his weapon here in the city. A location only he knows. He doesn't trust his buyer. Intends to only reveal the toxin's location once he has his payment."
"And that's where you come in," Jacob confirmed. "We need the location of the toxin and the time and place of the meeting with his buyer. After you take out Farquart, drop by your hotel. There'll be a package waiting."
"Then keep Farquart's appointment?"
"Exactly. Interrogate the buyer. Then remove him, and anyone else who knows about the stuff. Call me immediately when you've secured the toxin."
"Do you know how much toxin he has?"
"From the size of the bag, and how heavy it appeared, my guess is he has it all. Roughly twenty kilos."
"How bad is that on the bad scale?"
"Depending on the delivery system, and where it is released, that's enough to kill over a hundred thousand people."
"Shit. That's really bad."
I ended the call, and ducked into a corner drugstore. There I bought sunglasses too big for my face, a floppy sun hat, plastic zip ties, some rubber gloves used for washing dishes, and a disposable rain poncho.
"Is it s'posed to rain?" the clerk asked, ringing up the poncho.
"I hope not. But it's always wise to take precautions."
I left the store just as the eastern sky started to pink. The Upper West Side streets, even at this hour, were full of people. Joggers, pedestrians, cars, buses. Just looking around, I could count almost a hundred people.
A hundred thousand? It was mind-boggling.
I flagged down a taxi, told him to step on it, and we headed west, chasing the darkness.
Farquart
Colin Farquart flowed with the tide of New Jersey commuters gushing toward the city across the river; a flood of people in business suits and sneakers. The pier at 14th Street had been packed, and as he boarded the ferry, he congratulated himself on buying his ticket ahead to avoid the morning crowds.
He'd headed off every problem, smoothed out all possible wrinkles, and now he was ready to bring his plans to fruition.
As he had last night, he took a spot on the ferry's rail, outside the crowded seating area. The wind off the water chilled him, cooler this morning. He flipped his coat collar up and held it tight around his neck as the ferry pulled away from the pier and started across the Hudson. As the sun grew higher in the sky, the day would heat up. And who knew, by the time he returned this afternoon, he might be able to stand out there in shirtsleeves.
A man with endless possibilities stretching before him.
A woman slipped to the rail behind him, standing too close. Odd, because the entire rail was free, the other passengers inside out of the cold. The floppy-brim of her hat brushed against his ear.
He leaned away. "Ah, ma'am? Your hat—"
She turned to stare at him, but he couldn't make out her eyes, just his own reflection in her sunglasses. Then she stepped closer, pressing his body between hers and the rail. Something poked into his ribs.
"Come with me to the restroom," she said.
"Excuse me?"
"The restroom. Now."
Farquart looked down, saw the gun. His thoughts stuttered, trying to catch up. "You're trying to rob me?"
"Yes."
Farquart had never been mugged before, but he knew you never went with an assailant. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Think it through. All I want is your wallet. But once I get it I can't run away—we're both on a ferry. What's to stop you from screaming that I'm a thief? So instead, I'll take you into the bathroom, tie you to the sink, then leave you there. Understand? I can get away, and someone will find you."
Farquart shook his head. This couldn't be happening to him. Not today.
"Or," the woman continued, drawing the word out, "I can shoot you right now, and drop you overboard. This gun has a suppressor. No one will hear it. Your choice."
Farquart's legs wobbled, his knees feeling weak. A hum rose in his ears. How could this be happening? If she took all his cash, how would he get to his meeting? How could he—
"Well?"
"Okay! You can have it all, but leave me a twenty, all right? I need some—"
"Move."
The steel in her voice shook all resistance from him. She steered him to the cabin's door, her hand snaking around his waist. They stepped inside, then she followed him down to the tiny restroom next to the engine room and locked the door behind her. It was a unisex toilet, one stall, one sink.
"Down on your knees."
Farquart did as she ordered, kneeling. The roar of engines throbbed through the walls and floor.
She dipped her hand into the pocket of her suit jacket, pulled out one of those heavy duty plastic zip ties, and extended it to him. "Secure your wrist to the pipe."
"Please. I won't say anything."
"You can say anything you want. No one will hear you in here."
"I won't even after we dock. I promise. Just take the money now."
"Secure your wrist to the pipe." The barrel of the gun pressed against his forehead.
Farquart started to tremble, his legs, his torso, his hands. His heart beat so hard he could hear it. He took the plastic strip, fumbling with it, his fingers refusing to work. Something clattered to the floor. The jeweler's pouch holding his loupe and diamond tester.
She scooped it up and slipped it into her purse. "I'm losing patience."
Finally after several tries, he had the zip tie looped around his left wrist and the drain pipe under the sink.
"Pull it tight," she said.
He did, the plastic biting into his skin.
"Now the other one."
"I can't, I…"
"Grab on to the pipe."
Farquart did, his second hand next to the first. An idea shot through his mind. Maybe, if he was fast enough, he could grasp her as she tried to secure the tie. Maybe, if he…
Before he knew what was happening, she looped the tie around both forearms and cinched them together.
No!
That was it. Farquart would lose all his money. He'd never be able to make it to the meeting place on time. All his planning, all his work… it would take another two years to find a buyer, maybe more, and all because this thief picked him. Farquart didn't want to sell the toxin to some crazy foreign terrorist. He wanted to sell to one of the good guys. One who would no doubt use it against some crazy foreign terrorist.
Which was why Farquart had spent so long and worked so hard on the toxin in the first place. To protect the United States of America.
"Please let me keep a twenty. There's plenty more in there."
"Nope. I'm taking it all. Phone, too."
"But I need my phone!"
The woman pressed the gun to his mouth, the barrel clicking against Farquart's teeth. She took his phone from his pocket and stuffed it in the purse. But she didn't leave. She simply slipped her gun back in her jacket pocket, pulled out a square of thin plastic, and started to unfold it.
"What is that? A rain poncho? Is it going to rain?"
A stupid thing to say, something people mentioned in small talk. Not when they were on their knees, helpless. Not when they were being robbed. But somehow, he couldn't control himself anymore, not what he thought, not what he said, not the actions of his quivering muscles. Fear controlled him.
This woman controlled him.
"This is so I don't get your blood on my clothes." She tugged on some yellow rubber gloves. Then she took a knife from her pocket. One of those knives that flip open when you flick your wrist.
"I want to know where the toxin is, Farquart. And where you're meeting the buyer."
She knew? How could she know? "This isn't just a robbery?"
"No." She slipped off her sunglasses and looked him in the eye.
Oh... no. Thi
s woman... he knew her face. He'd seen it on the monitor in the lab on Plum Island.
Right before she'd killed everyone.
"Wha... what are you talking about?" he stammered. "I don't know about any toxin."
"Don't make this hard on yourself. Tell me."
He whimpered, a low, involuntary sound deep in his throat. "If I tell you, you're going to kill me."
She was silent. Farquart began to cry.
"I'm not telling you anything!" he yelled, his voice drowned out by the roar of the ferry's engine.
"Actually," the woman said, "you're going to tell me everything. Every. Single. Thing."
And then the cutting began.
Rasmus
He hadn't been able to sleep, clutching his phone all morning, waiting, hoping, for Jack to call. Rasmus didn't want to face this alone.
When the phone finally did ring, he almost shouted with glee. He answered, knowing who it was even though the display read Caller Unknown.
"I'm in," Jack told him. "We need to discuss a few things first."
They talked about details, and Rasmus tried to stay focused, but only half of his mind was on the conversation.
This was happening… really happening.
And it would be dangerous.
He pulled open the drawer next to the bed, staring at the .380. A Walther PPK. He'd bought it because it was the only gun he knew by name, thanks to James Bond movies. He picked it up, pulled out the magazine, and loaded it with fake bullets called snap caps. Rasmus got out of bed, put his blazer on over his pajamas, and practiced drawing it out of his pocket and firing. He did it over and over until it was a single, smooth motion.
When he was happy with his performance, he ejected the magazine, took out the snap caps, and replaced them with real ammunition. The salesman had called them defense rounds. They were supposed to mushroom on impact, causing maximum damage.
Rasmus inserted the full magazine, and then pulled back the slide so a round was live and ready to fire. Then he placed it back in his jacket pocket.
Chandler
I stood under the punishing heat of the hotel shower, trying to wash away my memories of the last few hours.
Farquart hadn't died well. He died crying, begging, bleeding, in a great deal of pain.
As expected, he told me where the toxin was, who the buyer was, where the meet was going to be, and what the diamond tester was for.
He also told me about an ex-girlfriend he still loved. He told me he couldn't die without saying goodbye to his mother. He called me a monster, and pleaded with me to stop hurting him.
I was his interrogator, his confessor, and ultimately his executioner, ending him with a jab in the carotid.
I checked my fingernails to see if they had blood on them, even though I'd worn gloves. They looked clean, but I ran a thin sliver of soap across them just the same, working it into a lather, scrubbing hard.
Guy thought he died for his country. I thought I killed him for my country. And it was the same goddamn country.
I thought about Jack. What would he think about what I'd done? What if he'd been there, watching me twist the knife in Farquart's leg? Would he agree that the end justified the means? Would he have helped me? Tried to stop me?
And if Jack had tried to stop me, would I have killed him, too?
Farquart was a scientist. He'd never hurt anyone, as far as I knew. But he was selling a weapon that he'd helped create. Thousands of people, maybe a hundred thousand, were at risk.
Ultimately, one man suffered and died so many could be saved. Any ethical person would reach the same conclusion.
And yet, I didn't feel ethical. I couldn't picture Jack doing what I'd just done. He would have found another way. Without torture. Without murder.
I turned the dial from hot to cold. Freezing cold. So cold it felt like it was burning my skin.
The government trained me to be a weapon. Such was the nature of mankind that weapons were necessary. Our capacity to hurt one another was a genetic stain, which could be traced back to the time when our ancestors walked on four legs. It wasn't productive to question my nature.
So why couldn't I get Farquart's voice out of my head?
I stood under the cold water until my shivering was out of control. Knees knocking. Teeth clicking together. Fingers going numb. It's possible to kill yourself in a cold shower. After twenty minutes, hypothermia sets in. As the body temperature plummets, so does heart rate and respiration and blood pressure. Curiously, up to half of the people suffering from hypothermia begin to undress, even as they are freezing to death. No one knows why.
I was already naked, so that wouldn't be a problem.
Farquart's ex-girlfriend was named Norma. He hadn't seen her in years. She left him because he spent too much time at work, not enough with her.
He died still in love with her. Her name was the last word he spoke.
Norma would never know that. Norma might not ever even know he was dead. I'd cut off Farquart's fingertips and knocked out his teeth, flushing both down the toilet. The bloody poncho and gloves, and his wallet, went into the Hudson. He might never be identified.
When my fingers began to turn blueish, I turned the heat up in the shower. Slowly, letting my skin adjust to the rising temperature. I'd have time for reflection, and penance, later. Right now I had work to do.
I eventually stopped shivering, then toweled off, dressed, and stopped at the front desk to pick up the package Jacob had sent. I stuck it in my clutch without opening it. Then the doorman hailed a cab for me.
"Metropolitan Museum of Art," I said, sitting in the back.
I was a weapon.
And the weapon still had more lives to take.
Jack
Why the hell did I agree to this?
Jack must have asked himself that question a dozen times already this morning. He still didn't have an answer. The best he could come up with was the realization of how much replacing the Semmerling was going to set him back, a moot point now. He hadn't had any other jobs perking on the back burners, so he'd snatched the one on the table.
Impulsive. Not like him.
All Chandler's fault. The damage he took fighting her, plus her theft of his neato-cool backup, had left him temporarily deranged.
Yeah. That was the reason.
And here he was, back in Central Park, though without Chandler.
Chandler… she'd been something else last night. Not since Cristin had he felt so connected to a woman. In fact, he felt more connected to Chandler. Cristin had never let him inside. Well, inside her body, yeah, but never inside her head. Chandler had been dead set on sharing – too much so, as far as Jack was concerned.
But share they had. Everything but a smile. He'd set himself a challenge: Make her smile.
But to do that he'd have to see her again. He wondered if he ever would.
Well, que sera, que sera and all that. He had work to do.
First thing this morning, the mayor's minion had called and left a message on Jack's machine: the exchange was set for noon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art – at the Arms and Armor of Tibet exhibit, of all places.
High noon at the Met. Sheesh.
The Met squatted on Fifth Avenue in the Eighties, occupying four blocks on the eastern edge of Central Park, just south of the Jackie O Reservoir. All fine and good. But it presented a huge problem.
Jack had called back and told Rasmus he needed to change the exchange venue.
Impossible. Rasmus didn't know how to contact the blackmailer.
Okay, then, could the mayor's man get them in a back door so they could bypass the metal-detecting wands of the security guards at the front? They wanded on a random basis, but just Jack's luck he'd be chosen.
Rasmus promised to get them in another way.
Fine. Jack told the minion to meet him at a quarter to noon by Cleopatra's Needle directly behind the museum
So there he sat on one of the benches in the octagonal viewing area aro
und the hieroglyphic-carved obelisk, soaking up a little April sunshine and nibbling on the Sausage Egg McMuffin he'd bought on the West Side. He'd returned to his Super Tourist Man costume from last night – more for the big-brimmed trucker's cap than anything else. He'd need to pull it low and keep his head down while inside. He didn't want his face on any CCTV footage. The cameras were everywhere these days.
Jack watched the joggers and cyclists pass on the nearby path and put himself in blackmailer mode. Okay, if this was his play, how would he run it?
The museum at noon wasn't a bad idea if you were worried about a double-cross. Jack knew Rasmus was, and maybe the blackmailer was too. He'd be worried about the mayor loading the place with undercover cops. But if his face was unknown, he'd arrive when it opened at ten and wander around the interior for the two hours until the meeting, locating the security cameras, finding their blind spots, and scoping out all his fellow attendees, looking for cop types. They were easy to spot. Their carriage invariably gave them away.
But would he wander around with the evidence on him?
Not if he had half a brain.
No, he'd hide it someplace inside. And once he felt sure the coast was clear and the payoff was on the premises, he'd retrieve it and make the exchange.
So odds were high the blackmailer was inside right now.
A matronly, well-dressed woman strolled into the obelisk octagon, led by a cute little dog – some breed Jack had never seen.
She stared up at the Needle, then turned to Jack. "It's not really Cleopatra's obelisk, you know."
Her voice startled Jack. He hadn't expected her to speak.
"You talkin' to me?" he said, unintentionally sounding like Travis Bickle. If he saw Chandler again, he'd have to get her to watch Taxi Driver.
"It was cut and carved a thousand years before she was born."
"How about that."
Go away, lady. I'm minutes from meeting a minion.
"Cleopatra…we can all learn from her." The woman with the dog turned away. "She trusted the wrong people."
She strolled off without looking back, passing Rasmus on his way in. He was carrying a manila envelope. Jack polished off the innards of the McMuffin and tossed the leftover bread to the pigeons as the minion seated himself at the far end of the bench.
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