"We're not exactly in season," Jack said. "This place is open, it's got its 'Vacancy' sign lit, and we'll only be here half a dozen hours or so. And best of all, its parking lot isn't visible from the road. Wait here."
Before she could object, he was out of the car and heading toward the office.
Alicia closed her eyes, trying to blank her mind. This was all a nightmare. None of this had happened. Soon she'd wake up and find it all had been an ugly dream.
She jumped at the sound of a tap on the window: Jack—holding up a key and motioning her toward a row of doors to the left of the car. With a groan, she got out and followed him. Her limbs dragged… her marrow had turned to lead.
Jack opened a door marked "17" and held it open for her. As she stepped inside, he followed and closed the door behind him.
Slightly better decorated than Jack's "country place," but just as mildewy. Flowered drapes matched the spreads on the two double beds, but not the rug.
"Which do you want?" Jack said.
"Which what?"
"Which bed."
"You've got to be kidding," she said. "We're sharing a room? Look, things maybe be tight, but I can spring for—"
"Money's got nothing to do with it. It's the safest way." He pointed to the beds again. "So, which one?"
Alicia pointed to the one nearer the bathroom. God, she wanted a shower—she craved a shower—but she had no clean clothes to change into, so what was the use?
"That one."
"All right," he said, sitting and bouncing on the other. "Then this one's mine." He lowered his voice to a Charlton Heston baritone. "But let's get something straight, young lady: I know you're mad crazy about me, but I don't want you getting any ideas."
He's trying to reassure me, she thought, and had to smile. "Somehow I'll manage to restrain myself."
"Good," he said. "Because I'm taken."
Alicia sensed he wasn't kidding about that last part. She watched Jack a moment, trying to sort out her feelings for this man. So much about him terrified her… he was a deadly, murderous creature—how many men had he killed tonight? Yet here she was sharing a motel room with him and not only believing him when he said he was taken, but almost envying the woman who had won his heart.
I can't deal with this right now, she thought as she headed for her bed. I need sleep, a break, time out.
Too much had happened tonight. Returning to that house, seeing her old room, that man's room, then the murders in the backyard… that had been more than enough. But then that small army chasing them, the shots, the screams, that truck exploding, lighting up the night…
Alicia felt as if she were enveloped in a gelatinous fog, moving in slow motion toward that bed, that glorious bed.
Too much… too much … circuit overload… need downtime…
Finally she reached the bed. She pulled back the spread and crawled between the sheets.
"Good night," she said, and pulled the covers over her head.
Silence… and darkness… blessed darkness…
21.
"Good night," Jack said, watching Alicia curl into a lump under the covers.
A weird one, all right. But then, everything named Clayton seemed to be weird in some way.
Now what? he wondered. He should take a cue from Alicia and sack out, but he was too wired to sleep. The key… where did it fit? And that damn little Land Rover… something about its persistence in trying to get to the front yard of the Clayton house nagged at him.
Jack got up and headed for the door. He unlocked the Chevy, plucked the little truck from the backseat, and carried it to the middle of the parking lot.
"All right, Mr. Rover," he said, pushing the on switch, "let's see where you want to go now."
He placed it on the pavement, facing in the direction he assumed to be east, and let her go. The little truck raced away and almost immediately veered to the left. Jack expected it to wheel into a U-turn and head back toward him, but it came only three quarters of the way around, then angled away across the lot.
Jack raced after it and grabbed it before it ran under a parked Accord.
The truck should have headed due west, back toward the Clayton house—or rather, toward its front yard. Did he have his directions screwed up?
He scanned the stars. Good thing it was a cold, clear winter night. He traced the Big Dipper, ran a line up from the leading edge of its cup, and found Polaris. Okay. That was north.
He backed up to his original spot, pointed the truck east… and damn if it didn't make a beeline for that same Accord.
He found Polaris again. Back in Murray Hill, the truck had insisted on heading uptown—due north… toward the front yard, he'd assumed. But now it wanted to travel northwest… away from the front yard.
What had changed?
The Rover's position, for one.
Or had someone adjusted its controller, wherever that was?
This was going to take more investigation, and under better conditions than these.
Tomorrow… he'd spend all tomorrow figuring this out. And looking for the box that belonged to that key.
Jack returned to the room, taking the truck with him. He didn't want to leave it in the car overnight. Who knew?
Someone wandering through the lot might spot it and rip it off.
He slipped back into the room as quietly as he could. He could make out Alicia's form under the covers, curled into the fetal position.
What are you hiding from? he wondered.
He felt a mixture of admiration and pity for her—and he knew she'd resent the pity like all hell, but still, that was what he felt. Somewhere, somehow, she'd been terribly damaged, and he pitied anyone who'd been scarred so deeply. But she'd waged—was still waging, apparently—a valiant battle against the effects of whatever had been done to her.
Maybe tonight had been too much for her. Maybe he shouldn't have insisted she come along.
But what other options had he had? She'd lived in that house, and he'd needed her help.
Still, he got a cold knot in his stomach when he looked at that fetal lump, curled and cocooned so defensively against the world.
How would she be when she awoke tomorrow morning?
Jack flopped back on the other bed and stared at the stained ceiling, wondering about that until sleep claimed him.
22.
Kemel Muhallal sat with shaking hands and trembling insides. He felt as if he were on a jet racing through an endless storm.
He slumped on the couch in his apartment, too disheartened for prayer, too exhausted to drag himself to the bedroom.
For the first time since his arrival in this thrice-cursed land, he harbored doubts about the outcome of his mission. He had expected some difficulty, certainly, in securing the Clayton technology, but never this much. The Clayton woman had enlisted the devil himself as her ally.
When he had noticed her car gone, he had wanted to use the tracer to chase after her, but could not. The bodies… all the bodies had to be removed before the police arrived. He, Baker, and the two surviving members of Baker's team had had to carry them to the van. Then they had had to flee, running like jackals in the night.
A harrowing, humiliating experience.
But it all would have been worth it had he learned if Alicia Clayton and her devil had discovered anything in the house.
And what of the sale of that house? Haffner had sent word to her attorney that her price would be met. No response yet. Would she respond at all after tonight?
If not, the whole process would be set back weeks. And what would that mean for Ghali? Kemel had to get home to help his son.
Kemel tugged at his beard. He was being pulled in so many directions. What was he to do!
Should he fail to secure the Clayton technology, he then must make sure no one else got it.
Be calm, he told himself for the ten thousandth time since he had stepped through the door.
But how could he be calm when tomorrow morning he might pick up a newspape
r and see a headline announcing the Clayton technology to the world?
He shuddered at the repercussions to his homeland, at the thought of the entire Middle East returning to the Saudi Arabia of his father, who had made his own shoes and lived with his fellow bedouin in goat-hair tents or in mud huts clustered around oases, with no electricity, no medication, no medical care. That was Arab life before the 1960s. That was what his own life—and his sons'—would be if he failed in his quest.
He wished he could pass this burden to someone more used to dealing with these matters, but secrecy was so tantamount to success—they could lose everything if even a whisper of the nature of the technology leaked out—that the leaders of Iswid Nahr had forbidden anyone else, even another member of Iswid Nahr, from being told.
Kemel Muhallal had been present when Thomas Clayton brought Iswid Nahr proof of his father's technology. Why had he felt blessed by Allah that day? It had been a curse. Because he was among the very few who knew the secret, the burden of resolving the matter had fallen upon his shoulders.
Kemel squared those shoulders. He must not despair. He was not yet defeated. He must trust in Allah and believe that Alicia Clayton and her devil had learned nothing.
And on the subject of devils, what was he going to do with his own devil… Baker? Kemel had lost all faith in the man, but the day might be approaching when he would have to make use of his brute nature and crude tactics.
For Kemel knew that if he and Iswid Nahr could not secure the Clayton technology, then he must destroy that technology, and eliminate everyone who knew about it.
WEDNESDAY
1.
"No," Alicia said. "Out of the question. I've got to go to the hospital."
Are all women so headstrong? Jack wondered as he watched the ferry dock recede through the condensation-fogged glass. Or just all the ones I happen to know?
He and Alicia sat with their coffees in the passenger area of the first morning ferry out of Orient Point. The Chevy rested with the other cars below.
"Alicia—"
"Look, I've got patients and—oh, hell."
She yanked open her shoulder bag and fished inside until she came up with a cell phone.
"What's wrong?" Jack said.
"I want to call in."
He looked out the window as she dialed. The sky was a crisp blue and winter clear, but the Long Island Sound lay gray and choppy around them. He turned back to her when she mentioned "Hector," and watched her expression grow grim. She ended the call and squeezed her eyes shut.
"Bad news?" he said.
She kept her eyes closed. "Hector got shocky last night, then he crashed again. We're losing him."
"Aw, jeez." His chest tightened as he remembered that big smile, and so proud of his "buth cut." So full of life, and now…
"I should have been there."
"I can appreciate how you feel," he said.
She opened her eyes and stared at him, saying nothing.
He said, "All right. Maybe not completely. But no matter what, at this point I don't think those places are safe for you. I mean, if I were you and these people knew where I lived and worked, I wouldn't be going back there right now."
"I'll have to risk it. I've got to be there this morning, Jack. I've got to. And let's face it, you didn't leave many of them standing."
Jack didn't like it, but he could see he wasn't going to change her mind. And even if Baker and whoever he had left were planning a move, he doubted they'd pull it in front of the staff at the Center. But as soon as she stepped outside alone…
"All right," he said. "Go to the hospital, then have a guard walk you to the Center. Then stay there. Have lunch sent in. Do not set foot outside that building until I pick you up and take you to your hotel."
"Hotel?"
"Yes, hotel. You don't think you can stay at your apartment, do you? That's where they'll be waiting for you."
"Who's 'they'?" she said. "After you got through with them last night, I don't think there's any 'they' left."
Jack shook his head. He'd seen Kemel and his boss mercenary get away. How many more did the Arab have in reserve? And even if the answer was none, he could always hire more.
"The one who shoved you into the van is still up and about," Jack said.
That seemed to have the desired effect: Alicia stiffened and looked away.
"Okay, okay," she said. "Which hotel?"
"Haven't decided yet. But I'll pick you up at five and we'll use the rush-hour mob to our advantage."
"Fine," she said sullenly, and wrapped her coat more tightly around her.
"Do I have your promise?"
"Yes." Now she looked at him. "Why do you care what happens to me?"
The question startled Jack. "What do you mean?"
"You've got that 'key' you found. You don't need me anymore. In fact, it would probably be to your advantage if they got hold of me."
Jack stared at her, holding back his anger.
"No answer?" she said.
He spoke slowly. "No… just wondering if I should dignify that with an answer."
"Oh? I've offended you?"
"Damn right. You… you're a customer. We have a deal. A contract."
"I didn't sign—"
"We shook hands," he said. "That's a contract."
She flushed and looked away again. Her words came in a rush. "I'm sorry. Maybe I'm wrong but I just don't know what to think or who to trust anymore. Last night was very scary—you are very scary—and I've never been in this kind of situation. I mean, people are chasing me and the man I'm supposed to be partnered with killed God-knows-how-many of them last night. And maybe they had it coming but… do you know what I'm saying? You just flipped a few switches last night and boom!—people died. You wanted them gone, and they were gone. So is it so strange for me to wonder what happens if you decide you want me gone?"
He debated saying something about only killing customers who talk too fast, but decided this wasn't a good time to crack wise.
And maybe she had a point. Usually he had minimal contact with his customers. He made a deal, then went off and got it done—like with Jorge. They never saw the work, only the results. Last night had been an exception. He'd wound up playing bodyguard—something he'd never volunteer to do—and Alicia had witnessed some rough stuff.
Too bad, but he didn't think much of the alternative.
"I do what's necessary," he said. "But in your wonderings have you considered where we'd be right now if they'd caught us?"
She went on as if he hadn't spoken. "And the worst thing is that it didn't settle anything. We're still looking over our shoulders. I can't even go home."
"I'm sorry about that. But we're making progress. We know more than we did two days ago, and I've got a feeling we'll know a lot more when I find the lock to this key."
And get some more playtime with that little four-by-four, he thought. Something very strange about Clayton's "Rover."
He held the key in the direct sunlight and saw faint remnants of the words "Bern Interbank" embossed on the red vinyl case.
Hallelujah, he thought.
2.
Yoshio took a deep, sharp breath when he saw the white Chevrolet, and nearly choked on his Egg McMuffin.
He had spent hours last night watching Alicia Clayton's apartment. She never appeared. Yoshio had been disappointed but not terribly surprised. He assumed the ronin had done what he would have done under those circumstances: rented a hotel for the night.
And so Yoshio was idling here on Seventh Avenue where he could see the entrance to the hospital and the children's center where the Clayton woman worked. His backgrounding on her had revealed how devoted she was to her small charges. He doubted she would stay away.
And now he had been proven correct.
Small satisfaction, but one took it where one found it.
He watched the ronin escort the Clayton woman to the hospital door. Yoshio was in gear and moving when the . ronin returned to hi
s car. No question as to what his next step would be: follow the ronin. If he and the Clayton woman had learned anything last night, now was the time to act upon it.
Carefully keeping his distance, Yoshio trailed the ronin west on Fourteenth Street and then uptown on Tenth Avenue. He did not see anyone else following. He smiled. Certainly Kemel Muhallal had other, more pressing concerns at the moment—an acute manpower shortage among them.
He saw the ronin stop his car before a row of dingy storefronts. Yoshio drove past, adjusting his speed to catch the red light at the next corner. He adjusted his rearview mirror and watched the ronin enter a doorway next to a dirty window with a sign that read:
ERNIE'S I.D.
ALL KINDS
PASSPORT
TAXI
DRIVER'S LICENSE
Yoshio hurried around the block and was relieved to see the Chevrolet still double-parked on Tenth Avenue when he returned. He pulled into the curb by a bus stop on the far side of the street and waited, trusting the rush-hour traffic to hide him.
ID… why would the ronin enter such a place? Did he want to prove his own identity, or did he wish to identify himself as someone else? Ronald Clayton perhaps?
Yoshio rubbed his palms together to relieve the sudden tingle of anticipation.. He sensed he was onto something here.
And then the ronin emerged from the store and looked around before he reentered his car. As his gaze came Yoshio's way, a bus edged between them. Yoshio took advantage of the cover to nose his way into traffic and position himself so that he was behind the bus when it moved on. His car now looked like just another of the countless thousands crawling through rush hour.
He saw the white Chevrolet pull away and continue uptown. Yoshio followed him all the way to West Seventy-sixth Street where the ronin double-parked again and walked into a building.
Yoshio saw the sign as he passed: BERN interbank.
And now the tingle spread from his hands to the back of his neck. Yes. This was important. He couldn't say how he knew, he simply… knew.
Hurriedly he looked for a place to leave his car. He could park it illegally and hope his DPL plates would protect it, but he didn't know how much time he would need. The city had been cracking down on diplomats abusing their parking privileges. Yoshio did not want to return and find that his car had been towed away.
Repairman Jack [02]-Legacies Page 28
