Money, Money, Money

by Ed McBain

  “What’s any of this got to do with you buying and selling dope?” Ollie said.

  “No one has yet produced any evidence to that effect,” Halloway said. “Once I walk through that door …”

  “You’re not walking through any door,” Byrnes said. “You’re going straight to a detention cell downstairs.”

  “That would be inadvisable.”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are?” Ollie asked. “The CIA?”

  Halloway smiled.

  “Cause you want my opinion, thereain’t no CIA. Any outfit so fuckin stupid has got to be a cover for ourreal intelligence agency.”

  “I’ll have to remember that one,” Halloway said, and actually laughed. “No CIA, that’s very funny. On the other hand,you might wish to consider the possibility that the CIA,if it exists, has adopted the same techniques as the people they’re fighting. If thereis a CIA—and perhaps you’re right, perhaps there isn’t—but on the slight offchance that theremight be, then perhaps they’ve splintered into hundreds of littlecounter -terrorist cells all over the globe. Little self-reliant units that take orders from the top and carry them out autonomously. Authorized roving bands of brothers, you might say— sisters, too, if you wish to be politically correct. Legitimate loose cannons. And if this is actually so, then perhaps you stepped…”

  “Authorized bywho?” Ollie said.

  “Well, if thereis a CIA, then the authorization comes directly from the President or the National Security Council, doesn’t it?” He smiled again. Looked at his watch again. “Let’s say you stepped in the way of a rolling cannon on a tilting deck, boys. You stumbled into something far more vital to the interests of the United States than a bunch of dumb flatfoots, believe me. You should have known enough to step aside, boys. Instead, you stepped in shit. Wipe off your shoes and go home.”

  “Somebody else telling us to go home,” Carella said.

  “I’m telling you it’s possible to get chewed to shreds by lions,” Halloway said.

  “He’s saying don’t go in the lion’s cage tonight,” Ollie said.

  “For the lions are ferocious and they bite,” Carella said.

  “Well, Mr. Halloway,” Byrnes said, and stabbed at a button on his intercom, “I appreciate your advice, truly. But you see we might feel derelict in our duty if we just let you walk out of here. So with the permission of the President and the National…”

  “Sir?” a voice said.

  “I’ll need an officer to take a prisoner down,” Byrnes said.

  “I’ll send someone forthwith, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Byrnes said, and clicked off.

  “I want to warn you again not to do this,” Halloway said. “Don’t open a can of peas that might explode in your face. Don’t threaten our very existence, our sacred undertaking, our…”

  “Gee, sacred,” Ollie said.

  “Because if you do, if you destroy everything we’ve been trying to accomplish, if you open our files to public scrut…”

  “I thought your computers were sacred, too,” Ollie said.

  The door to Byrnes’s office opened.

  “Sir?” a uniformed officer said.

  “Maggie, find a cell downstairs for this gentleman, will you?” He turned to Halloway. “Do we have to cuff you?” he asked.

  “Only lions bite,” Halloway said, and smiled thinly. “You’ll never even get me arraigned, I promise you. You’ve got to be kidding here. The Commissioner will come down on you so hard you’ll wish you lived on Mars. You think we’ll let a Mickey Mouse detective squad in the asshole of the universe jeopardize everything we’ve been working for? Who’d stop those bastardsthen, can you tell me? Who’d stop them from poisoning our reservoirs or blowing up our trains? Who’d stop them from planting bombs in day care centers or baseball parks? Who’d stop them from destroying this land of ours? Thisworldof ours? Thisfree world of ours? You? Are you the ones who’ll save us? Don’t make me laugh! You should get on your hands and knees and praise God we exist! Because if it weren’t for us, there’d be nobody! Nobody at all! They’d make it impossible to walk the streets! They’d blow up your babies in their cribs! Without us, who the hell on earth would eventry to stop them? I’m asking you.Who?”

  WILL STRUTHERS HELPED Antonia out of the taxi in front of Clarendon Hall and looked up at the falling snow. The snow added a somewhat festive air to the evening. In a city of strangers, people were actually smiling at each other as they entered the old limestone building. Will looked up at the television monitors spaced high on the walls everywhere around the lobby, all of them showing the stage inside. “For the benefit of latecomers,” Antonia explained, which Will didn’t quite understand, but he followed her as she handed their tickets to a man standing at one of the entrance doors to the hall itself. Together, they stepped into the vast space, all red and gold and magnificent, glittering like an outsized Christmas present left by Santa himself. Will had never seen anything so splendiferous in his life. Not even in Texas.

  THE SHORT , slight man who stepped out of the black Cadillac DeVille was wearing a black overcoat with a mink collar. The trousers of a black suit showed below the bottom edge of the coat. He was wearing a black homburg and highly polished black shoes. Hanging from a strap over his left shoulder was a man’s black leather handbag. The hat, the coat’s collar, the coat’s shoulders became immediately dusted with falling snow. The tinted glass window of the limo slid down silently. The man leaned into it and gave the driver some instructions in English. The driver answered in English and then the window slid up again, and the limo pulled away from the curb.

  Standing in the falling snow on the sidewalk outside Clarendon Hall, Jassim Saiyed reached into the handbag, removed from it a package of Marlboro cigarettes, shook one free, and lighted it. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was fifteen minutes to eight. Puffing calmly on his cigarette, Jassim watched the crowd of smiling Americans entering the building.

  THEY TOOK THEIR SEATS in row G, seven rows back from the stage, numbers 2 and 4 on the aisle.

  “Good, huh?” Antonia said, grinning. “One of my best customers plays oboe with the orchestra. This was his Christmas present to me.”

  Will was thinking that when he and Antonia became millionaires, they would come to places like this all the time, never mind free handouts from anybody. There was a sense of excitement and anticipation in this opulent place, resounding now with the repeated sounds of strings and horns tuning up. Leafing through the program, he noticed that one of the pieces they’d be playing tonight was something called “La Gazza Ladra,” which he saw was translated as “The Thieving Magpie.”

  He showed this to Antonia, and then whispered, “I hope this isn’t anything personal.”

  Antonia laughed.

  A hush fell over the audience.

  The concert was about to begin.

  JASSIM LOOKED AT his wristwatch.

  If Akbar’s calculations were correct, the intermission would begin at approximately nine o’clock. Jassim would go up the aisle, and out into the lobby, and hence into the street, where Akbar would be waiting in the Cadillac. He would arm the bomb’s timing device, and Jassim would come back into the hall, and take his seat again. Several moments later, after the Jew had started playing, Jassim would rise again from his seat, apparently on his way to the men’s room, leaving behind him his hat, his coat, and the bag containing the bomb. At precisely nine-thirty, the bomb would explode.

  Jassim wondered why he felt so calm.

  WILL WAS BORED to death.

  The kind of music he liked best was what he heard back home in Texas. Songs about cowboys. Songs about women with broken hearts. Songs about true-blue hound dogs. The orchestra up on the stage there sounded like it was practicing.

  He could hardly wait for the intermission.

  TERROR WAS THE only thought on Jassim’s mind.

  Strike terror into their hearts.

  Deliver fatal blows all over the world.

  He rose
the moment the lights came up, placed his coat and his hat on the seat, and began walking swiftly toward the back of the hall. His watch read exactly three minutes past nine. He wanted to be back in his seat again by nine-fifteen, when the intermission would end. The aisle was thronged with concert-goers making their way to the rest rooms or the street outside. Patiently, Jassim milled along with them, but his heart was pounding inside his chest. He tried not to look at his watch again until he reached the lobby outside.

  Nine-oh-six.

  He raced through the lobby and out onto the sidewalk.

  He looked across the street.

  The Cadillac was parked exactly where Akbar said it would be.

  But a policeman in a black rain slicker was standing outside the door on the driver’s side.

  THERE WAS IN THE LOBBY a palpable air of anticipation. The first part of the concert had been agreeable enough, but this glittery crowd was not here for the Rossini or the Mozart. In fact, they were not even here for the Mendelssohn. They were here for the man who would beplaying the Mendelssohn. The chatter was about Christmas gifts received and exchanged, and plans for tomorrow night’s celebration, and the weather and the market and the latest war abroad, but the people here in the lobby or smoking in the falling snow on the sidewalk outside were merely trying to conceal their excitement over the imminent appearance of the Israeli violinist. Like children careful not to wish for sunshine for fear it might rain upon their circus, they dared not even breathe his name lest he vanish somehow in a puff of smoke, disappointing their expectations.

  THE POLICEMAN STOOD leaning into the open window on the driver’s side of the Cadillac, a massive man in a slippery black coat, the snow falling everywhere around him. Akbar was handing documents to him. The policeman was examining the documents. Akbar was smiling at him politely. The snow kept falling.

  Jassim looked at his watch.

  THE TELEVISION MONITORS spaced around the lobby showed only an empty stage now, its lights dimmed. Will kept hoping they’d show a football game or something.

  “Are you enjoying it so far?” Antonia asked.

  “Oh yes indeed,” he said.

  So far, it was putting him to sleep.

  “So far, I love it,” he said.

  “Just wait,” she said. “The real fireworks won’t begin till the Israeli starts playing.”

  THE POLICEMAN did not walk away from the Cadillac until fourteen minutes past nine. Dodging heavy traffic on the street, Jassim ran across to it, and yanked open the rear door on the curb side. Slamming into the car, he whispered, “What happened? What did he want?”

  “Profiling!” Akbar shouted.

  “What?”

  “Profiling,profiling,never mind, give me the fuckingbag!”

  Jassim handed him the bag. He looked at his watch and then glanced immediately over his shoulder through the rear window. The intermission would end in less than a minute; the sidewalk outside Clarendon Hall was rapidly clearing. In the front seat, Akbar was working on the timing device. Jassim could hear his heavy breathing, could see perspiration beading on his forehead, could hear as well the ticking of the clock to which Akbar was wiring the detonator. He waited. His palms were sweating. He looked back over his shoulder again. The sidewalk was clear now. He caught his breath. Waited. Kept waiting. The windows of the car were beginning to fog with their exhaled breaths. It seemed to Jassim that he could hear the beating of his own heart in the steamy darkness of the vehicle. At last, he heard a faint click. The bomb was armed, the timer and detonator wires securely fastened to the two taped pipes. Akbar eased the device into the bag. He closed the flap, snapped the bag shut.

  Jassim looked at his watch.

  The time was twenty minutes past nine.

  The intermission had ended five minutes ago.

  But he still had ten minutes to get back to his seat, plant the bomb, and get out of the hall before it went off. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and ran across the street to the lobby entrance doors. The lobby was empty. The huge ornate brass clock over the center entrance doors read nine-twenty-one. There was violin music coming from within the hall. The second part of the concert had already begun. On all the television monitors circling the lobby, a miniature Svi Cohen was standing before the orchestra, violin under his chin, head bent as if in prayer, deeply engrossed in his playing. Jassim noticed that the Jew held the fiddle in his unclean hand. He was reaching for the brass handle on the door nearest him when a man wearing a gray uniform said, “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Jassim turned to him, puzzled.

  “I can’t let you in until the first movement is over.”

  Jassim blinked.

  “It started three minutes ago, sir. I’m sorry, those are my orders.”

  The time was nine-twenty-two.

  The Mendelssohn concerto had started at nine-nineteen, and the bomb was set to detonate at nine-thirty.

  WILL WAS WONDERING how long he’d have to sit here. He was thinking that maybe him and Antonia could go for a bite to eat after this fiddle player did his thing, there seemed to be a nice Italian restaurant right across the avenue.

  He was also wondering if anybody had ever tried to steal instruments from this place. Was there a room where they stored tubas and trombones and such? Or did all those musicians up there have their own instruments? He guessed maybe they did. Besides, he had to stop thinking like a thief. If Antonia went along with his scheme, he would never in his lifetime have to commit another burglary.

  But, man, wasthis boring!

  JASSIM LOOKED AT his watch again.

  It was now nine-twenty-four.

  The first movement of Mendelssohn’s accursed violin concerto was about twelve and a half minutes long. The Jew had started playing it at nineteen minutes past nine, which meant he would end the first movement at a bit past nine-thirty-one, perhaps later, nine-thirty-three, even nine-thirty-four, depending on how much artistic license he took with the piece. Jassim could not wait until any of those times because the bomb was set to go off at nine-thirty, which meant that unless he went into the hall, it would explode right here in the lobby in six minutes.

  He took a deep breath.

  “Hey!” the guard shouted, but he was too late.

  Jassim had thrown open one of the doors and was already running down the aisle on the right hand side of the hall.

  WILL TURNED TO look up the aisle when he heard somebody screaming. The person screaming was a short dark man carrying a handbag, holding it by the straps and beginning to twirl it over his head as he ran toward the stage, screaming. Will didn’t know what the man was screaming because it was in a foreign language, but whatever it was, there was enormous rage in the words. As the man rapidly approached the stage where the Israeli was playing, he almost looked like an undersized David twirling a slingshot to hurl a stone at a giant Goliath.

  Will got to his feet the moment he realized this was close to what the little man intended.

  “Hey! What the hell you doing?” he shouted, and threw himself at the man, intending to tackle him, but missing by a hair. He stumbled forward, off balance, as the man stopped some three feet from the stage and shouted something else in the same foreign language.

  Will didn’t know quite why he hurled himself at the man again. Perhaps he was simply trying to impress Antonia, who sat in the seventh row, watching him with her mouth agape and her eyes wide. Perhaps he was remembering that the Khmer Rouge who’d tortured him had also spoken a language he couldn’t understand. Whatever the reason, he threw himself into the air again just as the man released his grip on the handbag’s straps. The Israeli tried to deflect the missile coming at him, raising the violin by its slender neck, simultaneously stepping aside to his right.

  In that instant, Will landed on the man’s back.

  In the next instant, the bag exploded.

  13 .

  NEW YEAR’S EVE dawned bright and clear and piercingly cold. Something had gone wrong with Hoch Memorial’s heating sys
tem during the night, and while technicians fiddled with thermostats and nozzles and valves, nurses ran around wearing sweaters or even coats over their starched white uniforms.

  A multitude of people had drifted into Will’s room at all hours of the night, there to take his temperature or his blood pressure, to change the dressings on his face and his hands, to offer him medication and the sort of tender loving care a wounded individual deserved. When he heard voices outside the door to his room, he thought it might be more nurses coming in to change the sheets or the dressings or the bags hanging by the bed, but instead it was just someone asking a nurse if it was okay for him to go in and talk to the patient.