Hendricks removed his bowler in the presence of the young receptionist, a striking redhead with wonderfully long legs and fierce blue eyes.
She looked up from her typewriter and smiled at him. “Sir Halton? Sir Blair says he is very anxious to see you. He’s in a meeting right now, but he said I was to take you directly to his office.” Her grin widened, and an even stronger Irish brogue crept into her voice as she added, “Sir Blair says you are to receive VIP treatment. Called you by a pet name, he did. ‘Hank,’ was it?”
Hendricks allowed himself a rare smile. “Quite,” he said. “One would expect Laggy to remember such a thing.”
The receptionist put her hands to her face, delighted. “Laggy! What a funny thing to call Sir Blair.” She stood and came around the desk, her hand outstretched. “My name is Mary Kay—and if I promise not to tell a soul Sir Blair’s nickname …” She paused for effect. “… would you hold me to it?”
“On my honor, I would not,” Hendricks said with a laugh.
As the Irish receptionist led him to Sir Blair’s office, she pointed out some of the computer equipment by name and number. It meant nothing to Hendricks, but he could see that the woman was anxious to please him, so he pretended to the interested. He didn’t have to pretend to be impressed. The entire short tour was accompanied by the plastic clatter of printers and the cool hum of the massive electronic brains.
At Sir Blair’s office, Hendricks once again passed through a time warp, from the very new to the old and traditional. His office was spacious and stately, with plush carpet and heavy furniture of brass and mahogany. His huge desk sat in front of a window that showed the London skyline. Across from the desk were chairs, a cherrywood table, and a couch. Nearby was a full bar.
It was there that the receptionist seated him.
“Now,” she said, “is there anything I can get you? A whiskey, perhaps? Or a nice cup of tea? Sir Blair has taken the liberty of ordering your dinner, but if you would like anything else—a place to freshen up, or a—”
“I’ll have a Scotch,” Hendricks interrupted. He was still shaken by his fight with the Cockney, and he felt a drink might steady him. “Heavy glass. A full two fingers. And no ice.”
Hendricks spoke like a man who was used to being obeyed, and he was slightly amused at how quickly he had fallen back into his old character: the intelligence officer he had been forty years before.
The Irish receptionist set his drink on the table, and the door whooshed closed behind her.
Hendricks nursed his drink. It was nearly half gone before the door opened again and in walked his old friend, Blair Laggan. The two men had not seen each other since a group reunion in the early 1950s but, even so, there was no gushing of emotion as they shook hands and took seats.
“You’re looking well, Laggy,” Hendricks began. “Put on a stone or two, eh?”
Sir Blair Laggan patted his stomach and chuckled. “This blasted new company chef we have, Hank—as you will soon see. French chap. A bloody artist in the kitchen, what? We’ll be taking our meal here. Do you mind? I’ve ordered chops, cold asparagus, fresh vegetables, broiled potatoes—and a brace of marrow bones.” Laggan smiled. “I got to thinking about that time in France when you had such an awful yearning for the bloody things.”
“A long time ago, Laggy.”
Sir Blair nodded, still patting his stomach. During the war years, he had been steel straight and hard as whipcord. Now, dressed in his gray business suit, Blair Laggan looked like the stereotypical English businessman. His black hair was thinning at the crown, and the plump face peered out upon the world through thick glasses. Now his blue eyes—magnified hugely by the glasses—studied Hendricks. “Ah, but you, Hank. You’ve hardly changed a bit. Still tall and hard, with that poker face of yours—” Sir Blair stopped in midsentence. “Why, what’s happened to your neck, Hank? You’ve a bruise knot on your throat the size of a golf ball! And your shirt—there’s blood on it!”
Hendricks dismissed it with an open-handed gesture and a sheepish look. “Baker Street was a bit slippery after the rain, Laggy. I’m afraid my legs aren’t as trustworthy as they once were. Took bit of a fall. Nothing, really.”
“But you’ll want to see a doctor, old boy. The company keeps one on staff. In house all day long. Poor chap is usually bored stiff, so let me give him a ring, what?”
Hendricks refused and quickly shifted the conversation to other things.
It was the kind of chatter Hendricks normally loathed. To him, old memories were little more than twice-told gossip. Even so, he steered the talk through the war years because he thought it might put Laggan in the proper mood to help.
Sir Blair clearly enjoyed the reminiscence—often using it as a segue to the present. It was obvious that Laggan’s people had kept the files of everyone involved with Military Intelligence up to date—including Hendricks’s.
“Do you remember Reggie Collins?” Sir Blair asked as he refilled Hendricks’s glass. “Yes, of course you do. You worked with him for a time in MI-5? Right. English chap, raised in Mother Russia. Picked him up during the war as KGB and turned him. Quite useful, or so he seemed.”
Hendricks nodded. “Yes, I remember Reggie. Worked quite closely on a mission or two.”
“Well, Hank, he was arrested about five months ago—maybe you read about it? No? It was quite a scandal. Reggie had a seat in the House and was privy to all sorts of secret reports. After all of these years, of course, the government had confidence in him—but it became evident important information was being leaked from a very high source. Had been for some time. Prime stuff, too. Now it turns out that Reggie hadn’t left the KGB at all. Even had ties into the Abwehr years ago.” Laggart pushed his glasses back to emphasize his next point. “Even some talk around that he’s the bloody Druid—the German spy you could never quite get your hands on.”
“The Druid?” said Hendricks in disbelief. His last mission from MI-5 had been to track down the Druid. It was the one mission at which he had failed. “I can’t believe that anyone would care anymore,” he added. “My God, the Nazis are long gone. Of what possible interest can the Druid be now?”
Sir Blair was about to reply when there was a knock at the door and servants began bringing in their dinner. The two old friends seated themselves at the table and began to eat.
“Of what value is the Druid now?” mused Sir Blair, waving a chop at him. “Well, for one thing, the Druid would possess unique information. Data, Hank, data. Information has become the new international tender. It’s more liquid than gold, and sounder than the dollar.” Laggan raised an eyebrow. “And I’ll tell you something, Hank, old man. Hitler was a prophet in that regard. Had a tremendous respect for data. As you know, there are a great many mysteries about those last days of the war. The Third Reich’s emergency fund—all in diamonds and gold. What happened to it? And, it has also been rumored that Hitler and Goebbels left exacting orders—on microfilm—about how their successor should rebuild the German Empire. Goebbels himself said they were planning for the year 2,000—not 1940. And that awful Bormann, Hitler’s second—no one really knows what happened to him. Data, Hank, data. Hitler knew what it would someday mean to the world.”
“Quite right.” Hendricks smiled. “Corporal Hitler knew and so, obviously, did you, Laggy. You stayed in the business.”
“A bit of luck, that,” Sir Blair said modestly. “My corporation does basically the same thing we used to do for MI-5, Hank, but now we do it for private enterprise and governments. Very little of the old cloak-and-dagger stuff, though. You won’t find me down in any bunkers eliminating Russians with ice needles, or liberating any Iron Crosses.” Laggan raised his eyebrows comically. “Still, we have our moments. Some of them quite exciting.”
Hendricks was silent for a moment, deep in thought. “Yes,” he said finally. “I understand.” Then, looking up and smiling warmly, Hendricks began without preamble his story about Fister Corporation. He gave him the background information
clearly and concisely, omitting only the incidents with the assassin, Renard, and the Cockney punk.
Laggan listened carefully, asking appropriate questions.
When Hendricks had finished, Sir Blair dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “And that’s all you want me to do, Hank? Build an electronic folder on you that will convince this Blake Fister person you are an international financier?”
“Quite right,” said Hendricks. “And, of course, I would also like to find out how to get into his inner circle. If I can gain his confidence as a very wealthy investor, then we can work from the inside out. But I understand he is quite careful about whom he will see.”
Laggan shrugged. “I know nothing about the man, but I will have a computer search done on him. I’ll have my private secretary, Mary Kay, do it. Wonderful girl, bright as a new penny. Do you remember my old batman, Sergeant Mooney? A wild Irish rebel, that. Mary Kay is his daughter. Does all my private research.”
“She’s discreet?”
“Absolutely,” Laggan said. “I’ll have her cross-check all references until, I don’t doubt, we will have a very full dossier on him. From that, we should get leads enough to track the fellow down. Contriving a folder on you, Hank, will be no problem at all. We will, of course, have to fix you with a nom de plume.”
“I don’t want to get you into any trouble, Laggy.”
Sir Blair tossed his napkin on the table, then removed a long, thin cigar from a polished box. “Nonsense, Hank!” he insisted. “I don’t want to blow my own whistle, but really, I’ve become something of an authority on moving and manipulating information. I’ve always done it honestly—true. But this one indiscretion should be permitted.” He lighted the cigar and exhaled blue smoke. “After all, we worked very hard together during the war.”
Hendricks nodded. “We did indeed, Laggy.”
Sir Blair Laggan stood and held out his hand. “I only wish I could do more for you, Hank. Nothing’s too good for my old friends—that’s what I always say. We should have you rough and ready in about … twenty-four hours?”
“That soon?”
The Englishman smiled. “Sooner, probably.”
Hendricks found his bowler and umbrella, then stopped at the door. “There is one more thing, Laggy. That business about Reggie Collins interests me. I feel a bit silly admitting it, but the Druid affair has always been a bit of a bee in my bonnet—failed mission and all. Where are they keeping the scoundrel?”
Sir Blair’s face showed surprise. “You want to see him?”
Hendricks’s manner was off-hand. “Oh, if I get the time and it’s not too far.”
“Quite a distance, I’m afraid, Hank,” Laggan said, puffing his cigar reflectively. “A maximum security prison. The Queen’s best. But it’s in Ireland. The north of Ireland. Near a little Atlantic village called Loughros Moor.”
Hendricks tapped the bowler on his head. “Too bad, then. I guess I’ll just have to consider the case closed.”
fourteen
New York
When the three shots shattered the window above him, James Hawker came up on one knee and held the Ingram submachine gun on automatic fire, spraying the darkness with 9mm slugs.
A man’s scream pierced the chain-rattle thunk of the Ingram’s silencer, and—suddenly—there was light.
Clawing at the wall was a man Hawker had never seen before. The man had somehow hit the overhead light switch in his agonized writhing. Blood outlined his handmarks on the wall. A large scarlet bubble had formed on his lips. Three black holes in his chest marked the Ingram’s deadly pattern.
The man’s dark eyes were empty, staring into Hawker’s. The bubble on his lips burst. “You …” he said in a strangled voice. “You.…”
Hawker calmly stood, ejected the spent clip, and jammed a fresh load into the little submachine gun. He watched the man idly, waiting for him to finish his last sentence.
But the man died with his thought unfinished, the unspoken words lost in the glassy stare of death as he crumpled to the floor.
Hawker nudged the corpse out of the doorway with his foot. He peered out into the dark hall. From the stairwell came the sound of voices. Men’s voices:
“Barney—what the hell’s going on up there?”
Hawker trotted back to the shattered window and looked out. A half-dozen more men stood in the alley, blocking his escape. They had found the three corpses.
One of the men saw Hawker at the window and snapped off a quick shot. The slug ricocheted off the wall of the building, stinging Hawker’s face with shards of brick. Hawker wiped the sting away, feeling the blood warm on his hand.
He didn’t give the man a chance to shoot twice.
He brought the Ingram to his hip and sprayed the narrow alley. The man who had shot at him took one step as if to run, but the 9mm slugs cut his legs from beneath him. His hands beat madly on the pavement, and then he went suddenly still.
The other men either turned to run or dove for cover—cover that didn’t exist.
None of them made it.
One by one, the Ingram chopped through their bodies. For Hawker, who held the Ingram, it was like touching them with an electric probe. They jerked and jolted, and died with the screams on their lips.
Once again Hawker punched the empty clip free and slid a fresh thirty-two rounds into the smoking weapon.
There could be no running from this fight. He had fought his way in, and now he would damn well have to fight his way out again.
Or die trying.
Lieutenant Scott Callis had said it best. The goons who inhabited this building—men who killed to finance their drug habits, or killed for the sick pleasure of inflicting pain—didn’t deserve the benefits of a benevolent judicial system.
They lived like rabid animals, and they should be hunted like such.
Hawker had just declared war on them.
It was a war only one could walk away from.
And Hawker was determined that he would be the only one to walk away.
There was no doubt they had him trapped. But there was one thing he couldn’t afford—to be caught in a crossfire. Somehow he had to keep his rear covered.”
Hawker quickly dug into his canvas knapsack and produced a sausage-sized roll of C-4, military plastic explosive. He broke off a baseball-size chunk of it and molded it to the shattered window. Then he took a detonator attached to a D-size flashlight battery and a blasting cap. Hawker stuck the blasting cap into the C-4 and ran the wire across the open window.
Anyone who tried to climb through that window would get the surprise of his very, very short life.
Hawker trotted back to the dark hallway.
The voices downstairs were louder now, and there were heavy footsteps echoing in the stairwell. Hawker waited until the first figure appeared at the second-floor junction of the stairs, then cracked off three careful shots with the Ingram. A short, fat man screamed and grabbed his chest as his stub-nosed revolver was catapulted into the wall behind him. The man grabbed the handrail, then tumbled over it. He landed with a sickening thud on the bottom floor.
From below, an enraged voice yelled out, “We don’t know who you are, motherfucker, but you’re dead. You got that! You … are … dead!”
Hawker couldn’t resist. “Talk’s cheap,” he taunted with a laugh.
When he was sure they weren’t going to try another charge up the stairs, Hawker moved down the hallway to the other side of the building. As he suspected, there was another fire-escape ladder there. The moment he pressed his face against the window to get a look into the second alley, the Mafia goons below opened fire.
Hawker got his head back just in time.
From his knapsack, he took out a pint container of Astrolite, the liquid military mine explosive. Hawker had used it before. It was easy to carry, easier to use, and, best of all, it could only be detected by specially trained military dogs.
Hawker doubted if this band of Mafia killers had access to s
uch a dog.
Hawker squirted the entire pint in the hall between the stairs and the second fire escape.
If he didn’t have to use it, it would lose its effectiveness after four days and be completely harmless.
But Hawker hoped they gave him reason to use it.
He returned to the window of the second fire escape and drew more fire but purposely did not return it.
When he heard the first sound of someone pulling himself up onto the ladder, he ducked back down the hall and stopped at the stairwell.
“Hey, down there,” he yelled. “I’m ready to negotiate. You hear me?”
“Yeah, we hear you, asshole,” a gravelly voice called back. “And as far as I’m concerned, you got nothing to negotiate except how you die.”
Hawker tried to give his voice just the right touch of desperation. “You got no reason to kill me, buddy. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll tell you who sent me—in exchange for my life. That’s fair, isn’t it? Look, I’ve got enough hardware up here to blow you bastards to kingdom come. But there’s no sense—”
“You’re bluffing, asshole!” retorted the voice. “You’re just about out of ammo, aren’t you? And now you’re whining for your life. It ain’t gonna wash, dumb fuck. We’re coming up there, and when we get done, you’re going to beg us to kill you.”
Sure now that the trap had been set, Hawker retreated to a room at the rear of the building. He switched on the overhead light and forced the window. The window opened into a dead-air space between the Mafia headquarters and the building behind it.
Hawker had hoped to find a ledge there, but there was none. He was about to return to the stairs and fight it out, when he noticed an attic door set into the ceiling. He climbed up on a chair and pushed the door back. It opened into a space between the third floor and the roof.
Deadly in New York Page 7
