Dirty Work

by Stuart Woods

  She was surprised to find that she was hungry, and she sat down and began lifting dish covers, dropping them on the floor.

  “Sleep well?”

  “Yes, but not long enough,” Carpenter replied. “You?”

  “Like a top. The sofa was quite comfortable.”

  “Mason, have you ever been uncomfortable in your entire life?” she asked. Wherever they went, Mason always seemed to bring along his father’s campaign furniture, or a down sleeping bag, or a portable bar.

  “Not since the Army,” Mason replied thoughtfully.

  She knew he had served in the SAS, the Special Air Services, Britain’s toughest commando outfit. “Describe to me a single occasion when the Army managed to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Northern Ireland,” he said after a moment’s thought. “I was in Londonderry, keeping an eye on a house where we thought one of those Real IRA chaps might turn up. It was raining, and my Land Rover had a leaky canvas top, and the rain kept dribbling down my neck. Oddly enough, I was more comfy after the bomb went off. I was upside down, but the canvas top was more comfortable if you were lying on top of it, with the vehicle over you. It didn’t leak that way.”

  “Oh,” she said. She took a big bite of eggs with a little kipper. “Had any overnight reports?”

  Mason paused for a moment, then assumed a more somber mien. “Tinker is dead,” he said, “and Thatcher is in hospital, a couple of blocks from here, at Lenox Hill.”

  Carpenter swallowed hard and put down her fork. “She got both of them?”

  “Well, she got Tinker. She didn’t quite get Thatcher, if you see what I mean. He’s still alive.”

  “How did she do it?”

  “Ice pick, apparently. You can still buy them at ironmongers’ here. Did you know that?”

  “I did not.” She thanked God that her firm did not require that she write letters to the families of those killed on duty. “So La Biche went back to the Harvey flat after all?”

  “It would seem so.” Mason sat down and began to eat. “Funny thing,” he said. “I’m ravenous, in spite of the news.”

  “It’s a psychological thing,” she said. “Relief to be alive when others are dead instills a feeling of well-being, increasing the appetite. It’s why people bring food to the families of the deceased. I feel a little hungry, myself.” She began eating again.

  “You’re out of the Lowell,” Mason said. “Where do you want your things sent?”

  She gave him Stone’s address.

  “Think that’s a good idea?”

  “I haven’t got a better one at the moment. How am I getting out of here?”

  “We’ve got hold of a fishmonger’s van. It will pull into the garage downstairs in . . .” He consulted his wristwatch. “ . . . fifty minutes. The fish will come out, and you’ll go in, and the van will proceed to the Waldorf, where you and more fish will be delivered. You’ll change to a taxi there, to go . . . wherever you want to go.”

  “All right,” she said.

  “I hope you don’t mind the smell of fish.”

  “I can stand it as far as the Waldorf. Has anybody talked to Thatcher?”

  “Oh, yes. He remembers very little, just the pain. He never saw her coming. Are we going to tell our policemen friends about the Harvey woman?”

  “I have already done so,” Carpenter replied. “Lieutenant Bacchetti’s people will swarm over her flat at mid-morning.”

  “They’re going to find fuck-all,” Mason said, stabbing at a sausage.

  “I’ve already told Dino that, but they have to go through the motions. I wouldn’t be shocked if they found signs of Tinker and Thatcher’s being there. They were obviously not up to this one.”

  “I wouldn’t be too hard on them,” Mason said. “This woman is quite . . . extraordinary. What were your impressions of her when you met her at Clarke’s?”

  “I’ll tell you, if you won’t tell anybody else.”

  “All right.”

  “She was good—so good that I didn’t twig until she invited me for coffee somewhere else, which would have been the Harvey flat, I think. I wasn’t actually sure until she got into a cab and followed me here.”

  “Then she is very good, indeed.”

  “She was so ordinary.”

  “That’s what’s extraordinary about her, I suppose,” Mason observed. “Someone who can hunt people down as coldly as that, while seeming so ordinary. You think she has an organization here?”

  “I’d bet she has a name or two to ring up if she needs something, or if things go sour,” Carpenter said. “She’s too good not to have some sort of backup. Did we flag the Harvey passport?”

  Mason stopped eating. “I’m not sure,” he said, sounding guilty.

  “That means you didn’t do it.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Do it now.”

  Mason got up and went to the phone, but it rang before he reached it. He listened for a moment, then held out the phone to Carpenter. “It’s for you.” He rolled his eyes upward, as if to God.

  Carpenter got up and went to the phone. “Yes?”

  “It’s Architect.” Her boss, in London.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “A flight landed at Heathrow this morning with one Virginia Harvey listed on the manifest. “I believe she’s called Ginger?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She got onto the airplane, but she didn’t get off—at least, she didn’t make it to immigration. Her body was found in a ladies’ room off the corridor leading from the gate to baggage claim. Her passport was in her handbag, but the photographs didn’t match the corpse.”

  “They wouldn’t, since they were of a different woman.”

  “Of course, but you’re missing the point.”

  Carpenter sucked in a breath. “I think I just got it,” she said.

  “We’re tracking two other single women who were on the flight,” Architect said. “Both cleared customs and immigration. One has turned up at her London hotel, the other hasn’t been found.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “So it seems we’ve taken her off your hands, for the present, at least.”

  “It would seem so. I’ll be on the next flight.”

  “I think you’re better off in New York at the moment. You and Mason take a few days. I’m sorry about Tinker. I take it Thatcher will be all right in a few days.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll be in touch if there’s news.” He hung up.

  Carpenter replaced the phone in its cradle.

  “What?” Mason asked.

  “La Biche apparently went from killing Tinker and wounding Thatcher straight to Kennedy Airport, took a flight to London, and after leaving it but before reaching baggage claim, murdered another woman, took her purse, and left Ginger Harvey’s in its place. She’s loose in London.”

  “Mmmm,” Mason said. “I suppose I should have flagged the Harvey passport last night.”

  “She thought we wouldn’t move that fast,” Carpenter said. “And she was right.”

  24

  Stone, Dino, Bob Cantor, and Herbie Fisher got off the airplane at Kennedy. Dino flashed his badge at customs, and the moment they were through, Stone felt a handcuff close on his wrist. He looked at it and found Herbie on the other end.

  “I’m not taking any chances,” Dino said.

  “I have to go to the john,” Herbie said.

  “There’s one,” Dino said, pointing. “You two guys have a nice time.”

  “Come on, Dino,” Stone said. “Unlock them.”

  “I’m not taking them off,” Dino said, “unless I cuff both Herbie’s hands behind him, then you can help him in the john. That okay?”

  Stone went into the men’s room with Herbie and waited impatiently while he used the urinal, then they found Dino’s car waiting for them outside and got in. Stone got out his cell phone. Dino got out his own.

  Dino dialed. “Gimme the deputy DA’s office,” he said.r />
  Stone dialed. “Tony,” he said, “are you in court? In ten minutes? I’ve got Herbie, but we’re twenty minutes, half an hour out. Can you stall Judge Kaplan? Do your best. Tell her the subway broke down.” Stone hung up.

  “George?” Dino said, “Dino Bacchetti. . . . Yeah, you too. Listen, I’m going to save you some time: One of your people is dealing with a Herbert Fisher, charged with manslaughter in the Larry Fortescue case. . . . Right, his appearance is in about ten minutes. Thing is, I’ve been reliably informed that Fisher’s fall through the skylight didn’t cause Fortescue’s death. . . . No, he was poisoned, and by a pro, so he was already dead when Fisher hit him. . . . No, I’m not kidding you, I’ve had a look at the autopsy report. . . . From an intelligence source. This thing is real cloak-and-dagger. Also, these people tell me that Fisher actually did them some good, because he took a photograph of the woman who killed Fortescue. . . . Come on, George, could I make this up? . . . What do I want? George, manslaughter sure isn’t going to stick, and, given the help Fisher was to these people, I’d kick the other charges, if I were you. I think it’s better if this just goes away. . . . My interest in this? My interest is keeping egg off my face, and that oughta be your interest, too. . . . Okay, kiddo. Talk to you later.”

  Dino hung up and turned to Stone, who was occupying the backseat with Herbie. “George is going to talk to the ADA on the case. He’s on his way to the courtroom now.”

  “You mean this is all going to go away?” Herbie asked.

  “Shut up, Herbie,” Dino said. “You’re not out of the woods yet. We’ve still got to get you to court before Kaplan realizes you’re not there.”

  “Turn on the siren, Dino,” Stone said.

  Dino turned on the siren. “Not that it makes a hell of a lot of difference at this hour.”

  Twenty minutes later, as the bailiff was calling the State of New York v. Herbert Fisher, Stone walked into the courtroom with Herbie in tow. He turned over Herbie to Tony Levy.

  “What’s happening?” Levy whispered.

  “Keep your mouth shut and let the ADA do the talking,” Stone said.

  “Mr. Levy,” Judge Kaplan said, “I guess you want bail continued?”

  Levy was about to open his mouth when the ADA, a short woman in a bad suit, spoke up. “Your Honor, this office is dropping all charges against Mr. Fisher at this time.”

  Kaplan looked at the young woman askance. “You’re dropping murder two? What’s going on here?”

  “This office has learned that the victim died of other causes before Mr. Fisher, ah, intruded on the scene.”

  “Well, I never,” Kaplan said.

  “Neither did I, Judge,” the ADA replied, “but our information is from a reliable source.”

  “Okay, Mr. Fisher, you’re off the hook. Bail will be refunded.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Levy said. He walked Herbie back to the rear of the courtroom where Stone was waiting. “How did you pull that one off, Stone?” he asked.

  “You don’t want to know,” Stone replied.

  Levy pulled Stone aside. “I believe you owe me five big ones,” he said.

  “No, five is your fee for lying to a judge. You didn’t have to do that. I’ll send you a grand today.” He grabbed Herbie and walked him out of the courtroom, leaving Levy to wonder what had just happened.

  “Well,” Herbie said, “I’m outta here.”

  “Yes, you are,” Stone said. “And if you breathe a word of what Dino told the DA to anybody at all, including your mother, you’re going to find yourself back in this courtroom.”

  “Jesus, I love this cloak-and-dagger stuff,” Herbie said. “Tell me what happened in that apartment that night.”

  “Herbie,” Stone said, “if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  “You gonna have some more work for me soon?” Herbie asked.

  “No, Herbie, I’m not.”

  “Why not? This one worked out okay, didn’t it?”

  “No, Herbie, it didn’t. You nearly went to prison, and you nearly cost me a quarter of a million dollars.”

  “But it worked out okay. Nobody got hurt.”

  “That’s not what I call working out okay,” Stone said, “and you’ll never know how close you came to getting hurt by me.”

  “I’ll give you a ring next week and see what you’ve got for me,” Herbie said hopefully.

  “Herbie, if I ever see or hear from you again, I’m going to have a word with the people who dealt with what happened in that apartment, and they’re going to make sure that you never give anybody a ring again.”

  Herbie gulped. “You mean . . .”

  Stone nodded gravely. “If I were you, I’d be on the next flight to Saint Thomas, and I’d never come back to New York.”

  Herbie backed away from him, nodding, then he turned and ran.

  Stone hoped the kid could get to the airport without his help.

  25

  Marie-Thérèse was awakened at three in the afternoon by the housekeeper. She was in a safe house for a Middle Eastern intelligence service, in Hampstead, a north London suburb.

  “He’s here,” the woman said.

  “I’ll be down in five minutes,” M-T said. She took a quick shower and, her hair still wet, dressed in Ginger Harvey’s good suit and went down to the dining room, which had been turned into an operations center. Abdul, as he was code-named, sat at a desk, reading his e-mail on a laptop computer. There were three other computers in the room, along with a high-frequency radio and two satellite phones. There was also equipment for encoding messages, plus a special recording device for creating short-burst transmissions that could be transmitted, then expanded by anyone who had the codes and proper equipment.

  Abdul looked up from the laptop. “I take it you had to leave New York in a hurry?”

  “I had to go before they called in the local authorities. There would have been too many people looking for me. I made sure they knew I left the country.”

  “And now?”

  “And now I want to go back, preferably today. I need very good cover, and I hope you can help.”

  “You’re in luck,” Abdul said, “but you can’t leave until tomorrow.”

  “How will I do it?”

  “We are infiltrating a young couple into the States. They’re married and have a young child.” He went into a briefcase beside him and took out two passports, handing her one.

  “We don’t look at all alike,” she said.

  “I’ll put your photograph into her passport now. She’ll travel on the same flight with another passport. You’ll carry the child and sit with the husband.”

  “I like it,” M-T said, smiling. “They won’t expect me back so soon, especially not with a child.”

  “Are you sure you want to go back now?”

  M-T nodded. “Yes, I have unfinished business, and they won’t be looking for me since they know I’ve left the country.”

  “You’re very bold,” Abdul said, smiling.

  “Sometimes boldness works best.”

  Abdul handed her a package. “You’ll need to dye your hair black before I take your new passport photo. Better get started. You’ll find some women’s clothes in a cupboard upstairs. Find something suitable.”

  “What time is my flight tomorrow?”

  “Eleven a.m., British Airways. You’ll arrive in New York around two, what with the time change. What else will you need? Weapons?”

  M-T shook her head. “I couldn’t carry them onto an airplane these days.”

  “It can be done,” Abdul said, “but we prefer to save that for special occasions.”

  “I have sufficient resources in New York, but I could use a couple of passports.”

  “All right, but we’ll have to send them via diplomatic pouch to our UN embassy. I’ll give you a contact there.”

  “Good.”

  “How many people did you kill in New York?” Abdul asked.

  “Three,” she said. “Two of th
em were British intelligence. The other was merely for convenience.”

  Marie-Thérèse was back downstairs in half an hour to have her hair done by the woman of the house, then she was photographed for the new passports, two of them in wigs.

  “It’s good,” she said when she saw the Polaroids.

  Abdul went to work on the passport, deftly removing the old photograph and replacing it with that of M-T. When he was happy with his work he gave her the passport and a few sheets of paper. “This is the woman’s background,” he said. “It’s completely legitimate. She was born in Cairo, studied economics in Paris and London. She’s never been suspected of any involvement with us.”

  “What am I going to owe you for this, Abdul?” M-T asked.

  Abdul smiled. “We have a man in our UN embassy in New York who has been talking to the CIA, taking their money. We’d like him eliminated in an obvious sort of way, then we’ll blame the CIA for his murder. We’ll furnish you with the sort of weapon the agency would use.”

  “Very good,” M-T said.

  “I’ll have the other passports done before you leave. That should square us,” Abdul said.

  Stone arrived back at his house and entered through his outside office door. Joan was working at her desk.

  “Welcome back, boss,” she said. “What did you think of Harborview?”

  “It was wonderful, what little I saw of it. I never slept in my bed, as it happened. The only sleep I got was on a small boat, and it wasn’t comfortable.”

  “Did you get Herbie back?”

  “I did. Herbie’s off the hook, and so am I. Send Tony Levy another thousand dollars today, and send Bill Eggers a bill for my services and for the twenty-five thousand I paid to Irving Newman for Herbie’s bail.”

  “Will do. By the way, your friend Felicity is upstairs, sacked out in your bed. She got here a couple of hours ago, with company: There’s a man in your study and another in the garden, pretending to read a book.”

  “Swell. I need some sack time, myself, so hang on to my phone messages.” He took the elevator upstairs, and as he stepped out of it he felt cold steel on the back of his neck. “I’m Barrington,” he said.