Critical

by Robin Cook

  When noon approached, Adam had decided to return to the OCME for a short stay and had parked in the same location he’d parked that morning. As he’d told himself earlier that morning, he thought the chances of seeing the target over the lunch hour were slim, but he now came prepared. On the seat beside him, he had a rolled-up towel from the Hotel Pierre in the form of a cone and held in place with clear tape. Inside the cone was one of his favorite weapons: a nine-millimeter Beretta fitted with a three-inch-long suppressor. The suppressor’s tip could just be seen at the pointed end of the cone. In the open end, he could insert his hand and seize the automatic pistol’s handgrip. In this fashion, he could use the weapon in public without causing a panic, which it invariably did when it wasn’t so camouflaged. Of course, even with the towel, the amount of time the weapon was out from under his coat was kept to an absolute minimum of only a few seconds.

  With his seat tilted back, his elbows on the armrests, and his hands on his stomach and fingers intertwined, Adam had made himself snugly comfortable, especially with Arthur Rubinstein playing Chopin at a moderate volume on the vehicle’s CD player. The light rain outside added to his tense contentment.

  In contrast to that morning, relative calm prevailed at the corner of First Avenue and 30th Street, except for the traffic, with its incessant thundering medley of city buses, dump trucks, paneled vans, taxis, and private cars heading north. The protesters were gone, as were the police, and there was minimal pedestrian traffic, particularly in and out of the oddly designed OCME.

  Shielded from the hum of the traffic by his vehicle’s impressive soundproofing as well as the CD player, Adam calmly went through a number of possible scenarios in case Laurie Montgomery fooled him and suddenly appeared, preferably alone. Of course, he would immediately step from the car with his borrowed Hotel Pierre towel and close the gap between himself and Miss Montgomery. At that point, he could not predict what would happen, as it would depend on what had transpired between the time he’d left the car and the time he got within striking distance of approximately arm’s length. The variables included passersby, particularly if anyone showed any interest in his activities whatsoever. If all was copacetic, the towel would come out and he’d fire from three feet into the back of the head. He would then calmly return to the Range Rover and motor away, driving directly to the Lincoln Tunnel. He had his belongings in the car, and his handlers would take care of Mr. Bramford’s hotel charges. At least that’s how it had happened on most of Adam’s previous operations.

  In the middle of his musings, Adam, who was continually aware of what was transpiring in his surroundings, noticed in his rearview mirror that the occupants of the blue van that had pulled up behind him were arguing to beat the band. What had caught his attention, besides their mouths going a mile a minute, was that each was rudely stabbing a finger at the other, interspersed with angry waves of dismissal. Since violent arguments were not common in public and because of his line of work, Adam was always sensitive to unexpected behavior. As he watched, the driver made what looked like the final wave of dismissal before opening his door. As the driver tried to climb out, the companion attempted to stop him by grabbing his arm. But it was to no avail. The driver easily shook himself free and alighted from the vehicle. The passenger responded by following suit and leaping out of the van as well.

  Adam had watched this simulated silent movie in his rearview mirror, but suddenly he was aware that the driver had come alongside the Range Rover. Adam turned and stared at him. Adam did not like to be approached while on a mission. It made the possibility of recognition after the fact much more possible.

  Adam noticed two things about the man. First, his extensive scarring from burns and his careful attention to his clothes, which seemed out of place in relation to the condition of the van. Adam’s first thought was that the man was an Iraq veteran like himself. Adam had seen many people with similar burns during his long rehab. The driver then shocked Adam by rapping noisily against the Range Rover’s window.

  There were two choices: Either open the window or just drive away. Just driving away was the most rational, since the hit was now off even if Laurie were to come out, but as curious as Adam was, especially if the man was an Iraq veteran, he opened the window.

  “There’s no parking here, mister,” Angelo snapped vehemently.

  The van’s passenger had joined the driver. He seemed equally angry, not at Adam but at the driver. He even ordered the driver back to the van, but the driver would have none of it.

  “Did you hear me!” Angelo demanded, talking to Adam. Franco threw up his hands in disgust and returned to the van.

  “Are you an Iraq vet?” Adam asked. After the totality of the experience in that nightmarish country and the long process of rehabilitation because of his leg, Adam felt a unique and immediate bonding with anyone who’d suffered similarly.

  “What kind of question is that, you asshole?” Angelo hissed.

  “I thought because of your burns you might have served,” Adam said, controlling himself against taking offense from the man’s rudeness.

  “Are you making fun of me?” Angelo snarled.

  “Quite the contrary. I thought you and I had something in common.”

  Angelo gave a short, derisive laugh. “Listen, fruitcake, I love your music, but I want you to move this trash heap of yours out of here. It’s a no-parking area.”

  “I’m not parking at the moment, I’m standing.”

  “Okay, wise guy,” Angelo growled. “Out of the vehicle.”

  Adam stared at the grotesque man ordering him out of the car. In such a confrontation, Adam had several advantages. First, he truly didn’t care what happened to himself and in many ways wished he’d died with his buddies, and second, his martial arts training had been so intense, he reacted by pure reflex.

  Once again Adam debated. The wise thing for everyone, including the nattily dressed apparent hoodlum and his companion, was for him to drive away, but the problem was that Adam had allowed himself to get angry, and it fused with all the anger he was actively suppressing.

  Adam opened the door and slowly got out. Every muscle in his body was tensed, ready to uncoil.

  Angelo stepped back. Although the blond stranger was more heavily built, Angelo felt he had the trump card. He was, as usual, packing his Walther, and he slipped his hand under the lapel of his jacket and grasped the gun. He wasn’t going to shoot the man. He was just going to pistol-whip him once to get him the hell away from the area.

  The nanosecond that Adam saw the direction of Angelo’s hand movement, he sprang forward with lightning speed, sending a flurry of karate chops that took Angelo by complete and total surprise. The first hit his right forearm, producing an electriclike numbness to Angelo’s hand, causing him to drop his weapon onto the pavement. The second and third landed on Angelo’s head and the side of his neck, causing him to stumble backward but remain on his feet. The final blow was a kick to the chest that hurled him down to the wet pavement.

  With equal speed, Adam snatched up Angelo’s gun and quickly glanced through the van’s windshield at the companion. Luckily, Franco didn’t move, and for a beat he and Adam locked eyes. Adam was concerned he, too, might be armed.

  Adam broke off, backed up, and quickly climbed back into the Range Rover. He started the engine, and then tossed Angelo’s gun out into First Avenue where it was repeatedly run over. He then pulled from the curb and accelerated down First Avenue.

  “HOLY SHIT,” Arthur MacEwan cried. “Did you see that?”

  “I never saw anybody move so quickly,” Ted Polowski said. “It was unbelievable. And look at Angelo. He’s having trouble getting up.”

  “There goes Franco. He’s got the gun.”

  Arthur and Ted had followed Angelo and Franco into Manhattan, and when the two had pulled up behind the silver Range Rover and parked, Arthur and Ted had gone around the block and pulled over to the curb at a hydrant on 30th Street. From there, they had a good view of t
he blue van, and they settled in for what they thought might be a long wait. But it turned out not to be the case. Almost immediately, a white van pulled up behind the blue one, and Ted, who knew most of the Lucia people, recognized Richie Herns as the driver. And then it was only a few minutes later that Angelo had bounded out of his vehicle to confront the guy in the Range Rover.

  Still shaking his head over what he had just witnessed, Arthur called Carlo, who, along with Brennan, was having lunch with the boss, Louie. “You’ll never believe what we just saw,” he said excitedly. He then went on to describe the shellacking Angelo had just suffered from a guy in a Range Rover who Angelo had tried to pick a fight with. “You would not believe how fast this guy was,” Arthur continued excitedly. “Angelo didn’t stand a chance. Angelo even pulled a gun, but the guy knocked it out of his hand, then threw it out into the street. I’m telling you, it was unbelievable.”

  “Where are you?”

  “We’re across the street from the city morgue in Manhattan.”

  “City morgue?” Carlo questioned “Why the hell the city morgue?

  “We don’t have the foggiest idea.”

  “Why did Angelo pick a fight?”

  “No clue about that, either.”

  “Is Angelo okay?”

  “I think so. He’s walking a little strange, but he’s getting into the blue van just now.”

  “Hang on,” Carlo said. “Let me tell Louie about this.”

  Arthur could hear Carlo relate the story, and Louie’s bewildered reaction.

  Carlo came back on the line. “Louie wants to know if you recognized the guy.”

  “No,” Arthur said. “But his Range Rover had the name of a business called Bieder-something Heaven.”

  “Any phone number or address?”

  “We couldn’t see from where we were. The lettering was too small, but there was several more lines of print.”

  “Do you know if Franco is there as well?”

  “Oh, yeah! He’s here. He tried to stop Angelo from bothering the guy, and after the scuffle, he went out and got Angelo’s gun from the middle of the street. Oh, one other thing. There’s a second van, too, parked just behind Angelo and Franco’s. Whoa, Angelo’s started the blue van. I’m going to have to sign off here. Nope! False alarm! Angelo just pulled up a car length to be on the corner, and Richie’s pulling up behind him. There’s someone else in Richie’s van, but we don’t know who it is. Should one of us walk over there and check it out?”

  “No! Absolutely not. They don’t expect anyone to be watching, and we don’t want them to have any reason to believe so. Hold on again. Let me tell Louie the rest of this weird story.”

  Once again, Arthur could hear Carlo relate the details, but he couldn’t hear Louie’s responses. Carlo came back on the line. “Louie said you’re doing a good job. He wants you to stay with them. Later this afternoon, Brennan and I will come over and relieve you.”

  “Sounds good,” Arthur said.

  CARLO PUT HIS phone back in his jacket pocket and looked across at Louie. Louie stared back. His fleshy face was scrunched together, his brow deeply knitted. It was obvious he was deep in thought. Carlo and Brennan knew enough to stay silent and eat their pasta.

  Finally, Louie broke the silence and took the napkin away from his neck where he’d poked it under his collar. “I don’t understand any of this, but what I do understand is that it’s got to stop. They are acting weird to say the least, knocking people off and brawling in broad daylight on a Manhattan street. And what’s this about the city morgue?”

  Carlo and Brennan knew Louie well enough not to respond until Louie directly asked them a question. Louie had always had a propensity to think out loud. As Louie heaved his considerable bulk out of the chair and began to pace, Carlo and Brennan exchanged a glance, wondering what was coming.

  Louie wandered over to the bar, continuing his dialogue. After mindlessly playing with a shot glass full of toothpicks for several minutes, he came back to the table. “You guys are sure there was no company at the Trump Tower that you recognized when you stopped there this morning?”

  Carlo and Brennan both shook their heads.

  “Get a phone book!” Louie ordered Brennan. Dutifully, Brennan left his seat to bring a phone book to the table. “Try to look up Bieder-something Heaven!” Louie ordered when Brennan returned.

  Louie looked at Carlo. “If they keep up this irresponsible behavior, we’re going to have the entire NYPD out here on our backs sooner or later. What do you think?”

  Carlo nodded. Since he was asked a specific question, he said, “They are taking big chances, so it must be important business.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking. I mean, that detective came all the way out here to warn us.”

  “Nothing in the phone book,” Brennan reported.

  “I didn’t think there would be,” Louie said. “Not with a guy who could handle Angelo Facciolo so easily. The name’s undoubtedly a cover.”

  “Do you think they could have been waiting at the city morgue for the same thing?” Brennan asked, risking putting in his own two cents. “I mean, why would Angelo pick a fight with someone in broad daylight unless there was competition or some sort of existing bad feelings?”

  “Good thought, “Louie said. “I’m glad we’re watching them. I’d like to know what’s going on, but if they knock off someone else, I’m going to let that detective know we’re not involved.”

  AFTER THE ADRENALINE rush evoked by Angelo, it took Adam a while to calm down, but by the time he arrived at the hotel, he was composed enough to think clearly about the unfortunate and totally unexpected incident. Although nothing untoward had happened, it still could if someone had observed the altercation and had called the police with a description of Adam’s Range Rover. Consequently, Adam was disappointed in himself for not having driven off immediately. He certainly did not get any secondary gain from the useless confrontation—in fact, quite the contrary.

  “Will you be needing your car soon, Mr. Bramford?” the doorman said, opening Adam’s driver’s-side door.

  “No, thank you,” Adam said as he alighted. He specifically wanted the car put into the garage.

  Adam went up to his room. He needed to make a call and did not want to use his cell. He wanted a landline. One of the fallouts of his one-sided fight was a reluctance to return to the OCME area for fear of again running into the smartly dressed thug.

  Seated at a desk in the changing room of his junior suite, Adam placed his call. The protocol was for him to ask for a fictitious individual by the name of Charles Palmer and then be given another number to call. Once he had the second number, he’d leave his direct-dial number. At that point, he had to wait. The return call usually came within a minute.

  There was no small talk when Adam spoke to one of his handlers. “I’m in need of a home address,” he said, without reference even to a name. Adam didn’t have to question if the information could or could not be obtained. With his handlers’ access to the highest levels of government, it was always available.

  “We will have it in a few minutes. You’ll have it on your BlackBerry.”

  That was it. Adam pressed the disconnect button on the phone and then called room service. He thought he’d have lunch before heading over to his second-favorite attraction in New York City: the natural history museum.

  “HOW WAS I to know he’d be a karate expert,” Angelo snapped back.

  “That’s not the point,” Franco said. “The point is you didn’t think, and when you don’t think, you make mistakes. Luckily nothing drastic happened.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. I feel like I got run over by a truck; my chest hurts, and so does the side of my neck.”

  “Consider your bruises as a warning to keep your cool. I’ve never seen you like this, Angelo. You’re just too damn eager. As I said to Vinnie, you’re juiced up something awful.”

  “You’d be juiced up if the broad had burned your face
such that you look like a freak.”

  “You said that, I didn’t.”

  “What did you do with my gun?”

  “It’s here under my seat,” Franco said. He took out the scratched handgun and handed it to Angelo. Angelo looked it over carefully. He removed the clip, made sure there was no bullet in the chamber, then pulled the trigger several times. The mechanism worked smoothly. “It seems okay.”

  “It might be a good idea to fire it a couple of times to be sure.”

  Angelo nodded as he pushed the clip back into the base of the butt.

  “You haven’t answered the question I asked you earlier,” Franco said. “Are you going to be able to control yourself? Otherwise, I’m going to send you home for a few days. Mark my word! I’ll take care of Montgomery myself.”

  “Yeah,” Angelo said irritably. “I’ll control myself! Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten out of the van, but at least I got rid of the SUV, which was blocking our view.”

  “At too great a risk, I might add. I mean, you understand that, don’t you?”

  “I do now. I suppose.”

  “From now on, I want everything done my way until we get her on the boat. Then I don’t care what you do. Apparently, Vinnie likes your cement shoes idea. That’s fine. I couldn’t care less if you and Vinnie want some payback beyond just whacking her. But I don’t want any more reckless behavior. Are we on the same page here or what?”

  “Yeah, we’re on the same page,” Angelo said.

  “Look at me!”

  Angelo reluctantly glanced over at Franco.

  “Say it again.”

  “We’re on the same fucking page,” Angelo repeated irritably.

  “Good,” Franco said. “We got that cleared up. Now let’s go get some lunch. Montgomery’s not being cooperative. We’ll have to come back and try to get her when she leaves tonight.”

  21

  APRIL 4, 2007

  3:05 P.M.