Simon pulled out and unfolded the sheet showing a grainy image. It had undergone a fair amount of magnification, but it was still clear enough to get a sense of the guy. Tall, muscular, dark hair, maybe a slight beard.
“I assume you’ve tried facial recognition?” Simon asked.
“It’s happening now, but the image may be too degraded. I was told it would be slow going, trawling through millions of faces. Hoping, though. A lot of cops want to get a hold of this guy. We’ll find him eventually.”
Simon handed the photo to Cat with a raised eyebrow. She nodded. They’d send it on to Martin and try facial recognition in their own database.
“I appreciate the NYPD has a large anti-terror footprint, Jerry, but I’m sure we can add some effort too.”
“Knock yourselves out.”
“Anything else?”
“Not right now. I’m risking my job and probably pension even sharing this much with you. I’m doing it only because there’s something the NYPD is missing. I’m not sure your explanation would fly with them…but let’s say I’m crazy enough to be half-convinced.”
“Definitely helpful, Jerry. I appreciate it.” Simon shook Vandenberg’s hand.
The cop held Simon’s hand tightly. “Listen, Padre, I expect you to share if you happen to find out something about this guy before we do. Got it?”
“Absolutely, Jerry.” Simon squeezed back until the cop’s eyes widened just a fraction, then he let go.
Vandenberg made a wry face, but was nothing but charming when Cat offered her slim hand. “Miss, uh, Galassi?”
“Yes, thank you, Detective Vandenberg.”
He seemed to glow for a second, then they left him in the diner, and headed back to the car.
“Definitely an asset, you are, Cat,” Simon said. “I doubt he would have budged without you there. Or given me this photo.”
She smiled. “Drop me off at your safe place and I’ll get this sent out to Martin. Maybe we’ll have luck first.”
The car had a parking ticket on it. Simon smirked. “Jerry will take care of it.”
“If you think so.”
Chapter 63
Midtown Manhattan
New York City
She had taken her time. It was her day off from Alberto’s and she wasn’t scheduled at any other of her two other jobs. She had lain in bed, that soft and luxurious bed on which Simon had made love to her for so long, and then she’d stretched languorously before getting up to use the expansive bathroom for both a shower and bath.
It was almost as large as her entire place! Add a large television and she could easily live in there. But the bedroom was pretty great, too. That walk-through closet—filled with clothes that smelled like Simon, of course. And downstairs she found a gorgeous long living room with comfortable leather furniture, and a narrow but awesome kitchen next to it. The metal staircase cut into both rooms slightly, creating interesting angles and white wooden storage cubbies underneath.
She’d made herself a light salad for lunch, then she had wandered around, surveying, taking in the essence of Simon, who was some sort of playboy but not the annoying, snobbish, asshole kind. She could tell he didn’t live here—a love nest?—because it was just too neat. It was well-maintained and dust-free, but it seemed hardly used.
Lissy lay on the creamy beige sofa and dreamed of being allowed to live here forever. She would need to add some bookshelves—she loved to read—because there was only a small bookcase at one end of the living room. It held art and architecture books, a few volumes on classic cars, and some history books that seemed to span the centuries. Pretty eclectic, and another sign that Simon spent little time here—although when she opened some volumes at random she found that his neat hand had notated page after page. In fact, every book she checked had been thus disfigured with notes. Apparently he had plenty of time to read and study.
What kind of a playboy reads? Or makes notes in history books?
Apparently Simon did…
Oh, to be able to live here.
She couldn’t help daydreaming about it, and thinking back to how they had made love over and over, neither one tiring of the other or wanting to break the connection. She remembered the feel of his touch on her skin—his fingers, light but powerful, and his lips, soft and sensual. His tongue—
She had to stop, she was working herself up. Starting to hope he would return soon.
He hadn’t told her to leave or clear out, as most of her occasional hook-ups did. Bastards, they always wanted to delve into her depths, but then they acted as if they’d learned all they needed to know. Fortunately she had a core group of friends and lovers who made the assholes much easier to dismiss.
She climbed upstairs and headed to the huge bathroom again, planning to use the facilities and do her make-up, and then write Simon a sexy note and take her leave, hoping that not being clingy would score some points with him.
Later, when she was done with her face and checking to make sure she hadn’t left a mess, she was startled to hear keys at the door.
Simon was back!
She flew down the stairs, smiling widely, but stopped short when she was at the door.
It stood open, but there was no one there.
“Simon?” she said. A shadow crossed the doorway, and then another. And another.
Lissy screamed.
And then the nightmare began.
Chapter 64
Edificio Nuovo, Comitato per Interventi
Vatican City, Rome
Martin watched Ferro driving his craft high above Manhattan, following the camera feed as Simon picked up Caterina and drove over the bridge to Queens and—a diner? The highly detailed maps overlaid on the camera view allowed them to identify most buildings by name or function.
This restaurant was near the location of the second bombing, which the NYPD was attributing to terrorism. Martin agreed with Simon’s theory that it was just the assassins closing the book on any and all witnesses—especially since the guest in the so-called safe house was the only surviving witness of the statue’s unearthing.
Simon’s photos of his most recent attackers—all dead, unfortunately—had led to nothing much as yet but were now in the system.
“Bring that up,” Martin had requested as they watched Simon picking up Caterina. “Damn that childish man!” he muttered as the auto came into focus. “It’s another flashy sports car. So much for remaining invisible…”
Having been familiarized with Pound’s biographical sketch, Ferro allowed himself to interject, “Sir, perhaps he’s using his visibility to draw them out…” Seeing the Director’s glower, Ferro fell silent.
Martin sighed—as he often did, dealing with Simon Pound. “Perhaps he is just a petulant child who has never outgrown toys.” He hated that even he could detect more than a hint of jealousy in his own tone.
They’d followed the tiny black two-seater into Queens, through the maze of streets, back to that diner where Simon had first engaged one on one with the police detective. Martin watched for trouble as Ferro expertly kept the drone out of sight. The couple parked a distance from the questionable dining establishment—not exactly a Roman trattoria, was it?—and walked back.
“Inspect the bombing damage,” Martin instructed. Ferro zoomed in on the building’s destroyed corner. Numerous police vehicles were evident. “Pull back.”
Finally Simon and Caterina re-emerged and headed for the car. Martin kept the eye in the sky on the diner. When a single male in a blue jacket also left, he said, “Follow him.”
Their target tailed Simon and Caterina until they reached the Alfa. He ducked into a storefront entrance until they drove away. Afterwards he stepped out and watched as they turned the corner. Then he returned to the damaged building and entered.
“Interesting,” Martin muttered.
Chapter 65
Midtown Manhattan
New York City
After driving into the stately old building’s underground p
arking and leaving the Alfa, they elevatored up to the floor above Simon’s smaller loft. They’d walk down the stairs in case someone was watching the elevator.
Simon suddenly thought bringing Cat here might have been a mistake. He hoped Lissy had left already, although he had enjoyed her company greatly.
Awkward moments weren’t his preference when it came to his many relationships—he managed to avoid them by being careful and open. Sure, Lissy was an impulse hook-up (as she would say), but she had turned out to be a tender and vivacious lover and he was already planning a repeat. More pizzas at Alberto’s were certainly in his future.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Cat said.
“Not worth even that much.”
And then there’s Cat.
His Caterina. His heart ached, having to look at her and not be able to touch.
The elevator doors opened. Simon held Cat back, waiting. His SIG at his side but ready, he checked both sides of the corridor with a quick flick of his head.
Empty.
Definitely worth doing this, he thought. His enemies were pressing hard and it was obvious they’d been targeted because he was perhaps the only Western agent who could stand in their way.
Whoever they were.
As long as they were willing to die for their cause or their leader or whatever reward they’d been promised here or hereafter—even willing to die horrible deaths at their own hands—then there would be little chance of tracking them to their lair like the ants they were.
Maybe Vandenberg would have some luck with the facial recognition search, or maybe the VSS would. With more luck they might trace the man’s whereabouts and connect him to—to something, anything.
Cat’s phone buzzed.
“Text,” she said. “Has to be Martin.”
“Good old M.”
“You know he doesn’t like that, right?”
“That’s what makes it fun, Mish Moneypenny!” he Conneryed.
“He wants us to meet someone lined up by one of our New York people. Name of Walton. You know him?”
Simon was still checking blue doorways ahead and behind as they walked slowly to the closed staircase door. “No, but I’ve heard one of ours here is doubling with Mossad.”
“That’s him, I think,” she said, reading further.
“Who’s he lining up?”
“Martin thinks it’s the Florida treasure divers. They’re targets and they’ve escaped a couple attempts, maybe more.”
“Impressive. How?”
“The guy’s ex-military. A Ranger.”
“Ah, they bit off more than they could chew. Nice.”
“Maybe.”
Simon kept an eye out for any movement, but the hallway was characteristically quiet, one of the reasons he liked having this place. He was amused to think how many lofts and condos and bachelor pads he owned all over New York, not to mention a few suburban homes, places he could use with one identity or another. All maintained through various management companies, thanks to his limitless funds. While some were in unsavory districts as opposed to the more posh residences, this building was a gem of gentrification—its lofts owned by both celebrities and less public figures such as hedge fund managers and Wall Street execs.
They went into the staircase after Simon checked it, up and down. One flight down they stepped into an identical corridor except all the apartment doors were red.
“I see a red door and I want it painted black,” he quoted, smirking.
Suddenly, he held his hand up to hold her back, his SIG at the ready.
“Shit.”
One red door was ajar.
It was his door.
Chapter 66
Cairo International Airport
Cairo, Egypt
They had loaded the small crate in the Dassault Falcon 5X that bore the Kessler Tower logo, securing it in the cargo compartment located just below the port side engine cowling.
Jill Harris had supervised the local crew, then sent Yusef back out to the office to pay them. Each man had received an empty envelope, then a bullet to the forehead.
Clean, simple, foolproof.
Yusef was a good worker. He had simplified their traverse from the Valley of the Kings to Cairo International, knowing just how to handle the stepped-up security of the Egyptian military and police, as ever on constant guard against yet another coup attempt. They navigated checkpoints with documents Yusef had provided, and the high-wheeled truck was waved through.
She’d been worried, though. In addition to Kessler’s disgusting statue, she was making off with a few treasures of her own, some tasteful pieces for her penthouse. Removing antiquities from Egypt was exponentially more difficult than removing gold from Fort Knox—back when gold mattered, anyway—and she had been uncharacteristically unsure of herself. But Kessler’s wealth and name had cleared the way, the wealth supplying the appropriate baksheesh (or whatever they called bribes here) and the name frightening those who knew Kessler was a vengeful bastard. Those additional items were also crated and secured as cargo.
Now the pilots were finishing their checklist before warming up.
Yusef climbed the steps into the plane’s fuselage and stood in the doorway.
“Close?” he asked her.
He was rarely inquisitive and never talkative. Jill Harris appreciated the taciturn and nodded. She was a quiet one, too.
As Yusef began to pull the door mechanism shut, she turned suddenly. “Wait!”
He froze, standing stiffly as she shuffled some file folders that were spread out on the table in front of her seat.
“I can’t find the file Kessler wanted along with the statue. Damn it, I set it on the desk in the office.”
Yusef stood at the half-way closed doorway, waiting for orders.
She reshuffled everything on the table, frustration visibly growing. “I thought I’d brought it with me…”
Still as a statue, he waited for her to either find the file or decide to check the office. He was hunched over due partly to his height and the curvature of the plane’s inner fuselage.
“Open it back up, Yusef, I’ll go over to check the office. Have to hurry, I’m expecting Kessler on video.”
“The workers?” He meant the bodies of the men he’d ‘paid off.’ They were still there, stacked up like mannequins but leaking from their gory exit wounds. Messy, too, if their bowels and bladders had voided.
“As you saw, I’m not shy when it comes to, er, personal defense.” She started toward him as he re-opened the hatch, lowering the exterior steps.
“I can go,” he said. Perhaps it was a chivalrous notion in his limited brain. Or an attempt to gain the approval of the beautiful blond Western lady doctor who had paid him so well.
She smiled. “Very well, Yusef, I appreciate it.”
He turned away from her, and the pistol was in her hand already, behind her back. The small, flat Smith & Wesson .380 semi-auto was extended by a bulbous suppressor. The single shot was hardly audible over the roar from nearby runways.
Yusef stumbled as the slug entered the base of his skull. He crashed hard into the open hatch, grunting like an overburdened mule.
Harris raised a foot, intending to kick him all the way out and onto the hangar’s concrete floor.
But instead Yusef turned back in toward the jet’s cabin, an angry and confused scowl on his wide face. He reached for her, his hands like massive claws.
Jill Harris panicked.
She tripped trying to either sidestep him or dance backwards out of reach, but her feet tangled together and the next thing she knew she was landing on her buttocks.
Barely managing to avoid smacking her head on the nearby bolted-down seats, she scrambled away from Yusef’s inexorably approaching figure, trying to bring the muzzle-heavy pistol to bear.
“Why?” he croaked. “Why?”
She didn’t care what the croaking voice was asking. She managed to raise the pistol just as he reached down to grab her.
<
br /> Crack-Crack-Crack
The three rounds hit him in the chest and neck and he was flung sideways. His hands and arms no longer seemed to function, hanging straight down like logs.
But if she didn’t move quickly, he could still topple on her, pin her down, and asphyxiate her.
She rolled then brought up the gun again.
Crack-Crack
The two suppressed rounds smashed through his forehead and right eye, taking out the back of his large skull. One pinged off the cabin bulkhead, buzzing like an angry insect past her ear.
She stared at his face, watching the vitreous and bloody matter leak onto his cheek from the new entry holes. His lips moved like jelly worms, trying to form words, his tongue a piece of gristle between bloody teeth. His remaining eye glazing, he still seemed to be aware of her lying there.
Goddamn you, die!
She thought there might only be one round left in the magazine.
But then Yusef’s remaining eye rolled and he tumbled down like a felled tree.
She scrambled up, kicking and dragging his immense weight to the hatch.
The engines were starting to whine, the cockpit crew oblivious to her life and death struggle.
With one final drag she manhandled him out the door. His head made a splattery sound as it hit the concrete. She closed the hatch, gasping.
The cockpit door opened and the copilot leaned out, asking, “Ready, Missy?”
She wanted to shoot him, too. Instead she nodded, stumbled into a seat and belted in.
Kessler owes me for this.
Then again, Stoyanova awaited her, and that might be reward enough.
Gently the plane rolled out of the hangar. Jill Harris closed her eyes.
Chapter 67
Midtown Manhattan
New York City
THE JUDAS HIT Page 20
