Molly appeared at his side, slender, white-faced, her honey-colored hair shining on her shoulders. In contrast to Carey's dark suit, the apple-blossom pink of her voile shirtwaist seemed like delicate flowers against a stormy sky. He held her close to his side, his stance almost aggressive, as if he dared the world to hurt her.
At first the questions were vague and general: Where had they met? When? How had their friendship reestablished itself? When the kid gloves were tossed aside, Allen stepped in to thwart the more blatant queries. Once or twice Carey curtly cut off discourteous questions, saying, “I won't respond to that.” But essentially his bearing was relaxed. He was at ease on the world's stage.
In twenty minutes all the necessary answers had been given, his replies couched in as general terms as possible. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Carey politely said, “for your lively interest in my affairs. Thank you and good morning.”
His dark eyes swept the crowd of reporters in dismissal, and then Molly felt his grip tighten. “Allen, the car,” he ordered, his voice cracking with authority.
“What is it?” Molly asked, disturbed by the tone of his voice.
“Stay here.” He unobtrusively motioned for his bodyguards, and three men quickly moved forward.
Oblivious to the cryptic gesture, Molly asked, “Why?”
“I'll be right back,” was all he said. “Stay put.” And he turned back to face the room. Near the rear door, not visible until the reporters had shifted positions at the end of the conference, was Rifat's ADC. Carey had seen him once at a party in Cannes. They'd exchanged banal phrases while Rifat overwhelmed the young actress in their party with his charm. Carey remembered the man's cool gaze, which didn't entirely conceal his hunter instincts. It wasn't a face one forgot. Oh fuck, oh shit. Rifat's man here in Minneapolis. His alarm set off danger signals in his brain. Molly was here, protected by his people. But Carrie was home alone, with only Lucy for company. And, spinning around, he began to run.
Glancing at his watch, Ceci walked as rapidly as possible without attracting notice, through the red-carpeted hotel lobby. In five minutes the kidnapping should be accomplished, although the sight of Fersten bolting for the back door was not reassuring. Had he spotted him? Pushing through the revolving door, faced with the possibility Carey suspected something, he sprinted for his rental car. He hesitated briefly before turning on the ignition. According to plan, after assuring himself Carey was at the press conference long enough for the men to pick up the girl, he was to proceed to the airport where Timur was waiting to fly them home. Deraille and Reha were to rendezvous there with the girl in twenty minutes. If he changed his plans now, he would miss the airport rendezvous.
Another moment of indecision, and he decided to adhere to plan. Surely Deraille and Reha would accomplish their task. She was only a young girl.
CHAPTER 28
H is security men behind him, Carey ran down the corridors and burst out the side door, sprinting for his car parked at the curb. Wrenching the door open, he leaped inside. “To Molly's,” he barked, and Jess began pulling away before the men behind Carey had caught up with him. Intent on his search for a weapon, he didn't look up when two of the security men threw themselves into the accelerating limo. He kept a small Beretta in the compartment under the seat and, pushing the sliding door aside, he felt for it. The feel of the cool metal was comforting, as if he suddenly had more control of his fear or at least an even chance with the Rifats of the world. Slipping the gun into his jacket pocket, he turned to the two men breathing hard beside him and said, “I saw Rifat's man.”
Even in his worst nightmares he'd never considered having his daughter involved in Egon's asinine scheme, and he passionately hoped his emotional reaction was the overreaction of a protective father. He hoped Rifat's aide was simply out to involve him somehow in Egon's problem. They couldn't know about Carrie. Could they? The story had only hit the newsstands today; they'd have had to leave Europe yesterday to be here this morning. He hoped they didn't know of Molly and Carrie, although he wasn't naive enough to think Rifat's right-hand man was in Minneapolis to enjoy the summer lakes. At best, he was the object of their visit; and the worst, he dared not contemplate. “Go through the light,” he ordered, and Jess accelerated to avoid another car bearing down on the intersection. The one-way street had only moderate traffic at that time of the morning, and Jess wove through the three lanes at a smooth ninety. He took the left onto Helseth Memorial Highway on two tires, and pushed the speedometer into the red zone when Carey said, “Step on it.”
As they neared the Merchandise Mart, the police cars were obvious.
Four of them were parked out front as though they'd skidded on ice to stop.
And a fire truck was half visible around the south side of the building.
Please God, Carey silently prayed, his hand gripping the revolver, the safety already switched off, she doesn't belong in any of this. Shutting his eyes briefly, he drew in a deep breath and asked any god who was listening for help. When his dark eyes opened, he spoke in curt phrases to the men beside him. “They're Turks. Don't give them an edge. Shoot first. We'll work up the defense later. If they're here at Molly's,” his voice was totally without emotion, “they're after my daughter, and I want them dead.” His hand was on the door handle as Jess braked, leaving tire marks on the pavement. “If you have any problems with this, stay in the car. I won't take offense.” And he was out of the backseat before the Lincoln came to a complete stop. Up the front steps in three loping strides, he dashed through the door and took the stairs because the elevators were too slow.
When he reached the second floor, the apartment door was open, the lock plate broken from the jamb, and he could see through the foyer and hallway to the light-filled living room. The apartment was empty, deathly quiet, and when he turned back to the men who'd followed him up, his face was set in a hard brutal mask. “Check out the apartment. I'll meet you downstairs.”
His heart was pounding in his ears. Damn Rifat! Damn predators like him who took their bloody barbarian ruthlessness to peaceful people in peaceful regions of the world. If Carrie was harmed… he wouldn't allow himself to think of possibilities beyond that. But flashback images of maimed children in Vietnam filled his mind, and he swore to drive away the searing vignettes, swore his revenge on Shakin Rifat for coming within a thousand miles of his daughter.
His Beretta poised, he surveyed the second-floor corridor swiftly, and took the backstairs down. The mezzanine floor was as quiet as the second, but he was cautious when he opened the stairwell door into the corridor. Nothing… no one. And the absence of people was foreboding. Three offices on the mezzanine were normally busy with activity. A uniformed policeman stood near the main floor office when Carey eased the ground floor doorway open. One policeman and four cars outside. It wasn't reassuring. Where was Carrie?
The inside of his mouth was dry as it had been when he'd patrolled the jungles of Vietnam, never knowing if his next step was going to be his last. Taking a careful breath to calm himself, and at the same time reminding himself this was not Vietnam, death was not wholesale insanity in Minneapolis, he slipped his Beretta into his jacket pocket and stepped out into the corridor. He approached the policeman with rapid strides. “I'm looking for my daughter,” he said. In a hurry to find out from this man where his daughter was or get past him in the least possible waste of time, he kept his voice impersonal.
The man looked him over with an appraising glance. “Who're you?”
“Carey Fersten; my daughter lives here. There're four police cars outside. Why?”
“Don't know anything about your daughter.” The man showed no emotion. Even his voice was a monotone without intensity or force, the audible expression of the principle: This is only a job. When my eight hours are over, I go home. I plan to live until retirement.
“Four black-and-whites?” Carey persisted.
“We answered a burglar alarm and a fire alarm. I was assigned to keep the of
fice secure when the building was evacuated. Most everyone headed out back. The rest of them went down the basement 'cuz someone here saw two men running that way.”
Carey felt ludicrously like a reporter. “No one's seen a couple of young girls?” Lucy had decided to keep Carrie company that day. A special treat for her birthday.
“Sorry, can't help you.” And he looked at his watch.
Carey's pulse was still racing, but he turned away with a casual nod. Passing the officer, he sprinted toward the basement stairs. At least, he thought, the police were there. Even if Rifat's men had come… he paused with sudden alarm. They could have been here, snatched Carrie, and left already.
As though a computer had short-circuited in his brain, fragmented mental impressions raced through his mind: What the hell was that aide's name? Damn Egon and his drug habit; damn Sylvie for ever walking into his life. Could he shoot the Turks with the police around? Maybe Carrie was safe with Lucy, playing the video games at the Savoy Hotel down the street, maybe Kiray, that was his name, was only at the press conference as a precaution, keeping track of him to keep track of Egon. That was it. Right, God? Jesus, he was losing it. But he'd only just found his daughter, and she was more precious to him than he'd ever imagined possible.
How many years had he tossed off the casual disclaimer to the familiar question about children? How many times had he said: “The world will survive just fine without any more Ferstens.” And all he wanted to do right now was find Carrie, wrap his arms around her, and weep with relief.
But in the next pulsebeat, he wanted to track down Rifat and “neutralize” him, as the intelligence agencies so euphemistically put it. Was that a normal paternal instinct? Or perhaps an overprotective response nurtured by too many special assignments with Mac and Ant and Luger during the winding down of the Vietnam Era, as the Defense Department referred to the fiasco that would otherwise have to be acknowledged as a lost war. But for the first time since arriving back home, Carey appreciated the lethal skills he'd acquired with Mac, Ant, and Luger. He intended to use them on Rifat.
The basement was typical of turn-of-the-century buildings. Heavy, rough-cut stone served as foundation, and the musty accumulation of nearly a century worth of dirt, dust, and darkness struck him halfway down the stairs. The silence at the bottom of the steps unnerved him, as if the vast rabbit warren of dark corridors and walled sections had swallowed up four cars of policemen. And it reminded him of the tunnels in Vietnam.
He moved slowly down the narrow passageway, weighing risk against survival. His was the kind of caution developed in deserted VC camps where a booby-trapped map if picked up would blow you away, or a dead buddy would be detonated to go off when you lifted his dog tags. His Beretta was out front as he checked each room he passed.
A faint sound reached him; had he heard a child's voice-or was he fantasizing? Straining his ears, he waited to hear the high-pitched tone again. There.
Then men's voices, low and muted, joined the child's, the undecipherable masculine resonance turning into an occasional audible word-and then many. Hurt, he heard, and then gun… Yes, yes, yes, a child's voice, and the thunder of his heart intensified. He ran without caution, racing toward the human voices, no longer weighing the risks.
A door stood ajar at the end of the corridor, emitting a cool white fluorescent light in a neat geometric pattern on the floor and wall. Sure that his daughter was behind the door, he charged through it.
Across the room, a policeman squatted before a small, dark-haired girl dressed in yellow shorts and a DisneyWorld T-shirt, surrounded by several other uniformed men. His eyes quickly scanned the men. Seven police; there were seven policemen and Lucy. But no Carrie!
He couldn't catch his breath. A sudden chill struck him like an arctic gale, and he stopped dead as though he'd come up against an invisible wall. He was too late. Rifat had her.
“Drop it, mister,” a gruff voice said. The statement was harsh, without room for discussion. When Carey refocused on the group near Lucy, he saw seven handguns aimed at his head.
Ignoring the guns, absorbed totally with the loss of his daughter, he said, “Lucy, what happened to Carrie?”
“Fucking drop it, asshole, or you're going to lose it.”
I already lost it, asshole, he wanted to say, you're too late. And he blamed himself a thousand ways for not anticipating Rifat's treachery. She was in his hands. He couldn't breathe when he thought of his daughter at Rifat's mercy. A man without mercy. He was sick with guilt and despair.
“Daddy!” He heard her first, and his head swiveled toward the sound at laser speed. A small blond head appeared from behind a burly policeman's leg, and then a slender tanned shoulder. Followed by the whole beautiful sight of her looking like a summer rose in a pale flowered sundress.
Quickly setting down his Beretta, Carey dashed toward her. Scooping her into his arms he hugged her, gratitude and gladness rushing through him like the answered prayers of childhood. For long moments he simply crushed her to him, breathless and deliriously happy. Something moved on his cheek, and he reached up to brush away the wetness, thinking somewhere in the disconnected emotions of hope and fear and joy crashing through his mind, that he'd never cried in sheer happiness before. And he learned in those few moments of deliverance that his happiness was bound forever with this small child and her mother. It was not entirely news. After all, it had been the source of much of his former misery.
A polite cough returned him to the circle of policemen in the starkly lit room… and Carrie's breathy, high rush of words which tumbled out the moment he transferred her to a perch on his left arm. He wasn't about to set her down. He held her as if her security were guaranteed only in his arms.
“There were bad guys, like in your movies… these bad guys pushed in the front door,” she excitedly disclosed, “but Lucy and I ran as soon as they started banging through the door.”
“We took the backstairs,” Lucy interjected, tugging on Carey's sleeve.
“And ran for Theresa's office,” Carrie finished.
“But one of the scary guys came out of the elevator before we got there.” Lucy's eyes were huge as she recalled their flight.
“So we changed our minds and ran for the basement.” They couldn't talk fast enough, each finishing the other's sentences.
“Carrie pushed the burglar alarm at the top of the stairs… and the fire alarm down the basement.”
“Then I headed for the old coal cellar Mom and I found last year. It's so dark back there, no one could ever see us. Not even the monster from Friday the 13th.”
“And they didn't,” Lucy breathlessly added. “But they sure were looking.”
“They didn't talk English,” Carrie offered. “Who are they?” she asked, confident that Carey would know.
“I'm not sure,” he lied, not inclined to share his suspicions with the local police. Kiray's men were probably long gone, and his own security men could protect Carrie now that he knew Rifat's intentions. He didn't have a lot of confidence in the power of a Midwestern police department over a man who had outmaneuvered every intelligence agency in the world.
“Any idea who they might be, mister-”
“Fersten,” he volunteered. “Carey Fersten. No, I'm sorry, I don't.”
“Do you have a license for that side arm?”
“Yes, sir.” His voice altered into that sincerity he'd found convenient when dealing with military officers and police the world over. “Were any of the men chasing my daughter apprehended?”
“Well, mister,” one officer said quietly out of the corner of his mouth, reminding Carey of a young Humphrey Bogart. “It's possible these girls have seen one too many TV shows. If you ask me, I'd say childish imagination and hysteria. Either of these girls hyperactive?” he soberly inquired, switching to a concerned doctor role.
Hysteria would be a convenient explanation, Carey thought, eager to avoid further dealings with the police. Just as he was about to agree with the officer'
s interpretation, another policeman noted, “Someone busted that apartment door. No finesse. The jamb was in splinters.”
All the men's eyes traveled to Carey's Beretta lying on the floor, and the spokesman for the group who was apparently an amateur actor, ominously said, “You know the guys chasing these girls?”
Shit. The hysteria theory was out. Now how much of the truth was necessary to appease them? As little as possible. Talk of terrorists and international arms dealers would provoke endless interrogation… not to mention all the auxiliary agencies who would race in to take a piece of the action. And in the meantime, Rifat was safely in Italy, anyway.
“It's possible my ex-brother-in-law was involved… an obsessive practical joker-”
“This was a joke?”
Carey shrugged. “He takes drugs, he's wealthy, and he's got too much time on his hands. He shouldn't have come over here.”
“From where?”
He could see they were all thinking Colombia or Jamaica. “Germany. His family owns the Von Mansfeld Munitions Works.” His inclusion of Egon's last name was deliberate; he'd discovered at a young age that titled folk were like baseball stars or Hollywood actors, attractive celebrities treated with a combination of insatiable curiosity and awe. And Sylvie's name had been a star attraction in the tabloid story, as well as in today's press conference.
“You the guy on TV today?”
Bingo. And now we alter course away from terrorists and kidnapping. Carey nodded.
“And she's…” The man hesitated, slightly embarrassed when he recalled the headlines repeated on TV.
“My daughter.”
“I suppose your brother-in-law thought it would be a good time-”
“To play one of his irritating pranks on me. He probably heard about the press conference. Ex-brother-in-law, by the way.”
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