“Here’s what I want you to do …”
Cory stood in the alleyway that ran behind the Wiltshire Club. He wore dirty coveralls and cradled the grease gun in a large tarpaulin. He placed the tarpaulin down on a garbage can and waited.
It was twenty minutes before a van backed into the alley. Its driver stepped from the cab, came around the side of the vehicle, and opened the rear doors. He rummaged in the back compartment as Cory approached.
The man’s shoulders tensed as Cory neared. He picked up something from inside the truck and whirled to face Cory. Deep streaks of anger coursed over the workman’s face as he waved a length of pipe. “Back off, buddy.”
“What the hell,” Cory responded. “Did you think I was going to mug you? I need a match.”
The man glanced over Cory’s shoulder and, not seeing any cohorts lurking in the shadows, seemed to relax. He stuck the pipe under his arm and searched in his pockets.
Cory took two rapid steps forward. With his right hand he knocked the pipe from the man’s arm. With his left he jabbed the hypodermic syringe through the cloth of the man’s coveralls, deep into his thigh.
The workman was stronger than Cory expected. “What the fuck!” He shoved Cory in the chest and stumbled backward. He snatched up the pipe and took two steps toward Cory before he sank to his knees with a befuddled look on his face and then pitched forward onto the alley pavement.
Cory pulled him by the armpits to the van and levered him into the back of the truck. He quickly retrieved the tarpaulin and machine gun from the garbage can. He spread the tarp over the unconscious plumber and, working at the bed of the truck, began completely to strip the weapon into its component parts.
The back of the van was filled with tools, heavy metal tripods, and various lengths of pipes. When the automatic weapon was stripped into its smallest components, Cory pulled a heavy toolbox across the flooring. He flipped open the lid and opened the box. It contained dozens upon dozens of valves, gauges, assorted tools, and metal snakes. He sprinkled the machine-gun parts into the several compartments of the toolbox. The largest of the dismantled pieces was the weapon’s short barrel, which he hid under half a dozen lengths of pipe of similar size. The heaviest piece left was the bolt, which he secreted under a collection of bolts and nuts.
Cory closed the van door after taking the ignition keys from the pocket of the unconscious plumber. He walked toward the employee entrance of the Wiltshire Club. The whole operation had taken four minutes.
The rear entrance of the club closely resembled a speakeasy door from the twenties. Cory knocked and leaned nonchalantly against the wall. He suspected there might be a television camera hanging under an eave. When the door was not opened, he knocked again, angrily.
The door opened a few inches. A heavy chain blocked further movement. “Who is it?” The voice was guttural, tinted with a New York accent.
“AA Plumbers. You called about a problem?” No answer. “You lettin’ me in, or do I go to the next job?”
“Keep your shirt on, buddy.” The latch chain fell away and the door was opened by a large man in a security guard’s uniform. A Latin-appearing man lounged against a far wall and wore combat boots, fatigues, and carried a Kalashnikov rifle slung across his front. His fingers brushed against the trigger guard.
Cory stepped inside. The heavy weight of the toolbox tilted one shoulder to the side.
An alarm went off.
The man with the Kalashnikov snapped the bolt and pointed the weapon at Cory. Another man with a machine pistol appeared in a doorway across the room.
The security guard at the door slammed Cory against the wall. Cory instinctively took “the position.” He spread his feet apart, pushed his palms up against the wall, and bent his head between his shoulders. The guarded expertly patted down his body. “He’s clean.”
“The alarm?” another guard said in heavily accented English.
“You got a metal detector, or something?” Cory asked.
“Shut up!” the guard snapped as he pressed Cory’s head against the wall.
“I got my toolbox with me, dummy.” Cory heard them open the toolbox. Hands rippled through the inner contents. Tools and pipes clinked together.
“The joker’s carrying a hundret pounds of iron. No wonder the alarm went off.”
“You guys want your toilet fixed or not?” Cory turned from the wall and closed the toolbox. “I’m leaving. I don’t got to put up with this kinda shit.”
“So, go fix,” the man with the New York accent said. “Diaz, stick with him. It’s one of the third-floor johns.”
The guard with the assault rifle nodded and slipped the weapon from his shoulder. He gave the rifle to the third guard and replaced it with a billy club. They were professional, Cory thought. They would not allow one of the armed security force to be alone with a visitor and risk the possibility of being overpowered.
The took the small self-service elevator to the third floor. The compartment was barely large enough for both men and Cory’s toolbox.
The third-floor corridor resembled the hallway in a small but elegant hotel. The deeply carpeted floor ran between mutely painted walls decorated with fine hunting prints. A door, midway down the hall, was ajar. The guard gestured toward it with his club.
Cory entered the bedroom and passed through it into the bath. He set the toolbox down on the toilet seat with a grunt. The guard lounged in the doorway, although he kept sufficient distance from his charge so that he couldn’t be overpowered without having time to react.
Cory kept his back to the guard as he rummaged through the toolbox with one hand. With his other he felt below the rim of the toilet seat. The syringe was taped where she had said it would be. He removed it from its hiding place and uncapped the tip of the needle. He depressed the plunger until a few drops dribbled from the head of the needle. He held the needle across his abdomen and doubled over and gasped.
The guard stood erect. “What is it?”
“It’s my heart again.” He groaned.
The guard stepped forward and stuck his club in his belt. He reached for Cory’s shoulder.
The vein on the back of the man’s hand stood out in bold relief as Cory jabbed the needle in and depressed the plunger.
“What?” The guard withdrew his fingers as if stung by a bee.
Cory turned to face him. “It’s all right. It’s going to be all right,” he said in the calmest voice he could muster.
The guard’s eyes were beginning to glaze, but his strength and coordination were sufficient for him to unsling the billy club and swing it in an arc toward Cory’s head.
Cory stepped back. The guard swung the club again. Cory had to take another backward step, and he fell back into the tub with his feet canted toward the ceiling.
He watched in horrified fascination as the guard raised his weapon over his head with both hands. He was helpless and vulnerable in the tub. He saw the hairs on the man’s hands in complete detail as he stepped forward for the lethal blow.
The guard’s eyes seemed to roll back into his head. The club slipped from his fingers, and he crumpled in a heap on the floor.
It took Cory a few moments to scramble from the tub and grab the unconscious man’s feet. He tugged the body across the floor and shoved it under the bed. He unmade the bedding in order to let a sheet drape across the side, onto the floor, where it hid the body.
He went back into the bathroom to reassemble the machine gun from the parts interspersed throughout the toolbox.
The weapon was half assembled when he heard a tap on the bedroom door.
Two quick knocks, a pause, and two more. It was their prearranged signal. He let her in and locked the door.
She threw her arms around him. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” he whispered. “Where’s the general?”
“It’s after two. He’s in his suite, down the hall. He will probably stay in there until four.”
“I have to hurry.” He
went back into the bathroom and continued reassembling the weapon.
She stood in the doorway behind him. “The plumbing thing went all right; huh?”
“What’d you do to it?”
“Towels down the john.”
“Fine.” He turned his attention back to the weapon and screwed the barrel into the trigger housing. He worked the bolt until he was satisfied with the action and then slid a magazine in. It made a click as the two final pieces engaged. The weapon was ready for use. He glanced at his watch: 2:10.
Ginny was busy at the bed, folding blankets into long vertical forms. She laid the first blanket over his outstretched arms, then the grease gun, and covered it with a second blanket. The weapon was cocked. Cory could fire by simply reaching his hand into the center of the folded blankets.
“Let’s go,” he said.
She stood by the door as her breath came in shallow gasps. “One of the other girls told me that Rainman spends from two until four in his room. He should be there now.”
“I’m ready.”
“I hope I am,” Ginny said as she slowly opened the door. She relocked it behind them with her passkey.
She walked ahead of Cory, toward the end of the hall, and stopped before the last door. She hesitated a moment with the passkey in her hand until Cory came up behind her and nodded. His hand reached between the blankets and curled over the trigger of the grease gun.
The door silently swung open, and they stepped inside.
They entered a subdued living room. Through a partially open door to the right, they could see into a bedroom.
“Who is it?” It was a deep and resonant voice from the bedroom.
“Maid,” Ginny replied. Her voice slightly trembled.
“Come back later.”
Cory let the blankets fall away from his weapon as he stepped into the bedroom. He aimed directly at General Lucius Rainman’s head.
The general was propped up in bed, dictating notes into a cassette recorder. He looked at Cory over the rim of his reading glasses and reached for a revolver on the table by his side.
Cory covered the few steps to the table in two bounds and knocked the pistol to the floor. He placed the grease gun’s barrel against the general’s head.
“You’re Williams,” Rainman said without fear.
“That’s right.”
“They said you might come after me.”
“Take it easy. Keep calm and you may live.”
General Lucius Rainman slowly removed his glasses and placed them on the side table. He was a large man still in good physical condition, with a flat stomach and broad shoulders. His hair had thinned until only two streaks covered the side of his head. His eyes were slate gray and unfeeling. Thin lips gave his face a strong but cruel cast.
“You show great ingenuity in getting this far, Williams. It will be interesting to see how you get out. Are you prepared to negotiate?”
“Possibly,” Cory replied and nodded toward Ginny. She began to prepare the syringe on the far side of the general. “What do you have to offer?”
“Your life. I guarantee your safe conduct from this building in return for my own life.”
“Do you really think you’re in position to negotiate anything?”
“You fire that weapon, and this room will be filled with armed men in less than thirty seconds.”
“True.” Cory nodded, and Ginny plunged the needle into the general’s arm.
Rainman turned to watch the needle in his arm with interest. “Have you killed me?”
“No.”
“Scopolamine, I suppose.”
“That sort of thing.”
Rainman’s eyes closed, and he sank back on the pillow. Cory put the grease gun on the floor within easy reach. Ginny locked the suite’s door and picked up the general’s tape recorder, rewound the reel, and started it forward again.
Dr. Halliburton’s instructions had been laboriously thorough, and Cory began the procedure.
“Lucius, do you hear me?”
“Yes.” The voice was weak and distant.
“You wish to talk with me. You have something to tell me.”
“I have something to tell you.”
“You are a member of the Committee of One Thousand.”
“They are true patriots, and I am one of them.”
“You are Rook.”
“Yes, I am Rook.”
“You are Control for the other members of the Committee.”
“I am Control.”
“You know where the list of members is located.”
“There is no hidden list.”
“You know where the list is. You have hidden the list of members and you are going to tell me where it is.”
“There is no hidden list.”
Ginny and Cory looked at each other with failure in their eyes.
CHAPTER 25
Blood pounded in Cory’s ears. He had the same feeling of unreality he had felt twice before when this present sequence of events began. There had to be a list! Someone, somewhere, was in possession of a list that named every member of the Committee.
The general’s voice began to fade. “No written list,” he repeated again as if trying to gain Cory’s approbation.
Cory walked bleakly to the window to lean on the sill and look out.
“We know there isn’t any written list, General,” he heard Ginny say in a soft voice. “But the names. You know the names.”
“Rook knows the names.”
“Give us the names. Start from the beginning.”
“Yes … the names … Abrams, Albert, Department of Defense, Office of Strategic Planning. Anderson, Donald, President, Bank of Norristown …” Other names followed in an even monotone and in complete alphabetical order.
Cory turned from the window to watch Ginny hold the cassette recorder close to the general’s lips as the names rattled on at staccato pace. She gave a quick, triumphant glance up at Cory and then looked back at the recorder.
The names continued. Cory was amazed at the man’s mental ability. Memorization of related items was difficult enough, but a list containing random sequences was a monumental achievement. The general had played chess for years and honed this unique ability.
Hundreds of names continued. “Smythe, Al, Special Counsel to the President.” Other names followed.
Cory stepped forward and put his hand on Ginny’s shoulder. When the general stopped for breath between his relentless list, he spoke.
“Who is Queen? You are Rook, but one more powerful. The Queen?”
“Smythe, Al, Special Counsel to the President …” The list continued again.
And Smythe was the President’s confidant and was now at Camp David.
Cory didn’t hear the remainder of the list. Over and over again he heard Smythe’s name. He now realized that the general’s presence at the Wiltshire Club and the security force was not ordinary precaution. Rainman had left Toledo because he had been warned by Smythe. The professional guards throughout this building were for one purpose—to keep Cory from reaching Rainman.
They had done it. They had gotten the list. Now it was a question of getting out alive with the information.
“We’re done. I’ve got it,” Ginny said. She snapped the cassette from the recorder and slipped it in her dress. “We’re done. I’ve got it all.”
“Put him under all the way, and let’s get out of here.”
“Are we going to use the muscle relaxant?”
“And kill him?”
“Yes.”
Cory looked down at the sleeping general. The man was unconscious and helpless. He was the same man who had instigated assassination. He was the same person who had ordered them killed. His death would mean the loss of the list of Committee members to anyone else.
He prepared the needle of Succinylcholine Chloride. Ginny stepped away. He leaned over the general. The hypodermic syringe was inches away from the man’s arm.
He couldn’t do it. The
re had been too many deaths. There had been too many killings. He could still see the crumpled form of Ruth Lewis as she died from a bullet fired by her husband’s gun.
He dropped the needle and called to Ginny hoarsely, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Cory placed the grease gun between two folded blankets while Ginny picked up the general’s handgun from the floor and stuffed it in her uniform pocket.
They slipped from the room and locked the door behind them. The empty corridor stretched sixty feet to the stairwells and elevator doors. They walked at a brisk pace, trying to appear casual.
“We’ll take the stairs,” Cory said as he stepped in front of Ginny and motioned her back. He pressed back against the wall near the back stairwell and cautiously pushed open the fire door.
The landing was empty. He had stepped through the door and turned to beckon Ginny, when the elevator door opened.
Wilton James, the ever-present pipe drooping from his mouth, emerged from the elevator. Instant recognition flooded across his face as he looked at Ginny. He immediately drew his service revolver and leveled it at Cory’s back.
“Stay where you are, Williams.”
The three people in the hall knew that the police inspector’s command was the briefest of reprieves. It was only a formality given because of decades of careful police procedure. There was no reason for the Committee to keep Cory alive. In a heartbeat James would fire into Cory’s back at point-blank range.
Cory was half turned away from the elevator door. The grease gun pointed away from James. There would not be time for him to turn and swing the weapon toward the police inspector.
“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” Wilton James said.
Ginny shot three times in rapid succession through the pocket of her uniform.
James’s revolver slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. He staggered back into the elevator with a look of complete astonishment. His back hit the wall of the small elevator, and he slowly slid to the floor. The door automatically closed as the car started down.
They stood frozen for moments before Cory gasped, “Hurry.” They went through the stairwell door and down the metal stairs.
They had descended one flight when they heard cries from the front vestibule. The elevator had arrived downstairs, and the door opened to reveal Wilton James’s body.
Game Bet Page 25
