Fury (The Butch Karp and Marlene Ciampi Series Book 17)

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  He lifted his Stoli on the rocks and clinked glasses with Louis. “To our new venture,” he said. Although neither man could stand the other, and both detested Zulu, who hated them in return, they’d all managed at various times in the past to forget their personal distaste and cooperate for their mutual benefit. A favor done here. A string pulled there. They were all richer for it. “I’ll drink to that,” Zulu chuckled as she sipped her black (naturally) Russian.

  Meanwhile, back in a corner of the pub, Murrow had been excitedly giving the color commentary of the meeting when his eyes got big and he slumped down in his seat so that he was hidden by his girlfriend’s large head of hair. “What’s the matter?” she whispered, trying to look over her shoulder without having to completely turn around.

  “Christ!” he exclaimed. “You’ll never guess who just walked in. No! Don’t turn!…I just met one of them, PBA union boss Ed Ewen. There’s some other middle-aged guy with him…dude’s a cop if I’ve ever seen one but in a suit…wait a second, that’s Tim Carney, the captain in charge of Internal Affairs!”

  “I know Ewen and Carney, but odd that the head of the union and the guy whose job it is to bust dirty members of the union are hanging together at a swanky hotel in the Adirondacks,” Stupenagel said. “Hmmm…as Alice once said, ‘This gets curiouser and curiouser.’ Have the other three seen them?”

  “Had to but you’d never know it. They’re standing maybe six feet apart and acting like they’re complete strangers, but you and I know that Ewen and Carney know who every member of the city council is—not to mention that Louis and Shakira made a career out of suing the police department. Something doesn’t smell right.”

  “Now what are they doing?” Stupenagel asked.

  “Nothing much.” Murrow noticed the glint in his girlfriend’s eyes. “Hey, wait a minute. This is why you wanted to come up here. You knew these guys were going to be here.”

  “Nonsense,” Stupenagel lied.

  The truth was, she’d received a telephone tip that there was going to be a meeting “between some folks you’ll find very interesting bedfellows…and once you figure out who they are, you might want to check into some of the real estate transactions in Bolton Landing, which should lead you—if you’re as good as they say—to the story of the year.” The caller then hung up before she could ask any questions or get a good handle on the voice, which seemed familiar but she couldn’t quite place it. Whoever he was, the tipster certainly had the goods. In the morning, she’d have to head over to Bolton Landing, the town on the other end of the bridge that crossed Lake George to Green Island, on which the Sagamore was built, and find someone who could tell her about real estate in town. Maybe the tax assessor’s office, if there was one way up here.

  “No way,” Murrow hissed. “I can see the ‘hot scoop’ look in your eyes. You used me.”

  Stupenagel was prepared to launch into a rehearsed spiel that would at least give her plausible deniability when she noticed the hurt look in his eyes. She didn’t know what it was about this funny little man—she’d been the confidante and lover of pro athletes, world leaders, artists, and movie stars—but she’d found love in an intelligent, gentle bureaucrat (though she would never have called him one to his face). She resolved that she would never lie to him again…unless she had to.

  “Okay, you’re right, but only partly,” she said. “I got a tip that there was going to be a meeting of some kind up here and that when I saw who was involved, I’d know what to do. But I could have come up alone and done my job. I just thought that this way, I’d get some time with you away from work and the city. And if this tip didn’t pan out, we’d have even more time to ourselves.”

  Murrow allowed himself to look a little mollified. He had to admit that life with this woman was a hell of a lot more exciting than his usual fare. “Wait a second,” he said, throwing himself into the spy game and stealing a glimpse over her shoulder. “Something just happened…some sort of signal between Louis and Ewen. Everybody’s finishing their drinks and leaving…mmmph!”

  Ariadne had stopped him from finishing his sentence by putting a hand behind his head and pulling him to her. Then she kissed him ferociously. When she let him go, he blushed. “What was that for?”

  “Because I think I’m in love,” Ariadne said. She wasn’t surprised that she’d said it—she’d said a lot of things to a lot of men to get what she wanted—she was only surprised that she meant it.

  Murrow was surprised to see the tears in her eyes. While very much a woman in most respects, she wasn’t given to girlish emotions. “I love you, too, Ariadne. What do you say we skip dinner and go back to the room for the main event.”

  Instantly, the tears in her eyes were gone and she looked shocked. “Are you kidding me? We’ve got to find out what the hell’s going on here.” She slapped a twenty on the table, stood up, and practically yanked him out of the booth by the hand. They ran to the pub entrance and peered carefully around the corner. They got a glimpse of the backsides of Ewen and Carney just before the men reached the end of a hall and turned right.

  Tugging Murrow along, Stupenagel crept down the hall. He wondered if someone might cue the music for Mission Impossible. They went around the corner where the others had disappeared just in time to see a large man closing the door of the Algonquin meeting room and positioning himself in front of it. He looked up and saw them.

  At the same time, Ariadne pinned Murrow against the wall and began kissing him passionately as she fumbled at his trousers.

  “Hey, hey, you two, go find a room why don’t ya,” said the man, who looked as if he were made of rectangular parts—a rectangular, crew cut head sat on top of a rectangular torso that was supported by two rectangular legs.

  “Up yours,” Stupenagel snarled. “It’s a free country.”

  Rectangle Man reached inside his coat and pulled out a wallet, which he flipped open to reveal the gold shield of a New York City police detective. “Beat it,” he ordered.

  “All right, all right,” Stupenagel said. “Aren’t you a little out of your jurisdiction? I swear, you can’t get away from the pigs anymore.”

  “Oink. Oink,” the detective said. “Take your midget boyfriend and go for a hike.”

  “He’s more man than you’ll ever be,” Ariadne replied. “Especially now that the steroids have shrunk your balls into peanuts.”

  Rectangle Man furrowed his Cro-Magnon brow. How’d she know I’m juicing, he wondered. But before he could think of a snappy comeback, the couple beat a hasty retreat.

  Stupenagel and Murrow scampered to the front desk, where they summoned a bored clerk. “Hi, we’re trying to find out if some friends of ours have checked in yet,” Stupenagel said. “Hugh Louis and Olav Radinskaya and Shakira Zulu?”

  The clerk looked at them, wondering if they were teasing her with the odd names. But when they didn’t crack up, she looked at the guest registry. “No, no one with those names is registered, and they’d be pretty hard to miss.” She flipped forward in the book. “I don’t see any reservations under those names in the next few days either. You sure they’re supposed to be here?”

  “How about Tim Carney or Ed Ewen?” Murrow asked.

  The clerk brightened. “I just saw Mr. Ewen and he was with another man. Mr. Ewen doesn’t stay here—he’s got that nice house over in Bolton Landing at The Landings—but he and his…I think she’s his wife, although she looks more like his daughter…sometimes come in for a drink or dinner. He’s with another man tonight.” The clerk picked up the telephone. “Shall I try to page him for you?”

  “No!” Stupenagel and Murrow said at the same time.

  “They don’t know that we decided to make the drive from Manhattan,” Stupenagel explained. “And we’d just as soon spend the night together, alone, if you catch my drift.” She winked at the clerk, who giggled and nodded. “We’ll surprise him at his home tomorrow, so just keep it a secret, okay?”

  “My lips are sealed,” the clerk sa
id, making the appropriate motion across her mouth. “You two lovebirds go enjoy yourselves.”

  Murrow was perfectly willing to do as the clerk suggested, but Ariadne led him through the hotel to a back exit and was soon tugging him across the snowy landscape in the direction of the Algonquin Room.

  “I didn’t wear the right shoes for this,” Murrow complained.

  “Don’t be such a baby, baby,” she replied. “This is an adventure. And you know how hot I am after a good adventure.”

  With that for encouragement, Murrow stopped complaining and even took the lead, creeping through the shadows just outside the reach of the light thrown from the hotel windows, until they were opposite the large bay window of the Algonquin Room. They could see clearly the people in the room, all except one who was sitting with his back to the window, engaged in conversation with Louis.

  A moment later, they both stood stunned, their mouths hanging open in disbelief, when the man Louis had been talking to stood and approached the window. He peered out into the dark, obviously saw nothing of interest, and closed the drapes.

  “You see who I saw?” Stupenagel whispered.

  “Corporation Counsel Sam Lindahl!”

  “In the flesh. Come on, we need to figure out a plan.”

  “A plan?” Murrow said, trotting after her on his tiptoes, trying unsuccessfully to keep more snow out of his loafers. “A plan for what? Ariadne? Hey, wait up!”

  They hurried to their room, where Stupenagel began to dress in more appropriate clothes for traipsing about in the woods on a winter night. As he followed suit, she told him more about the anonymous call. “Somebody wanted me to see these folks together and look into local real estate dealings. The clerk told us that Ewen has a house over in Bolton Landing. The Landings sounds pretty upscale to me, especially for a union boss. Something’s going on here and it ain’t a fishing trip. I’m going to follow Ewen and Carney and see for myself.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Murrow said.

  Stupenagel patted his cheek. “I don’t want to tell you what to do, but if this group splits up, I’m going to need you to stay with whoever remains at the hotel.”

  “You going to take the car?”

  “No, the hotel has a twenty-four-hour taxi over to Bolton Landing. I’ll leave the car with you in case you need to ride to my rescue.” She slipped into her parka and turned to look at Murrow. She laughed. He was dressed entirely in plaid from his waist up—a black-and-green plaid deerstalker complete with earflaps, a plaid scarf, a plaid shirt, and over it, a plaid coat. He rustled when he walked, due to the bulky ski pants he’d pulled on—the only piece of apparel that wasn’t plaid as, looking down, she saw that he was even wearing plaid wool socks.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing; you look prepared for a meeting of the wild Scots tribes from the Highlands,” she said. “I didn’t buy all that for you, did I?”

  “No,” he grinned. “I ordered it from the Land’s End catalog. Cool, huh?”

  “Cool,” she said, making a note to herself to burn it all when he wasn’t looking.

  A half hour later, they were sitting in their rental car in the hotel lot when Lindahl, Ewen, and Carney emerged from the hotel and walked briskly to a car, got in, and left. Stupenagel kissed Murrow, then jumped out and trotted to a taxi she’d asked to wait for her “until our friends get done yakking inside.”

  Murrow walked back inside the hotel as if he’d been out for an evening stroll. He continued to the back of the hotel and exited, making his way to the spot where he could see inside the Algonquin Room. The drapes were pulled apart again and he could see that Louis, Radinskaya, and Zulu were still there, engaged in conversation with a lot of smiles and laughter. Unsure of what else to do, he stationed himself in the woods, jumping when some bird suddenly screeched as it flew above him. Probably an owl, he thought. Then there was a loud crackling in the bushes off to his right. Raccoon, he guessed. Bears would be hibernating this time of year…I think.

  The crackling noise got louder. Murrow decided he’d seen enough and could go in now. He made for the door, sure that he was being followed by a man-eater who’d awakened from his nap in a grumpy mood. He sighed with relief when he got inside the door and looked out. He couldn’t see anything but felt sure he was being watched by a pair of beady, ravenous eyes.

  Actually, the eyes were large and brown. Having hoped for a handout, which hotel guests sometimes gave in the form of crackers and carrots, the doe gave her tail a disappointed flick and disappeared back into the trees.

  Murrow arrived in the lobby and nearly panicked. The three targets were standing near the elevators talking. He pulled his hat down until he could barely see out from under the bill. They hardly gave him a second glance as he wandered off to the pub. He peeked out a minute later in time to see them get in the elevator and the door shut.

  Flipping open his cell phone, Murrow was suddenly aware that he was sweating profusely beneath all those layers of plaid, which included plaid long underwear that Ariadne had not seen. He hit the preset number for her cell.

  “Hi, Honey Buns,” Stupenagel answered.

  “Hi, Big Mama,” he replied in his best secret agent voice. “The chickens have gone to bed. I repeat, the chickens have gone to bed.”

  “Oooh, you sound so clandestine and sexy,” Stupenagel purred. “If I was there I might be tempted to forget this whole thing and let you have your way with me.”

  “I’ll take the rain check, sweetheart,” he said, using his best Humphrey Bogart voice. “This is kind of fun.” He was feeling quite bold and dashing. “Where are you, doll? I want to come pick you up.”

  “That’ll work, Agent Murrow,” she replied. “Here, I’m going to let you talk to Jimy Murphy. He’s my handsome young taxi driver; he’ll give you directions.”

  “What? How cute?” Murrow asked, trotting out the front door to the car. “Agent Murrow? Where in the hell did that come from?”

  “Just listen to Jimy for now, Agent Murrow, I’ll explain the scenario when I see you,” she said. “These lines are not secure. I repeat, these lines are not secure.”

  After leaving Murrow, Stupenagel had jumped in the waiting taxi and shouted, “Follow that car.”

  The teenage driver—whose taxi driver photograph hanging from the rearview mirror identified him as James D. Murphy—turned around and said, “Really? I’ve always wanted to have someone say that. ’Course, this won’t be too hard as everybody around these parts knows Mr. Ewen. Heck, his nephew works as a mechanic down at the taxi barn. They’re probably going to his house in The Landings.”

  “Well, then, James,” Stupenagel said, “this will be easy. Just hang back a little.”

  “Jimy, just call me Jimy…with only one m. …I used to use two m ’s but I wanted to do something different.”

  “Well, then,” Stupenagel said, “pleased to meet you Jimy with one m; it’s good to be different.”

  They drove in silence over the bridge and had almost reached Bolton Landing when Jimy cleared his throat. “Uh, I was just thinkin’,” he said. “You’re not a private detective or something, maybe working for his wife in New York City? I don’t want to get him in trouble. He sometimes calls me for a ride, and he’s a good tipper.”

  Uh-oh, Stupenagel thought, kid’s worried about losing his date money. Interesting about “Mrs. Ewen in New York City.” The hotel clerk seemed to think that Mrs. Ewen lived at The Landings. She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Okay, Jimy, I’m going to have to trust you here. But actually, I’m working undercover to protect Mr. Ewen. As you know, he’s an important man, the head of the police union, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said cautiously.

  “Well, then, you can understand that he’s the sort of high-profile target terrorists are looking for, right?”

  Jimy nodded and swallowed hard, his jutting Adam’s apple bobbing rapidly.

  “So you know about his wife?” she asked.

  He start
ed to turn around to answer but she stopped him.

  “Don’t turn around; better that you can’t identify me if the enemies of this country try to connect you to me. Now I need you to answer me truthfully, so that I know you’re on the up-and-up. What do you know about his wife here in Bolton Landing?”

  “Well, not much…but everybody knows that Inge isn’t the real Mrs. Ewen,” he said, then got a sly smile on his face. “Not unless his kids—he’s got two sons who come up here to fish sometimes—are older than their mother.”

  “Yes,” Stupenagel said, trying to keep the glee out of her voice. Curiouser and curiouser. “This Inge talks with a foreign accent, right?”

  Jimy looked at her in the rearview mirror as if she’d divulged a state secret. He nodded. “Yeah, I think she told me she’s from Sweden.”

  Stupenagel snorted. “Sweden? That’s what she’s telling people? I’m sure you recognized the accent, and it wasn’t Swedish.”

  “Sure,” Jimy said, stealing another glance.

  “Any idiot would peg it for at least Russian.”

  “She’s Russian?”

  “Chechen.”

  “A terrorist?”

  “We think so,” Stupenagel said. “Let’s just say we’re watching her. Mr. Ewen’s going along for the ride, if you get what I mean?” She looked in the mirror and winked.

  “Oh, yeah.” Jimy grinned. “Nice work if you can get it. She’s hot.”

  “She may also be a killer known in agency circles as the Lioness.”

  Jimy gulped audibly. “The Lioness?”

  “Yes, sort of like the Jackal, who I’m sure you’ve heard of.”

  “Oh sure, I saw the movie.”

  “Then Mr. Ewen, the agency, and I can count on your discretion until the moment we’re ready to move? At some point, you’ll be free to tell anyone you want about tonight. Might even be a book in it, who knows? But right now, we don’t even want Mr. Ewen to know when we’re watching and when we’re not so that he doesn’t accidentally give it away that we’re watching her. I’m sorry, Jimy….”