No. He had to find the blonde.
Jack took the elevator down to the lobby and found a cab waiting outside the front doors. Philadelphia was dead this time of night. He’d heard the old joke about the city rolling up the sidewalks at night, and sadly, it was true. Granted, it was a Thursday, but this was the heart of the fifth-largest city in the United States. Shouldn’t there be more people out pissing their lives away in restaurants or bars?
“The airport, as fast as you can.”
“Time’s your flight?”
“I don’t have one. It’s just important that I get there....”
“Well, you are going to arrivals or departures?”
Which one?
Jack thought about it, then said, “Arrivals.” Because he had arrived, and could retrace his steps back to the airport bar that way.
“Terminal?
“Huh?”
“Which terminal? They’re serious about security. I can’t go wandering around the—”
“Which one is Continental?” That was the airline Jack had flown in on.
“That’d be C. Anybody tell you about the flat rate?”
Next the guy was going to tell Jack to buckle his seat belt, maybe even hop out of the car to make sure it clicked into the buckle correctly.
“I’m kind of in a hurry.”
Wordlessly, the driver took off up Eighteenth Street, passing Rittenhouse Square and Market Street, then JFK Boulevard, then a construction site. He had never visited Philadelphia before, but he’d studied a map of Center City. His hotel was three blocks from the Sofitel, where he was supposed to be meeting Donovan Platt. He wondered if he was going to make it. Maybe he’d, ha ha ha, be dead.
If he had been poisoned.
Within a few minutes they were back on 1-95, headed south. Past the same row houses, shrouded in darkness, then two newish-looking sports arenas, then an industrial wasteland of refineries and—
Oh no. Not again.
“Excuse me. I need you to pull over.”
“I thought you were in a hurry.”
“Please. ”
The desperation in his voice must have done it. Without another word, the driver pulled across two lanes and came to a gradual halt on the shoulder. Jack fumbled with the passenger door on the left—no chance to slide across to the other side—and barely kicked open the door before he started spewing.
There was a little more blood this time.
10:46 p.m.
1-95 South, Near the Girard Point Bridge
Kowalski was treated to the sight of a man hanging out of a Yellow Cab, heaving his guts out onto the blacktop of 1-95.
Fucking drunk. Couldn’t the guy’ve had the courtesy to pick the other door? You know, the one facing the scenic refineries of southwest Philly? Now he was going to have that image in his mind all night long. I mean, c’mon. It’s a Thursday night, pal. Everybody’s working for the weekend.
Kowalski had been able to reserve a seat on a 1:00 A.M. flight to Houston. With luck, he’d make it to the gate and through security checks in time. Get to Houston by 3:00 A.M. Check for his envelope at the Shuttle Texas courtesy counter. Inside the envelope would be the address of the morgue. There wasn’t time to rent a car; he’d catch another cab. That was all he’d worked out so far. On the plane, he’d come up with three or four ways to slip inside the morgue, get what he needed, get out, and get to the drop-off point.
The head. They wanted Professor Manchette’s entire head.
Which, hey, whatever, not his problem. But it presented a set of logistical challenges. Like walking out of the morgue with a human head. Kowalski would need a gym bag and a hacksaw, at the very least.
The bag could be found at the airport. Scope a busy baggage-claim station—there were a bunch at George Bush Intercontinental-cherry-pick one from the steel conveyor. Someone raises a fuss? Apologize, claim to have one just like it. Then look for another one. Black, or navy blue. Two most common colors. Nobody thinks about buying distinctive luggage until they’re standing there by a baggage-claim queue, wishing they’d had the foresight to buy pink neon Samsonite.
Yeah, and that lasts until they leave baggage claim, and forget all about it. Nobody really wants to walk around toting a fucking Day-Glo bag.
Hacksaw? Morgue probably had a box full of ’em. Plastic bags, too, to line the gym bag.
The best operations supplied their own tools.
Kowalski would be walking in with little more than his clothes and cell phone. The clothes could be easily ditched and burned. And his cell phone was equipped with a nifty little self-destruct sequence—his father’s Social Security number, which meant that someday it would finally be put to good use—that could double as a getaway diversion. And what were the authorities going to do with a crazy naked man who was caught trying to saw the head off a dead college professor?
Not much.
By the time his fingerprints were entered into CODIS, his organization could already be working on paperwork for his immediate release. Some debriefing, maybe a reprimand, but nothing too busy. Then he could get back to Philadelphia. Resume his mission of personal vengeance by next Thursday at the latest.
And that was the worst-case scenario.
Government jobs. Absolutely the greatest.
Kowalski’s taxi pulled up to Terminal C. The fare was $42.30. So much for the flat rate. He removed his travel wallet from the inside of his suit jacket—this would be stuffed in a storage locker when he arrived in Houston. He peeled off two twenties and a five and told the driver to keep the change. Nothing too generous, nothing too miserly. No reason for the cabdriver to remember him.
He walked through the revolving doors to the Continental terminal, walked up to the E-ticket check-in. Slid in his credit card, which was under a name that matched the Texas driver’s license in his travel wallet.
Baggage? the computer asked.
Kowalski punched 0.
Might be different on the way back. If he couldn’t make the drop-off, maybe he’d be carting Manchette’s head back to Philadelphia. Hang on to it for a few days. Show it the Liberty Bell.
Ha ha ho ho hewwwwww.
Katie would have thought that was funny.
His ticket printed.
Halfway up the escalator to the Continental gate, Kowalski’s thigh started buzzing. He grabbed the phone, flipped it open.
“Yeah.”
Kowalski was given a phone number. He added six to every digit. Walked to a pay phone located down the hall from the gate. Dialed the new number, using the second of his prepaid cards. This was why he purchased them in threes.
“Don’t leave. We believe the subject is in Philadelphia.”
“The professor? Is it all of him, or was his head spotted rolling down the tarmac?”
His handler ignored him.
“A credit card believed to be carried by Kelly White was used at the airport lounge one hour ago.”
“I’m at the airport now.”
“This was an hour ago, but she still may be in the lounge. Please check.”
“Can you give me a description?”
“I sent a photo to your phone. She has changed her appearance since entering the country one week ago.”
“Nothing surgical?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll know her.”
Kowalski was already retrieving new mail. The subject line: “Happy Birthday!”
“Got it?”
“Yeah.” Kowalski looked at the image on the screen. “You know who she looks like? That actress... Ah hell, I just saw the movie....”
“Reply to that number with a text message. ‘So glad you remembered,’ if you’ve located her. If not, ‘Better late than never.’ ”
Kowalski hung up the phone. This was good. If he didn’t have to leave the city to take care of this new operation, he wouldn’t waste travel time getting back to his own project.
So where do pretty girls go when they’re wandering the airport at m
idnight?
10:49 p.m.
I’m just glad you didn’t get it all over the interior.” Jack could only moan in reply.
The cab continued down 1-95, toward the airport, but he was in no condition to admire the view. The knot in his stomach was bad. Real bad. That last set of heaves apparently had awakened some primordial part of his brain—the one that monitored likelihood of death. This part triggered bodily reactions designed to forestall death: increased body temperature, a surge of adrenaline, the sweats. It was as if his body had finally gotten the memo: Yes, it has come to our attention that we have been poisoned. Your body is now taking appropriate countermeasures to rid itself of poison. Best of luck, chaps, and now, once more, into the breach!
He wasn’t going to leave it to his body.
He was going to find the blonde and force her to give him the antidote.
“Most guys don’t have the courtesy. But if you don’t mind me saying, I don’t think I should be taking you to the airport. I think you need an emergency room.”
“No,” Jack whispered. “The airport.”
“If you’re sure.”
The way he figured it, he had another ten minutes before the next attack. Fortunately, they were close to the airport. He’d have about seven, eight minutes to race back through the gate, hit the airport lounge, and pray like hell that she was still—
Fuck. How was he supposed to get into the airport bar behind the main gate? Only ticketed passengers were allowed through. Once you left, you weren’t allowed back in without another ticket.
His return ticket was back in his luggage, in the hotel room. Theresa had ordered them through a discount travel Web site; they’d been printed and mailed to his new apartment. It was the only small spark of kindness he’d seen in her in months. Since everything slipped off the rails. Since she’d hired Donovan fucking Platt. Friend of Theresa’s mother. They went way back.
Fat lot of good the return ticket was doing him now. How was he going to get into the airport?
“Okay. That’s twenty-six-twenty-five. Flat rate.”
He reached for his wallet, pulled out a twenty, a five, and two ones. He held them through the gap in the Plexiglas partition.
“Oh,” the driver said, looking at the bills.
What did the guy want? A five? There probably should be a law: guy going through a divorce, no need to pay tips. Not in a cab, restaurant, or strip club. If a man’s about to be bled dry, cut him a break on the loose change. One brother to another.
Jack walked into the arrivals terminal. To buy a ticket, he needed to be in departures. There had to be another way. Jack checked his watch. Two till midnight. It had been over two hours since he’d left her at the bar. Chances were, she’d gotten lucky with some other poor idiot.
Wait a second.
Jack approached the Continental customer service kiosk. “Hi. I need to page someone.”
“Sorry, we don’t do that. If you’d like to contact a representative of the airport’s security—”
“It’s really important.”
“We really don’t do that.”
Jack knew there was probably some clever way of convincing this agent—a modelish-looking guy with the name tag BRYON—that it was of utmost importance that this person be paged. That, in fact, it was a matter of national security, or something. Happened in movies all the time. But Jack couldn’t think of anything clever. He was feeling that knot in his stomach again, and his head pounded. His skin felt hot. He was out of charm. Out of goodwill.
Jack walked away, heading in the general direction of baggage claim. Farther up were the rest rooms. He was sure he’d be needing the men’s room again in ... oh, six minutes. Then beyond that, the taxi stand. He should hit an ATM machine, take out another forty dollars, catch a ride back to the hotel. Warn the driver in advance: Halfway through this trip, I’ll probably have to lean out of the cab and puke blood. And then return to the room and call Theresa and tell her what had happened and maybe—
“See! There he is! Jack!”
It was a girl’s voice. His girl from the bar.
The blonde.
Jack turned around. She was standing there with a paunchy middle-aged guy who had a black MEMBERS ONLY jacket draped around one shoulder. A green backpack was slung over the other.
The blonde ran up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She whispered, “Go along with this or you’ll die.”
Members Only stuck his hand out. “Damn pleased to meet you, Jack. Your sister Kelly is quite a character.”
Kelly—was that really her name?—kept her arms locked around Jack.
“Name’s Ed Hunter. I do tax law. Kelly tells me you’re a newspaperman.”
Kelly pressed her cool palm to his forehead. “You feel hot, baby.”
“I am,” he said in reply to both. He was both feverish and a newspaperman. But how did his blonde—Kelly—know that? He’d said nothing in the bar that would have tipped her off. He’d been careful. Tell someone you’re a journalist in a bar, and then everybody and their grandmother has a story idea. No thanks.
“So you guys ready to enjoy the best martinis you’ve ever had in your life?” Ed asked, draping an arm around Kelly.
“Ed wants to take us to a place called Rouge,” the blonde explained.
“That’s French for red. Owner went bankrupt, lost his entire restaurant empire, but he’s kept this one open. Best martinis you’ll ever have.”
“You look like you could use a drink, Jack,” she said.
“Sure.” He was too stunned to say much else. The trio—thank God, not wrapped up in a bear hug anymore—walked out the sliding doors to the cabstand. Kelly kept her hand on his arm, as if she was afraid he’d slip away. No chance of that. Not until he received his antidote.
If there was an antidote.
If there was a poison.
Ed led the way.
“This one’s on me. Besides, it’s a flat rate. Twenty-six-twenty-five takes you from the airport to anywhere in Center City. That’s what we call our downtown, by the way.”
Again with the flat rate. What, was it printed on the side of the Liberty Bell? Happen to be traveling by cab to the airport? Well, friend, Philadelphia has a helluva a deal for you.
Kelly opened the back door before the driver even had a chance to pop out of his seat. “You first, Jack. Slide over.”
Jack did as he was told. Sliding over to the opposite door wasn’t a problem, either. The knot was tightening, and if he was going to throw up again, he wanted to do it in the privacy of the opposite side of the cab. Kelly might have poisoned him, but Jack was still too proud to vomit blood on her. And there was Ed to consider.
Through the open door, Jack saw Kelly pivot to face Ed. What was going on? He ducked his head to look out the window.
Oh.
Oh Christ, they were French-kissing.
That’s French for red.
It went on for a while. He could hear an audible slurp now and again. The driver looked at Jack, who could only shrug his shoulders. Hey, search me, buddy, he wanted to say. Guess my sister’s a ho.
The knot in his stomach tightened.
11:13 p.m.
Philadelphia International Airport
Good thing Philly International was a one taxi stand kind of joint; Kowalski didn’t have to bounce around a bunch of them. There were only two options: Kelly White was here or she’d left. The bartender in the Terminal C bar remembered a girl fitting her description leaving around 11:30. She left with a man, middle-aged, in a black jacket. Bartender assumed he’d picked her up. “They were real clingy,” she said. Chances were, they were still around.
Okay, so two likely options. They’re somewhere else in the terminal, or they’re going to catch a cab. Headed somewhere else to get friendly.
Once Kowalski checked the terminal a few times to his satisfaction, he decided to flush them out.
He approached a Continental manager, flashed a card identifying himself as
an agent of Homeland Security—which was sorta true, only not official. Kowalski’s organization, CI-6, was buried in a blur of funding, obscured by a purposefully murky organizational chart. Even Kowalski didn’t know whom his boss reported to, if anybody. For all he knew, his boss ran the world.
But the card looked legit enough. Even had the new embossed foil with the holographic flying eagles.
One minute later, Kowalski heard the page he’d requested:
Passenger Kelly White, please report to the Continental customer service kiosk. Passenger Kelly White, report to the Continental customer service kiosk.
No way White would go to the kiosk. If she did, the manager was prepared to detain her and page Kowalski. Most likely, she’d shoot for the exits. One set of sliding doors led to the taxi stand. The other led onto the long-term parking lot. Since White wasn’t from Philly and, according to his handler, had only landed recently, a car seemed unlikely. The cab was going to be it.
Sure enough, there she was. Kowalski saw Kelly and that middle-aged guy in a black jacket. They were embracing in front of an open cab door. And inside... oh, another guy in the backseat. Kowalski fixed his eyes on the orange box of an alternative newsweekly across the street, then headed forward as if to retrieve a copy. Meanwhile, he reached into his jacket pocket and sent a text message—“So glad you remembered”—as he memorized the cab’s license plate. The next step was up to his handler.
Kelly and the unidentified male were still going at it. Kowalski wondered, idly, what the deal with the guy in the cab was. He couldn’t see the man’s face. Had Kelly proposed some kind of three-way scenario?
Not that it mattered. He didn’t know why the female subject was wanted. That was the way it was with CI-6. No need to dig up a motive. Just simple, clear objectives. Which made his job quantifiable, if not exactly satisfying.
Which was why he was so eager to return to his current project in Philadelphia. This time, it was personal. He knew the reasons— most of them anyway. He knew the net effect of every action. He had a singular purpose, and it was extremely satisfying when he completed each task he’d designed to achieve that purpose.
The Blonde Page 3
