by Al Roker
Lee suggested I look at the final two pages she’d given me.
“On the left are the cities Trina Lomax visited for her INN special reports. On the right are cities where key political figures, most of them InterTec clients, by the way, were murdered during that same period.”
I scanned the lists. “It’s not a one hundred percent matchup,” I said.
“No. But remember, she was not working alone. I bet we will find that Ted Parkhurst’s schedule put him near the other assassinations, like the Touchstone guard in Kabul. I’m convinced she is our Felix. And there’s one more thing you should know.”
“What more could there be?”
“A month ago, when Goyal started his European tour, he was asked which of his Mossad assignments had made him the most proud. Among those he mentioned was the capture of a little ‘mouse of a man’ who was easily ‘convinced’ to provide his team with proof that a Saudi charity was funding Hamas.”
“Like the song goes, it’s a small world after all,” I said.
“And unless we act, Felix will most certainly find a way to avenge the torture and death of her little mouse.”
“We should take all this to the police,” I said, placing the papers on the desk next to her briefcase.
“As you know, the police will do nothing without evidence. All we have is conjecture.”
She stopped talking, a reaction to the sight of me nearly falling asleep on my feet. “Forgive me,” she said. “You are exhausted and you must be alert for your broadcast. We should go to bed. In the morning, we can both think more clearly.”
I discovered something that night: Sleep was not at the top of my physical necessity list. Later, mentally, physically, and sexually exhausted, with her warm, naked body pressed against mine, I was just drifting off when Lee whispered in my ear, “I have thought of a plan to trap her.”
Pillow talk.
Chapter
FIFTY-SEVEN
I don’t know if Lee slept at all that night.
I woke at four-thirty a.m., alone in bed. I tested my various damaged areas, expecting the usual day-two increase in pain. But they actually felt improved. Could sex be the ultimate painkiller? It certainly beat Celebrex.
At a little after five, showered, shaved, suited, and lured by the smell of fried bacon, I found Lee in the restaurant kitchen. She’d prepared breakfast for us. Scrambled eggs and coffee to go with the bacon. It looked lovely. But as they say, there are no free meals.
I’d barely nibbled a forkful of egg when Lee said, “It is not just a question of saving Goyal’s life. I do not want that bitch to slip away where she can kill more of my clients. I want her nailed tight to the prison floor. I think we can do that.”
“‘We’?” I said.
“My plan requires your participation.”
“Why? You’ve got a whole army of agents, Lee.”
“You are part of this, chef,” she said. “You have a more personal reason than I.”
“Yeah?”
“Self-preservation. Felix gave you a warning that you foolishly ignored. Besides, I’m not asking you to do anything you aren’t capable of handling.”
“Whoa. Flip that over and serve it up again.”
“I need you to do the interview with Goyal Aharon.”
I ate a piece of crisp, dry bacon, took a sip of coffee, and mulled that over.
“Assuming you could somehow derail Trina Lomax’s plan to interview him, there are quite a few people next in line, including Lance Tuttle and our news anchor, Tori Dillard. I’d be in that line somewhere after the entertainment guy.”
“You’re wherever Gretchen Di Voss wants you to be. And I don’t think it will take much to convince her you’re the man for the job.”
“But I’m not,” I disagreed. “I know my limitations. To begin, my knowledge of international politics comes mainly from James Bond movies. I don’t know anything about Aharon, except that he talks too much for his own good. And I haven’t even read his book.”
“As if any of your associates bother to read the books of the authors they interview. These things are of no importance.”
With that she stopped talking and concentrated on devouring her breakfast. I, on the other hand, had lost my appetite. I picked at the egg and sipped a little more coffee and wondered what one said to an ex–Mossad agent. “Hey, how are things in the Holy Land?” “How about that Hezbollah?”
There was a noise just outside the kitchen door.
If Lee heard it, she seemed to ignore it as she continued consuming the remains of her breakfast. I turned to see the door swing inward as A.W. stepped into the kitchen. “About time to hit the road,” he said.
“Give us a minute, A.W.,” Lee said.
“Sure. I’ll be out in the car, Billy.”
“I’d better be going,” I said. I started to rise, but Lee placed a hand on my wrist, indicating I should remain seated.
“Goyal’s flight arrives at a little after eleven. We’ll give him a while to shake off the jet lag, then get you two together.”
“I don’t understand where you’re going with this. What’s the plan?”
“I thought you could figure that one out,” Lee said. She stood, picked up our plates, and carried them to the sink. “Goyal may be Felix’s primary target, but she has her own reasons, whatever they may be, for wishing you harm, too. Putting both of you together in a seemingly accessible location—like Goyal’s hotel suite—should be an opportunity she’ll be unable to resist.”
“In other words,” I said, joining her at the sink with the glasses and coffee cups, “for you to get the hard evidence you need, Felix will have to make a self-incriminating move. Pull a gun. Set fire to the room. Stab one of us in the chest. Something like that.”
“I’ll be near enough to ensure your safety,” she said, taking the glasses and cups from my hands. “Don’t worry about the dishes. I’ll put them in the machine and lock up after I’m through. You just get to work on time, chef dear.”
“This is no little thing, Lee,” I said.
“You and Goyal will be safe as houses,” Lee said. “Trust me. At the first hint of trouble, we’ll close Trina down.”
Outside, a car horn sounded.
“You should go,” she said. “And don’t worry. Tonight we will celebrate.”
She stepped into my arms and we kissed. It was very nice, but it didn’t stop me from worrying.
Chapter
FIFTY-EIGHT
As we drove to the Glass Tower, the night was dragging its feet on the way out of Manhattan. The streetlights were still bright, but the black sky was showing streaks of purple and a pale orange line was barely visible on the horizon. Nautical twilight.
A.W. asked, “Did Lee mention, ah, how she wanted to handle things tonight?”
Ordinarily, I would have been amused by the unintended double entendre, but I was too worried about Lee’s plan. “For one reason or another, by tonight I doubt I’ll be needing a guard.”
“Why’s that?” he asked.
So I told him about the proposed showdown in Goyal Aharon’s hotel suite. “What do you think?” I asked.
“Lee’s the boss,” he said.
“Leaving that aside.”
“She’s been at this a little longer than me, Billy, but I don’t know as I’d put two clients at risk like that. ’course, the risk would be minimal, since she’ll be controlling the situation.”
“Explain.”
“I assume that since we’re setting up the location, the hotel suite will be wired for sight and sound. InterTec will take over that section of the floor, with agents in the suites next to you and across the hall. Both you and Mr. Aharon will be armed. And presumably we’ll have surprise on our side.”
“That’s all comforting to know,” I said.
“And Lee will probably be in the room with you,” he said. “I doubt Ms. Lomax could come up with an innocent-sounding reason for keeping her out.”
“Even
better,” I said. I was almost starting to feel okay about the whole thing.
Making a turn into the tower’s underground parking, A.W. said, “And just in case Ms. Lomax tries something funny with you before this evening—like maybe while you’re in the studio—don’t worry. I’ll be sticking close.”
Whoa. Me? In danger before the meeting? Now? I hadn’t considered that.
“Trina’s been looking for you,” Kiki said as soon as we’d set foot into my dressing-room suite. “And who’s this gentleman, Billy?”
My mind on Trina, I did the introductions almost by rote.
“So now you’re keeping him from harm, A.W.,” Kiki said. “What happened to the Indian lady?”
“She’s in the hospital,” A.W. said.
“Oh, no. Hope it’s nothing serious.”
“She was shot, but they say she’ll recover.”
“Oh my God,” Kiki said. “Is she the one I was reading about in the paper? Gin’s fiancé tried to kill her in the hospital? What in the world … The article was a little fuzzy on the details.”
I somehow doubted the details would ever be unfuzzied.
“I want to hear all about it, Billy, but it’ll have to wait,” she said. “Trina wants to see you pronto. In Rudy’s, I mean, her office on six.”
“On my way,” I said, heading out, A.W. beside me.
As I stepped off the elevator on six, there was a flurry of motion to my left. A.W. pushed me and, as I stumbled forward, I saw Chuck Slater, the boy movie critic, frozen in his tracks, gawking at us, face drained of blood, eyes and mouth wide open in fear.
“Drop the gun,” I heard A.W. say.
Chuck did have a gun in his hands. A weird-looking, sinister thing with two barrels lined up horizontally, the top one slightly shorter.
He dropped it to the carpet.
A.W. stepped forward and kicked the gun away from Chuck.
“Holy Christ,” Chuck said, his voice several octaves higher than usual. “You guys nuts?”
The others in the area—the receptionist, a brunette named Maude, a couple of assistants I didn’t know—seemed equally startled.
A.W. kept his weapon aimed at Chuck while he bent to pick up the strange firearm. Straightening, he shook his head and holstered his weapon. He handed me Chuck’s gun.
“It’s a RAP-four,” A.W. said.
“Whatever it’s called,” I said, “it shoots paintballs. I learned that the hard way. What were you doing with it, Chuck?”
“Doing with it? Taking it home, asshole. This guy could have shot me.”
“He still might,” I said. “Why were you carrying a paintball gun in the office?”
“I … I just gave it to him,” Maude said. “I found it in the trash and it looked like something … Chuck might like.” She was on the verge of tears.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “We’re all a little on edge. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too, ma’am,” A.W. said.
He looked at the gun. “This the one used on you?”
“Why else would it be here? In the trash?”
“Everybody and his cousin have probably had their hands on it,” A.W. said, “but we should probably check it for prints.”
I shook my head. “Waste of time and effort. The one set of prints we’d want won’t be there. The Cheetah was wearing gloves.”
“You wanna give me my gun back, Bless-sing?” Chuck’s arrogance had returned. “It’s mine. She gave it to me.”
I threw it to him. He juggled it, finally caught it. “I oughta report you guys to security,” he said.
I saw that Trina was now standing in the doorway to Rudy’s old office, watching us with an angry expression. “If you’re through playing with Chuck, I want to talk to you, Billy.”
As I moved past her into the office, I could smell the pleasant odor of her shampoo or hair spray. She entered the room behind me and started to close the door, but A.W. stopped it and stepped in.
“I’m sorry,” she said to him, “but this is a private conversation.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “He’s my bodyguard.”
“I don’t plan on harming you,” Trina said, her eyes flashing. “But the hell with it.”
The office was a mess. Floor littered with cardboard boxes, some opened, displaying framed photos and other bits of memorabilia. Foam peanuts and packing tissue scattered everywhere, strips of Bubble Wrap popping under your feet. A joke stress-o-meter. Little comedy statues of cameramen tearing their hair out and golfers doing dumb things with their clubs.
“Gallagher’s world,” Trina explained. “The cops took it all away and now they’re sending it back, box by box. And the building cleanup crew is taking their time … Well, that’s neither here nor there.”
“You didn’t throw away a paintball gun, did you, Trina?”
“Of course not. What would I be doing … Is that THE paintball gun?”
I shrugged.
“Here? On this floor? I saw the damn thing in the trash. Didn’t give it a second’s thought. But I was right.”
“Right about what?” I asked.
“Never mind. The reason I asked you up here, Billy, is that Gretchen called this morning to say that she wanted you to do the Aharon interview. WTF?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “What did Gretchen say?”
“Some bullshit about keeping the interview light. Why would we want to do that when we have a chance to make some real news? Since when do you keep it light with the former head of a secret intelligence agency?”
I stood there looking as helpless as I felt.
“Well, crap, I’m stuck with this bullshit decision from on high. So here’s how it goes. At your meeting with Aharon later today, I will be there. It’s my understanding that he’s agreed to answer anything we ask. I want to make sure that hasn’t changed. And I’ve created my own set of questions that you will ask during the interview. And he doesn’t see the questions before we roll tape. Understand?”
“Sure. I imagine you’ll let me see those questions before the interview.”
She gave me a cold smile.
“A few minutes before. Billy, if you ever pull this kind of bullshit again, going behind my back to grab a get, one of us is going to be leaving this show. And frankly, if this is an example of how things work around here, I won’t care if it’s me.”
She opened the door and gestured with an arm wave that suggested we leave.
“Feisty,” A.W. remarked as we headed down in the elevator.
“I’d be angry, too,” I said.
“’course, if Lee is right—and the appearance of that paintball gun in the trash near her office is another indication that she might be—the anger is probably just an act.”
I looked at him.
“I mean, she’s just using it to explain why she’s going to be in that hotel suite with you and Mr. Aharon.”
Chapter
FIFTY-NINE
That morning’s show played out pretty much as planned. I interviewed a veterinarian who’d written a diet book for dogs and cats. I tried my damnedest to keep a paddleball going for at least ten paddles while the U.S. paddleball champion kept his ball bouncing throughout the whole segment, simultaneously offering his reasons why the sport should be considered for the Olympics. On the street, I talked to some nice folks from Utah who wanted to remind our viewers that it was one hundred sixty-two years ago that Mormons settled in their state. They also wanted to express their dismay at the way so many people seemed to approve of same-sex marriage while disapproving of polygamy. (But they had no comment one way or the other about same-sex polygamy.) And I did a human-interest chat with twin sisters who were celebrating their one hundredth birthday and were looking forward to a meeting later that morning at NBC with their “dream man,” Willard Scott.
From time to time throughout the show, the camera and I checked in on Mr. Turducken, with whom I’d finally connected. He was spending the morning demonstrating the creat
ion of his namesake dish with a four-pound chicken stuffed into a five-pound duckling stuffed into a twenty-pound turkey. All deboned, of course. I had expressed my concern that certain stages of the turducken preparation might not be appreciated by viewers at breakfast, notably, those involving close-ups of the various birds in their boneless but very bloody repose. In high-def yet. This warning had gone unheeded, and by the time the show headed into the homestretch, with the turducken on its back, trussed up to keep from falling apart in the oven, the switchboard was aglow with complaints.
As he’d promised, A.W. had hovered just off camera during the two hours. When the network headed into the nine o’clock news, we headed to my dressing-room office.
He was saying something about checking on Bettina that I didn’t quite hear. I was too distracted by the familiar form of Detective Solomon slouching in my dressing-room doorway.
“Hiya, Blessing,” he said. “Miss me?”
“Not really,” I said. “Where’s your sidekick?”
“It’s our day off and he’s home with his family. Which is where I’d be if I had a family. Instead I’m talking to you, as suggested by Detective Hawkline. She mentioned threats.”
“Come on in,” I said, moving past him into the room.
“Messages,” Kiki said, thrusting a neat stack of little salmon-colored slips at me. She was at her desk, working on a personal laptop. “In case you’re wondering,” she said, “we’re missing the office computer. I’ve notified building security.”
“Oh, gee,” A.W. said. “We’ve got it. I’ll see about having it delivered back to you, maybe today.”
Solomon was intrigued by the conversation. “And who might you be?” he asked A.W.
I stuffed the message slips into a coat pocket and did the introductions.
“So you’re his bodyguard? The one who was at the hospital last night?” Solomon asked A.W.
“Yes, sir.”
Solomon studied A.W. briefly, then turned to me. “What’s up with your missing computer, Blessing?”
I knew what was up with it: It had been used to send the first kidnap note, and InterTec was checking it for prints, bugs, you name it. I definitely did not want Solomon to add kidnapping to my list of major crimes and was racking my brain to think of an alternative explanation when A.W. said, “We’re installing some of our software on it.”
