Playing for Time

by Bretton, Barbara

  "I thought I was the best-kept secret in the organization," he said lightly. "No one outside of the top brass even knows my name." He leaned toward his mentor. "Has something gone down that I should know about?"

  Alistair lit another cigarette. "Have you taken a good look at Mrs. Hayes's hands?"

  "No," Ryder said, leaning back. "Have you checked your feet lately?"

  "Amusing," said Alistair. "Now answer the question."

  "I'll ask one of my own: Why the hell should I inspect Kathryn's hands?"

  "Because seventy-eight –"

  "Seventy-seven."

  Alistair glared at him and went on. "Because seventy-seven-year old women rarely have hands as smooth and unmarred as a girl's."

  Ryder shrugged. "Maybe she uses some fancy cream on them or has good genes." He thought about her remarkably spry walk and uncommonly well-proportioned body, a body that Joanna seemed to have inherited. "Some traits seem to run in families."

  "There's more to it than her hands, Ryder."

  Ryder glanced out at the New York City skyline as they came off the Triborough Bridge and got onto the FDR Drive. "You're the one who ran a check on Kathryn. What did you find out?"

  "You're not going to like it, my boy."

  "I haven't liked any of this conversation so far. It hasn't stopped you yet."

  "Kathryn Hayes died in 1981."

  Ryder laughed. "I think you'd better have your computer checked. Kathryn Hayes is hale and hearty and very much alive."

  Alistair pulled a printout from his attaché case and extended it to Ryder. "Not according to my information."

  Ryder waved it away. "Your information is wrong."

  "It's never been wrong before."

  "Well, it's wrong this time. Damn it, Chambers! Do you have to play this cloak-and-dagger game with everybody?"

  "Where you're concerned, Ryder, I must. What if Hayes is an operative sent to uncover your work on the detection of plastic explosives?"

  Ryder thought about the stack of notes and mock-ups in the locked room of his Carillon apartment – the room Alistair Chambers had never been allowed access to. As far as Alistair knew, the work existed only in Ryder's head.

  "There's nothing to uncover," he lied. "I haven't begun work on the project yet." That, after all, was what their conversation on the jet from St. George had been all about.

  "Ryder, Ryder." Alistair ground out his cigarette in the rapidly filling ashtray. "Grant me some intelligence, please. I know what you’ve done and I know exactly how far you've gotten." Ryder started to protest but Alistair raised his hand. "Spare me. I'm still willing to go along with our agreement but let us at least be honest with one another."

  "You son of a bitch," Ryder said, shaking his head in amazement. "How in hell did you know about it?"

  "Trade secret."

  "You can tell me," Ryder said, with an edge of sarcasm in his voice. "My security clearances are top-ranked."

  Alistair leaned back and crossed his legs. "Remember that three-faceted multilingual panmedia 900-baud high-frequency transmitter with the decode function in Alpha and Code Z you developed for the Pentagon last year?"

  Ryder nodded.

  "PAX made a few adjustments and – well, let's simply say that locked doors aren't the deterrent they once were."

  "I should have become a plumber," Ryder said sourly. "At least they have privacy."

  "You'd hate it," Alistair said. "On call twenty-four hours a day, dealing with emergencies both real and imagined, no time to call your own –"

  "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" What Alistair had been describing was Ryder's life in the organization the past fifteen years.

  Alistair acknowledged the similarity. "But, dear boy, very few plumbers have a Rolls-Royce at their disposal or an apartment at the Carillon."

  "Not if what I've heard about their hourly rates is true. The plumbers all live at Trump Tower."

  Alistair laughed and, finally, so did Ryder. Both men knew his knowledge of a plumber's wages was limited to hearsay. Ryder's day-to-day reality was vastly different from the day-to-day reality of most Americans.

  The limousine exited the FDR Drive and headed crosstown toward the Carillon.

  "So now that you know I've started the project," Ryder said, "does that mean our deal is off?" Calm words that hid the rising fear that he'd made himself irreplaceable.

  Alistair drew himself up in his seat and looked affronted. "After all the years we've known each other, I'm surprised you would say such a thing, Ryder. If I am anything, I am a man of my word."

  "I'm sorry," he said, meeting Alistair's eyes. Alistair had never been anything but totally honest with him. "I must be more tired than I thought.

  "You'll have the time and space in which to work, my boy. That I promise you." Alistair paused, his blue eyes searching Ryder's face. "But you are still part of PAX and there are still some things PAX must ask of you."

  "Such as?"

  "Be careful whom you befriend."

  "Kathryn Hayes?"

  "Kathryn Hayes, Joanna Stratton, the young man in apartment 3G—you've come too far to make a mistake now."

  Ryder tried to make light of Alistair's warning. "I think the Caribbean sun was too much for you, my friend. Next you'll tell me to watch out for my neighbor's Pomeranian: it might have a bug in its flea collar."

  "An execrable play on words that I shall endeavor to ignore. Like it or not, you are still part of PAX and all that being part of PAX entails." The limousine lurched to a stop at a red light and Alistair rapped sharply on the divider to caution the driver to pay heed to the job at hand. "Friendship is a risky business for us, Ryder. Our enemies come in many disguises."

  The seed Chambers had carefully planted began to take root. A thousand questions Ryder had been ignoring all clamored for attention.

  "Damn you," he said quietly to Alistair as the limo moved forward again. "Damn you."

  If Kathryn Hayes wasn't who she seemed to be, then what in hell did that make Joanna Stratton?

  #

  The Twilight Zone, Joanna thought, looking into the mirror. That was it. Rod Serling had somehow reached out from the Great Beyond and swept her into another dimension of space and time.

  Certainly not even her makeup skills could account for the eerie feeling that came over her when she looked at the completed job. All signs of Joanna Stratton had been obliterated. Looking back at her from the mirror was Kathryn Hayes. She'd bet that not even her own mother would recognize her now.

  The trip to Ranaghan's had been more than worth it. The prefab jowls and flesh-toned latex provided the final touches that had fine-tuned her creation from acceptable to perfect. Benny Ryan and the rest of the crew would be astounded when she worked her magic next week.

  She adjusted the cap of grey curls and grinned at her reflection. Maybe she should just show up on the set in her full Kathryn regalia and shock the heck out of them.

  The clock in the dining room struck two-fifteen.

  Joanna leaped to her feet. Cynthia had sent four checks that "must, absolutely must be put in the bank by Wednesday afternoon the latest, thank you, darling Jo" and Joanna knew what that meant. Cynthia's account was probably overdrawn, the mortgage payment about to bounce higher than a Spaulding rubber ball, and it would be up to Joanna to explain to her mother's outraged creditors that some women simply weren't good with numbers.

  She grabbed the checks from the lower left-hand desk drawer and stuffed them in her purse with a deposit slip. Cynthia's bank was ten blocks from the Carillon; if Joanna hurried she could just get there before it closed.

  She raced for the elevator, but the door was stuck. No matter how hard she tried to pull it open, it wouldn't budge and Joanna didn't have time to spare. She opened the fire door and raced down the stairs, thankful that her attention to detail hadn't eliminated her trustworthy Reeboks.

  #

  The elevator door opened as soon as the fire door closed.

  "Was that h
er?" the first man asked.

  "Who else? No other old people besides Callahan on this floor."

  "What do we do?"

  "He said to follow her. We can't do nothing in the building."

  "How bad do we hurt her?"

  "Bad as we have to."

  They took the elevator to the lobby and positioned themselves near the mail room to wait.

  #

  Ryder paced the length of his living room. He'd been back in his apartment for less than an hour and already he was climbing the walls – figuratively if not literally.

  Alistair had dropped him off after Ryder refused a lunch invitation, and Ryder had been doing his damnedest to pretend he wasn't aching to see Joanna Stratton again. Alistair's warning had unnerved him in a way that surprised him.

  Normally Alistair's PAX-instilled brand of righteous paranoia amused him; today it rankled.

  All this crap about Kathryn's hands and subversives and who was Joanna Stratton anyway had taken its toll on his temper and he was ready to explode. Pacing a hole in the Berber carpeting wasn't going to solve anything.

  What he had to do was go downstairs to the Hayes/Stratton apartment, ring the doorbell and take a good long look at Kathryn Hayes's seventy-seven-year-old hands and be done with it. Then, he intended to ask Joanna out to dinner and, if the fates were with him tonight the way they'd been with him this morning on St. George – well, he'd make damn sure his apartment was bug-proof before he invited Joanna inside.

  Five minutes later, he was convinced the fates had deserted him. Joanna wasn't home. Kathryn wasn't home. Even Rosie Callahan next door wasn't home. The tiny Carillon seemed like a high-priced mausoleum and he, the only resident.

  Maybe a little fresh air would help, he thought as he took the elevator down to the lobby.

  Maybe he'd bump into Joanna.

  #

  The bank guard was about to lock the front door when Joanna slipped inside.

  "You live dangerously, lady," he said, pointing toward the clock near the loan officer's desk. "One minute to spare."

  She smiled up at him. "Don't walk as fast as I used to, son. Can't get used to making allowances for it."

  Actually Joanna had practically flown down Columbus Avenue, causing more than one head to turn at the sight of a septuagenarian attempting to break the four-minute mile. The wait for a teller was minimal, and at a little after three Joanna was headed back to the Carillon, this time at a more leisurely pace.

  It was interesting to watch people's reaction to her makeup job. Most walked right by her as if she were a part of the New York scenery, as utilitarian as a wastebasket and just as interesting; however, now and then an elderly man would tip his hat to her and that courtly gesture reminded her of bygone days.

  Bygone days? Joanna laughed out loud, causing two teenage girls in puffy down coats to hurry past her. She was beginning to sound like Rosie.

  Was age as much the result of how you were treated as how you were feeling?

  About halfway to the Carillon Joanna became aware of a strange prickling sensation along the back of her neck that usually accompanied being watched intently. When she bent over to the fix the laces on her right Reebok she noticed a flash of red hair and two males who ducked into the doorway of a health-food restaurant. Was she crazy or could they be Stanley's sleazy new associates?

  No matter. Even if they were Stanley's pals, it was none of her business if they decided to sneak out for a beer during working hours. It was the type of loyalty that Stanley deserved.

  Besides, it was probably imagination and hunger playing tricks on her. When she got back to her apartment, she'd fix herself a pot of coffee and dive into the rest of that pecan coffee ring Rosie'd brought over that morning. That should chase any hunger hallucinations away.

  However, the odd feeling of being followed wouldn't leave. Twice when she stopped at a Don't Walk sign, she turned slightly and caught a glimpse of red hair in the crowd behind her.

  Three blocks from the Carillon the crowd thinned out and Joanna's uneasiness increased. The footsteps behind her kept pace with the tempo of her walking, and there was no way she could deny that she was being followed. She wanted to stop and turn around, confront the two men. Demand to know why they were skulking behind her like a pair of thieves. But what if she were wrong?

  Innate politeness kept her from making a scene.

  Except for the red hair, those two men Stanley had hired were totally forgettable. She'd be chalked up as another batty old lady, and from what she'd seen while in costume, the elderly had enough to contend with without adding Joanna Stratton to the list.

  She crossed to the other side of the street. Her peripheral vision told her they crossed, too. Sweat broke out beneath the grey wig and trickled down the back of her neck.

  To hell with propriety. She broke into a trot, weaving in and around strolling pedestrians. The slap of feet hitting the pavement behind her echoed in her head.

  She was one block away from the Carillon. The light changed to red. The footsteps were getting closer. She darted into traffic, scraping against the side of a gypsy cab, ignoring the bleating horns and the curses shouted in every language known to humanity.

  A few hundred yards, that was all she had to run. Just a few hundred yards and she'd be in the lobby with a doorman and a security system and –

  An arm came around her midsection from the back and lifted her off her feet.

  "Stop! St—" Her scream was muffled by a dirty rag jammed so far into her mouth that her gag reflex was triggered. She retched violently as she was carried into the alleyway between the Carillon and its sister building, the Dorchester, where the endless rows of metal trash cans were stored.

  "You watch the street," the man who held her said to his companion. "I can take care of her."

  "Make it fast. We get caught and that's it. We blow the thousand bucks."

  She struggled, trying to twist around so she could get a look at their faces, but her assailant kept her facing toward the back of the alley, away from him and his cohort.

  "Lay back, Rosie Callahan," he grunted in her ear as she kicked wildly. "Make it easy for both of us."

  Chapter Eleven

  Bile rose into Joanna's throat as she realized he was going to rape her. Hundreds of hours of women's self-defense courses hovered just out of reach as her mind went blank with fear.

  But it wasn't rape he had in mind. The second his fist slammed into the side of her face, Joanna realized, even through her terror, that something else entirely was happening. This was a systematic, unemotional beating, and the only way she was going to get out of it was to outsmart him.

  "Hurry up!" the lookout called from the end of the alleyway. "Don't take all day in there!"

  "Give me –" his fist connected with her stomach " – another minute."

  She closed her eyes and sagged against his arm, feigning unconsciousness. A halo of pain blazed in front of her closed lids as she stealthily reached into her coat pocket for her enormous ring of house keys.

  "I'm getting' the hell out of here, Jimmy," the lookout yelled. "A cab's pullin' up in front of the building."

  The sound of his retreating footsteps echoed down the alleyway.

  "Then screw your money," Jimmy mumbled, his attention diverted momentarily. "You stupid son of a bitch, I'll keep it all."

  This was the moment she'd been waiting for.

  Jimmy's head was turned slightly away from her. Joanna tightened her grip on the ring and swung the heavy maze of keys hard into his face.

  He screamed with pain, but to her horror, he didn't release his grip.

  "You'll pay for that," he said, slapping her across the face. "You'll pay."

  Anger replaced fear, and suddenly all those lost hours of self-defense training came back to her as Joanna brought her fist up into the vulnerable spot between his legs. He doubled over instantly. She was about to smash the heel of her hand into the bridge of his nose when he recovered and threw her dow
n to the filthy ground once again.

  "This one I'm gonna enjoy," he said, whipping a knife from his pocket. "This one I'm really gonna enjoy."

  Fear and rage exploded inside Joanna as she screamed for help. Not fifty feet away pedestrians strolled the city street. Two women peered into the alleyway and hurried past.

  Jimmy lunged for her with his knife but she blocked him with her hand. The sting of sharp metal against soft flesh hurt less than the realization that she was about to die and nobody on earth really gave a damn if she did.

  #

  Ryder's leg hurt like hell, and it was no wonder. For his first day out of the cast, this one had been a killer.

  Not only had he dragged himself through a Caribbean jungle, but he'd walked around the Upper West Side, an urban jungle, for two hours and hadn't found a sign of either Joanna Stratton or her grandmother. Finally, after stopping for a slice of pizza at Nino's, he gave in and hailed himself a cab for the ride back to the Carillon.

  He'd just paid the driver when a red-haired guy who looked familiar whizzed past him, almost knocking him down.

  "Hey, man, watch where you're going!" His leg throbbed ominously. Damn city. The guy didn't even have the decency to break stride a second to see if he'd knocked Ryder flat on his ass.

  Who the hell could manage romance in New York with the dirt, the crime, the crowds, the noise—

  He stopped, his hand on the door. The blare of a bus horn mingled with other equally ugly sounds. However, buried beneath the mixture of noises was a high-pitched sound. He stepped back into the center of the sidewalk and listened. There it was again. A scream – and it seemed to be coming from the alley between the Carillon and the Dorchester.

  Two young women in identical pin-striped suits hurried past, muttering, "Awful, awful," as he reached the opening to the alley.

  He forgot his leg. He forgot his fatigue. He forgot everything when he saw the gleam of the knife and the look of pure terror on Kathryn Hayes's face.