The Deadliest Game

by Hal Ross

  Blair kicked off his shoes, hung his clothes in the closet, then made himself a sliced turkey sandwich. He sat down in the den and began to dig into some recent editions of Time. He noticed a number of references to Homeland Security, the FBI, and the CIA. There was nothing on BIS.

  He turned page after page, convinced he would find some reference, somewhere. There was too much space devoted to politics, and too many reports on the economy. His reading got to be depressing after a while. The fact that the turmoil in the Middle East and violence in Africa was getting increased attention did not improve his mood. Neither did the too-frequent reports of multiple murders by lone psychopaths.

  Whenever he came across the mention of a government agency, Blair slowed his reading. What was it John Dalton had said? Few people were aware of his organization, which was the way they liked to keep it? He suspected that part was true. Up to a point. Nothing was ever completely hidden from the press. There should be something here, he was convinced. And it made him even more suspicious to not be able to find it.

  Finally, bleary-eyed after forty more minutes of searching, he gave up.

  John Dalton’s agency was part of the U.S. government, he decided. It didn’t much matter how clandestine the agency was.

  CHAPTER 5

  The phone calls started the following morning, and they were relentless. For the rest of that day and into Friday morning, Blair ignored them. Then his secretary ran in just after lunch to say that she couldn’t stand it anymore. Blair told her to put John Dalton through the next time he called.

  When his phone buzzed some fifteen minutes later, he threw darts at the receiver before jamming it to his ear. “John, what do you want?”

  “Shalom.”

  “Jeremy? Shalom to you, too. Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

  “Obviously. Who’s John?”

  “Someone you don’t know.”

  “I can see that. You in some kind of trouble, Blair?”

  “No, no. Nothing I can’t handle. Where are you, your office?”

  “Why not?”

  He looked at his watch. “At 7:30 at night in Tel Aviv?”

  Jeremy chuckled. “You know me, a workaholic.”

  “Sure you are,” Blair said. “When there’s no babe hanging onto your arm. What’s up?”

  “Speaking of babes, this young lady I know is going to be in New York and I gave her your number. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Blair shrugged self-consciously. “You know I mind. Why do you even bother to ask?”

  “To prevent you from remaining a hermit for the rest of your life.”

  “Jeremy—”

  “No. Don’t give me your usual crap. You can’t keep sitting at home, pining for your ex.”

  “Pining?”

  “Yeah. It means…”

  “I know what it means, Jeremy.”

  “Look, you have to get a life. It’s time.”

  Blair pictured Jeremy, sport shirt opened halfway down his chest, form-fitted to an athlete’s body of well over six feet. Curly red hair. “I’ve got a life,” he said half-heartedly.

  “Yeah,” Jeremy said. “Some life. Listen to me, buddy. If and when this girl calls, you better see her. I told her you were not only handsome but rich. She sort of likes that in men.”

  “Uh-huh. I bet she does.”

  “Take her out. She’s hot-looking.” He paused. “Promise?”

  “Jeremy—”

  “Promise?”

  “Is that the only reason for this call?”

  “Of course, it is. Outside of women, what else is there?”

  “Don’t have her call me, Jeremy. I will not go out with her.”

  “Serious?”

  “Very serious.”

  “Okay, boychick. But you’ll be sorry. Bye.”

  It was amusing to hear Jeremy use the odd Yiddish word. Blair put the receiver down and leaned back in his chair.

  The phone rang not long afterwards and he picked it up without thinking.

  “I need your answer,” John Dalton said.

  Blair gripped the receiver, tempted to disconnect. “You were just here a few days ago.”

  “And I didn’t mean to imply that we would wait forever.”

  Why was it, Blair wondered, that the man’s voice always tweaked a warning in his head?

  “Mr. Mulligan?”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s it going to be?”

  “You need an answer today?”

  “Yes. Right now. What we are asking for is not unreasonable. Help us this one time and you’ll never hear from us again.”

  Blair was tempted to tell him how much he resented his barging into his office, resented the fact that he would accuse his close friend of treason.

  “Well?”

  He simply wasn’t good at this sort of thing. A sigh escaped his lips. “My answer is no,” he said. “Please stop asking.”

  CHAPTER 6

  On Saturday, the second Mandy opened the door, Blair felt his blood pressure rise. The fact that more than two years had passed since their divorce hadn’t made a bit of difference. She was five-foot-nothing, with long blond hair, dressed in a white, flimsy T-shirt and tie-dye jeans, which had holes at the knees. She looked more like a teenager than a woman of thirty-three. His attraction, however—which would always be there, he supposed—was tainted by her deception.

  “Blair,” she said. She kissed his cheek, but it seemed an afterthought.

  His attempt at a smile failed.

  “I’ll get Sandra,” she said, quickly turning away.

  Mandy was working at one of the cosmetic counters at Saks when Blair had come to purchase a gift for his sister. Mandy served; he paid. The following day he went back for her phone number.

  A few weeks later, after dating every second or third night, they were driving through Central Park when Mandy instructed him to pull over. “I know the perfect spot,” he heard her say, coaxing him out of the car.

  Her “spot” was located behind a bridge embankment, barely hidden from sight. She tugged until he joined her. The ground was hard and cold. She covered them both with her coat.

  For months this went on. The more exposed the location, the better. Beneath a park bench. In movie theaters. In airplane washrooms. During their second year together, it was a topless beach in Bali.

  Gradually, Mandy’s story came out: how she grew up an only child, her father prone to violence, her mother using the bottle as a crutch. In her teenage years, Mandy had been apathetic toward boys. It was not until her early twenties that she had discovered her need for sex on the wild side. It was the only way she could gain release.

  When Mandy announced she was pregnant, Blair was distraught. He had been looking for ways to break off their relationship. The sex had been exciting, but he was too much of an introvert to ever be comfortable with it.

  Still, he married her, feeling he had no choice. And although Sandra was born not nine but ten and a half months later, his love for his daughter overshadowed the truth and he was happy to live with it.

  Too soon they were celebrating Sandra’s first birthday, then her second and third, which was when Mandy began to go out with “the girls.” A few hours each night became four or five. Occasionally, she wouldn’t come home at all. Whenever Blair asked, she had a plausible excuse. She had too much to drink so she stayed over at a friend’s house. Or her car broke down. Or she fell asleep.

  Blair wanted to believe her. Sandra meant the world to him. For his daughter’s sake, he was determined to keep his marriage together. Even though an inner voice teased, of course, reminding him that he was being played for a fool.

  Still, he would have gone on ignoring the warning signs, but close and even distant acquaintances began hinting of Mandy’s infidelity. When he finally confronted his wife, instead of denying it, she advised him to move out. “It’ll be much easier for Sandra if she could live here with me.”

  Blair was dumbfounded. And hurt
. The ensuing court battle was bitter and pointless. By some Machiavellian twist, the judge found no one to be at fault.

  His lawyer at the time, Andrew Sciascia, was in his mid-forties, pot-bellied and balding, a man born of privilege on Long Island’s Gold Coast. Despite the outcome, the two had become friends. And this was Blair’s one salvation from the entire divorce proceeding.

  “Daddy!”

  The sound of Sandra’s voice quickly brought Blair back to the present. Nothing caused his heart to kick-start like seeing his daughter. As he bent down to give her a hug, he was filled with something he’d never been able to describe. Infinite joy, of course. But something more.

  Sandra was wearing gray leggings, and a burgundy sweatshirt with her favorite Disney Princess, Ariel, stenciled on the front in color.

  “How are you, sweetie?” he asked. He gently tousled her mop of blond hair.

  “I’m fine. Is this Saturday, Daddy?”

  “It sure is.”

  “So, are you taking me?”

  He kissed her forehead, then held her at arm’s length. “Of course, I’m taking you.”

  “Oh, goodie. I’ll get my coat.” She pulled away. “Don’t you go anywhere,” she warned, sounding like an adult.

  “I won’t,” he said. Then he stood and turned to his ex. “Still going out with that proctologist?”

  “Frank’s not a proctologist,” she said angrily. “An ophthalmologist has nothing to do with your bum.”

  “Well, he’s an asshole, isn’t he?”

  “Blair!”

  “What do you see in the guy,” he forged ahead, unable to stop. “His wallet?”

  “Frank isn’t like you, okay? He’s considerate. He does things for me.”

  “Oh yeah? How? By screwing you on the front porch so all the neighbors can watch?”

  Her complexion went from normal to scarlet. “I hate it when you talk this way,” she said.

  Blair was hating himself. But standing this close to her, remembering her betrayal, simply drove all reason from his mind.

  “I’m ready, Daddy.”

  His daughter’s big blue eyes were sparkling with anticipation. He took hold of her hand and guided her outside.

  He helped Sandra into his car, the one luxury he allowed himself, a white BMW-525i. He attached her belt in her special seat and went around to the driver’s side, pretending not to notice as she waved goodbye to her mother.

  “All set?” he asked.

  The smile she flashed was glorious.

  Flushing Meadows in Queens had not been Blair’s first choice for a home. But Mandy had insisted and, as usual, he had given in. Why sweat the small stuff, was his way of reasoning. So now Mandy was left with the house she always wanted. And he was the owner of a bachelor pad on the Upper West Side, which he didn’t want at all.

  For the next ten minutes his daughter regaled him with the events of her week. She was in first grade now and, among other things, was learning how to print her name and draw pictures. Suddenly, as if she had forgotten, she removed a lottery ticket from her coat pocket and handed it to him.

  “What’s this?” Blair asked, emphasizing his surprise.

  She grinned. “A present for you.”

  “For me?”

  She giggled, relishing his delight. “All for you, Daddy.”

  “How come? It’s not my birthday.”

  She paused. “I know that,” she said. “It doesn’t have to be your birthday to get a present.”

  He unfolded the lottery ticket and pretended to study the numbers. He’d been purchasing them on a regular basis ever since moving to New York. “Win 4.” “Take 5.” “Win 3.” He gave his daughter’s arm a squeeze. “Thank you so much, darling.”

  “Mommy helped pay for it,” she confessed.

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “Really, Daddy. But it was my idea.”

  “I know it was, snookums. You are a generous girl.”

  It was only a few minutes after ten by the time they reached the mall, yet it was difficult to find a parking spot. The temperature was on the cool side, barely in the fifties, but that did not keep the carnival from drawing a large crowd.

  Luckily, after the second time around, he found a space and pulled in.

  The rides were the sort only a child could enjoy. From a miniature Ferris wheel to bumper cars to a variation of the loop-de-loop. Then they were seated next to each other on something called the Laugh in the Park.

  After each ride, Sandra would hold her arms outstretched wide, and say, “Hugs and kisses, Daddy?” And they would hug and kiss.

  Soon Blair’s nose was starting to run from the cold. How a guy from Montreal could be this sensitive to the least drop in temperature was beyond him.

  Lunch was a non-stop affair. It lasted from 11:30 to well past 1:00. There were hot dogs with French fries—only they called them super fries—soda pop and pink cotton candy, a candy apple, and a chocolate bar. He couldn’t help wondering where his daughter put it all.

  It was in between the first and second, or second and third dessert, he couldn’t remember which, when Sandra turned to him, and with wide, innocent eyes said, “Daddy, why do you hate Mommy?”

  A freight train rumbled through Blair’s brain. “I don’t hate her,” he said. “Why would you think that?”

  She shrugged, tiny shoulders practically swallowing her neck. “I don’t know.”

  “Has Mommy told you that? That I hate her?”

  Another shrug. “If you don’t hate her, then why can’t you live with us?”

  He coughed to buy time. “I would love to live with you, darling.”

  “That’s not what Mommy says.”

  The wind had picked up by this time and the temperature felt like it had dropped another ten degrees. He was trying to come up with something clever to say, something that would not traumatize his six-year-old girl, when she went back to eating her dessert, their conversation seemingly forgotten.

  But not by Blair. He didn’t think Sandra was making up a story. And he realized he would have to investigate. Sooner rather than later, he would have to get to the bottom of what she had just told him.

  CHAPTER 7

  When he walked, he walked proud. It wasn’t exactly strutting. It was his American walk—blending in, as he was trained.

  Yassin was wearing Western-style clothes, jeans and a black sport shirt. He turned west onto 47th Street from 5th Avenue and slowed his pace. He began to stroll along the north side of the street.

  He found it ironic to be here, on Diamond Jewelry Way, commonly known as the Diamond District. “Jew Way” was more like it. Everywhere he turned he seemed to spot another Hassidic Jew, with his payot slithering down his cheeks, and the tzitzit or fringes of his talit drooping beneath his black topcoat. Old and middle-aged, a few in their twenties, each wearing a yarmulke or oversized black hat. Most carrying a briefcase.

  Hatred began to roil in his gut. He imagined millions of dollars traded on this street on any given day. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of profit earned by the very people he despised the most.

  Look at them, he thought as he slowed his pace. Look how they take so much for granted. It galled him the way they went about their daily lives, as if they had everything to live for.

  Two were coming toward him now. They were in their mid-sixties, perhaps older. He picked up his pace, waited until they were parallel, then jabbed an elbow into the shoulder of the one closest to him.

  An “oomph” escaped the man’s lips.

  Yassin regretted not turning around. But he savored the moment nevertheless. He kept his head facing front as he proceeded further west.

  Shop after shop drew his attention. Most were co-ops, with each counter serviced by an individual owner. He acknowledged that they were not all manned by Jews. But it made little difference. They were still Americans, were they not? Heathens, the lot of them. Enemies of Allah.

  His hatred knew no bounds. Americans were the ant
ithesis of his god: they were the devil incarnate.

  Display windows now drew his attention. Jewelry set with diamonds; bracelets to earrings to necklaces. Extravagant in most cases; showy and ridiculous.

  Yassin continued to walk. Soon, he noticed a young man approaching. He was talking on a cell phone. Another Hassidic Jew.

  Instead of an elbow this time he aimed his shoulder. It caught the unsuspecting passerby full force in the chest. His cell phone went flying. “Hey,” came the cry, the man in obvious pain.

  This was music to Yassin’s ears. He ignored his own pain that had suddenly flared: his old shrapnel injury. Instead, he fingered the knife in his pants pocket. One jab. An upward thrust into the area of the heart. It would be easy and so satisfying.

  Self-discipline held him back. An agenda had been painstakingly devised. Release was just around the corner. He mustn’t do anything foolish. These play-acts of his, on this street, were foolhardy enough. It was as far as he could allow himself to go.

  He frowned. Restraint had been the story of his life. Just once he would like to act, to relieve his anger and frustration.

  Nearing his destination, it dawned on Yassin how many women there were, either on the street, shopping, or behind the counters. He noticed once again that their heads and faces were sacrilegiously exposed.

  He checked the address and stepped inside.

  Counter after counter of glittering jewelry stood resplendent under shimmering lights. He heard a mélange of voices, some raised adamantly in the throes of a sales pitch, others talking quietly on cell phones. He detected English, Russian, Yiddish, and Hebrew.

  “Can I help you?” someone asked.

  “Let me show you something nice,” offered another.

  Ignoring the various sales pitches that followed him through the shop, Yassin finally reached the back, where he paused. It was paradoxical to have a contact located here. But they had become adept at living among their enemy. He knocked on a door that was partially hidden from sight.

  Nothing happened.