The Deadliest Game

by Hal Ross

  Two days after John Dalton’s visit, Blair arrived at work and found himself deluged with messages from the government agent. He tried to convince himself that he wasn’t bothered by them. But he was. And he wasn’t alone. His secretary, Andrea Victor, came into his office and threw her hands in the air. “I can’t take it anymore,” she said. “Mr. Dalton won’t leave me alone.”

  Blair asked her to have a seat.

  Andrea had been with him since his arrival in New York. In her late thirties, the woman had a fragile appearance, ultra thin with brown hair and eyes, yet she was so efficient, he couldn’t see himself doing without her.

  “Tell me what he said to you,” he requested.

  “He threatened to have me arrested.”

  That caught his attention. “For doing what?” he asked.

  “Obstructing justice.”

  “Because you wouldn’t put his call through to me?”

  “Yes. That’s what he said.”

  Blair was amazed that the agent would go this far. He stood and came around his desk. He put his hand out and helped his secretary to her feet. “Andrea, I want you to take the rest of the day off,” he said. “Go shopping. Go to a movie. Do anything. Only don’t come back here until tomorrow.”

  That evening, when he arrived home, he found a dozen more voice messages from Dalton, all of which he ignored. He slept in fits and starts, expecting the man to come pounding on his door at any moment.

  He thought of giving in. But there was nothing to give in to. Jeremy wasn’t about to change his mind. Going back to Israel would be a waste of time.

  CHAPTER 25

  On Friday night, he was waiting outside his condo when Lisa arrived precisely as promised at 7:15. She had not only offered to treat him to dinner at Il Mulino, his favorite New York restaurant, but had insisted on doing the driving as well.

  One look at her car, however, more than surprised him. The beige Chrysler was at least five years old. It was boxy and dull, and not at all the kind of vehicle he would have associated with her.

  He opened the passenger door. “Nice bus,” he said, and he went to take a seat.

  “Don’t get comfortable.” She stopped him. “Our reservation isn’t until nine o’clock. And there’s nothing wrong with my car.”

  “Of course not. It’s perfect for you.” He stepped away and closed the door.

  Surprisingly for Manhattan, she found a parking spot at the end of the block. She locked the car and started toward him.

  Blair admired the low-cut, black leather dress she was wearing. When she reached his side he held her at arm’s length. Having a woman in his life was starting to make a difference. It revitalized him, somehow.

  “You like?” she asked, blushing. And then she caught herself. “My God! Your face! What happened to you?”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, turning to a side.

  “Blair?”

  “I was in a little accident,” he said.

  “Little?” She reached a hand out.

  To divert her, he pointed in the approximate area. “Say, is that bra new?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Is it?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “You seem … uplifted.”

  “Smart-ass.” She brushed past him. “C’mon,” she said. “You can treat me to a drink in your apartment.”

  “I have a bottle of champagne in the fridge,” Blair told her once they were settled on the couch. “Should I open it?”

  She gave him a semi-serious look. “Duh…”

  He went into the kitchen and removed the bottle. When the cork went flying, he let out an “opa,” filled two flutes to the brim, and carried them, along with the bottle, into the den.

  “Skol,” he said, handing her one of the flutes and taking a seat beside her.

  They clinked glasses and drank.

  She asked again about the injuries he had suffered in Israel. He considered telling her, then changed his mind.

  Her glass was half empty. When Blair went to fill it, she stopped him. “Want to get me drunk, mister?”

  “Drunk and pliable.”

  “I’m serious. Champagne does funny things to me. Especially when I haven’t eaten.”

  “Would you like a snack? Peanuts or chips?”

  With glass still in hand, she leaned in and kissed him. “I’d like something more than a snack,” she said.

  Blair reached out to take the glass from her.

  Misunderstanding, Lisa went to stop his hand’s progression. This knocked her glass forward, its contents spilling on his tie.

  He feigned hurt. “It’s ruined,” he said.

  “Poor baby. I’ll buy you another one.”

  He flung what was left in his own glass at her, catching her flush in the face.

  Lisa wrestled him to the floor. He somehow maneuvered his way on top. She kicked and swung her arms until he lost his balance. Positions reversed, her legs suddenly scissored upwards, then in. They enveloped his chest and held tight. “Give up?” she asked.

  He tried for a finesse move, caught her breast instead.

  “Pervert!” she hissed.

  He held her in a bear-hug.

  In less than a minute, he felt this grinding motion. “Lisa,” he protested.

  She seemed oblivious. She was already undressing and motioning for him to do the same.

  He thought about stopping. Only … her fingers had manipulated their way to his scrotum, and a wave of pleasure short-circuited his brain.

  Blair couldn’t remember making love this way before. One climax followed another. When they weren’t on the floor, they were on the sofa. Often, it felt as if they were partially on both. The pauses grew longer; their satisfaction greater.

  Then Lisa’s hand grasped his injured back and he winced.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He showed her the scar.

  “My God,” she said, “Is that from Israel, too?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll be more careful,” she promised.

  Soon, he was lost again.

  At one o’clock in the morning, Blair asked if Il Mulino was still open.

  Lisa said she doubted that they were.

  He smiled.

  When Blair awoke in the morning, Lisa was sitting up in bed, looking radiant. “How did we get here?” he asked.

  She gave him a peck on the cheek and said she didn’t know. “Is your back okay?”

  He said his back was fine.

  She took hold of his face in the palms of her hands. “I feel like I lost ten pounds,” she said.

  He laughed. “Me, too.”

  “I like losing ten pounds with you.”

  “Me, three.”

  She exaggerated the blinking of her lashes, which overemphasized her slightly crossed eye.

  He asked her about it.

  “Born this way,” she said. She let go of his face and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I want you to always be honest with me, Blair. No secrets and no lies.”

  “Always is a long time,” he said, trying to keep it light. But he sensed a hurt there, something in her past.

  “I’m serious,” she said.

  “Okay, I promise. No lies between us.”

  She kissed him. “Tell me the truth about your injuries,” she said. “What really happened in Israel?”

  “I already told you.”

  “Yeah, but what you said was a load of crap.”

  “Lisa—”

  “You promised. No lies.”

  “So I did.”

  “Well?”

  “Starting tomorrow…”

  CHAPTER 26

  He and Lisa spent the weekend together. They went to a movie on Saturday afternoon, stayed home for dinner that night. They ate Sunday brunch at a nearby hotel. By the time Monday rolled around he was truly sorry to see her go.

  He arrived at work before nine o’clock. He concentrated on his pa
perwork for most of the morning. After lunch he began to check in with his sales representatives across the country. He’d been neglecting them, so it felt good to get caught up. Not that there was much to glean from what they reported. Sales were soft. It had been that way for quite some time. Blair used encouraging words, while he himself was not encouraged at all.

  On the subway ride home that afternoon, he decided to disembark one stop early to get a bit of fresh air.

  The temperature was holding steady in the low sixties. The shops and restaurants he passed were familiar to him. There was nothing like the comfort of one’s own neighborhood, he realized.

  He turned the corner to his street and made out his building. By habit, he looked up. A light was on in his fifteenth-floor condo. But he always shut off the lights when he left for work. It was one of the things he was habitual about.

  Blair’s walk turned into a run.

  The keys were already in hand. He unlocked the main door and rushed toward the elevator. He hit the button and then hit it again. It felt like it was taking forever.

  Wait and see, a voice warned in his head. You could have left the light on by mistake.

  Finally, the elevator arrived.

  He stepped in.

  A child holding her mother’s hand said hello. He barely acknowledged her.

  He hurried out on his floor.

  The door to his apartment stood open.

  Cautiously, he entered the foyer and paused. There were crushed CDs and DVDs strewn across the floor. He spotted liquor bottles, including his prized Scotch, lying on their sides. Their tops had been removed and the alcohol was leaving a river of stains.

  Who would do this? he asked himself needlessly, the answer clear.

  He walked into his bedroom and glass crunched underfoot. The television screen had a gaping hole in it. The spread and pillows on the bed were shredded, a pastiche of colors that didn’t mesh.

  Then something caught his eye.

  Reluctantly, he approached the dresser and reached a hand out.

  Be sure, he told himself.

  He would know if this was his daughter’s blouse. Mandy sewed her name into all her clothes.

  He made himself look.

  ‘SANDRA’ popped out at him.

  He paused.

  The blouse had been deliberately torn. Tentatively, he brought it close. He shut his eyes for a moment, breathing in his daughter’s familiar scent.

  CHAPTER 27

  Yassin knew to be careful. The other faction was observing his daily schedule, snooping into his operations, aiming to disrupt his plans. All for the sake of maintaining power. All to prove that only they should take the lead, should have the honor of striking America one more time.

  He changed directions twice before leaving Manhattan. Taking the Bronx Expressway to I-95, he connected with I-295, then the Cross Island Parkway, and finally Northern Boulevard. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up to the address in Great Neck, Long Island.

  This part of the work, attending to some of the lesser details, strained his patience. But after the meeting with his man in the Diamond District, he did not feel comfortable putting his trust in anyone else.

  On Monday, he had spent time northeast of the city, in Westchester County. The properties he had visited would have been suitable, but the drive was problematic. Tuesday found him exploring various offers in Montauk. These were estate homes, large enough for his purpose, but not quite to his liking.

  Now, he stepped out of the car and paused. The area was exclusive and quiet. He buttoned his suit jacket.

  “Mr. Carson?” The real estate agent, a curvaceous, middle-aged brunette, greeted him by the name he had assumed for today’s purpose.

  He forced his smile.

  “Right on time,” she said, presenting her hand in greeting. “I’m Lynn Atkinson.”

  Yassin knew he was almost a half-hour late. But he let the comment pass. He gave her hand a cursory shake.

  “How was the drive?” she asked.

  He noticed her shorter-than-normal skirt, the tightness of her blouse. “The drive was wonderful,” he said.

  “Really? No traffic?”

  “There is always traffic, as I’m sure you know. But it was lighter than usual today, for some reason.”

  “Good, good,” she said too abruptly. “Shall we get started?” She turned.

  Another infidel without manners, Yassin was thinking as he followed her into the house.

  There was a monstrous chandelier hanging in the foyer. Much of the furniture ran from gaudy to bizarre. There was a black and white, ultramodern pattern on the dining room chairs. The oversized couch in the den was upholstered in bearskin. A brass sculpture of a female nude stood next to it. The walls were adorned with painted landscapes in freeform style.

  After leading the way past the huge kitchen, the woman paused. “Butler’s pantry,” she said as if she were proud. “Every house should have one.”

  Yassin didn’t know what she was talking about. He took in the alcove between the kitchen and main dining room. It was replete with a mini-bar, fridge, and storage cabinets. He concluded it was a waste of both money and space.

  The tour continued. From library to family room to basement. Over twelve thousand-square-feet in all.

  When they were done, the sales agent handed him a brochure. “Rent is reasonable,” she said. “Only twenty-eight thousand a month, furnished. When may I expect your call?”

  Not any time soon, Yassin wanted to tell her. “I’ll be in touch next week,” he said instead.

  The drive back was tedious. He used every precaution to confirm he wasn’t being followed. It was late afternoon by the time he arrived at his destination in downtown Manhattan.

  He pulled up to the curb and turned off the motor.

  Another car, a blue Lexus, was parked close by. A short man with an aquiline nose and large, black-rimmed glasses slowly hobbled toward him. His left leg was deformed. “Mr. Carson?”

  Disliking the agent at first sight, he held his silence.

  “You are Mr. Carson, are you not?” the man asked.

  “I am.”

  “Stanley Vineberg.” No offer to shake hands. “You’re late.”

  He silently railed against this American. And it upset him that he could not act, to cut this Jew with the knife he was already fingering in his pocket.

  Inside the house, on his tour, Yassin could see that it was gloomy but spacious. There were enough rooms to lodge a small army. The walls were sufficiently thick to deflect noise. Now, as he descended from basement to subbasement, he knew he had found what he wanted.

  “How much?” he asked once they returned to the main floor.

  “As I mentioned to you on the phone,” the real estate agent said, “the owner does not want to be bothered with any request for modifications. You take it the way it is. Furnished. Minimum twelve-month lease. Twenty-six thousand a month.”

  Yassin held his temper. It wasn’t the money so much as the principal. That, and this despicable person he was dealing with. “I’m afraid twenty a month is as far as I can go,” he said.

  “Twenty-five?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Twenty-two-five. I don’t believe the owner will go lower than that.”

  Yassin paused. He was tempted to place his hands around the agent’s throat. To choke the life out of him. “Twenty is all I can offer,” he said.

  Mr. Vineberg rocked on his feet as if lost in contemplation. “You strike a hard bargain, Mr. Carson.”

  “Ah, well,” he said, using a phrase he’d only recently learned, “you win some, you lose some.”

  CHAPTER 28

  In the kitchen, Blair looked down upon the mess the intruder had made. He kicked aside the boxes of cereal and canned goods that had been thrown to the floor. Then he took a seat at the table, picked up the phone, and dialed.

  When Mandy answered, he asked to speak to his daughter.

  “Blair,” she said, “I was
just going to call you. I was hoping you could come over tomorrow evening for a chat.”

  “Where’s Sandra?” he asked.

  “She’s playing in her room. Did you hear what I just said?”

  “I heard you, Mandy. Go get Sandra, please. I need to talk to her.”

  “Blair—”

  He exploded: “Go get her, goddammit!”

  The line went dead.

  He held onto the receiver. He knew he shouldn’t have shouted. Losing control wasn’t going to help. He redialed but got a busy signal. He waited five minutes before dialing the number again.

  “Hello?”

  “Sandra?” He almost choked with relief.

  “Yes, Daddy. Mommy says you wanted to talk to me.”

  “I did—I mean, I do. How are you?”

  No reply.

  “Is everything okay at school?”

  He waited.

  “Darling?”

  “I’m here, Daddy. But why does your voice sound funny?”

  “It does?” Leave it to a child to pick out the nuances. “Does this sound better, Pumpkin Head?”

  She giggled.

  “Sandra,” he said, “your mother wants me to come over tomorrow night. Maybe you and I can go out for an ice cream. Would that be okay with you?”

  “I like ice cream. But not for dinner.”

  “No, no. After dinner, darling. It’ll be your dessert.”

  “Okay. Can I have pis…um…piss… You know, the green-colored one.”

  “Pistachio?”

  “Yes. Pis-tach-o.”

  “Pistachio it will be,” he said.

  “Hold on, Daddy. Mommy wants to talk to you.”

  He thought of stopping her, but it was already too late.

  “Blair, I need to see you.”

  “So you said. What’s this about?”

  “We’ll discuss it tomorrow night.”

  “Keep Sandra home from school.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to do this for me. Keep her home from school. Not just tomorrow, but for the rest of the week.”

  “Have you lost your mind? Why would you ask such a thing?”