by Stuart Woods
“What the fuck!” Henry shouted.
50
Stone and Dino were warming themselves by the fire and their innards with brown whiskey, when Dino’s phone made a noise, and he turned it on. “Security-camera footage from the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge area.”
Stone walked behind Dino’s chair and looked over his shoulder, while the phone downloaded the footage.
“Here we go,” Dino said. They stared intently at the screen; the shot was taken from upriver, apparently from a camera affixed to the bridge. “Long shot,” Dino said.
A man wearing a windbreaker and a baseball cap walked over to the only bench in sight and sat down. Then he answered his phone and walked away. “These have already been edited for best use,” Dino said.
Shortly, a figure appeared, walking up the river, a man in a black topcoat and a black hat, carrying a briefcase. “Who wears a hat these days?” Dino asked.
“Somebody who doesn’t want to be seen by a security camera,” Stone ventured. “It’s the upper-class hoodie.”
“Yeah.”
The second man sat down on the bench, upriver side. He set down his briefcase and turned to face the man in the baseball cap, who had walked toward him.
“No luck on the guy in the hat,” Dino said. “But that’s a clear shot of the guy in the baseball cap.”
“They’re a long way off from the camera, though,” Stone said.
“We’re already working on enhancing the face,” Dino said.
The two men conversed for a short time, then the man in the hat rose and headed back the way he came.
“Did you see that?” Dino asked.
“See what? His back?”
“He left the briefcase under the bench when he got up.”
“You’re right,” Stone said.
The man in black disappeared off screen, then the man in the baseball cap reached under the bench and brought out the briefcase.
“Here we go,” Dino said.
The second man seemed to inspect the briefcase, then stroked it with one hand, then both his hands moved into position to open the case. The explosion was noiseless, since there was no audio, but the force of the blast was visible. The man in the baseball cap simply disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
They watched as debris began to fall around the bench.
“There’s the arm we saw,” Stone said, as it landed a few yards from the bench.
“Right,” Dino replied. He quickly ran the three other camera views, but it was obvious that the shots from the first camera were the best. Dino set down his phone.
“It’s not every day you see a guy blown to pieces,” Dino said.
“Thank God for that,” Stone replied.
Dino’s phone made the noise again, and he picked it up. “Enhancement coming in,” he said.
Stone stood behind him and watched as the shot from the first camera ran again in the enhanced mode. “Looks like a cashmere topcoat,” he said.
“Yeah, but that’s not going to help us.”
“And a Yankees ball cap.”
“Right again.”
The motion stopped, a square was drawn around the head of the man in the Yankees cap. It was enlarged, then enhanced before their eyes.
“Hey, that’s good!” Dino enthused. “Our facial recognition software ought to be able to do something with that.” He turned off the phone, and Stone sat down.
“He looked sort of Mediterranean,” Stone said.
“So did the guy at Bloomingdale’s.”
“So, a Middle Eastern terrorist shoots two women in Bloomingdale’s and another Middle Eastern guy gets handed a briefcase with a surprise inside,” Dino said.
“The guy at Bloomingdale’s thought he was shooting Elise and Elena,” Stone said, “but he got it wrong, then his cohort goes to accept payment for the job from a guy by the river, only the guy by the river didn’t want to pay. That makes sense.”
“It does,” Dino said. Then his phone rang, and Dino put it on speaker and set it on the coffee table. “Bacchetti.”
“Boss, it’s Lieutenant Perdido, in intelligence tech services,” a voice said.
“What have you got?”
“A connection between the guy at Bloomingdale’s and the one from the bridge. Their passports, though their numbers were not consecutive, were both issued at the American embassy in Paris, and both on the same day.”
“Bingo!” Dino said. “What home addresses were on the passport application?”
“The same address: a New York apartment.”
“Well, get a warrant and get somebody over there,” Dino said. “And send those shots to the D.A.”
“Yes, sir!” The lieutenant hung up.
“I’d call that progress,” Dino said. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Not yet,” Stone said. “All you’ve got are two corpses, one in pieces, and they got their passports from the same forger, probably in Paris. If you can find another guy in the cell, then that will be progress.”
“That was going to be my next move,” Dino said petulantly. “I’m calling the D.A.” He picked up his phone. Someone answered, said the D.A. was unavailable, and took a message. “Probably not before tomorrow,” she said.
Dino hung up in disgust.
51
In his study, Stone and Dino had a good dinner of roast lamb and potatoes au gratin, then Stone’s phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Stone, it’s Lance Cabot. I hope you’re well.” Lance was the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and he had had dealings with Stone and Dino on many occasions.
“Hello, Lance, and yes, I am.” He covered the mouthpiece. It’s Lance, he mouthed.
“Why don’t you put me on speaker, so Dino can hear me, too?” Lance asked. “It would save me a phone call.”
Stone pressed the button and set the phone on the table. “You’re on speaker, Lance.”
“Good. I wanted you both to know that we’ve received a photograph, apparently of a suspect, shortly before he was blown to pieces. Your people, Dino, asked for our help in facial identification, since our software is, ah, somewhat better than yours.”
“Thanks, Lance, we appreciate the condescension,” Dino said.
“Not at all,” Lance replied, unruffled. “We have identified your man as one Harod Avaya, born in Paris thirty years ago, last known residence, the Gaza Strip. I expect he was the gentleman who received the elegant briefcase over by the East River.”
“Good guess, Lance,” Dino replied.
“Mr. Avaya was a Palestinian activist from his late teens, and not much later, an assassin. About two years ago, he and a colleague, Avin, dropped out of sight and, apparently, took up assassination as a trade, not to say an art, along with a third youth, one Rasheed Khan. Mr. Avaya and Avin Kayam had American passports issued on the same day in Paris, same year. They both listed the same New York City apartment as their residence. Through a further search, we have determined that Mr. Khan may also have received such a passport—under another name, so far unknown—at the same address.”
“It’s being searched as we speak,” Dino said, getting a little of his own back.
“My people, regrettably, assumed that the address was phony and did not bother to check it out.”
“How very useless of them,” Stone said.
“Quite.”
“And, Lance,” Dino interjected, “it was Mr. Kayam who was shot and killed by one of my officers this afternoon, outside Bloomingdale’s.”
“Ah,” Lance said. “Good to know. Have you made any progress investigating the murders of the two Swearingen sisters?”
“Yes, Kayam shot the wrong two women,” Dino said. “The real targets escaped and are now safe at Stone’s house.”
“That leaves our Mr. Rasheed Khan. What
news of him?”
“We didn’t know he existed until you called, Lance,” Dino replied, “but you may rest assured we will turn our attention to him immediately.”
“Ah, good,” Lance said. “Have you anything on the person or persons who hired Mr. Kayam to kill the two women? I leap to the conclusion that it might be the Thomases, since a rather unflattering piece about them was in this morning’s Times.”
“We hold that view, too,” Dino said, “but I’m having trouble convincing the D.A.”
“Would a call from me help?” Lance asked.
“It couldn’t hurt,” Dino replied. “It might be good for the D.A.’s spine, if he learned that others besides the NYPD like the Thomases for the crime. Might it be that you folks have something on them that we don’t?”
“I very much doubt it,” Lance said, “but I’ll ask. I think that pretty much all of what we know of them—apart from what has appeared in the Wall Street Journal over the years—resides in the files that Stone procured from the Bianchi estate. We found those fascinating.”
“Thank you, Lance,” Stone said. “It’s a pleasure to have fascinated you.”
“You’re very welcome. Dino, we would be most grateful if your intelligence division could pass along any other evidence of the last of the Palestinian trio.”
“I promise to keep you informed,” Dino said.
“Then I bid you good evening, gentlemen. Raise a glass for me.” Lance hung up.
Dino was immediately on the phone to report the existence of a third member of the cell. He listened for quite a while, then hung up. “My people are combing through the trio’s apartment right now,” he said, “and they are finding absolutely zip. The place had been wiped down and vacuumed.”
“Then,” Stone said, “that must mean that the third member of the cell, Rasheed Khan, heard of the deaths of his two colleagues and abandoned the apartment.”
“Makes sense, since both incidents were all over the news. Oh, they found fragments of male clothing in the apartment building’s incinerator, all high-end designer stuff that could be bought on Madison Avenue.”
“Then business must have been good,” Stone said. “It might be interesting to ask your people to look into other recent homicides for a connection.”
“Why would it do us any good to know about connections?”
“Perhaps the Thomases have used them in the recent past.”
“Oh, all right,” Dino said, and made the call.
* * *
• • •
Rasheed Khan, aka Timothy Tigner, let himself into the backup safe house, an apartment in a brownstone in the East 60s, and checked it carefully for any sign of recent attention from anyone except himself and his two dead colleagues. He did not waste time grieving for them—as he hadn’t liked them much anyway—but he did hold a more professional grudge.
He had known that Harod would be meeting soon with Damien to receive the money due them, and he supposed Damien might have been reluctant to pay and, thus, found it more convenient to eliminate the contractees. That annoyed Tigner, down to his socks, and he resolved to do something about it.
It would have to be later, though, since he was exhausted from dealing with the threat of discovery, and he needed sleep. He carefully put away his clothes, took a hot bath, and climbed gratefully into bed.
Tomorrow, he would find a way to deal with the Thomases.
* * *
• • •
As soon as Stone was in bed, he got a call from Dino.
“What’s up?”
“That cell phone data card we found has yielded some results,” Dino said, “and so has the one from Avin Kayam’s phone.”
“I’m happy to hear it.”
“The three of them were talking to each other during the day.”
“Not a big surprise,” Stone said.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Dino said, then hung up.
52
Joan arrived in her office at eight AM sharp on Monday morning and heard noises from the adjoining office. She opened the door to find Elise Grant at her desk and the room spic-and-span, with everything in its place. “Good morning,” Elise said brightly.
“And to you,” Joan said. “This is the first time anyone has ever beaten me to the office.”
“I can’t work unless the space is in order,” Elise said.
“I know the feeling,” Joan replied.
“And what may I do with that?” she asked, pointing at an IBM Selectric typewriter on a stand in a corner of the room.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Joan replied. “Type on it, maybe?”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Elise said. “I’ve never typed a word on anything that needed paper to work. May I put it in the file room?”
“Yes, until I can figure out a way to give it a Christian burial.”
“I’m ready to move out of my apartment today, and my mother is moving out of hers and into mine. Can you recommend a mover?”
“I can,” Joan said. “And since your putative assassins are dead, you should really be in the clear now.”
“I’m still going to be careful, though,” Elise said.
“Always a good idea. I’ve got some health insurance forms for you to fill out. I’ll give you all that stuff later today.”
Joan went back to her office, happy to have Elise as a backstop. Now she was going to have to think of something for her to do.
* * *
• • •
Damien met that morning with the Thomases.
Hank spoke up. “I understand that you have dispensed with the hired help.”
“It became necessary,” Damien said, surprised that Hank was taking an interest. “Saved us two hundred thousand dollars, too.”
“That’s all very well,” Hank said, “but if we need that sort of help again, what are we to do?”
“Just leave it to me,” Damien said. “It would be helpful if you could tell me now who the subject of the action would be.”
“Someone we’ve kept at arm’s length,” Hank said. “Joe Box.”
Damien’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ve gone to some lengths to see that he does well in the primaries,” he said, “and since he’s done better than anyone expected, why would we want to unload him now? He might even go all the way.”
“That’s the problem,” Hank said. “My private polling now favors him for the nomination, and if he gets that and something happens to Holly Barker, he might go all the way. It is not in my plan to have a buffoon like that in the White House. I have a party to build, and his presence on the scene would not be helpful.”
“If it comes to that,” Damien said, “I would like us to retain the services of the two young operatives who have shaped him into something like a viable candidate.”
“By all means,” Hank said. “Retain them and put them on salary, until I want them. There may be other candidates we might want to help along the way. We might also give some attention to the proper moment for Box to depart the scene—not too early or too late.”
“I will leave the politics of that to you,” Damien said, “but I’d like as much time as possible to arrange Box’s departure. We don’t want to rush something like that.”
“I’ll ponder his progress, then let you know,” Hank said.
Henry Thomas had, uncharacteristically, held his peace, but now he spoke. “What exactly do you intend, Hank?”
“I have not yet given up the notion of moving into the White House next year. It will depend on how we get through the next couple of months. If the acquisition goes through, and the waters become smoother, and Box continues to do well, I think I might hear from the party that they would like me to resume my candidacy.”
“As a Republican?” Henry asked.
“They are as frightened of Joe Bo
x as I,” Hank said, “and if he suddenly departs the scene, they have a paucity of replacements to choose from.”
Henry smiled. “You know, my boy, I may have underestimated your guile.”
“Poppa,” Hank said with a smile, “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
* * *
• • •
Damien was at his desk later in the day when a secretary came in. “Sir,” she said, “there is a person on the phone who insists on speaking to you, but I don’t know him.”
“What is his name?”
“He says his name is Timothy Tigner,” she said. “Oh, and he said to tell you that he is a friend of somebody called Harod, like the department store.”
That news came like a bolt of lightning to Damien. He thought Harod had had only one cohort; now another was raising his head? And, perhaps, at just the right time.
“Thank you,” he said. He waited until she had closed the door behind her before picking up the phone. “Mr. Tigner?”
“Yes, Mr. Damien,” a smooth voice replied. He sounded younger than Harod.
“I understand we have a mutual friend?”
“No longer,” Tigner replied. “He and my other colleague left town yesterday. I thought, perhaps, you might have heard about that.”
“I have heard no such thing,” Damien said. “I had a rendezvous with Harod set for yesterday, but as I approached the scene I saw policemen everywhere, so I retreated.”
“Oh? What was the purpose of your meeting?”
“To confirm the cancellation of some contracts and to pay him the two hundred thousand dollars due. Now, could you tell me what is going on?”
“Have you heard about the shooting of two women at a department store? And the shooting of a man in the street there?”
“Yes, but the women were strangers to me. Was the man Harod?”
“No, he was our colleague, Rasheed. He had just shot the women, thinking they were the subjects of the contract.”
