by Stuart Woods
“You kids are doing a marvelous job!” Box enthused, waving them to seats and walking around the desk. “In fact, my private polling tells me—”
A loud noise and the sound of breaking glass interrupted the senator. He convulsed, and a spray of blood emanated from the back of his neck, then he collapsed like a felled ox behind the desk.
Annie dove for the floor, but Ari just stared at the bloody wall behind where the man had stood. He helped Annie to her feet. “There’s the phone,” he said, pointing to the desk. “Call nine-one-one.” He calmly walked around the desk to where Senator Box lay facedown, bleeding copiously from the back of his neck. He turned, grabbed Annie by her shirtfront, and yanked it open, revealing a T-top. He turned her around, stripped her of the shirt, folded it, pressed it tightly to Box’s neck, then sat down on the floor, holding firm pressure on the wound. “This is all we can do until emergency services arrive. You might put on your jacket.”
Annie had already hung up the phone and just stood there, staring at Ari. “Now I know,” she said, “that you are calm under every possible situation, or have I missed one?”
“I don’t think so,” Ari said. “Lock the office door until the EMTs arrive.”
She did so, just in time to stop a half dozen people who had run up the stairs.
* * *
• • •
Tigner had halfway finished his steak when the hammering on his door began. He picked up his wineglass and, still chewing, opened it. Two plainclothes officers holding badges entered the room. “Let’s see some ID,” one of them barked.
Tigner took a sip of his wine, swallowed, set his glass on the coffee table, and went to the closet. He came back with his wallet and passport.
A cop read his documents. “What’s your name?”
“Timothy Tigner,” he replied. “I’m a correspondent for a Paris magazine. You have my press pass, there in my wallet.”
“Where have you been for the past hour?” the cop asked.
“Here. I ordered some dinner—I missed lunch—and took a shower.” He was still in his bathrobe, and his hair was wet.
“Has anyone else been in your room?”
“Just the room service waiter,” he replied. “What’s going on?”
The cop gestured at the TV, which was on, but with the volume turned down. A breaking-news banner and an alarmed-looking young news reader, moving his lips silently, were on-screen.
“Why are you in Kansas City?” the cop asked.
“I’m covering Senator Box’s campaign for my magazine. I have a six-forty-five appointment with him for an interview.”
“Well,” the cop said, “he isn’t going to make it.”
“Why not?” Tigner asked.
“He’s going into surgery, last we heard,” the second cop said. “Gunshot wound. Mike, call over to campaign HQ and check this guy out.” Then he turned back to Tigner. “Do you have any weapons in the room?”
Tigner pointed at the coffee table. “Just a steak knife.”
“No firearms?”
“No.”
The other cop hung up his phone. “He checks out,” he said to his partner. “He’s on Box’s schedule for six-forty-five.”
The first cop handed Tigner back his ID. “Don’t leave town for the next twelve hours,” he said.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Tigner replied. “I have a different kind of story to cover now. What hospital is he in?”
The cop told him. “But let me give you some advice: In this country, you’ll get the whole story faster by just watching that.” He pointed at the TV.
“Good suggestion,” Tigner said. “May I finish my dinner now?”
“Sure, go ahead, Mr. Tigner.”
The cops left, and Tigner turned up the TV volume, then returned his attention to his steak.
* * *
• • •
A half hour later the police held a meeting in the hotel manager’s conference room.
“What have we got in this hotel?” asked a uniformed captain wearing a lot of brass.
“Nothing unusual,” somebody said. “Looks like half the rooms are taken by campaign people and journalists, and the other by traveling salesmen. Nobody smells funny.”
“Another team found what appears to be the weapon in a furnace in the building next door,” the captain said. “It’s just a mess of melting metal, though. We won’t get much from that.”
* * *
• • •
In their hotel room, Ari and Annie had been thoroughly grilled by the police and FBI, and were taking police advice and skipping the hospital, watching TV instead.
“Let’s order some dinner,” Annie said, opening a room service menu.
“We may as well,” Ari said. “If he dies, our jobs are over. Even if he makes it, he’s not going to be campaigning anymore.”
His Skype alarm went off, and he opened his laptop and signed on. Smith sat quietly, staring at him. “Good evening,” he said.
“Good evening,” Ari replied. “Have you heard the news?”
“I expect everybody has,” Smith said. “Any news from the campaign on the senator’s condition?”
“Last we heard, he was in surgery, but no outcome yet.”
“Well, get a good night’s sleep, then tomorrow, go home. Even if Box recovers, I doubt if he’ll stay in the race, but who knows? You’ll still be paid. Just wait for news.”
“Yes, sir,” Ari said. “We’ll be available.” They both signed off.
“I want a steak, how about you?” Annie asked.
“Same here.”
“I wonder what there is to do in Kansas City?”
“Less than in Boston, I imagine,” Ari said.
She picked up the phone and ordered.
Annie hung up the phone. “We’ve got nearly an hour until dinner comes,” she said. “Whatever will we do?” She made a dive for him across the bed.
56
Damien met with the Thomases the following morning, ready to defend himself.
“I see that Joe Box is recovering,” Hank said.
“How did your man come to botch it?” Henry asked.
“No, Poppa,” Hank said, holding up a hand. “It’s better this way. He won’t be a martyr, but he’ll be out of the race, if his prognosis is accurate.”
“That’s right,” Damien said. “Our man made the shot under difficult circumstances, through a plate-glass window, and still managed to disable the man.”
“Oh, all right,” Henry said, “I guess you’re both right. When is your man coming back here?”
“A day or two,” Damien said. “He’s driving.”
“Good,” Henry said.
“Did you have something in mind, Poppa?” Hank asked.
“Stone Barrington,” Henry said.
“You want him killed?”
“He’s at the root of all our problems, going back to his discovery of the Tommassini files. If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be in this fix.”
“What fix is that?” Hank asked. “We’re richer than ever and on the brink of retirement to wherever we want to go.”
“I spoke with our young D.A.’s daddy,” Henry said. “His boy is thinking about indicting us.”
“For what?” Hank asked.
“Manslaughter of the two women at Bloomingdale’s.”
“They can’t connect us to that,” Damien said.
“He’s thinking about trying. There’s been a lot of pressure on him since the Times piece.”
“So, there’s pressure,” Hank said, “but there’s no case.”
“Even if it fails, it will bring humiliation upon us.”
“We’ll soon be gone,” Hank pointed out. “Humiliation doesn’t travel.”
“He has a point,” Damien
said.
“Humiliation can be cured only by satisfaction,” Henry said.
“Only by revenge, you mean?” Hank asked.
“Exactly. Revenge is in our blood. It has to be satisfied or we don’t rest easy, not even in some tropical paradise.”
“So you want Barrington taken out?” Damien asked.
“I do, and this time, I want it done right. Is that perfectly clear?”
“How about timing?”
“Before an indictment comes down.”
“Do you have any indication of when that might be?” Hank asked.
“A couple of weeks,” Henry replied.
“I’ll speak to my man,” Damien said.
Hank held up a hand. “There’s another consideration,” he said.
“What might that be?” Henry asked.
“I’ve been approached to speak at the Republican Convention.”
“But you aren’t a Republican anymore,” his grandfather said.
“That would be repaired beforehand,” Hank said. “The committee’s best estimate, from private polling, is that with Joe Box out of the race, no candidate is going to win enough states in the primaries to come to the convention with a majority in the Electoral College. The thinking is: I give a barn burner of a speech on national television, I get nominated the same night, and I sweep the convention.”
“That’s not so far-fetched,” Damien said.
“I guess not,” Henry concurred.
“So,” Hank said, “I’m going to need two things: a speech from those two consultants, Rance . . .”
“And Barrington dead,” Henry said. “Plus, a campaign to smear Holly Barker over her sexual relationship with him. And he won’t be around to deny anything.” He was smiling.
“Maybe you’d better have another chat with the D.A.’s daddy,” Hank said.
* * *
• • •
Back in their Cambridge apartment, Ari received another Skype call from William Smith.
“Yes, sir?” Ari asked, while Annie listened from the sidelines.
“Ari, the shooting of Senator Box has removed him from the race entirely, and that means we have a whole new playing field.”
“I can see how that would be, William.”
“That said, we’re now going to back a new candidate, one who isn’t in the race.”
“He would have a very late start in the primaries, wouldn’t he?”
“He won’t be entering any primaries, and no one who is will come to the convention with a majority in the Electoral College.”
“I’ve run the numbers,” Ari said, “and I think that’s likely.”
“Our man will bet everything on one overwhelming speech at the convention.”
Ari was nodding. “Then he’ll be nominated from the floor and win the nomination.”
“Exactly.”
Annie held up six fingers and mouthed, Six speeches.
“May I make a suggestion, William?” Ari asked.
“Of course, that’s what I expect from you.”
“Why don’t you have him make half a dozen speeches around the country in key states, with network television coverage, not backing any candidate but speaking to what the party can accomplish in office with the right man at the helm. In fact, I think that phrase, ‘the right man,’ might become almost a campaign slogan. After a while, a lot of people will be saying he is the right man.”
“That’s brilliant!” Smith said. “Those speeches could clear the way for him at the convention.”
“Who is our man?” Ari asked.
“Former congressman Hank Thomas.”
“But he’s left the party, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, but he hasn’t registered as a Democrat or an Independent. The Republican Party leaders have let him know that they’d be thrilled to have him back.”
“At some point in the series of speeches, he could begin hinting that he might return to the party, perhaps even make an announcement.”
“Ari, start researching Hank’s record, then draft a speech or two for his approval. You can polish them later.”
“Yes, William, I think that’s the right thing to do.”
“I’ll be in touch.” William logged off.
Annie spoke up. “You heard that. We’re not only back in business, but if we can pull this off and get this guy elected, we’ll have a bright future as political consultants, with a reputation as geniuses!”
“I could stand that,” Ari said.
57
Tim Tigner opened his bag, shook out the laundry into a pile on the floor, and threw himself on the bed. As he did, his throwaway rang.
“Yes?” he said wearily.
“We need to meet today,” Damien said.
“It’ll have to be tomorrow,” Tigner replied. “I drove all the way back with no rest, and I need to sleep.”
“Today,” Damien said.
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t call again today.” Tigner hung up and went to sleep without undressing.
* * *
• • •
Bob and Sherry moved her things into his Brooklyn place in the dead of night, and began to settle in.
Sherry flopped onto the sofa. “My doctor says I can have an occasional drink,” she said. “I’m feeling occasional.”
Bob poured them both a drink and flopped down beside her. “What did he have to say about sex?” he asked.
“Oh, he said I had to avoid sex,” she replied.
“What?”
“I’m just giving you a hard time,” she said, laughing. “He said sex is okay, too, as long as I’m on top.”
“Did he actually say that?”
“He did. He said it’s better for my brain.”
“Maybe no sex for a while is better for your brain.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Yes, I am. How quickly can you get naked?”
“Shortly after I finish this drink,” she said.
They both drank for a while without talking.
“You know,” she said finally, “as tough as this has been, I think it’s worked out well. I mean, getting shot in the head is no picnic, but I don’t remember most of it, and as a result, I’ve met some very nice people, and I’ve gotten away from some very bad ones.”
“On behalf of everyone you’ve met, I thank you,” Bob said.
She jumped up and started shedding clothes. “Okay, I’m ready now.”
Bob was ready, too.
* * *
• • •
Tigner slept through the night until early the following afternoon. After a shower and shave, he called Damien.
“It’s about time,” Damien said.
“Same place, five-thirty?”
“I’ll be there.” They both hung up.
* * *
• • •
Damien got there first and, for a moment, was afraid Tigner wasn’t going to show.
Tigner sat down fifteen minutes later. “I’ve got to get a motorcycle,” he said.
“Why?”
“The traffic in this city is too much. I need to be able to drive between lanes of traffic, the way I did in Paris.”
“Makes sense,” Damien said, “except for the head injuries.”
“I always wear a helmet.”
“Maybe a motorcycle is a good idea,” Damien said.
“For work, you mean?”
“I mean that Barrington lives in a house that’s a fortress. When he goes out, he leaves in an armored car from his own garage, and he doesn’t take long walks. Not since we’ve been trying to kill him, anyway.”
“So, I’ve got to catch him getting in or out of the car?”
“What a good idea!” Damien said.
“I’
ve got to get a motorcycle, then.”
“You’re right.”
“How much are you offering for the head of Stone Barrington?”
Damien almost mentioned that he and Harod had decided that another payment would not be made, then he caught himself. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking two hundred fifty thousand dollars,” Tigner said.
“You were going to kill four people for two hundred thousand dollars,” Damien said.
“That was before you told me how difficult and dangerous it was going to be. I can’t sit in some comfortable perch and snipe at him; I have to be out on the street with no cover, and it’s hard to make an escape in those conditions. You wouldn’t want me to get caught, would you?”
“No,” Damien said. “Two hundred thousand dollars.”
“When?”
“It’s in the briefcase,” he said.
“Open it.”
Damien opened it, gave him a peek at the money, and closed it again.
“Done,” Tigner said. “But after this, we’re not going to do any business for a while.”
“I agree,” Damien replied. “It would be too dangerous for both of us. This one, however, we need done in a hurry.”
“There’s no hurrying where assassination is concerned. There’s too much planning and, in this case, on the street, too much can go wrong.”
“I see your point,” Damien said, “but . . .”
“I’ll try to make it happen soon,” Tigner said, “but no promises. If that doesn’t work for you, you can have your money back.” He set the briefcase in front of Damien.
Damien moved it back to him. “Do the best you can,” he said.
“I always do the best I can.”
“There was some question about your last job being incomplete.”
“The man is out of the race,” Tigner said, getting to his feet. “We won’t be meeting again for a long while.” He walked out of the restaurant carrying the briefcase.
Damien finished his drink. He had a good feeling about this one.
