Jack followed the directions to the letter and less than a minute later, accompanied by the jarring strains of the emergency stop bell, he was stepping through the doors onto the seventh floor. His relief was tempered by the two carpenters on coffee break from the renovation work.
"Hey, Mac," said the heavier of the two, staring at him. "Where the hell did you just come from?"
"Why, the elevator," Jack said.
"No, you didn't." He stepped closer, his gaze flicking between Jack and the elevator doors. "I was standin' right there watching those doors, and I'm telling you there was no elevator there when you came out. You walkin' on fucking air or somethin'?"
Jack wanted to say, What's it to you? But he smiled and kept his tone light.
"Don't be silly. That elevator's acting very strange. The lights went off and the bell started ringing, so I got out."
The elevator dinged behind him and the doors opened. Milkdud stepped out.
"There," Jack said. "Does he look like he's walking on air?"
"No, he don't," the carpenter said. "But I can see the elevator in there."
"Well, the lights must have come back on." He turned to Milkdud. "Did the lights come back on?"
Dud didn't miss a beat. "Yeah, just after you got off. That thing's acting weird." He pressed the down button on the wall panel. "I'm going to take another one down."
"Good idea."
The center car arrived soon after, and they stepped into the empty cab.
"They saw me stepping out of an empty shaft," Jack said when the doors had closed behind them.
"That's always a risk." Dud handed him a tissue. "Here. Wipe off your hands. They're dusty."
"What's waiting for us below?" Jack said, wiping.
"They've got security guys at both doors, trying to look inconspicuous but giving everyone the once-over. But they're looking for a dusty guy, not the man in the gray flannel suit. We'll be okay."
And they were. They sailed past the guards and onto Forty-fifth Street.
"Thanks, Dud," Jack said when they reached Sixth Avenue. "I owe you, man. Big time. You ever need a favor…"
"Forget it," Dud said, smiling. "See one, do one, teach one: all part of the code. I just want to know if I made a convert."
"I don't think so."
"You sure? You mean to tell me after what you did this morning that you're not hooked?"
"I can honestly say I'm not."
"I don't believe that. Tell you what, I'm hacking some of the upper levels of the Chrysler building next week. It's just crammed with secrets."
"Tell you what," Jack said. "You find a giant roc egg up there, you let me know. I'll come running."
Dud grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. "Yeah, Q, man. If I get caught, I'll say Larry Cohen made me do it."
"Just be careful, Dud."
They shook hands and parted, Milkdud heading for his job at Coconuts and Jack heading home for a shower. Definitely a shower.
And then a call to Alicia. See one, do one, teach one, Dud had said. Well, Jack had seen one, and now he was going to do one. With Alicia. On her father's house.
4
Kemel hung up on the incredulous Gordon Haffner, who still was having difficulty accepting the fact that his clients were going to pay Alicia Clayton ten million dollars for her father's house.
But it was true. Kemel had held his breath as he'd contacted Khalid Nazer, but Iswid Nahr had agreed to the price.
Kemel should have been elated—so close to success, so close to being able to run home to Riyadh and his son—but suspicion soured his mood.
Someone had been listening to his conversation with Thomas Clayton.
Oh, yes, they had alerted security and called the police, and maintenance men had been sent to check the ventilation system, but no one really believed him. Even after the grate had been removed and he had pointed out the disturbed dust within, they had only shrugged and said maybe there was some sort of animal in the ducts. No one would believe that here in Manhattan, with such an extensive array of sophisticated electronic bugging devices to the public, that someone would crawl through a ventilating system to eavesdrop on a conversation.
Kemel sighed. Perhaps they were right. It did seem farfetched.
But he could not shake the feeling that someone had been listening. When he had pressed his face to that grate, straining to see through the slits, he thought he had sensed someone in the darkness on the other side, looking back, watching him.
He racked his brain to remember what he and Thomas Clayton had said in that room, reconstructing the conversation word by word.
Nothing, he was sure. Almost sure.
One thing an eavesdropper would have come away with was that the house was worth more than ten million dollars to the buyers. If Alicia Clayton suddenly raised her asking price, Kemel's suspicions would be confirmed.
If she did not… if the deal went through, then he did not care if a whole army had been listening.
5
Jack found a spot on Thirty-eighth where he could stand and watch the Clayton house unseen. He timed the "security force's" inspection rounds and noticed that they always operated as a pair, leaving the car twice an hour to make a perimeter inspection. No uniforms, just windbreakers and slacks.
Every so often one would walk off and return with a paper sack—coffee and donuts, most likely. And occasionally one would enter the house through the front door and return a few minutes later. They didn't need a Porta Potti; they had the house.
At ten to three, another car showed up. The first pulled out, letting the second into the precious parking space, and the next shift took over.
Satisfied that he had the security boys' schedule down, Jack called Abe for a consultation.
"So you want them down for the count, but they shouldn't be candidates for a nursing home."
"Right. A nice long nap is all."
"T-72 is what you want," Abe told him. "Colorless, odorless, no serious side effects, and best of all, it's made in America for the U.S. Army."
"Sounds great," Jack said. "I'll take some."
"And I would gladly sell you some if I had any. But I do not. It's not exactly a sporting good."
"I can't tell you how disappointed I am, Abe."
"Nu, I should stock everything in the world you will possibly need so that when you ask for it I can give it to you?"
"Yeah. Because you're the best."
"Feh! I'll find you some."
"By tonight?"
"Such a kidder he is. If I'm lucky, perhaps maybe I can have a canister for you tomorrow afternoon."
"Good enough, I suppose."
Jack had wanted to search the house tonight, but he'd have to put it off.
"Good enough? Such a feat should be acclaimed as nothing short of heroic."
"See you tomorrow, my hero."
After he hung up with Abe, Jack called Alicia.
6
"Shall I open another?" the waiter said, holding up the empty merlot bottle.
Will looked at her and raised his eyebrows.
Alicia shrugged. "I could go for a little more. It's delicious."
So was everything else she'd tried tonight. Zov's was this noisy little place off Union Square, more of a bistro than a restaurant. But the rack of lamb on the platter between them had been marinated in something indescribable and was by far the most delicious meat she had ever eaten.
And as for the wine: she could go for a lot more.
Jack's call this afternoon had unsettled her. That Thomas had an Arab backer willing to pay the ten million she'd asked for the house had shocked her; that they were convinced the house held a secret many times more valuable had floored her; but Jack's plan to sneak into the house and search it had stopped her dead in her tracks.
And he wasn't talking about some unspecified time in the future. He wanted to go in tomorrow. Tomorrow!
She'd said no. No, no, no. She'd have to prepare herself for something like that. If he wa
nted to search the place tomorrow, he'd have to go by himself.
But Jack had insisted, saying she'd grown up there, she knew all the hidey holes. She had to be along.
Telling herself it was only a damn house, she'd agreed.
Jack would be picking her up tomorrow night at seven.
Alicia shuddered and looked up from her meal. Will and the waiter were watching her… expectantly.
"I'm sorry," she said. Obviously she'd missed something.
"Do you want to do the honors?" Will said, pointing to the fresh bottle of wine in the waiter's hands.
"No," she said. "If it's the same as the first bottle, I'm sure it will be fine." She could never get into that wine-tasting rigmarole. Her palate wasn't that discerning anyway. Either you liked the wine or you didn't.
"So," Will said after the waiter had refilled their glasses, "what are your plans for the week?"
I was an accessory to an illegal trespass in Midtown today, and I'm planning a breaking and entering tomorrow night.
"The usual, I guess. You know, stamping out disease. How about you?"
"Like you, the usual: seeking out the weed of crime and tearing it out by its roots."
They laughed. Maybe it was the wine, but she found she liked Will's offhanded manner, the way he didn't take himself too seriously. She liked his slightly crooked smile and the way he held his wineglass by the rim, letting it dangle from his fingertips as he talked, and the way he looked into her eyes when she talked. All things she'd never noticed about him before.
They just about killed that second bottle of merlot, and so by the time they left the restaurant, Alicia was feeling warm and happy. She heard herself ask Will to come in when he dropped her off at her place.
She felt a spasm of alarm—Why did I do that?—but told herself to be calm. It would be all right. Tonight, in this place, with this man… it would be all right. She wanted this… she needed this.
"Want some coffee?" she said as she hung up his coat.
"No," he said. "That coffee we had at Zov's will probably keep me up half the night as it is. But I would like something else."
As Alicia turned to face him, he took her in his arms—gently—and pulled her close.
She fought a stab of anxiety and moved closer. She sensed his tentativeness, and knew if she resisted, he'd back off. That was good. But she didn't want to resist. She wanted to be held, to feel protected, to relax and let go, and for once, just once, feel that she didn't have to be alone all the time, didn't have to be so completely self-contained and able to handle everything on her own, do everything on her own. Just once to feel that she could have someone to share with. Just once.
Her anxiety level surged as he bent his head to hers, but she didn't pull away.
It's all right… it's going to be all right…
Their lips met and his were soft and warm, and the wine was warm within her, and yes, it was going to be all right…
But then his arms encircled her and suddenly she couldn't breathe. She felt trapped, and she had to get away, get free, get some air.
She tore her lips from him, got her hands between them, and pushed.
"Let me go!"
Will released her and backed away, his expression stunned. "Alicia—what's—?"
"Get away!"
He held up his hands and backed up another step. "I am away. Look."
Panic—wild, formless, constricting, suffocating, unyielding to reason—choked her, and she wanted to run, but she couldn't, she lived here, so he had to get out. Part of her cried, No, let him stay! but a larger, fiercer, stronger part was in control.
"I'm sorry, Will," she said, forcing her voice to stay calm. Still, the words seemed to rattle in her throat. "I just can't… I can't do this right now. Okay?"
He looked so confused. "Okay. Sure. I just thought… is it me?"
"No… yes…" I'm babbling. "I just can't explain it now." Not now, not ever. "Would you mind if we just call it a night? Please?"
She was so embarrassed she wanted to cry.
"Yeah. Sure." He reached out to touch her arm but withdrew it before contact. "I'll call you," he said, retreating into the hall. "To see if you're all right."
Alicia nodded. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."
And then she closed the door. Finally,' the panic faded. She leaned against the door and sobbed.
I'm out of control, she thought.
She'd almost lost it in Haffner's conference room this morning, and now she'd done the same with Will.
She'd never done too well with men, but this was over the top.
What's happening to me?
The house… it had to be the house. Nothing had been right since that man and his house had forced their way back into her life. She'd tried to burn it, and tomorrow night she was going to have to go back there… inside…
That was the problem: Going back…
The house was the whole problem. She had to conquer that house, because by doing so, she'd conquer him. And then she'd be free of both of them.
Or would she? Would she ever be free?
TUESDAY
1
"It's going to be okay," Jack said as they drove east on Twenty-third in his rented white Chevy. He glanced over at Alicia sitting straight and silent in the passenger seat. "Don't worry. We won't get caught."
"What makes you think I'm worried about getting caught?" she said.
"Because you look like you're ready to jump out the window."
She'd been like an overwound spring since he'd picked her up.
She's afraid of that house, he thought. That empty house.
As he reached Broadway, the traffic light went amber. Good. He'd been waiting for this opportunity. Instead of speeding up, he held back until the light turned red, then he gunned it and yanked the wheel to the right, turning downtown.
"Maybe it's your driving," Alicia said, and made a poor try at a smile, as if to let him know she was kidding—maybe. "And if we're going to Thirty-eighth Street, this is the wrong direction."
"I know," he said, pulling over and studying his rearview mirror.
"And how come we're not taking a cab?"
"Because I wanted to make sure we weren't followed."
He watched the street behind them, waiting to see if anyone ran the red to keep up with them. Since leaving Alicia's place, he'd had this vague feeling of being watched, usually a good indicator that somebody was following him. Or maybe someone was following Alicia.
But nobody else turned off Twenty-third.
"Well?" Alicia said. "Are we?"
"Not that I can see." Or if we are, whoever's dogging us is damn good. "I also figured the car's a good idea because we don't know what we'll find in the house. Maybe it'll be something we can't carry out and load into a taxi. And besides, I needed a place to store a few props."
"Props? For what?"
"All in good time, my dear. All in good time."
He made a couple of lefts to put them on Third Avenue, and took that uptown. In Murray Hill, they cruised past the house and saw the security car out front.
"We'll never get past them," Alicia said.
Jack got the distinct impression she didn't want to get past them.
He checked out the exhaust pipe on the guard car as he passed and saw it smoking. No surprise. The temperature had dropped to about 40 degrees, and they had the heater running.
He smiled. Good.
"Let me worry about that," he told her.
He pulled around the corner and found a barely legal spot near a fire hydrant on Thirty-ninth.
"There's not going to be any fighting is there?" Alicia said.
"I definitely want to avoid that. And with the right kind of help, I figure I can."
He stepped out of the car and looked around at the mix of office buildings and town houses. Not many people out on this cold night. He shrugged into a shapeless old stadium coat he pulled from the backseat; next a pair of ratty leather gloves; then he yanked a
knitted cap over his head, fitting it over his ears and down to his eyebrows. The final touch was a bucket containing two inches of soapy water and some other goodies.
Alicia leaned forward, staring at him through the open door. "What on earth…?"
"Meet the scourge of the streets: the sight of him can cause even the toughest New York City driver to quail. Meet… Squeegeeman!"
"I don't believe this."
"Wait five minutes, then walk around the block and meet me in front of the house."
"But what—?"
"Be there. See you."
He closed the door and trotted around to Thirty-eighth. He stopped twice along the way to scan the passersby and the streets for a tail, but could spot no one suspicious.
Damn. Why did he feel he was being watched?
2
That was close, Yoshio thought as he turned onto Thirty-ninth Street.
For a moment there he had been sure the ronin helping Alicia Clayton had spotted him, but he'd managed to drive past without arousing suspicion. The man seemed to have a sixth sense, almost a counterpoint talent to the one that allowed Yoshio to tail without being seen. Yoshio would have to be very careful with this one.
He had chosen to watch Alicia Clayton for the early part of the evening, then move on to Kemel. Yoshio had been glad to see the arrival of her ronin. This man seemed to be popping up everywhere. Yoshio had followed Kemel and Thomas Clayton to their attorney's office yesterday; while waiting outside, wishing he had a bug in the meeting room, Yoshio had seen this man emerge from the building in the company of a tall black man, both in suits. It could not be a coincidence.
So tonight, when they had driven off in a rented car, Yoshio had followed. Along the way, the ronin had lost Yoshio with a sudden, last-second turn off Twenty-third Street. Yoshio had been stuck, two cars behind. But he had suspected that they might show up at the Clayton house, so he headed in that direction. He had taken his time, munching on a bucket of extra crispy Kentucky Fried Chicken along the way, and had been pleasantly surprised to see their car pass him on Third Avenue.
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