by HN Wake
Reddenbacker’s gruff voice broke through the ambient noise. “I’m circling the square.”
Pharaoh shot Ernest a look. “He needs to shut the fuck up.”
Reddenbacker made it to the far side of Times Square and paused to catch his breath. He mumbled into his collar, “I’ve made it across the Square.
Pharaoh hissed at the cold window, “Shut the fuck up, old man.”
Reddenbacker approached the diner’s doors and whispered, “I am heading to the diner.”
Pharaoh’s voice broke. “Jesus Christ.”
Reddenbacker was going to blow the meet by simply talking too much to himself. Ernest’s knuckles whitened as he squeezed the binoculars.
Reddenbacker’s voice broke through again. “I’m walking in.”
Ernest spun, threw down the binoculars, and yanked off his headset. “I’m going down.” He grabbed a small walkie talkie with an earphone and jogged across the barren floor. In the elevator he smashed the button for the lobby and slipped the earphone in his ear, pressed the mic button, “Can you hear me?”
Pharaoh clicked on. “Got you.”
The elevator crept downward.
In his ear, Pharaoh’s voice was calm, moderated. “Reddenbacker just sat down. Last booth. ”
The elevator pinged and the door slid open. Ernest raced through the lobby, pushed out into the chaos of Times Square, and dropped into long strides. Cars honked. Overhead lights pulsated. A woman’s laugh pealed over the heads of the crowd. He clicked the mic, “You got me?”
He pushed past the throng of people, his eyes trained on the lit windows of the diner on the far side of the square.
“Roger,” Pharaoh responded softly. “Both audio and visual.”
Ernest weaved through the crowd. A line of tourists were standing in his way, people leaning backwards, laughing, posing for selfies on their cameras. “Status?” he asked.
“Reddenbacker is alone.”
Mr. Fox was due in ten minutes. Ernest’s pace was quick, but not alarming. “Can you patch Reddenbacker to my ear piece?”
“Affirmative,” Pharaoh said. “You’ll have all sound in your ear now.”
Through the earpiece, he heard a hissing then the background noise of the diner—plates, waitresses, Muzak.
Pharaoh’s voice broke down the line, “We have a male, Caucasian, 6’1”, entering the diner. Alone.”
Fox was early. Ernest’s heart hammered: he was still five minutes away from the diner. He broke into a jog, zigzagging left then right through the languid crowd
The earpiece crackled again. “Dark sunglasses, blue baseball hat. It’s him. Eyes on the mark.”
Ernest grabbed a young man by his shoulders, lifted him and set him aside. Heads turned in shock. Ernest leaned forward and broke into a sprint, weaving though the crowd. He could make out the lights of the diner’s windows 20 yards away.
In his ear, Pharaoh said, “He’s sitting down in the booth.”
Ernest lurched forward urging his feet faster. The diner was 10 yards away.
“Waitress at the table,” Pharaoh barked. “Subjects aren’t talking.”
Ernest raced forward.
Pharaoh said, “Waitress leaving.”
The earpiece hissed. Ernest heard Reddenbacker’s voice. “How are you?”
“Fine. What’s this all about?” The voice was deep, confident.
Ernest slowed his pace within ten feet of the diner. His chest was heaving. He walked toward the light from the windows, turned his back to the wall, and leaned against the aluminum siding.
Reddenbacker was brusque. “Just a few things to clarify.”
“What’s this all about?” Fox was cool, unruffled.
“Well, listen. I’ve been thinking…”
“Unfortunate.”
Outside the diner, the cacophony of Times Square was intense, horns blaring, girls laughing. Ernest cupped his hand against his ear.
Fox said, “I’m not paying you to think.”
“It’s just that…” Reddenbacker was fumbling. He sounded afraid, nervous. He coughed. “I’ve figured out what the documents are.”
There. Just like that. The game was in play.
Pharaoh’s voice broke into Ernest’s ear. “Fox is standing.”
Ernest turned quickly, through the window he saw the blue baseball hat rising. Fox was rabbiting. He broke into a run toward the front of the dinner.
Pharaoh’s whispered. “Fox moving to the exit.”
Through the diner’s windows, Ernest’s eyes were trained on the hat as it reached the restaurant door.
Pharaoh snarled, “Fox exiting.” Then, “Heading east.”
Ernest yelled into his mic, “Eyes on mark. Talk to me.”
The blue hat bobbed in and out of the crowd.
“Heading east,” Pharaoh reported.
Ernest lost sight of the hat.
In his ear, Pharaoh said, “Disney. He’s heading into the Disney store. Main entrance. Disney!”
Ernest looked over the crowd and saw the blaring red neon Disney sign.
He leaned forward, shoulders down and broke into a full run, the soles of his feet slamming the pavement.
Pharaoh voice was rapid fire, “We’re blind. We’re blind. He’s in Disney. Front entrance Disney.”
Ernest hit the glass doors of the Disney store at full speed.
He flew into the brightly lit store, scanning left and right. Nothing. No hat.
He barked into his mic. “I’m in. I’m in.”
“We’re blind, Ernest.”
His chest was heaving as his head careened back and forth, his eyes scouring the crowd for the hat. Nothing. The blue hat was nowhere in sight.
47
New York, NY
The green, manicured lawn of Laura Franklin’s townhouse was teeming with women in dazzling dresses and men in expensive business suits. Lively jazz underscored chatter and laughter. Wait staff angled their way through the crush with trays of champagne glasses and canapés. The hint of garlic and steak tinged the air.
Behind the bar, Herbie poured drinks for the guests and kept an eye on the host. Laura Franklin stood out in a periwinkle chiffon dress with her hair pulled high, her lips cherry red, and her teeth gleaming white. As she progressed around the lawn, she laughed outrageously at jokes and often placed her hand on guests’ arms as she leaned in. She behaved exactly as he imagined a billionaire would behave as the host of a party.
Herbie was just about to make a gin and tonic for a well-kept blond over fifty—high cheekbones and round grey eyes—when he caught Laura Franklin move purposefully toward an empty corner where a solitary gentleman stood next to a cherry tree.
Herbie quickly poured the drink and handed it to the blond with a wink, “For the lovely lady.” She raised her eyebrows and gave him a sultry smile. He felt a sliver of regret that he was on the job.
He stepped out from behind the bar, grabbed a silver tray, and began a slow amble around the perimeter, keeping his timing in line with Laura’s pace. The lone man watched Laura approach with a blank face. Herbie arrived within three feet just as she stepped to the man. With a finger he flicked a balled napkin off the tray and stooped to pick it up, pausing as long as he dared.
Laura spoke in a low voice to the solitary figure, her back to the party, “Any news?”
The man’s voice had timber and finality. “No.”
Clearly there was animosity between them. Herbie stood and took a step back, as if surveying the guests.
As Laura turned back toward the crowd, she said, “Let me know when you hear from her.”
There. This had to be Joseph Severino.
Herbie stepped away from the lone man and continued his circle around the yard. When he reached the opposite side, he stopped to examine his prey.
Severino was a stoic figure with a clean-shaven head, dark clothes, and very pale eyes that were exceptionally observant. He shifted nimbly on his feet with the ease of an athlete. He was
n’t smiling.
Herbie liked this guy. Not many people looked that comfortable standing aloof and alone in the midst of an opulent crowd. Even fewer would have the guts to practically dismiss one of the richest people in the world in their own home. This guy was no push-over. Well chosen, Mac, well chosen.
Herbie had just learned a few things about the otherwise mysterious night. Joseph Severino was unhappily attending a party thrown by Laura Franklin. Their connection was Mac Ambrose. Which meant something was happening here tonight.
Herbie would bet his last bottom dollar that it was risky, maybe even dangerous, and Mac Ambrose was in it neck deep.
Somewhere a bell rang and the crowd turned toward the lights shining through the French doors.
Ten minutes later the crowd was seated and wine had been poured. Herbie hovered in the shadows outside the doors. By the front of the room, Laura Franklin stood and pinged her crystal glass with the blunt side of a silver knife.
When the room settled, she spoke, “So many friends! Thank you all for coming. It’s an honor and a very real pleasure to host this dinner tonight. I’m delighted to introduce our speaker for this evening, Senator Eleanor Gillis.” She turned to a poised, handsome woman with blunt grey hair. “As you know, I have always maintained a healthy interest in politics. This year, I’ve decided to amp up that interest and bring my friends to hear some intelligent commentary from someone who works every day inside our body politic.” With a sweep of her hand she welcomed the senator to the podium by the doors. “Senator, we give you the floor.”
The senator rose and stepped up on the small stage and to the podium.
Herbie glanced at Severino seated at a far table. His face was blank—not a scowl, not a smile—and his eyes followed the Senator intently.
Herbie thought, the something dangerous had to involve the Senator.
The senator smiled to the audience. “Well, what a spectacular party full of fabulously interesting and glamorous people.”
The crowd twittered. Herbie looked at Laura Franklin. Her hands were clasped in front of her ample bosom like a choir girl and her hopeful face was turned up toward the Senator. Next to her sat a slender, older black woman in pale rose with her hair similarly coiffed.
The senator turned to Laura, “Laura, my darling friend, thank you for hosting such a fantastic evening. You are always good for a fun night!” She grinned dramatically, “The last time we got together here, my head hurt for hours the next morning.”
The crowd laughed louder as Laura toasted the senator again.
“My friends,” the senator began. “This is a good night. It’s a good night for us, it’s a good night for New York, and it’s a good night for our country. I believe in this country. This is a country that has succeeded, that has prospered. We have put men on the moon. We have seen the fall of the Cold War. We have watched the rise of the internet and the power of technology. We have seen the spread of equal rights across our lands. I believe in the potential of our country. I believe in Americans. I believe we are and will continue to be the best beacon in a difficult world.”
A number of guests yelled “Hear, hear!” and raised a glass to the senator’s sentiment.
With the hint of anticipation, she paused to let the moment descend around them
Herbie glanced at Severino’s sober countenance. This cool, reserved man knew something was about to happen and he wasn’t happy about it.
48
Above Teterboro, NJ
Mac let herself into the small bathroom and closed the door. Outside a window, streams of cloud raced across a dark sky.
Did Fenton Warrick suspect something? Or was he just being cautious about the earlier network breach? Had he connected her to the intrusion in their Times Square office?
In the bathroom mirror, the auburn wig looked fine and the prosthetic nose looked real. There was no way he could recognize her, even if he had seen the image of the blond Patriot News intruder.
She repeated out loud what she had just spoken to Fenton Warrick, “We could use the one from last night.” In her ear, her voice sounded nasal, the voice of a stranger, but there was no uneven pitch, no indication of stress or anxiety. She repeated the phrase. Again, it sounded foreign but normal.
No. There was no way he recognized her. They were fine. This op was fine.
She rolled her head, felt the top of her spine crack. She rolled her shoulders, felt the left one explode in pain. She hadn’t taken a pain killer in hours. She placed a hand on her damaged shoulder, a subconscious attempt to soothe the torment. She cracked her knuckles then pressed her good hand flat on the sink and pushed down on her wrist, stretching out the hand.
She dropped her chin to her chest and breathed in four long breaths. Then she pulled in four quick gulps.
She stared into her own eyes in the mirror.
She was ready.
Reaching into her bag, she took out a syringe and a vial, plunged the needle into the rubber lid, and drew out 20 cc of clear liquid. She turned the needle up to the ceiling, tapped it, and shot out a short burst clearing any air bubbles.
Through the stream, she looked again in the mirror. There was no sweat on this face. There was no fear in these features. She saw a solid operative. A skilled warrior, conditioned in the application of physical force and coercion.
She’d used needles before, maybe ten or fifteen times? Stealth was the key. One had to move quietly and quickly, jabbing well before the target had an opportunity to see you.
She turned the doorknob. The door opened silently.
Edging her way through the vestibule she lined herself up with the corner of the wall and inched her right eye around the wall.
Joyce glanced toward her and her mouth dropped open a fraction, but she quickly turned her gaze back to the sky beyond. Quick learner.
Mac edged around the corner.
His back to her, Fenton Warrick was reading a document.
Mac softly placed her right foot on the soft, tan carpet behind his seat. She leaned her weight forward on the foot. There was no sound.
She was two feet behind Fenton Warrick’s shoulder.
She held the needle upwards between two fingers, her thumb on the plunger.
Joyce blinked out the window. She was good, solid under pressure and a real asset. She was glad she was there.
Mac lifted her left foot and placed it shoulder width apart from her right, an even distribution across both feet.
Warrick’s shoulders raised slightly then lowered as he breathed.
Mac leaned in, inches from Warrick’s back, her hand hovering the needle above his neck. She allowed her breathing to sync with his, a sniper readying for a kill shot. In and out. Her heart rate slowed. In and out. The silence of a vacuum, there was nothing other than this action, this task, this operation.
She lowered the needle, aiming at the slight gap between Warrick’s collar and neck.
He inhaled. In.
She inhaled. In.
He exhaled. Out.
She exhaled. Out.
In.
Out.
On his next inhale, she sunk the needle into his neck and jabbed the plunger.
His shoulders jumped and he yelped.
Mac dropped to the carpet in a plank position on two hands. Searing pain shot through her left shoulder. She bit her lip. She dropped off her hands, resting her chest against the tan wool and closed her eyes tightly against the throbbing.
Above her, Warrick twisted frantically against the seat’s leather.
Joyce said, “What? Mr. Warrick, are you okay?”
He was agitating in the leather, moving frenetically. “My neck, my neck.”
Joyce asked louder, “What? Mr. Warrick, what?”
“Something…something.” His voice was beginning to slur and his movement in the chair slowed.
Mac heard Joyce stand. “What’s the matter, sir?”
“I…don’t…” His voice was hesitant and heavy. “Neck…” T
hen he fell silent, his weight sliding back into the leather.
Then there was only the roar of the engines.
Joyce whispered, “Oh my god.”
49
New York, NY
At the podium, Senator Gillis took a breath. “Tonight we are poised to capture an enormous opportunity. We stand at the parapet of our future.” She reached out her left hand, “Across this view, we can see a path that leads to sustainable growth with equity and social value, sustainability, longevity. A strong economy, low unemployment, a financial industry that is healthy, schools that are best in class, a productive work force.”
She reached out with her right hand. “But we can also see a darker path. Inequality, tax evasion, corruption. This path leads us to a divided country.”
Across the room, Severino leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.
Herbie thought, yeah, I agree with you, man, she needs to get on with it.
Senator Gillis raised her voice. “The growing divide in our country will only lead us into darkness. What we see is a growing culture of disagreement. A lack of compromise for the sake of obstruction. Fanaticism that breaks us apart.” The senator paused. “Our fellow Americans that claim to represent the patriotic and the freedom loving—are in fact failing those constituents.”
Someone in the back of the room yelled, “Amen” and many of the guests smiled.
Senator Gillis acknowledged the outburst. “Yes, those on the far right are splintering the Republican party. Before our very eyes.”
A round of applause filled the room.
The senator waited out the clapping. “But, ladies and gentlemen, I’m here to tell you that the left has much to address.”
The crowd stilled. Had she just tarnished the party that dominated the room?
She dropped her voice, “Running a country is about compromise. It’s about finding solutions. For eight long years my fellow Democrats in Washington have dithered, have pandered, have slowly lost their nerve. We as a party have lost our vision.”