He could just be going out for bagels and lox, Kelly thought, and waited.
The doorman stepped out into the street, looking up toward York Avenue. He blew his whistle and waved his arm, hailing a cruising cab. The taxi, on the other side of York, had to wait for the light to change. Then it rolled across the avenue and down the street to stop in front of the building. Mancuso climbed in. The cab rolled away. Kelly grinned happily. That wasn't any bagel-and-lox run. He had the time he needed.
Kelly got out of the car, locked it, and crossed the street. He wore the uniform of an inspector in the New York City Fire Department, and he carried a battered leather briefcase. He stiff-armed the door open before the doorman could get to it, shivering as he passed from the chilly street to the warmth of the lobby.
"Nippy today," he said as he came in.
"Yeah." The doorman looked at him incuriously. "So what can I do for you?"
"Malloy, Second Division," said Kelly, and popped out the shield and the ID card with that name on it. Both the tin and the card were legitimate. "I've got some wiring violations to look at. Washing machines on the fourteenth floor and the seventh. You have them on every floor?"
"That's right." The doorman rubbed his chin. "That don't mean I let you in, you know? I got to check you out."
"Standard procedure," Kelly said crisply. "Call the Division." He pointed to a telephone number typed on the corner of his ID card. It was in fact the number of the Second Division.
The doorman stared at the number, mumbled it over to himself, and disappeared into a tiny cubicle. Kelly waited with casual ease. He knew exactly what would happen on the other end of the call. There was virtually no limit to the endless chains of interdepartmental cooperation. After a few minutes the doorman came back and returned his card.
"Right you are, Inspector," he said, and waved to the elevator. "It's all yours."
You're damn right it is, thought Kelly, pushing the button.
He took the self-service elevator to the fourteenth floor. He went to the empty laundry room at the end of the corridor and waited there with his usual patience for ten minutes, trying to think of alternative rhymes for "Casey at the Bat." Then he went back to the elevator and took it down to the seventh floor. He did not go to the laundry room. He made for the stairwell instead, racing down two flights to the fifth floor. Out in the corridor he checked the apartments quickly, stopping before the door of apartment 5E. The corridor was empty. He set down the briefcase, took a thin leather case of metal files from an inside pocket, and went to work on the lock.
The scratching sounds from the front door came to Chalice through a fog of self-induced passion, piercing that fog and jarring the image of Vasily Borgneff above her, within her, plunging and sliding. Had the scratching come a minute later she would have been too far gone, too far up the erotic curve to have heard them, but she heard them now. Passion froze, and her pumping finger stopped its rhythmic beat. For a moment she lay there, one hand at her breast, the other clamped between her thighs. Then she moved.
She rolled off the bed in a fluid motion, bare feet noiseless on the deep-piled carpet. Three strides took her to the bedroom door, two more to the clothes closet, and then she was inside. In the darkness she felt along the ledge for the strip of steel, the key to the laboratory. Her fingers searched, found it, inserted it by touch, and seconds later she was locked in the lab, shivering in the warm darkness.
Thus secluded, she did not see the front door swing open and Kelly enter. Pistol in hand, he went swiftly through the small apartment checking for occupancy. He checked the living room and the bedroom, the bathroom and all the closets. He checked carefully. Chalice heard the door of the clothes closet open, and then she heard the rustle of the search. She did not hear the sound of the door being closed again. She waited, pondering. Then, slowly and silently, she slid the plywood door open no more than two inches. The closet door was open as well. Her line of sight was narrow, but it centered on the carpet just before the front door.
A short, fair-haired man knelt on the carpet facing her. He was dressed oddly, and it took her a moment to realize that he was wearing the uniform of a New York City fireman. An open briefcase lay beside him. From one compartment he took a two-inch canister, green and cylindrical. It looked like the cap of a pen. From another compartment he took a coil of colorless, almost invisible wire. He inserted the tip of the wire into the canister, then, with a firm tug, loosened a small section of the carpeting before the front door. He looped the fine, colorless wire back and forth in a zigzag pattern in front of the door, each loop no more than six inches from the next, burying the wire easily out of sight in the deep pile of the carpet. He opened the door behind him and looked out into the corridor. It was empty. Kneeling again, he snapped a small red button at the head of the canister, then slipped the mechanism under the section of carpet he had loosened. A few carpet tacks had come loose. He took a small hammer from his briefcase and tapped them back into place. Then, with a grunt of satisfaction, he eased himself backward out the open door and shut it.
Chalice, staring in fascination from her hiding place, was unaware that her hand was between her thighs again.
Kelly settled himself once more behind the wheel of the car, turned on the heater and the radio, and waited. On any other type of mission he would have left the scene at once, but this was Eddie Mancuso and he had to be sure. As usual, he waited patiently, playing his games, but also hoping that Eddie would come home soon, soon enough so that after a while he could check the results and then catch the 3:15 plane from LaGuardia back to Williamsburg. Come on, Eddie, he rooted silently, make it quick and I can be home in time for dinner with the kids.
Kelly's luck was still running. No more than half an hour later Eddie bounded out of a taxi carrying a bulky parcel, and vanished with quick, buoyant steps into the lobby of the building.
Kelly grinned his thanks and checked his watch. Ten minutes more, double-check the results, and then head for the airport.
As soon as Eddie twisted his key in the lock and started to swing the front door open with his body weight, he heard Chalice's voice call sharply:
' Eddie, freeze. Don't come in.''
He froze into total immobility.
"Eddie, is it you?" she called again, this time more shakily.
"Yeah, sure. Who else?" He had not moved an inch. "What is it? Are you okay?"
"I'm all right. Open the door, but don't come in. Do you understand?"
He leaned backward on his heels, then slowly opened the door. He could see Chalice now down the hallway. She wore only a terry-cloth bathrobe, and her face was pale.
"What's the matter?" he said quietly. "Tell me fast."
"I was still in bed . . ." she began, as calmly as she could. She told him then what had happened and what she had seen.
Eddie stood for a few moments, staring down almost woodenly at the carpet. Death lay beneath it, he knew that. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he saw the faint cylindrical bulge. He gave himself another full minute to work through the possibilities. Then he muttered to himself:
"Va fongool a barese! That's one of my gigs. The bastards, they're using my own stuff against me."
And thought, Well, why not? It's the best.
To Chalice, across the space of hallway that separated them, he said, "You saw what he put under the carpet, right? This thing you say looked like the cap of a pen?"
"Yes."
"Tell me what color it was."
"Green."
"You're sure? Not red, or gray?"
"No, green."
"This is important, cupcake. Don't guess. Think about it a minute."
"I don't have to, damn it." She was impatient now. "It was bright green."
"Okay," Eddie said, sighing. "Now do what I tell you. Go back into the lab. In the lower right-hand drawer of the desk, just under the hornets, you'll find a ring of keys. One of those opens the filing cabinet on the far wall. I can't re
member which key, you'll have to fiddle around. In the top drawer you'll find two lightweight gas masks. Get them and bring them here, okay?"
Chalice nodded, then disappeared into the closet. He waited, piecing it together, wondering who it had been. The description— short, fair-haired, about thirty, very deft—made it sound like Kelly. Yeah, sure, they'd go for Kelly if they didn't want to go outside the O group. But why? Why didn't they just send some outside animal from Langley, or one of the thugs from Williamsburg? They know what I'm thinking, that's why. But how? Not even Chalice knows what I'm thinking.
He was still frowning when she reappeared, carrying the two gray masks of thin rubber.
"Pitch one over here," he instructed. She threw the mask underhand—an easy lob.
"Put yours on," he said. "Watch how I do mine. Fasten it tight. Good. Now, one more job. Go back into the lab and get the guinea pig out of the cage. Go on—he won't bite."
"Do I have to?" she asked quietly. "I really don't like those things."
"Yes, cupcake, you have to. Go ahead."
Chalice went into the closet again and came out holding the guinea pig at arm's length. Even through the mask Eddie could see her expression of distaste. His voice muffled by the rubber, he said, "Put him down on the carpet and let him run."
Through the goggles, he watched the rodent dart forward a few steps from Chalice's hand, hesitate, then dart forward again, tiny nostrils quivering, startled by its sudden freedom and the feel of the carpet. One paw forward, then another, and then the third time touching the fine wire looped in the piling. The unseen canister exploded silently, piercing the carpet, and an odorless, colorless gas spurted up and through the room with the velocity and area coverage of an antipersonnel grenade.
The guinea pig convulsed, blood shot from its ears, and it fell dead with outsplayed, rigid limbs.
Saxitoxin-D, thought Eddie—biological assault with a vengeance. He stepped across the threshold, closing the door behind him. Chalice came into his arms, shivering.
"This stuff disperses in about five minutes," he told her. "Open the windows, but keep your mask on for a while."
He collected the guinea pig from the floor and disposed of the body in the lab. Then he checked his watch and stripped off his mask. When Chalice saw him without it, she took hers off as well. He took her into the living room, retrieved the bottle of Remy Martin, and poured them each a snifter. Chalice put hers down in a lump, then said:
"All right, Eddie. Tell me. Why?"
"Not just yet. Let me think."
Obediently, she accepted that. A long minute passed.
"And what happens now?" she asked.
Eddie looked at her thoughtfully. "Just about now, I would say that Mr. Kelly is sweating it out someplace nearby, wishing he could split, but knowing that just this once he has to come back and check out the job."
"You mean he's coming back here?"
"You can bet on it."
She pulled the robe around her closely, hugging her shoulders with her hands. "What are you going to do?"
"What the fuck do you think I'm going to do?" His voice was heavy and rough.
She licked her lips. "Eddie ... I don't want a medal for it, but, well, you might say I just saved your life, didn't I?"
He grinned at her; his voice was light again. "I can buy that. You're into me for a big one."
"That's what I mean. You owe me one, right?"
"A big one. Whatever you want."
"Can I collect right now?"
"Name it."
She looked away from him, then looked back. Her eyes were bright. "When he comes back. Whatever you do to him, I want to see you do it."
"It won't work that way. It won't happen here."
She was disappointed, but she managed a smile. "Okay. Maybe next time."
Eddie stared at her, unbelieving. "What next time?"
The smile on her face grew.
Kelly gave it an extra five minutes, then walked down the street to the building. The doorman nodded him through the lobby, then turned away indifferently. When the elevator arrived he punched the button marked 5, humming tunelessly. The elevator door slid open smoothly at the fifth floor. Eddie Mancuso stood in front of him, small, compact, dark-eyed, smiling.
"Hello, Kelly," he said, and held out his hand.
Without thinking, only his widening eyes betraying his surprise, Kelly accepted the grip. He shook Eddie's hand. He felt a faint prick, as if he had been stung by an ant. He stared down with horror at his palm. A tiny red mark glowed there, where the pin had entered. Kelly felt his scrotum shrivel and his bowels heave up.
Eddie took a swift step forward. With one hand he squeezed Kelly's forearm; with the other he lifted the car keys from his uniform pocket.
"If you hurry," Eddie said, "I mean, if you really run like hell and you're lucky, and if you can get a cab within a block or two, and if you can get to Doctors Hospital in time, you might just live through it, Kelly." He jingled the car keys. "Don't drive; you won't make it. It's hornet venom. Very new. Still experimental. You wouldn't believe it, but these goddamn hornets come all the way from Brazil and they cost me a buck and a half each."
Kelly's eyes bulged. He listened, fascinated. Eddie still smiled at him darkly. "Doctors Hospital, Eighty-eighth and East End Avenue. You've got about ten minutes. That's the closest, Kelly. You can tell them that the active chemical ingredients are acetylcholine and serotonin, and it mainly hits the myoneural junction. You'll need an injection of epinephrine hydrochloride. Can you remember that, Kelly? You're a pro, you'll remember—but you'd better haul ass. And if you stop on the way to call Williamsburg, you won't make it." He gave Kelly a light, playful shove backward. "Move, baby, move."
Kelly, ashen, sprinted through the lobby into the street. He felt nothing yet except the sting in his palm and a growing numbness in his wrist, but when he looked down he saw that the pinprick was deeper, darker red than before, and his fingers looked thicker. Seconds later he spotted the taxi turning off York Avenue, heading his way. Ten minutes; still time. He waved fiercely; the cab slowed, and he wrenched at the door, jumping in.
"Emergency," he gasped. "Doctors Hospital, quick. Eighty- eighth and East End!"
The man at the wheel shot a quick look at Kelly and tromped on the accelerator. He jumped a light at the corner and made the turn screeching. He had gone only three blocks when Kelly's arm began to swell. Two blocks later his fingers looked like Bratwurst and his palm had expanded to the size of a purple softball. Sweat came from every pore in his skin.
Less than two minutes. That fucking little wop, he said ten. He lied.
The thought of the lie enraged him. Pain shot up his arm into his shoulder, then thrust like a knife for his heart. He bent forward, vomiting, and died.
6
The Pyramid of the Magician at Uxmal sat in the low-lying green scrub jungle of Mexican Yucatan. It had sat there for twelve hundred years. The ruin was an oddity when compared with the other survivors of the Mayan civilization. The construction was stark, with a simplicity almost Egyptian, and save for the stone friezes embellished with masks of the rain god Chac, the pyramid resembled nothing so much as the overweight superstructure of an obsolete battleship. The steepness of its sides was frightening; fifty degrees on the eastern side, and a dizzying sixty on the western. Tourists and adventurers came to climb the pyramid, and to aid them a heavy, rusting iron chain ran from top to bottom on either side. Without the chains the pyramid could have been climbed only like a natural mountain, for the steps were shallow—the Mayans were small people, and only the priests, whom the gods protected, were meant to climb—providing little more than a foothold. With the chain, however, the climb was only a difficult exercise, although most of the climbers, after ascending the steeper western side, felt a touch of vertigo and descended on the other. All this climbing was done by day. It was forbidden to climb at night.
Vasily Borgneff sat at the peak of the pyra
mid in the darkness of a night lit only by a fragile quarter moon. He sat in the position of a folded stork, his knees drawn up and his chin in the palm of his hand. In the deep gray shadows he seemed a part of the pyramid, a centerpiece provided by the gods to cap their handiwork. He sat as still as a statue, and indeed, if his attitude was reminiscent of Rodin it was a valid comparison and not a cheap imitation, for Vasily was thinking, and thinking hard. Far below him, at the base of the pyramid, the tourist show of Sound and Light was close to completion. Red, gold, violet, and ghost-green lights flashed in the quadrangle of the Nunnery there, playing over the omnipresent masks of Chac with his elephantine snout and the double-headed feathered serpent, Quetzalcoatl. An electronic voice drifted up to him faintly, chanting tales of Mayan legends, of the dwarf hatched from an egg who had built the pyramid under threat of death by the king of Uxmal, and of the seasons of drought and the sacrifices to Chac for the rains of salvation. All this the Russian ignored, his position unchanged, his eyes focused on the nothingness of a darkened horizon. It was only when the lights below blinked out, and the chanting ceased, and the tourists applauded politely and began their way back to their buses—only then did he stir.
He'll be coming now. If she does it right, if she does it the way I told her to, he'll be . . . what's the phrase? . . . champing at the bit, ready to start the forbidden climb as soon as the last tourist is gone. Ready to impress his ladylove with his daring.
He lowered his gaze, staring into the blackness below him. He could see nothing, but with the instinct of the mountaineer he could feel within himself the loom of the pyramid over the jungle. The same instinct told him that no one was yet on the chain.
THE DEATH FREAK -- An Eddie Mancuso Thriller (Eddie Mancuso And Vasily Borgneff Book 1) Page 5