by Mark Alpert
At 9:29, Simon reached for his cell phone and opened it in anticipation of Henry’s call. Sergei and Larissa appeared on the screen, smiling expectantly. Be patient, Simon whispered. It won’t be long now.
At precisely nine-thirty, the phone rang. Simon raised the device to his ear. “Hello, this is George Osmond,” he said. His own alias.
“Good morning, George. So good to speak with you again.” The slow, careful voice with the Middle Eastern accent. “Tell me, how was the game last night?”
For some reason, Henry relied on baseball metaphors in most of his codes. Although their veiled conversations sometimes verged on the ridiculous, Simon had to admit that the precautions made sense. Since 9/11, no phone call was safe. You had to assume that the government was listening to everything. “The game was a little disappointing,” he said. “Scoreless, actually.”
A long pause. Henry was clearly not pleased. “What about the pitcher?” That was their code word for Kleinman.
“Never got a chance to play. He’s out for the season, I’m afraid.”
An even longer pause. “How did this happen?”
“It was interference from the Yankees. You can read about it in today’s newspapers. Of course, the reporters didn’t get all the details straight. They tried to turn it into another drug scandal.”
This time the silence stretched for nearly half a minute. Simon pictured his client in a white dishdasha robe, strangling a strand of worry beads. “I’m not happy about this,” he finally said. “I was counting on this pitcher. How are we going to win without him?”
“Don’t worry, I have another prospect. A younger man, a very promising player. He worked closely with the pitcher, I believe.”
“Have I heard of this player before?”
“He’s mentioned in the newspapers, too. A college player. I think he has what we need.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Not just yet. I came close to contacting him last night but he left town suddenly.”
Henry let out a dissatisfied grunt. Not a patient man, obviously. But his type seldom was. “This is unacceptable,” he said. “I’m paying you a good salary and I expect better results than this.”
Simon felt a twinge of irritation. He prided himself on his professionalism. “Calm down. You’ll get your money’s worth. I know someone who can help me find this player.”
“Who?”
“An agent in the Yankee organization.”
Another long silence followed, but this one was different. It was a wondering, dumbfounded silence. “With the Yankees?” his client muttered. “You have a friend there?”
“Strictly a business relationship. You see, the Yankees are sure to track down this player sooner or later. As soon as they know where he is, the agent will pass the information to me.”
“For a fee, I assume?”
“Naturally. And I’m going to need a substantial increase in my budget to cover it.”
“I’ve told you before, money isn’t a problem. I’m willing to pay all necessary expenses.” His voice was conciliatory now, almost deferential. “But are you sure you can trust this man?”
“I’ve scheduled a meeting with the agent to assess his intentions. He’s due to arrive in a few minutes, actually.”
“Well, I’ll let you go, then. Please keep me informed.”
“Certainly.”
Simon frowned as he closed the phone and put it back in his pocket. He hated dealing with clients. It was by far the most disagreeable part of his job. But he wouldn’t have to do it much longer. If everything went according to plan, this mission would be his last.
He turned back to the Delaware River and the line of oak trees on the other side. According to a sign at the water’s edge, this was the place where General Washington ferried his troops across the river. On the night of December 25, 1776, he led 2,400 insurgents from Pennsylvania to New Jersey so he could surprise the British army in its barracks in Trenton. The river was so peaceful now, it was hard to believe that anyone had ever died here. But Simon knew better. Death ran just below the rippling surface of the water. It was in all rivers, all countries. The entire universe was saturated with it.
The whine of an SUV interrupted his thoughts. Simon looked over his shoulder and saw a black Suburban turn in to the parking lot. No other vehicles were in sight, which was a good sign. If the FBI were planning an ambush, they would’ve sent a whole convoy.
The Suburban parked at the other end of the lot and after a few seconds a man in a gray suit stepped out of the car. Although he wore sunglasses and stood nearly fifty meters away, Simon immediately knew it was his contact. The man had a distinctive slouch, standing with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets. The breeze tousled his hair as he started walking across the asphalt. There was probably a semiautomatic in the shoulder holster under his jacket, but that was all right—Simon was armed, too. He was willing to take his chances if it came to a shoot-out.
The agent stopped a few meters from the Ferrari. He pointed at the car, grinning. “Nice ride,” he said. “Must’ve cost you a bundle.”
Simon shrugged. “It’s nothing. Just a tool of the trade.”
“Just a tool, huh?” He walked around the Ferrari, admiring its lines. “I wouldn’t mind getting a tool like that for myself.”
“That may be possible. My offer still stands.”
The agent ran his fingers along the Ferrari’s spoiler. “Sixty thousand, right? That was the deal?”
Simon nodded. “Thirty payable now. The other thirty if your information leads to the suspect’s capture.”
“Well, I guess this is my lucky day. I just got a transmission from headquarters while I was driving down here.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You got the money on you?”
Keeping his eyes on the agent, Simon reached with one hand into the Ferrari. He picked up the black briefcase that had been resting on the driver’s seat. “The first payment’s in here. In twenty-dollar bills.”
The agent stopped looking at the car. All his attention was on the briefcase now. The man’s greed was overpowering, which is why Simon had cultivated this particular contact. “We got a report that a citizen spotted Swift an hour ago. At a rest stop on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.”
Simon glanced at the Pennsylvania side of the river. “Where? Which rest stop?”
“New Stanton Service Area. About thirty miles east of Pittsburgh. The state police put up roadblocks, but they haven’t found him yet. He probably got off the highway already.”
Without any hesitation, Simon handed the briefcase to the agent. He was anxious to get going. “I’ll be in touch with you about the second payment. Expect a call within twelve hours.”
The agent clutched the briefcase with both hands. He seemed stunned by his good fortune. “I’m looking forward to it. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
Simon got into the Ferrari and started the engine. “No, the pleasure is mine, Mr. Brock.”
FROM HIS VANTAGE POINT A hundred yards away, David gazed at Newell-Simon Hall, trying to remember the exact location of Amil Gupta’s office. He and Monique were crouched inside an empty classroom in the Purnell Arts Center, a neighboring building on the Carnegie Mellon campus. The classroom was apparently used for a course in theatrical set design; scattered among the desks were several flat wooden boards painted to look like trees, houses, cars, and storefronts. A large panel showing the front of a barbershop, with the words SWEENEY TODD running across the top, stood next to the window that David and Monique were peering through. All the two-dimensional facsimiles gave the room a disorienting feel, like the interior of a fun house. David thought of his paper on Flatland, a universe without depth.
It was almost noon. After the fiasco at the New Stanton Service Area, they’d spent more than an hour navigating the backstreets of the Pittsburgh suburbs, staying off the main roads so they could get to Carnegie Mellon without encountering any patrol cars. Once they arrived
, Monique hid her Corvette among the hundreds of sports cars parked in the university’s main lot, and then they made their way across campus on foot. They chose the Purnell Arts Center for their reconnaissance because it sat on a rise above Newell-Simon Hall, offering an excellent view of the parking lot between the two buildings.
The first thing David noticed was the Highlander robotic vehicle, a custom-designed Hummer with a big silver orb mounted on its roof. He’d read about the car in Scientific American. One of Gupta’s pet projects, the Highlander could travel hundreds of miles without a driver. A couple of students from the Robotics Institute were testing the vehicle, watching it autonomously navigate the parking lot. The orb on the car’s roof contained a laser scanner that detected the obstacles in its path. One of the students held a radio control box that would immediately shut off the engine if the robot car went haywire.
The second thing David noticed was the Suburbans. Two black SUVs were parked near the entrance to Newell-Simon and another two were positioned at the back of the lot. He pointed them out to Monique. “You see all those SUVs? Those are government cars.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw a bunch of them in the FBI’s garage in New York.” Next he pointed at a pair of men in T-shirts and shorts who were tossing a football back and forth. “Check out those guys with the football. Why are they playing catch in the middle of a parking lot?”
“They look a little too old to be students,” Monique noted.
“Exactly. And look at the bare-chested guy lying on the grass over there. That has to be the palest sunbather I’ve ever seen.”
“There’s two more sitting in the grass on the other side of the building.”
David shook his head. “It’s my own damn fault. They probably beefed up the surveillance here once they found out we were on the turnpike. They know we’re trying to get to Gupta.”
He turned away from the window and slumped against the wall. It was a trap. The undercover agents were just waiting for him to show up. But oddly enough, David wasn’t panicked. His fears had subsided, at least for the moment, and now all he felt was outrage. He thought of the front-page article in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the elaborate cover story that portrayed him as a drug dealer and a murderer. Jesus Christ, he muttered. These assholes think they can get away with anything.
Monique leaned against the wall next to him. “Well, the next step is obvious. You stay here and I’ll go in.”
“What?”
“They’re not looking for me. Those agents have no idea I’m with you. All they know is that some old man saw you at the rest stop.”
“What if the guy also saw the license plate on your car?”
She looked askance. “That geezer? He was running for his life after he recognized you. He didn’t see a thing.”
David frowned. He didn’t like Monique’s plan at all. “It’s too risky. Those agents are eyeballing everyone who comes near that building. For all we know, they’ve got pictures of every theoretical physicist in the country, and if they figure out who you are, they’re sure to get suspicious. They’ve already been to your house, remember?”
She took a deep breath. “I know it’s risky. But what else are we going to do? You have a better idea?”
Unfortunately, he was out of ideas. He turned away from her and looked around the room, hoping for some inspiration. “What about a costume?” he ventured. “This is a theater department, so there’s probably some costumes around here. Maybe you can wear a wig or something.”
“Please, David. Anything we find here is only going to make me look ridiculous. And that’ll just draw more attention.”
“That’s not necessarily true. What if you—”
Before David could finish, he heard a loud rumbling in the hallway outside the classroom. Monique cried, “Shit!” and reached for the revolver tucked into her shorts, but David grabbed her wrist. That was the last thing they needed. He pulled her behind the large wooden panel depicting Sweeney Todd’s barbershop. Soon the rumbling stopped and they heard the jangling of keys. David was certain that a team of FBI agents stood on the other side of the door, ready to storm into the classroom. But when the door opened he saw only the building’s cleaning lady, a young woman in a pale blue smock pushing a large canvas Dumpster.
Monique clutched David’s shoulder in relief, but neither of them stirred from their hiding place. Peeking around the edge of the Sweeney Todd scenery, David watched the cleaning woman wheel the Dumpster across the classroom. When she got to the far end, she picked up a trash can full of discarded art supplies—the sawed-off edges of wooden boards, a huge wad of paint-soaked rags—and poured its contents into the Dumpster. She was a tall, thin black woman wearing a T-shirt and denim shorts under her smock. Probably not more than twenty-three years old, but already her face was careworn, exhausted. She scowled as she shook the trash can over the Dumpster and in that moment David realized that the cleaning woman and Monique, despite the difference in their ages, looked very much alike. They had the same long legs, the same defiant tilt of the head. David continued staring at her as she lowered the empty trash can to the floor and began pushing the Dumpster out of the classroom. Just as she reached the door, he came out of hiding. Monique tried to stop him but she was too slow.
“Excuse me?” David said to the cleaning woman’s back.
She whirled around. “Jesus! What the…?”
“Sorry to startle you. My colleague and I were putting the final touches on the set for tonight’s show.” He motioned for Monique to come forward. Gritting her teeth, she stepped into the open. David placed his hand on the small of her back and nudged her forward. “This is Professor Gladwell,” he said, “and I’m Professor Hodges. Of the drama department.”
The cleaning woman pressed her hand to her chest, still recovering from her surprise. She regarded David and Monique angrily. “You scared the shit out of me! I thought this room was empty till one o’clock.”
David smiled to put her at ease. “Usually it is, but we’re doing some last-minute work for the show tonight. It’s a very big opening, very exciting.”
The woman didn’t seem impressed. “Well, what do you want? You got something you want to throw out?”
“Actually, I was wondering about that smock you’re wearing. Is there any chance we can borrow it for a few hours?”
Her lips formed an incredulous oval. She glanced down at her smock, which had a patch saying CARNEGIE MELLON BUILDING SERVICES just above her left breast. “This thing? What do you want it for?”
“One of the characters in our show is a cleaning lady, but I’m not happy with the costume we have now. I want something more like your uniform. I just need to show it to our costume designer so she can copy it.”
The woman narrowed her eyes. She wasn’t buying it. “Look, I gotta wear this uniform while I’m working,” she said. “If I let you borrow it, I gotta get another one from janitorial supplies and that’s a long walk back.”
“I’m willing to compensate you for the inconvenience.” David reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of twenties. He peeled off ten of them.
She stared at the $200 in his hand. She wasn’t any less suspicious than before, but now she had reason to ignore her suspicions. “You’re gonna pay me for the uniform?”
He nodded. “The drama department has a budget for emergencies like this.”
“And you’re gonna give it back when you’re done?”
“Definitely. You can pick it up this afternoon.”
Still looking at him warily, she began to take off the smock. “Just don’t tell anyone else in Building Services about this, all right?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t say a word.” Another thought occurred to him. “And we’re also going to need your Dumpster. As a prop for the show.”
She gave the smock to David. “I don’t care about the Dumpster. There’s another one in the basement I can use.” She whisked the $200 out of his hand and quickly left
the room, as if she were afraid he’d change his mind.
David waited a few seconds, then locked the door to the classroom. With the blue smock draped over his arm, he turned to Monique. “All right, I’ve got your costume.”
She stared grimly at the uniform. “A cleaning woman. How original.” Her voice was bitter.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I just thought…”
“Yeah, I know what you thought.” She shook her head. “Black women clean offices, right? So if those FBI agents see me pushing a Dumpster into that building, they won’t give me a second look.”
“If you don’t want to—”
“No, no, you’re right. That’s the saddest thing about it, you’re absolutely right.” She grabbed the smock from David’s arm and shook out the wrinkles. The blue fabric whipped through the air. “It doesn’t matter how many degrees you earn or how many papers you publish or how many prizes you win. In their eyes, I’m just a cleaning woman.”
She put her arms through the uniform’s sleeves and started buttoning it up. For a moment it looked like she was going to cry, but she bit her lip and fought it off. David felt a knot of guilt in his stomach. Whatever his intentions, he’d hurt her badly. “Monique,” he started. “It’s my fault. I didn’t—”
“You’re damn right it’s your fault. Now get in there.”