Russo snapped his fingers. “Spiro!” The muscle man by the door strode over carrying an attache case and placed it on the table. Russo popped the locks and rotated the case to expose a stack of engraved documents.
Herman thumbed the edges of the bearer bonds, not counting to confirm there were sixty of them, just making sure they were real. With so much at stake Johnny Russo wouldn't dare hand Herman bogus paper, but Russo might have been screwed over by someone else. He looked at his watch and stood up. “I have a subway to catch.”
“You want me to send Spiro and the car to make sure you get home with that?”
Herman stared down at Russo. “You're kidding, right?” Herman wasn't about to have Russo know where his home was. Personal danger had nothing to do with it.
Herman rode the nearly deserted subway with the stainless-steel briefcase on the floor beside him. He sat patiently with his eyes closed.
He had dealt with some of the country's most infamous gangsters from the late 1940s. No matter what talent each possessed that had elevated them to their positions of leadership, not one in a thousand rose above the level of an expensively dressed ape. Herman had always admired Sam Manelli. He was remarkably intelligent, utterly ruthless, and knew more about human nature than anyone. He was also a man of his word. He would rather be tortured to death than inform on anyone. When Sam was gone, the last of the honorable crime bosses was gone, which was just as well. Even if a code of silence was possible with these new gangsters, modern electronics were making secrets a thing of the past.
At his stop Herman picked up the briefcase, got off the train, and walked slowly up the steps out onto the street. His building was near the Stock Exchange, Battery Park, and Trinity Church, and although the neighborhood was teeming with people during the week, it was fairly deserted after five-thirty and a ghost town on Saturday nights, when all the office buildings were empty.
Herman walked casually, swinging the briefcase containing 3 million dollars' worth of paper-every bit as negotiable as cash. He saw two men seated on a stoop in front of a closed deli a block away. He didn't make any attempt to cross to the other side of the street-he maintained a course that would place him an arm's length from them. He didn't look at the two men until they stood and made it impossible for him to pass without stepping off the curb.
One of the men was large and dark as pitch, with a deep scar that gave his cheek the appearance of buttocks. His clothes smelled like something that had been pulled from a muddy ditch and left wadded up for a few days. “Hey, man. You got the time?”
Herman stopped and looked at his watch. “Twelve-ten.”
“Nice watch, old man.”
The smaller man moved around and stood slightly behind Herman.
“It's platinum,” Herman said. “Do we share an appreciation for fine Swiss timepieces?”
The man behind him was a stocky, bandy-legged Mexican.
“You got a couple dollars?” the Mexican asked. “We han't eat all today.”
“Would you gentlemen use my money to buy food or crack rocks?”
The large man laughed. “What do you care? You're a rich man.”
“I certainly wouldn't stay that way if I gave it to every periodontally challenged crackhead I encountered.”
“Whas een jur shiny little suitcase?” the man behind Herman asked.
“Bearer bonds.” Herman took his right hand from his coat pocket. He held it up so both men could see the thick stack of bills in it, fixing their attention to one spot. “I have around two thousand dollars here. How about I let you have this, you forget the briefcase and go get all cracked up for a couple of days, and I'll just go on my way?”
Herman saw the large man's eyes flash a signal and he knew the smaller man behind him was moving to smash his skull or something equally unimaginative. If he hadn't been so tired he would have enjoyed this encounter. In the years he had lived in Paris, London, Washington, and now New York, he had never been robbed, never even been menaced by street thugs. He had anticipated the remote possibility of Russo's greed getting the better of his good sense, perhaps setting up something to steal back his money. But these two were just hungry cats who'd had a mouse walk right up to them.
“How about you give me the cash, the watch so I know what time it is, and the little suitcase for carrying stuff.”
“Ralph?” Herman said.
“Yes, sir?” the answer came.
Herman saw the large man's ravenous expression change at the sound of the new voice. Herman turned to see that the smaller of the two was looking to his right, where a man dressed entirely in black had materialized. Ralph had the small man's wrist in his left hand, and the knife in the Mexican's fist was quivering like the hind leg of a dying rabbit. There was a silenced pistol in Ralph's left hand that was aimed at the large man's heart.
“Or how about this?” Herman suggested as he slid the money back into his pocket. “I keep my cash, and Ralph teaches you scions of the alleyway one final lesson.”
Herman sidestepped the larger man and walked down Pine Street swinging the metal attache. He didn't look back. He knew that the cops would soon come upon two very unpleasant, drug-addicted thugs lying on the sidewalk who had squabbled over something and killed each other with a single cheap knife.
Of all his men, there were only two he trusted totally-Ralph and Lewis.
6
Concord, North Carolina
Sunday
An hour before the sun rose Winter climbed from his bed, dropped to the floor, and did one hundred push-ups. Immediately afterward he locked his ankles under the bed's frame and did as many crunches. Over the course of a day he would try to do another two hundred of each to stay limber and maintain his muscle tone.
He put on shorts, a gray T-shirt, and his running shoes. On the way out, he unleashed Nemo from Rush's bed.
Winter and Nemo ran around to Union Street, picking out an even stride that would take them to the end of Union, to Highway 136, back the five miles to Corban Street, and home.
On his street Winter saw a figure leaning against the grill of a pickup truck. As he approached the man, Nemo started wagging his tail.
“Howdy, old pal,” the man said as he bent to stroke the dog's head.
“Hank,” Winter said. “What brings you all the way up here?”
“Lydia's coffee.”
Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Hank Trammel was Winter's boss. Trammel was exactly what most people would expect a U.S. marshal to look like. His preretirement paunch protruded over his belt, obscuring the big buckle-a Texas-size silver and turquoise oval. Test samples of paint in the weather-abuse simulators at the Dutch Boy laboratories didn't get the wear and tear Hank's skin had received as a child on a ranch exposed to wind-driven sand and scorching sun. His duty piece was a stag-handle 1911 Colt. 45 cradled in an Austin holster designed by Brill and made by the El Paso Saddle Company in 1950 for a new Texas ranger named Trent Trammel, Hank's father. Hank's father and grandfather had both died by the gun.
“I wanted to congratulate you on the Tucker capture. Media's going to be all over it. They'll be after interviews.”
“They'll waste their time, because I'm not talking about it.” Winter never spoke to the media unless he was ordered to, but normally there was someone else involved who was happy to instead.
“You could have congratulated me tomorrow,” Winter said.
“There's this. Faxed to me yesterday morning.” Hank reached into his pocket and handed Winter a folded-up sheet of paper.
Winter read it, then offered it back. “I'm not interested.”
“I didn't see where it asked if you are interested.”
“Aw, come on, Hank. Why me?”
The chief deputy shrugged. “It's got to be a big deal. You see the signature.”
“Hank, the twentieth is Rush's birthday. That's next Sunday. It'll be the first one I've been here for in three years. I don't plan to disappoint him again. It means a
lot. Wh
y do they need me? I'm not WITSEC.”
“Maybe they figure you can give an account of yourself in a tight spot.”
Winter grimaced involuntarily.
“I like to believe that every once in a while the big guys know what they're doing,” Hank said. “They issued this, and I expect what they want is more important than what you want.”
“Doesn't make sense.”
“I couldn't agree more. There's a world of men a lot better qualified than you. Nice, even-tempered fellows who don't get edgy sitting in a cheesy motel room watching some criminal pace the carpet. I got a million other things I'd like to throw your lazy ass at, Massey, but I'm not being paid to run the Justice Department. John Katlin is.”
Winter took a shower while Hank sat in the kitchen and talked to Lydia. After he toweled off and slipped on his boxers, he picked up the orders and reread them. It was temporary assignment to Witness Security. He was to report to Spitfire Aviation at the Concord Regional Airport on Sunday at thirteen hundred hours to meet his transportation. The order was signed by John T. Katlin, attorney general of the United States, and countersigned by Richard Shapiro, chief U.S. marshal and director of the United States Marshals Service.
Winter was surprised. The Witness Security program, WITSEC, was a specialty. In his course of duties, he often transported prisoners, often kept them overnight in rooms or houses. If the USMS had been a medical discipline, Winter would have been a general practitioner who could operate in an emergency, whereas the WITSEC deputies were surgeons.
There were just two things left to do: pack his bag and say good-bye.
7
Charlotte, North Carolina
A twin-engine Cessna was waiting for Winter on the tarmac outside the fixed-base operation at the Concord Regional Airport. Since he wasn't booked on a commercial flight, Winter figured he was going to a remote safe house. The other option was that the destination was so secret, WITSEC wanted no paper or electronic trail left for anyone to follow. He figured he'd know soon enough.
Winter climbed aboard and set his duffel on an empty seat. The plane's cloth upholstery was worn, the carpet stained, and the exterior paintwork dull for a government-owned aircraft.
He settled in and stared out the window, but his mind was on his son's reaction to the news that he was leaving again. Rush had said he didn't mind, but Winter knew how disappointed the child was. He had promised that he would do his best to make it back for Rush's birthday. Lydia had maintained a cheery demeanor, but Winter knew she was upset, too. She had never understood why he wanted to be in law enforcement. She often said she thought he was a wonderful teacher, and she couldn't understand why he had left that field. But he just knew inside that he was made for something else, something that being a deputy offered him. He loved everything about the job, and he was good at it.
The Cessna turboprop maintained an easterly course for nearly an hour before the pilot landed at a military base, where aircraft crowded the tarmac. When the door of the plane opened, he could smell brine in the air.
A Humvee appeared, and a silent marine delivered him to a waiting Blackhawk ready for takeoff.
Winter handed his bag to the flight officer and climbed inside. Two women passengers, both in their midtwenties, were already seated together on a bench directly across from the sliding door. He took a seat next to them and belted himself in.
Due to the noisy engines, Winter merely nodded a greeting. The women nodded back, acknowledging his presence. Once cleared for takeoff, the helicopter lifted off, climbing rapidly.
The well-tanned woman seated closest to the rear of the compartment wore a soft cap with a long curved bill, a microfiber jacket, jeans, and cross-trainers. She looked Latin, and the freckles on her cheeks and nose gave her the aura of a tomboy. She wore her shoulder-length auburn hair tucked behind her ears.
Winter figured the Latina was a deputy marshal. For the time being, he tagged her “Freckles.” He glanced at the three suitcases behind the cargo net and matched her with the seriously scuffed, bright-blue hard-shell Samsonite. No doubt she traveled a lot, lived out of that suitcase.
The other woman's two leather suitcases had canvas outer shells to protect their expensive skins. She had money, taste, and a meticulous nature. She wore a wedding band.
“Married Woman's” hair was neatly pinned back. The angular black frames of her sunglasses were too heavy for her features, but the lenses were light enough so that her almond-shaped eyes were visible behind them. She wore slacks, a collared shirt, a glove-leather sports jacket, and matching boots. Nervously, her fingertips tapped the briefcase in her lap. An expensive gold wristwatch peeked out from under her cuff.
In other circumstances she could be an executive, or a curator at a major museum.
The Blackhawk flew a few miles out over the ocean before it banked hard to the north. When the engines changed pitch, Winter stared out between the pilot and copilot, and spotted an island isolated in an expanse of the Atlantic. The helicopter dropped to about three hundred feet over the water as it approached the sliver of land.
A line of pine trees bisected the island like a fence. On its western side there were several corrugated metal buildings with matching tin roofs. The entire installation was perched above a deepwater bay where a sport-fishing boat and a cigarette boat were tied to a floating dock. Twin radio towers loomed over a windowless concrete bunker on the edge of the cliff. Radar dishes were affixed to one of the towers. A basketball court was sandwiched between a barracks and what looked like an equipment shed. Two men, both wearing shorts, stopped their one-on-one and stared up at the approaching chopper. An asphalt switchback was cut into the sheer wall, joining the buildings and the dock below.
On the eastern side of the island, a single-story house with a wraparound porch faced the Atlantic. There was a water tank just south of the house. North of the house, he saw tennis courts and a covered swimming pool.
A hundred feet away, the beach sloped gently to the water line. Two lounge chairs had been arranged to take advantage of the shade cast by a bright-red umbrella. The chopper's descent halted the conversation of two casually dressed men seated on those chairs. Both raised their hands to shield their eyes from the billowing sand. As the helicopter landed, the umbrella lifted off the ground, flipped upside down, and scooted like a sled into the breaking surf.
After the Blackhawk touched down, and while the pilot kept the blades turning, the flight officer slipped back and opened the door. Manners dictated that Winter climb down onto the helipad and help the women. Married carried her briefcase and moved away, bending over as though the blades might dip six feet to hit her. The flight officer handed the bags down one at a time. Freckles took Married's two pieces of expensive luggage. Married held out her hands to take a bag from Freckles, but the cop shook her head, dismissing the offer. Winter took his duffel, slung it over his shoulder, grabbed Freckles's Samsonite case, and carried it to the women, who stood waiting at the walkway. He reached out to take one of the canvas-covered bags from Freckles.
“I can carry them,” she called out.
The larger of the two men on the beach had run after the umbrella. Both men wore semiautomatic pistols in high-rise hip holsters, with enough extra magazines in clip holders to produce sustained annihilating fire. The smaller man also had a “room broom” suspended by a shoulder sling. The stockless version of the Heckler amp; Koch's fully automatic MP5 looked like a pistol on steroids. As the helicopter became airborne, the two men waved at Freckles. “Hey, Martinez, welcome to paradise!” the smaller one yelled, as the Blackhawk lifted away.
“Who you kidding, Beck? Manhattan is paradise!” she yelled back, laughing throatily. She turned back to Winter as the Blackhawk vanished behind the trees.
Married, briefcase in hand, was heading for the house.
Freckles followed. “Thanks for carrying my stuff so I could carry hers. I'm Deputy Marshal Angela Martinez,” she told Winter.
“I'm Deputy Mar
shal Winter Massey. What's her story?”
“She's the package's wife. I've been with her since yesterday. Winter, hey, that name sounds familiar.”
“Consequences of loaning your name to a season.”
“Come again?”
“Never mind.”
Winter entered the foyer of the house just after Martinez. The sight that greeted him almost bowled him over. Life had given him two friends who were as good as family. One, Hank Trammel, was his boss; the other was standing in the foyer talking to the package's wife.
“You old dog,” Winter said.
“Winter Massey.” Greg Nations was a light-skinned African-American with a middleweight's build, a million-dollar smile, and intense eyes with irises the color of buckskin. “How's that little nephew of mine?” Greg's laugh was a resonating deep boom. He looked at Martinez and winked. “Winter and me were raised by the same she-wolf. We used to tussle for the hind teat.”
“Rush is great. I should have known you were behind this sudden, mysterious journey.”
“And how's your mama?”
“Lydia is Lydia.”
“You're that Massey?” Martinez exclaimed. “Of course! I knew you and Greg”-she caught herself-“Inspector Nations were friends.”
A voice interrupted the gleeful greeting. “Excuse me, might I please see my husband now?”
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Devlin,” Greg said, turning his attention back to the other woman. “This man and I go back a lot of years, and our paths don't often cross these days.” He reached out and took her briefcase. “I'll have to search this.”
Mrs. Devlin removed her glasses and folded them. She lowered her eyes and said in a low voice. “But they've all been searched, X-rayed and sniffed by two different dogs. And that was after I cleared customs. I just came back into the country yesterday. I haven't lost sight of them since.”
“Rule number one,” Greg told her. “Everything coming in is hand-searched. Martinez, assume the position.”
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