In the end, it was no contest.
"That movie was really bad," Remo said in justification.
He turned the key in the ignition.
Remo drove off into the mist, abandoning the young auteur to the mercy of the mean streets he loved so dearly.
Chapter 6
Polly Schien didn't like the way the men looked at her.
There were a lot of them. All dressed in the same bland gray jumpsuits with the same logo on the back-GlassCo Security Windows of New Jersey, Inc. For most of the past week, it seemed as if the offices of Barney and Winthrop had been taken over by the men in GlassCo gray.
Polly had decided on day one that she could have done without them. This tired thought flitted through her brain for what seemed like the hundredth time as yet another one of the workers passed her desk.
The black stubble around his mouth cracked into a leer as he glanced at her chest. Even though she'd been wearing turtleneck sweaters the past few days, she still felt naked.
Polly used one hand to gather the wool more tightly at her neck. It was a move she was all too familiar with.
"Do you mind?" she demanded angrily.
"Not at all. Just gimme a time."
The comment brought a rough cackle from the other jumpsuited men nearby. Polly's coworkers-especially the women, but even some of the men of Barney and Winthrop-looked on in mute sympathy.
It wasn't a very nice atmosphere. The window people were horrible. Gross. Totally unprofessional. The only one that seemed like a human being was their supervisor.
He was English. Polly always had a thing for Englishmen. If an American male had had the same pasty skin, unmuscled body, overbite, big nose and awkward hunch as the GlassCo supervisor, Polly wouldn't have given him the time of day. But on this man the whole package somehow seemed regal.
It was the accent, of course. Polly knew it was her one true weakness. In Polly Schien's mind, all you had to do was slap a British accent on a man who was a hillbilly in every other discernible way and suddenly Jethro Bodine became Prince Charles. But she couldn't think about that right now.
The rude GlassCo worker wasn't leaving her alone. He was still standing beside her desk, holding a tube of that special caulking he and his coworkers had been using to further cement the windows in place. For what reason, Polly had no idea. None of the windows on the thirty-second floor of the Regency Building in Midtown Manhattan so much as rattled, let alone popped out of their frames.
"What time do you get off?" The man leered.
Beyond him, near the huge gleaming panes of glass that overlooked the busiest city in the world, some of the nearest GlassCo men on ladders paused at their work. They, too, held tubes of the same caulking. They rested them on the top tiers of the collapsible steps as they watched the drama at the desk below. Farther down the line of windows, bright midmorning sun beat in on other similarly dressed workers, still busy at their pointless task.
"Leave me alone," Polly said, annoyed. The scruffy man had made advances before, but this day he seemed particularly aggressive. She had already considered a sexual-harassment suit, but dismissed the idea. The guy looked like he drank everything he ever made. Going after GlassCo itself was out of the question. She dared not risk upsetting you-know-who.
"Edward, would you please return to work? I'd like to finish this morning."
The voice came from behind Polly. It was the purest, most flawless upper-crust British accent she had ever heard. The English language distilled. Him.
The GlassCo worker-whose jumpsuit patch identified him as Ed, not Edward-glanced behind Polly in the direction from which the voice had come. A frown blossomed. Reluctantly, he left the desk. With the party over, the rest of the GlassCo workers turned back to the panes.
Polly felt her heart trip in her fluttering chest as she heard the precise footfalls on the drab carpet behind her. A moment after he had spoken, he slipped gracefully around before her, a silhouette carving a noble shadow from the flaming yellow sunlight behind him.
"I am most dreadfully sorry," Reginald Hardwin purred.
"That's al-"
Polly never finished the sentence.
He took her hand. Actually took it in his!
His hands were soft. Not a callus on them. Not like those of the American lunkheads always working out at the gym, pumping iron to prove how macho they were. Here was a real man. Soft skin, yellow teeth and all.
Polly felt her face flush crimson.
"This has been a trying week. For all of us." Still holding her hand, Reginald sat on the edge of her desk. "These creatures that I am forced to work with are oafs."
"Oh, they're not-" She swallowed hard. "They're okay."
Reginald smiled. "You're too kind."
She was disappointed when he released her hand. A moment later, he was back on his feet. As he turned to walk away, Polly Schien leaned toward him.
"I hope I'm not being too forward, but..." She seemed flustered. "Are you a lord or something?"
Pausing before her, Reginald smiled sadly. "While the aristocracy has fallen on difficult times of late, things have not gotten so bad for the royals that they must work for GlassCo Security Windows of New Jersey. No, I'm afraid I am just a simple expatriate doing a simple job."
"Oh." Polly seemed embarrassed. "It's just your use of language. It's so precise. We don't get much of that here."
"You really are too, too kind." Reaching out, he brushed her cheek with his velvet fingertips.
And with that, he was gone.
The GlassCo men finished whatever it was they were doing half an hour later. They-along with Reginald Hardwin-left ten minutes after that.
Polly cursed herself inwardly the entire time they were cleaning up and climbing aboard the elevators. "'Are you a lord?"' she muttered sarcastically after the gleaming elevator doors closed on her Prince Charming for the last time. "Was that the best you could do? Dammit, how stupid can I get?" She slapped herself in the forehead.
Her one chance at landing a real man, and she'd blown it. Horribly.
Polly had been unable to approach him as he was packing to go. She was too embarrassed. Now that he was gone, she replayed the moment over and over.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid."
The embarrassment lingered for a time, but as the minutes wore on, it was rapidly eclipsed by anger.
Her mother used to say that no opportunity was a lost opportunity. Maybe she could still turn this around. Maybe he'd think it was funny. Maybe the two of them could laugh about it over dinner at her place.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Before his elevator had reached the lobby, Polly Schien had made her decision.
One of the workers had said that GlassCo was located over in Jersey City. She had a few Jersey phone books on her desk. Finding the right one, she scanned the business white pages for GlassCo.
It wasn't there. Nor was GlassCo listed anywhere in the Yellow Pages.
She had already decided on a course of action. There was no turning back now. Boldly, she picked up her phone, stabbing in the number for information.
"Yes, hello. In Jersey City. The number for GlassCo?"
An electronic voice told her that the number had been disconnected.
Polly slowly replaced the phone.
Her face a puzzled frown, she slumped back in her chair, trying to think of a possible explanation for why the GlassCo company would just up and disappear.
As she stared out the windows her dream man had refurbished, the late-morning sunlight seemed to take on a brighter, more dazzling hue. It was as if the rays had broken up and taken flight, soaring brilliantly toward her.
Polly didn't have time to think about the beauty of it. The split second after she'd noticed the breathtaking optical illusion, shards of glass from the exploding windowpanes ripped mercilessly through her face and chest. Her body was shredded to pate. The shock wave followed, picking up the raw meat of Polly's corpse and flinging it backward.
; Heavy desks were thrown through cubicle walls. At the same time the plastique on the windows was detonated, dull explosions at the interior of the building blew the debris back outward.
The offices of Barney and Winthrop, as well as the entire thirty-second floor of the Regency Building, were wiped out in a matter of seconds. Dust and powdery glass exploded through the gaping holes all around the building.
Glass panes above and below the blast zone separated from their frames. They broke away in sheets, like ice sheering from the side of a massive glacier. And as the Manhattan skyline trembled, enormous deadly shards soared down toward Madison Avenue.
THIRTY-TWO FLOORS BELOW, Reginald Hardwin replaced the retractable silver antenna of his portable detonator with a single crisp slap of his palm.
"'Are you a lord?'" he mocked. "Daft bint." The other trucks had already gone. His was the last.
He watched in satisfaction as the windows around the thirty-second floor began separating from the building.
As the huge slabs of deadly glass began raining on Manhattan, Hardwin climbed quickly behind the wheel of the final GlassCo truck.
"And we did it all in one take," his smooth-asbutter English voice commented proudly.
On the sidewalk beside him, a smartly dressed woman was impaled through her upturned face by a sheet of glass.
While numerous screaming pedestrians met similar ends, Reginald Hardwin drove calmly away from the scene of carnage.
IN A DINGY APARTMENT in Queens, a solitary figure watched the news replay the shaky footage of the events in nearby Midtown Manhattan.
Video cameras were ubiquitous these days; a tourist visiting New York had caught some of the initial blast.
At the sound of the explosion, the camera whipped up the side of the Regency just in time to film the windows blow into empty air. The glass rushed out, seemingly in tiny fragments. Catching sunlight, the fragments fell like pixie dust onto the crowd far below.
The news edited out much of the resulting gore. A little blood here, a staggering pedestrian there. And a lot of screaming and running.
In his tiny room, the man smiled. Behind him, a ragged American flag had been slung across the water-damaged pressboard wall. On a rusted hook next to the door hung Alice Anderson's green Girl Scout beret and sash. Dark circles indicated where the merit badges had been removed.
"And Act One goes off without a hitch," Captain Kill announced proudly to the squalid room. Leaving the TV on, he focused his attention back on his typewriter. He scrolled another sheet of crisp, clean paper into the carriage.
As the television murmured softly in the background, the sound of two-fingered typing clacked slowly and methodically, rebounding against the stained walls of the tiny apartment.
Chapter 7
Harold W. Smith watched the aftermath of the explosion in Midtown Manhattan on the small black-and-white television in his office at Folcroft Sanitarium.
The old TV sat at the edge of his gleaming hightech desk, the sole modern intrusion in the otherwise Spartan office. Hidden within the depths of the onyx slab on which the television rested was a computer screen, angled so that it was visible only to whoever sat behind the desk. The familiar alphanumeric arrangement of a keyboard was buried at the edge of the slab. Smith's gnarled fingers drummed swiftly away at the keys.
The computer monitor also functioned as a television screen, but the director of CURE was already using his system to monitor both police and press reports of the incident.
The blast had occurred no more than twenty minutes before, so there was little information beyond the immediate hysteria that normally accompanied such an occurrence.
Smith was certain only that there had been an explosion and that, as yet, no one was taking credit for the blast. His tired eyes were scanning lines of text, hoping to learn something new, when a familiar jangle sounded at his right ankle.
Continuing to read the latest data, Smith reached into the bottom desk drawer. Removing the cherry-red phone from its eternal resting place, he tucked the receiver between shoulder and ear.
"Yes, Mr. President," he said crisply.
"You hear about New York?"
The hoarse drawl would have been familiar to all Americans. In the past two years, it had become an irritant even to the those who had twice installed him in the highest office in the land.
"I am monitoring the situation even as we speak," Smith replied.
"And?"
Smith paused in his work, the telephone receiver balanced in the crook of his neck. His fingers rested at the edge of his desk. "And what, Mr. President?" he asked.
"What the hell's going on?" the President demanded.
"Very little," Smith admitted. "You are aware that this happened only twenty-two minutes ago?"
"Dammit, I know that," the President said impatiently. "But this isn't like those African embassies two years ago. This is goddamn New York City, Smith. That and Hollywood are my two fundraising cash cows. If they're pissed at me in Manhattan, it could seriously impact my legal-defense fund."
Smith's fingers dropped from his keyboard.
He wanted to be appalled. After all, there were bodies at that very moment still oozing warm blood on Manhattan sidewalks, and the President of the United States was more worried about how a domestic terrorist attack could affect his fund-raising apparatus. Yet, though he wanted to be shocked, Smith could not be. That sharp edge had been dulled by this particular President a long time ago.
"Plus the ball-and-chain's still got her eye on a Senate seat there," the President pressed. "Now. Six years from now. She won't even tell me for sure. Whatever you have to do to nail this thing down, do it fast. I didn't squeak out of that impeachment thing only to have something like this overshadow my last year in office."
Smith considered letting it pass. After all, they'd been down this same road more times than he cared to remember over the past two years. Yet a response was necessary.
Worn leather chair creaking in protest, Smith leaned forward. He touched a firm hand to his desk. "Mr. President," he began, as if reciting by rote. "I will take this opportunity to remind you once more that CURE is not here as a quick fix to any passing political crisis. Your seven predecessors all understood that. For nearly four decades, this has been the arrangement and it will remain thus as long as I am director."
The President's reply was preceded by an angry snort of air. "Get off your high horse, Smith," he growled. "They bombed New York, for Christ's sake. Stuff like this is right up your alley."
"Yes," Smith agreed, "but if CURE is to get involved, I want you to be clear why. It will be because I have determined that there is a threat warranting our attention. It will not be to protect your reputation with your donors or to aid your wife in a political campaign. Is that clear?"
There was a pause during which Smith expected to hear the President hang up the phone. That had happened a few times lately, as well. But the Commander in Chief remained on the line. When he spoke, it was as if he were biting off every sour word and spitting them at Smith.
"Do I still get to suggest assignments?"
"Suggest, yes," Smith admitted.
"Then I suggest you move the hell into New York and find out what's going on. And I suggest you put those two guys on it."
"I am afraid that is not possible at the moment."
"Why not?"
"One of them is already on assignment."
"Pull him off."
Smith tried to sound reasonable. "Mr. President, there is nothing as yet to direct him to. If this bombing proves to be part of a larger problem, I will bring him in. Until then, it is more important to learn precisely what we are dealing with. One of the earliest reports I read indicated that it may be no more than a ruptured gas line."
"Do you think that's what it is?"
"I am dubious," Smith admitted.
"So what are you arguing for? There's a bomber loose out there. I had TWA, Oklahoma City and Centennial Park take place on m
y watch. Those things dragged on forever. I want this one finished fast and neat. Is that understood?"
Smith's bloodless lips thinned. "Mr. President, do I need to repeat myself yet again?" A hint of impatience colored his lemony tone.
There was icy silence for a long moment. At last, America's Chief Executive spoke.
"It's within my power to disband your organization," the President of the United States said, hoarse voice flat.
Smith would not be baited. "Mr. President, if you wish for CURE to cease operations, you need only give the word."
There was another pause, during which Smith heard only the President's labored breathing. "You don't like me much, do you, Smith?" The words seemed to come from nowhere. Smith was surprised at the frankness of the question.
"It is not my place as director of this organization to either like or dislike a sitting President," he replied.
"But you'll be happy when I'm gone."
"Mr. President, I am no longer a young man. It is possible that you will outlast me."
"Anything is possible, Smith," said the President of the United States. "Anything at all."
The line went dead in Smith's hand.
Slowly, the CURE director replaced the receiver. He pushed the bottom desk drawer closed.
In the background, the grainy television continued to play its visions of horror. Bland announcers described the carnage in soft, measured tones. Smith was no longer listening. He turned slowly in his chair.
The one-way glass at the rear of his office overlooked the sprawling back lawn of Folcroft, which crept down a steady slope until it was swallowed up by Long Island Sound.
In his cracked leather chair, Smith watched the gently rolling water lap the shore.
The President was right. Smith didn't like him. Since taking over the helm of the secret organization, the director of CURE had found something to like in every President. There had been only two who, in his opinion, had neither decency nor integrity, but they were at least easy to get along with on a professional level.
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