The seats to his right were occupied, but to his left there were two open chairs. Carmen went to the one farthest away from him. The young man pulled out the chair, she smiled over her shoulder at him as she sat down, and then she heard him say to the bartender. “Martini here.” He looked at her as Yates turned to do the same. “Straight up?”
“And with three olives.”
“Belvedere?”
“I prefer the Goose.”
Yates lifted his own martini in an amused toast to her comment and Carmen knew why. This was his drink, and Grey Goose was his choice of vodka.
She looked at him. “I suppose that is an odd way to put it.”
“The French would love you for it.”
“The French would be happy I was buying their vodka.”
“The French know how it’s done.”
“The French almost made me an ex-pat.”
She crossed her legs and put her purse on the bar. Yates, who was indeed fat and hovering somewhere near 80, glanced down at her tanned legs before taking another sip of his drink. “I haven’t seen you here before,” he said. “I’m Ted Yates.”
“Sophia Bianchi.”
“An Italian drinking French vodka?”
“Consider me a non-conformist.”
“Non-conformist. Ex-pat. What do you believe in?”
“Freedom.”
He laughed at that. “I would have thought Uvix for you.”
Carmen waved her hand. “Vodka never should be made from grapes.”
“It’s actually rather good.”
“As good as the Goose?”
“Probably not that good.”
She smiled. “I didn’t think so.”
The bartender came with her drink and she watched Yates look around the room. It was starting to fill up, the din was rising and soon the chair between them would be occupied. “Are you meeting someone tonight?” he asked.
She shook her head and ate an olive. “It’s just me. I’m in town for the week and a good friend who’s a member thought I might enjoy stopping by for a cocktail.”
“What do you think so far?”
“It’s lovely,” she said. “And obviously popular.”
“How’s the olive?”
She chose another and held it to her mouth. “Perfectly soaked in French vodka.”
At that moment, a middle-aged gentleman pulled out the seat between them and started to sit down. Carmen saw the disappointment that crossed Yates’ face and shrugged her shoulders at him, as if she wasn’t sure what to do. The man caught the shrug and asked if anyone was sitting here. And Carmen took the opportunity.
“Actually,” she said. “We were just starting to talk. Would you mind if I slid over and you took my chair?”
“Not at all.”
She sat in the chair next to Yates and lowered her purse so it rested in her lap. She released the latch. The bartender, missing nothing, moved her martini in front of her. She touched glasses with Yates, who once again dropped his gaze to her legs. “This is a nice surprise,” he said. “Nobody ever talks to me here.”
“That’s a curious thing to say. Did you throw a drink in someone’s face?”
“No,” he said, smiling. “But sometimes I’d like to. I’m just old and worn out and not very popular anymore.”
“Sometimes, being unpopular with the wrong crowd isn’t such a bad thing. But if it bothers you, why come?”
“Lot’s of reasons,” he said. “I live nearby. I once had terrific times here, especially when my wife was alive. And I still enjoy myself even if the mood has changed against me.”
“Now you’re creating a mystery.”
He motioned for the bartender to bring two new drinks. “Allow me to deepen it. What I am is a man at the end of his life who’s made his share of mistakes.”
“Who hasn’t?”
“They were public mistakes.”
“I think you’re probably more than that,” she said. “Look at this place.” Her words gave her an excuse to look around the room. People were talking closely and loudly in an effort to be heard. The room was near capacity, which was to her benefit. At the far right of the bar, vodka and vermouth were shaking with ice. Carmen noted that on this side of the bar, he was the only bartender on duty.
With distraction on her side, she reached her hand into her purse and grabbed the syringe. And then, as always when she was about perform a kill, she felt the rush of anticipation shoot through her body. “They don’t just let anyone in.”
He held out his hands as if in defeat.
She stuck out her bottom lip and took one of his hands in her own. She came up behind him, the syringe at her side. She looked down at his face and into his liquid blue eyes, and felt nothing when she saw hope, lust and embarrassment reflected back at her.
“And besides,” she said, leaning in close so only she, he and the microphones could hear. “You’re Teddy Yates. You could buy and sell all of these people. We both know that just as we both know that Maximilian Wolfhagen would one day make you pay for sending him to prison. Now, it’s time to collect.”
Yates’ brow furrowed and then, just as quickly, his eyes widened with recognition as he saw what was about to happen.
But Carmen was quick. She leaned forward as if to kiss him on the neck, but instead, with her hair tumbling over and concealing her hand, she slipped the syringe into his carotid artery and pressed down hard so the contents mainlined into his heart.
It was over in seconds. His eyes growing wider, Yates placed his hand over his neck and tried to speak. But he couldn’t. His heart was seizing up.
Carmen backed away from him and positioned her body so his last few breaths were caught on camera. She dropped the syringe into her purse, blew him a kiss and lowered her head slightly as she left him behind and moved through the enthusiastic crowd.
It didn’t take long.
Behind her, she heard the crash of a chair hitting the ground, women screaming, men shouting for someone to call 911, and then she was on the stairs, hurrying past the singer who now was belting out something jazzy on the second level, and then she entered the first floor, where the crowd was tighter than before.
She slipped through it. As she neared the door and the doorman she’d encountered earlier, she was completely composed.
“Leaving so soon?” he asked.
“Afraid so,” she said. “One drink limit. My flight leaves first thing. But it was nice to see Teddy even if he wasn’t feeling well.” She moved past him and took the stairs. “Good night.”
He nodded at her and with that, she walked down the street toward Vincent, who was waiting for her in the van she could see at the end of the street. She stepped into it and he pressed the gas. “How long was I?” she asked.
“Just over twenty.”
She couldn’t still the disappointment that washed over her. She had promised him fifteen and she’d blown it.
Spocatti turned the wheel and they started moving toward their next target. Carmen stepped to the back of the van, where she changed into comfortable clothes and then checked the contents of a large satchel that was at the center of the van. It was all there. With an uneasiness that was alien to her, she moved back to the front passenger seat and sat down.
Everything was in place.
Spocatti broke the silence. “Killing Yates wasn’t easy,” he said. “But you pulled it off. You did well.”
She pulled her hair away from her face and knotted it into a ponytail. “I’m worried about this next one,” she said.
“I agree, but we need the distraction.”
“There are other ways to cause a distraction.”
“You’re just a woman going for a walk. You’re too sharp for anyone to know what else you’re up to. I know you’ll be discrete.”
She pulled hard on the knot, turned her hair up into a bun and reached down into the bag at her feet. Inside was a cap with realistic blonde ponytail attached to it. She put it on and checked
herself in the visor’s mirror. “Powerful people live there. There has to be some level of protection on that street that we’re not considering. Are there cameras?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because, I’ve checked.” He turned to her. “I’m putting neither of us in jeopardy for Wolfhagen, Carmen. I could give a shit about him. But just like you, I’ve been paid. I’ve done my work and I’ve checked that street. It’s clean. Now we stick to the plan. Just walk at a regular pace. When you bend, do it quickly. I won’t be far behind.”
“I want that bonus, Vincent.”
“We both do. We’ll get it.”
The van weaved through traffic, Spocatti caught a string of green lights and started uptown toward East 75th Street. He didn’t say another word to Carmen and she felt she knew him well enough to know why. What they were about to do next was critical not only because it would take out the one woman who delivered the trial’s most damning testimony against Wolfhagen, but also because it would cause a massive, city-wide panic that would allow them to complete their night’s work and finish this job for good.
But the downside was beyond comprehension and almost crippling for her to fathom, just as it had been when Spocatti first had the idea. If they pulled this off-and given the planning and preparation that had gone into this particular job, there was no reason for her to believe it wouldn’t go off-hundreds of innocent people could die and buildings would fall as a part of Manhattan was wiped off the face of New York City forever.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
9:38 p.m.
While Carmen was busy putting stitches into Spocatti’s arm and preparing to kill Ted Yates, Maggie Cain was preparing to talk to a dead man.
Marty handed her his cell, but kept his thumb pressed against the receiver so he couldn’t be heard. “I don’t know what’s going on here or if this person is who he says he is, but I need you to play it cool. Either he’s for real or we’re being set up. I’ve never heard his voice before. You should know immediately whether it’s him.”
She shook her head at him. “What are you talking about?”
He put a finger to his lips and lifted his thumb from the receiver. Maggie took the phone. “Hello?” she said.
“Maggie, it’s Mark.”
A chill went through her-it couldn’t be him. She looked up at Marty in denial, but in spite of the poor connection, she was almost certain it was Mark’s voice.
“I need your help.”
There was a crackling on the line, a buzz of interference. She put a hand over her free ear and tried to focus on his voice in spite of the sudden racing of her heart. She watched Marty grab a napkin and start to write on it. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. Her world was drawing in on itself and then, in a flash, there was only the truth standing in front of her. She stared at it for a moment and then walked into it.
“How can this be you?” she said. “I went to your funeral. I was with your parents when your body arrived from Spain. I saw them lower your coffin into the ground and bury you.”
“But you never saw me, Maggie.”
That stopped her. He was right-she hadn’t seen him. He arrived in a body bag. Only his parents were allowed to physically see him. “But your parents saw you,” she said. “Your parents would have told me if it wasn’t you.”
Marty pushed the napkin in front of her. She looked down and read: “Get him to reveal something only the two of you would know.”
“My parents know what’s happening. They’ve known from the beginning. Wolfhagen is killing everyone who testified against him. When I was running in Pamplona, I was stabbed by an American. He was dark. Maybe of Italian or Spanish descent. Before he stabbed me, he told me that Wolfhagen wanted to thank me for ruining his life.”
Something was wrong. His voice wasn’t right. It sounded like him-but there was something off about it. Something raw. “This isn’t you. This isn’t Mark’s voice.”
“I’ve had several operations, one on my larynx. I’m still healing, Maggie. I’m in rough shape.”
“Answer a question for me.”
“Anything.”
“What’s my cat’s name?”
“Baby Jane.”
Anyone could know that. The real test was if he answered her next question correctly. If he did, there would be no doubt in her mind that this was Mark because it was their private joke. “But what do you call her?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Blanche,” he said. “She’s always been Blanche to me.”
She put a hand to her mouth.
“She’s never been as tough as you think she is. She’s a wimp. She’s always been a wimp. You got it wrong. You should have named her Blanche.”
How many times had he said just that to her? She looked up at Marty and nodded. “It’s him,” she said. “It’s him.”
“Find out where he is.”
Her whole body started to shake. “Where are you?”
“I was in a Spanish hospital for a week before I was able to reach the FBI and tell them what happened. I’ve been under their protection since. Their doctors have been treating me for the past several weeks.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’ll be alright. But right now I’m shit-I’m filled with steel rods. I’ve got new knees. They had to rebuild my nose. I’ve got a long road ahead of me, Maggie.”
She was fighting back tears. “When can I see you.”
“Tonight,” he said. “But only briefly. The FBI knows you’re working with Marty Spellman on this. They want you both to come in and talk, tell them what you know. Can you do that? I need you to do that.”
She told Marty, who nodded.
“Where are you?”
He gave her directions, but the directions didn’t make sense.
“Why are you there?” she asked. “Why aren’t you in a hospital?”
“You’re not thinking clearly,” he said. “I’m supposed to be dead. If they put me in a hospital, the media would be all over it and my cover would be blown. The FBI has safe houses all over New York. I was put in one of them. It’s critical that I appear dead. It’s critical that no one sees me until this is over.”
It made sense.
“When can you be here?”
She asked Marty.
“An hour,” he said.
She looked confused. They were only twenty minutes away. She was about to speak when he held up a hand. “An hour,” he said firmly.
“We’ll be there in an hour.”
“Why so long?”
Marty moved a hand across his throat, signaling that he wanted her to cut the conversation short. But Maggie didn’t want to. She wanted to keep talking to him, but she’d made a deal this evening to trust Marty and to do as he said, and so she did.
“Peter Schwartz was murdered,” she said. “We found him in his living room and now we need to make sure we have a safe exit before we leave. Give us an hour. We’ll do our best to be there by then.”
“I love you,” he said.
Her throat closed at the sound of those words. Never did she think she’d hear them from him again. Never did she think she’d talk to him again. It was wonderful and it was surreal. She’d been fighting all this time to find answers, to somehow bring down Wolfhagen for what he’d done. The fact that he hadn’t succeeded in killing Mark filled her with an elation that was impossible to describe. “I love you, too. You don’t know what it’s been like. You don’t know how hard it’s been.”
“It’s almost over,” he said.
“I need to believe that.”
“It ends tonight.”
“Can you promise me that?”
“Whatever information you and Spellman have culled is important. The feds are ready to act, but they need to know what you know. You need to tell them everything. And then you need to stay here with me and be safe. I’ll see you in an hour.”
Before she could reply, the line went dead. She held the phone in her hand
for a moment and then clicked it shut. She looked up at Marty, who was staring at her intently. “He’s alive,” she said.
“You’re certain that was him?”
“Only one person would know what he called my cat and that’s me. It was our thing. It was our joke.”
“Calling her Blanche was nothing he said in front of your friends?”
“No.” She thought for a moment and then shook her head. “I don’t know. How could I know that?”
“You couldn’t,” he said. “That’s the point.”
“Why are we waiting an hour? Why not go now?”
“Because I have to call people. I need to cover our asses. We don’t know if that was him. We’re not going alone.”
He looked across the room, where Roberta was cleaning glasses at the bar. She was looking straight at him. Concern was a mask that covered her face. She took each glass, gave it a thorough wipe and clinked it above her on the rack. She was standing there but she wasn’t there. She was reading him. He knew that face, knew when she slipped away. Wipe, wipe. Clink, clink. Her eyes boring into his. He motioned her over. She stopped beside the table.
“I’m going to say a name to you,” he said.
“Is this the name of the person she was just on the phone with?”
“It is.”
“Then give me the phone.”
He gave it to Roberta, who turned it over in her hands and then lifted it to her breast.
“What’s the name?” she asked.
“Mark Andrews.”
She closed her eyes. When she opened them, defeat had settled in. “You’re going to ask me what I saw, Marty, but it’s the same thing. Nothing’s changed. It’s the same thing I saw when you were here last. It’s the same thing I saw when I touched her hand earlier. It’s so overwhelming, I can’t tell you a thing about Mark Andrews. All I see is your death. Over and over, that’s what I see. I’m too close to you to see anything else. I wait on customers and watch you disappear. I clean glasses and see you vanish. While you’ve been sitting in this booth, I’ve watched your spirit leave you. I’ve watched someone murder you.”
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