It was eight forty-five, about the time he’d hoped to meet Maggie in Morristown, but he was perched here instead. The rain had stopped, and now a gentle wind fingered the leaves overhead. Evening strollers and dog walkers had come out, and they filed slowly past along the wet sidewalk. Behind him, Central Park lay vast and silent, filling the night with the peaceful smell of wet earth. Brent was immune. His mouth was dry, and his pulse jackhammered as he stared at the light burning in Owen Smythe’s office.
He was praying Smythe was still there. He hadn’t seen him come out, even though most nights Smythe left around now. Of course, tonight he was probably doing damage control, making calls to warn clients in advance of tomorrow’s headlines. Brent pictured front-pages of the Daily News and The New York Times reporting that a portfolio manager at Genesis Advisors had stolen eight hundred and fifty million dollars. The entire world would assume his guilt. Once they found the bodies he’d be a murderer, too.
He thought again about calling a lawyer, but what would he say? I’m a victim of mysterious people who killed my client and stole his money? Without a shred of supporting evidence, who would buy it? He rocked back and forth on the bench, and his anger hardened into an almost physical pain. Somebody had set him up. He had no idea who, but he was going to find out. There’d be plenty of time for a lawyer after he’d made them pay.
A little after nine, the front door opened and a tall figure came down the steps and turned east. Brent stood then dodged several speeding cars as he hurried across Fifth. He trotted along the opposite sidewalk until Smythe reached the middle of the block, and then he crossed the street and came up behind him—thankful there was no one else nearby.
“Owen,” he said. “Wait!”
Smythe spun, his eyes wide going with fear. He gripped his briefcase and held it to his chest as if Brent was an assailant. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“I need to talk to you.”
“They said you’d left the country.”
“Why would I leave?”
Smythe’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
“Why would I leave?” Brent repeated.
Smythe shrugged.
“I didn’t take that money.”
“Okay,” Smythe said. He dared a quick look at Brent’s hands.
“You think I did?” Brent demanded.
“I . . .” Smythe gave another helpless shrug. He threw a desperate glance over his shoulder toward Park Avenue with its stream of pedestrians.
Brent grabbed Smythe’s arm. “I started to tell you what happened when I came into your office. You remember that?”
Smythe tried to twist his arm free. “Let go or I’ll yell for the police,” he hissed. “They’re looking for you!”
“I didn’t do it!” Brent snapped, keeping his grip. “If I’d stolen the money, I would have gone straight to the airport and gotten the hell out of the country, but I didn’t! That’s why I’m talking to you now!”
Smythe seemed to take that in, and then after a few seconds he nodded. “Wofford told everybody that the FBI guys were fakes, that you masterminded it.”
“No!” Brent gave his head a violent shake. “I thought they were real until just a little while ago. Same with the lawyer that Biddle told me to call.”
Smythe had lowered his briefcase by now and was listening with a puzzled expression. “What lawyer?”
“Spencer McDonald? You’ve met him, right?”
Smythe nodded.
“What’s he look like?”
Smythe shrugged. “Tall, thin, patrician.”
Brent shook his head. “Not the guy who came to meet me.” He finally let go of Smythe’s arm. If he still wanted to run, Brent wouldn’t stop him.
“This is unbelievable,” Smythe said, rubbing his arm where Brent had gripped it. “You’ve . . . you’ve been set up.”
“It’s a lot worse.” Brent hesitated, but then he told about finding Dr. Faisal and the other two bodies.
Smythe listened with a stunned expression.
“I wouldn’t be telling you this if I were guilty,” Brent said. “You’re logical enough to realize that.” He paused, hoping for some sign of acceptance in Smythe’s eyes. “I’ve got to find a way to clear myself.”
“You need to get a lawyer then go to the police.”
“I’ve got nothing, other than the knowledge that I’ve been framed. I need some kind of proof.”
Smythe shook his head, finally getting it. “If I help you, I’ll go to jail, too.”
“I helped you when you needed it!” Brent cried. “You could be dead right now if those guys had knifed you.”
Smythe glanced back at Park Avenue again, as if part of him wanted to run before he heard any more. Finally, his shoulders slumped. “What do you want me to do?”
“All I have are phone numbers that the FBI Agents and the lawyer gave me. I need you to check to see if any of them are on Biddle or Wofford’s or Betty Dowager’s computers.”
“Jeez, at least you don’t ask for much,” Smythe said with a sardonic smile. “You actually believe someone at GA set you up?”
Brent shrugged. “Betty Dowager brought the FBI guys to my office. She gave me the attorney’s number, and she’s Biddle’s assistant.”
Smythe stared disconsolately toward the Genesis Advisors building and sighed. “No damn promises,” he muttered.
“I really appreciate it.”
“Yeah,” Smythe muttered as he started back. After a second, he turned. “Where are you going to be?”
“Around, staying out of sight.”
Smythe nodded. Brent watched him head westward into the last fiery glow of sunset, his shoulders slumped, his briefcase almost dragging the ground like an unsupportable weight.
THIRTY
NEW YORK, JUNE 29
NAIF SLUMPED LOW IN THE van’s seat and watched through the passenger side mirror. The rain had stopped. A thick mist still hung in the air, but it didn’t matter because there was no mistaking the guy on the bench. He hadn’t gone to Faisal’s immediately the way Biddle had predicted. Instead, he’d started out of the city, where they’d only managed follow him up the crowded highway thanks to the tracking bug in his cell phone.
For a time it had looked like everything was going wrong, but then Lucas turned off the highway and went to Faisal’s, then to the supposed FBI offices on the West Side. The Christian had wanted to take him then, but Naif refused. Nothing must jeopardize the main mission. Allah would create the right opportunity.
For some time, Lucas had been sitting and staring like a cat about to pounce. Now, Naif saw him stand and trot across the avenue toward where they were parked on the cross street. A moment later Lucas approached a man who had exited the corner building. When the man saw Lucas he seemed about to run, but Lucas grabbed his arm. They were almost near enough for Naif to crack his window and overhear their conversation.
After several minutes the second man turned and went back toward his office, while Lucas crossed to his parked car. He pulled out and drove down the street, past their van.
The minister followed, turning left at the light, heading uptown on Madison. He punched his cell phone buttons as he drove, his voice tense when he told the person on the other end about Lucas’s meeting, and how the man on the sidewalk had gone back toward the office.
Naif kept his eyes on the tracking device, and when Lucas turned and started down a side street in the Nineties, he hit the minister’s shoulder and pointed.
They turned east, staying sixty or seventy yards back. After three blocks, the tracking device showed another change in direction, and then Naif caught sight of Lucas’s BMW disappearing down the ramp of a parking garage. This was a safer choice than the street, and when the minister gave him a questioning glance, Naif nodded. With luck the garage would be almost empty, and the kill would be silent. They would put his body in the van and dump him someplace where he’d never be found.
They turned into the gar
age and crept down the ramp. Around the turn at the bottom they spotted Lucas standing beside his car, talking to the parking attendant.
“Stop,” Naif said, wanting the van where it would prevent other cars from coming in or out.
He opened his door, climbed down, and walked nonchalantly toward the two men, noting that Lucas kept his back turned as if he feared being recognized. Naif’s hand went to his knife in the pocket of his long coat. He stopped a few steps behind Lucas and cast one more look around. No one else in sight.
He slipped the knife from his pocket, ready for the attendant to take Lucas’s car and disappear down the next ramp. Only, the man turned, glanced at Naif, and then seemed to notice the van. “Can’t park that here!” he said.
Naif glanced back. The minister shifted the van into reverse but Naif shook his head. The attendant caught the signal and stepped between Naif and Lucas.
“No vans, man. Too high. Gotta back it out.”
Lucas still had his back turned. Naif stepped sideways, trying to keep open space between them, but the attendant stepped with him.
“Move it right now,” the attendant said, raising his voice. “I’m gonna have people wanting to get in.”
The attendant seemed to have forgotten about Lucas’s car. Naif could wait no longer. He turned slightly, masking his right hand. When he struck, the speed and force drove the blade deep into the man’s abdomen, and he ripped upward. It happened so fast there was barely a sound, only a wheeze before the man’s knees buckled and he started to fall.
Naif jerked the blade free and stepped over the body, angling for a clear shot at Lucas’s kidney. Lucas seemed to sense something because he started to turn, forcing Naif to go for his midsection instead. Lucas jumped back as the knife slashed toward him, his movement blindingly fast for such a big man. Naif felt his blade strike and tried to move in closer, expecting Lucas to freeze for a split second and look down, stunned that he’d been cut by a stranger.
Lucas did neither. Instead, he stepped forward, pushed Naif’s knife arm wide, and then lashed out with his foot and caught Naif in the hip.
The blow had staggering power. Naif reeled sideways and tripped over the dying attendant, going down hard on his elbow. An arc of pain shot through his arm, and his knife skittered away. Naif plunged his hand into his other pocket and grabbed his pistol. There was already blood on Lucas’s shirt from the gash in his abdomen, and Naif knew the sight of a gun would make him run. It would be an easy shot.
He started to jerk the pistol free, but the silencer snagged on the lining. Contrary to reason, the sight of the gun didn’t seem to frighten Lucas. Instead of running he stepped around the fallen attendant and kicked again, this time catching Naif beneath the armpit. With another shot of blinding pain, the kick turned him all the way over. He sprawled hard on his stomach and lost his grip on the gun.
At the same moment, Lucas’s knees landed on his back. Hands seized his dreadlocks, and he felt his nose break as his face was slammed repeatedly into the concrete floor. He was beginning to black out when he heard the shot, and the hands released him.
He looked up, half blinded by blood that ran from his forehead and saw the minister now out of the van, holding the pistol he’d just fired. Lucas was running, having put the van between himself and the minister, and he was quickly disappearing up the ramp. “Shoot him!” Naif shouted, but it was already too late.
THIRTY-ONE
NEW YORK, JUNE 29
BRENT MADE IT ONLY TO the top of the ramp before he slowed to a walk. He could go no faster. Blood soaked his shirt and pants, and his wound was a bar of hot iron against his abdomen. Even if his would-be killers didn’t catch him, some bystander was liable to call the cops. No taxi would stop for a bleeding man, and he couldn’t go back for his car. He’d been planning to ditch it because the police would be looking for the license plate.
He turned left toward Second Avenue, heading past a line of dilapidated brownstones. He picked one that appeared deserted then descended the steps to the basement entrance beneath the stoop. The space was unlit, littered with blown trash and garbage bags. It smelled of rot and urine, but at least he was hidden. He lifted his blood-soaked shirt and looked at the ugly diagonal tear that gaped from the bottom of his ribcage to his opposite hipbone. He put his hand into the cut and probed, wincing at the pain but grateful nothing bulged through the muscle wall.
He pulled his shirt closed and buttoned his suit coat. His mind rattled with questions for which he had no answers. Who were those guys? Where had they come from? Why were they trying to kill him? He remembered the garage attendant. The poor bastard might still be alive. He took out his cell phone, dialed 911, and reported the knifing.
He ended the call then started up the steps. His eyes drew level with the sidewalk, and he paused to search for any sign of the van. The street looked clear, so he went up the rest of the way and started walking west this time, as fast as he could, against the traffic. If the van came back around, he’d see it up ahead.
The first siren approached as he reached Third Avenue, and he quickened his pace in spite of the pain. He pulled out his cell phone and hit the auto-dialer to call Simmons. He needed her to get him to a doctor.
The phone continued to ring. By the time he reached Park there was still no answer. It was riskier walking here because there were more people and the light was better, but he had no choice. He stepped off the sidewalk and stayed just outside the line of parked cars, the way he would if he were trying to flag a taxi. He hit the auto-dialer a second time. Nothing. Desperation surged. He walked as fast as he could. With traffic approaching from behind, he prayed no one would notice the blood. Up ahead a doorman stepped out and whistled for a cab. Brent stopped and backed between two parked cars until a taxi stopped, a passenger got in, and the doorman went back into his building.
He resumed walking, pain causing him to stumble several times. He was light headed from shock and blood loss. After another couple blocks he saw his chance: a woman arriving back at her apartment, unloading a Volvo station wagon with help from her doorman. Brent slowed and waited. The doorman came out, grabbed several pieces of luggage, and hurried inside, as the woman—late fifties, overweight, and slow-moving, with several shopping bags in one hand and her dog leash in the other—led a golden retriever from the car toward the building entrance.
The car’s tailpipe was coughing exhaust. Brent pushed the tailgate closed, rushed to the driver’s door, jumped inside, slammed the shifter into gear, and accelerated. He was out in traffic before anyone noticed. He shot north on Park then turned west. New York City had a famously rapid response to human tragedies such as muggings, knifings, or rapes, but a notoriously slack response to basic property losses like car thefts. Every New Yorker had stories about reporting stolen cars, how the Manhattan police literally yawned. If the stories were wrong, he was a dead man.
He crossed Central Park and made it onto the West Side Highway. Traffic was light, and he headed north to the George Washington Bridge, knowing it was the longer route to where he was going but needing to avoid the cops at the Lincoln Tunnel.
He jerked out his wallet as he drove and counted sixty-two dollars. That was all he had because his credit or ATM cards would be like drawing arrows for the police.
On the other side of the Hudson, he followed signs for the New Jersey Turnpike. He saw a police car parked on one side of the turnpike ticket booths, but fortunately the cop never spared him a glance.
He was thinking only about his Uncle Fred now, remembering what he’d said—how he’d help out when no one else would. He had to get to Morristown, but he was so sleepy. Twice he felt the tires thump on the warning strip before his eyes snapped open. Come on! he told himself. Just a little further! He focused his thoughts on the two guys who’d just tried to kill him. They’d knifed an innocent garage attendant and maybe shot Dr. Faisal. Slowly, his rage began to boil again. He used it to keep going.
He looked over at the passenger
seat where Harry sat, his face smeared with soot, his clothes smoking from recent flames. Hang in there, bro. Don’t let those bastards get away with this.
Brent grunted and set the cruise control. His vision was blurring, but he was on fire now and held the wheel in a death grip.
• • •
Forty minutes later, he was on the quiet back streets of Morristown, nearing his uncle’s neighborhood. His movements had become sluggish. It was hard as hell just to stay on the road, but he’d almost reached safety.
With two blocks to go he suddenly slammed on the brakes. The FBI and police would have figured out that he was running, and they’d have his uncle’s house staked out for sure! Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He let his forehead bang the steering wheel, finally overcome with hopelessness. It occurred to him that maybe he ought to just go there and surrender.
Then what? Harry’s voice came to him. How you gonna get proof from jail? You want to end up a scapegoat for whoever killed your client and stole his money?
“I’ve got sixty-two dollars,” Brent said. He glanced down at his bloody stomach. “I need a doctor.”
Only one other place to go, Little Bro.
Brent scowled, but he turned around in the next driveway.
• • •
Maggie’s lights were off, but the sight of her house brought a strange combination of hope and futility. She was a cop, sworn to uphold the law, but maybe she still cared about him enough to listen to his story. Maybe she didn’t—but he was too near blacking out to make another choice. He drove into her driveway, turned off the engine, staggered to her back door, and rang the bell. After another minute he rang again, but nothing stirred inside.
The garage door squeaked on its hinges as he raised it and saw that Maggie’s car was gone. He backed the Volvo into her garage, lowered the door, and sat behind the wheel, unable to fight his exhaustion. His eyes closed, he felt himself drift. Numb with pain and worry, with no more strength to resist or run, he knew he’d tried his best, but tomorrow he’d be in custody.
Armageddon Conspiracy Page 12