Scimitar

by Ed McBain

  “No. But …”

  “Then surely you can see through this, can’t you?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “This speech at the Statue of Liberty. It’s a campaign speech, that’s all. New York’s going down the tubes, but he’s going to make a speech about freedom and opportunity. Why can’t he …?”

  “Where does it say that?”

  “Say what?”

  “That he’s going to talk about freedom and opportunity?”

  “It doesn’t. But why do you think he’s chosen the Statue of Liberty? I can write his speech from memory,” she said, and shook her head sourly and opened the paper to page twelve where the story was continued.

  “How do you want this omelette?”

  “Not too runny,” she said. “Says he’ll be speaking at twelve noon. Catch the West Coast while it’s waking up, right? CNN and the three networks’ll be covering it. What’d you think of Buddy Johnson, by the way?”

  “Nice man. Would you like some toast?”

  “Please,” she said.

  He popped two slices of bread into the toaster, and came to the table to pour fresh coffee for her.

  “Oh, lookee,” she said, “the Marine Corps Band’ll be there, too. Play a few choruses of all the old wartime favorites, and end with a rousing rendition of ‘God Bless America.’”

  “Here we go,” he said, and brought her omelette and toast to the table. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat beside her. Last night, they had enjoyed the passion only strangers could bring to the act of making love. Now, this morning, sitting here at the kitchen table, sipping coffee with him, eating the omelette he’d made …

  “This is very good,” she said.

  … she felt more comfortable than she had on far too many mornings-after. A friend of hers once confided that some men weren’t worth the shower afterward. She had often felt that way herself. But sitting here with Scott Hamilton, she felt entirely at ease—and this time, she did not want the morning to end.

  “How long will you be staying out here?” she asked.

  “Until after the Fourth, at least.”

  “Will you be going to the fireworks?”

  “I didn’t know there’d be any.”

  “The Hamptons without fireworks?”

  “I’ll have to see what Martin’s plans are,” he said.

  “Where do you go from here?”

  “Back to San Diego.”

  Careful, he thought.

  “Back to your cable TV station.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’d you and Buddy talk about, by the way?”

  “Oh, mutual interests.”

  “He’s great at getting seats to the U.S. Open, you know.”

  “Yes, he mentioned that.”

  He put down his cup and leaned gently into her. She lifted her face to his. Their lips met. Their kiss tasted of coffee. He picked her up, cradling her in his arms, and they kissed again. She could not remember the last time a man had carried her into a bedroom. Smiling, one arm around his neck, the other resting on his chest, her hand just above the green scimitar tattoo, she closed her eyes as he negotiated the narrow stairway to the second story of the house, and did not open them again until he lowered her gently to the canopied bed. He stood beside the bed for a moment, staring at her the way he had from the deck yesterday, his grey-green eyes consuming her. Then he untied the sash at his waist, and let the black silk robe fall to the floor.

  Selly Colbert was very proud of the security precautions his intelligence people had coordinated for the Canada Day gala.

  “If you’ll look at this floor plan of the Baroque Room,” he said, and spread the drawing on the conference table:

  “… you’ll notice there are three entrances to the foyer. I’ve marked those with numbers in a circle …”

  “Yes, I see that,” Dobbs said.

  He kind of liked Colbert. The man looked like a scarecrow in a tailored suit, but there was an air of efficiency about him, and he was so obviously dedicated to getting things right that his enthusiasm was contagious. The room in which they were sitting was on the sixteenth floor of the Exxon Building on Sixth Avenue, between Forty-ninth and Fiftieth Streets, less than a mile from the Plaza, where the big event would take place.

  “We’ll be closing off the doors numbered two and three,” Colbert said, “locking them from the inside. That means the only entrance to the foyer’ll be through the number-one door. The Mexicans’ll have people outside doors two and three …”

  “How many?”

  “One at each door. And as backup, we’ll have our own people on the inside. Again, it’ll be two agents, one at each door.”

  “Four altogether,” Dobbs said, nodding approval.

  “Should be sufficient, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yes. Who’ll be at the entrance door?”

  “Two agents checking the guest and press lists …”

  “Canadian?”

  “One Canadian, one British. Four other agents in the corridor itself—lots of stairs there, do you see them?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll have two agents at each of the stairwell entrances—British, Canadian and Mexican—and another two agents here at the elevator banks … do you see the X’s? They indicate elevators.”

  “Um-huh.”

  “There’ll be agents at each of the doors marked four, five, six and seven, leading into the Baroque Room itself. We’ll be locking the doors marked eight, with agents standing inside and out, just in case an emergency requires them to be unlocked in a hurry. Fire, what have you.”

  “Um-huh.”

  “The number-nine doors lead to the service pantry, so we’ve got to leave them unlocked. Again, there’ll be two agents on either side of them.”

  “How about the room itself?”

  “The dais’ll be set here at the far end, where you see the four pillars—those little black squares, do you see them? I’ve marked the spot with the number ten.”

  “Um-huh.”

  “It’ll be a U-shaped dais … you already have the seating plan …”

  “I do.”

  “… agents behind it, and to the left and right.”

  “How about the windows?”

  “Agent at each window. That’s eleven, twelve and thirteen. Have you seen the room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Big tall windows looking out on the park. A beautiful room.”

  “Beautiful,” Dobbs agreed.

  “How many people will you be using?” Colbert asked.

  “I’m planning on a man at the foot of the steps here,” Dobbs said. “Just outside the number-nine doors.”

  “Okay.”

  “Another man at the top of the steps …”

  “Okay.”

  “And two in the corridor up there. There’s elevator access, you know …”

  “Yes, and another staircase as well. Fire stairs. But our intelligence people figured the men at the number-nine doors could handle anything originating …”

  “Well, I’d just like to be sure.”

  “Okay, that’s four.”

  “Have you got any people in the pantry itself?” Dobbs asked.

  “No, but …”

  “Then I’d like to put a man in there. Robert Kennedy was shot in a hotel kitchen, you know …”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Anyway, where there’s food, you’ve always got the danger of …”

  “Right, our people should have thought of that. Will you need backup there?”

  “I don’t think so. One man should be able to keep an eye on whatever’s happening.”

  “Plus we’ve got those number-nine doors covered.”

  “Right. And I’ll be in the Baroque Room itself.”

  “So how many will you be altogether?”

  “Six, not counting whoever he brings with him. He’s got his own detail, sticks with him day and night. They’ll be with him every minute.
”

  Both men looked at the floor plan again, studying it, trying to locate any loopholes in the security arrangement. They nodded at almost the same moment, but it was Dobbs who said, “Looks airtight to me.”

  Carolyn had already explained that the idea of the game was for each of them to drive each other to the very brink of total insanity by teasing but not satisfying, manipulating but not gratifying, withholding pleasure until it became unimaginably excruci …

  A knock sounded at the door downstairs.

  “Damn it,” she said, “who’s that?”

  He got out of bed, pulled on the black robe, and shouted, “Just a second!”

  “It’s called Brink,” she said. “The game.”

  “I’ll be back,” he said, and disappeared down the stairwell.

  She had taken off her watch and placed it on the night table beside the bed. She looked at it now. A little past eleven. She put the watch back on the night table, stretched languidly, and smiled in anticipation. She could hear muffled voices below. Scott talking to someone she supposed was a delivery man. The man telling him he had to sign for all three cartons. Scott thanking him. The man telling him to have a nice day. Yes, come on up here, she thought, the nice day is just about to begin. She heard the door closing. The lock clicking. And then silence.

  “Scott?” she called.

  “Be right up,” he said.

  She stretched again.

  Hurry up, doll, she thought. I’m going to teach you the ecstasy of denial.

  “Scott?”

  “Yes, just a second,” he called.

  She waited another three or four minutes, and then got out of bed, and tiptoed naked down the stairs. He was standing at the dining room table, his back to her. Three white FedEx cartons were on the table. He’d already opened one of them. Styrofoam pellets had fallen to the table and the floor. He hadn’t heard her yet. She moved up behind him, stealthily, quietly, intending to surprise him, cover his eyes with her hands from behind him, press herself against the back of the black silk robe, guess who, baby? But a board creaked under her weight, snapping into the silence of the room like a rifle shot. He whirled from the table.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he shouted.

  There was a brown bottle in his hand.

  It seemed for a moment that he would hurl it at her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to …”

  “No, no, I’m sorry,” he said, regaining his composure at once. He put the brown bottle back into the carton, came to her where she stood midway across the room, naked and still frightened by his outburst. He took her in his arms. He whispered, “You startled me.” He hugged her close. Over his shoulder, she could see the side of one of the unopened cartons. A big red label was affixed to it. Bold white lettering on it. Red and white striking sparks in the morning sunlight.

  “Come teach me your game,” he whispered.

  She wondered what was in that carton.

  Even at this distance, she was sure the bold white letters on the big red label spelled out the words HAZARDOUS MATERIAL.

  Elita was still asleep when the telephone rang that morning. Her first thought was Sonny. She picked up the receiver at once.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Elita, it’s Geoff.”

  “Oh, hello,” she said.

  “Is this a bad time?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, what time is it?”

  “Twenty past eleven.”

  “No, that’s okay,” she said.

  She listened to him telling her that he’d burrowed through his cupboards and had located his precious watercolor pencils and was hoping that sometime this evening he might …

  “Well, no, I …”

  “… demonstrate the faking of a perfectly decent shiner.”

  “I …”

  “I’d do it for you tomorrow night, but I don’t think Mrs. Thatcher would enjoy it.”

  Mrs. Thatcher again. What was all this about Mrs. Thatcher?

  “You will be joining me tomorrow night, won’t you?” he asked.

  “Joining you? Where?”

  “At the dinner-dance.”

  “What dinner-dance?”

  “I thought we’d discussed it.”

  “Well, no, you asked me if I liked to dance …”

  “Yes, and you said you did …”

  “Yes, but you didn’t mention …”

  “It’s the big Canada Day celebration at the Plaza … do you remember the room we went to?”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s where it’ll be. Drinks, dinner, and dancing, black tie—do you have a long dress?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Good, I’ll come by for you at six. Drinks are at seven, but the consular people are supposed to be there a bit earlier, greet Mrs. Thatcher, and so on. Will six be all right?”

  She hesitated, thinking why am I sitting here waiting for that son of a bitch to call when here’s a perfectly decent person who was a lot of fun to be with last night, and now he’s inviting me to a black-tie dinner-dance, what the hell’s the matter with me? Maybe Mom’s right, maybe I don’t have the tiniest bit of pride and self-respect.

  “When can you show me how to paint the black eye?” she asked.

  Carolyn had gone back to her own house, and he was alone now for the first time since six-thirty last night. He went to the phone and immediately dialed Arthur’s private number at SeaCoast. There was no answer. He dialed the general office number and got the Balinese girl.

  “SeaCoast Limited, good morning.”

  Virtually singing the name.

  “This is Scott Hamilton,” he said. “May I speak to Mr. Hackett, please?”

  “I’m sorry, he’s gone for the day.”

  “Tell him I called,” Sonny said, and hung up.

  He’d wanted to ask Arthur about this second murder. He’d found nothing about either of the women in this morning’s newspaper. But if someone was consistently eliminating their people, Sonny needed to know; perhaps the more immediate mission was to find the assassin.

  The three cartons Arthur had expressed to him were still sitting on the dining room table. He picked them up and carried them into the kitchen, where he set them down on the counter alongside the sink. Arthur had simply used the original packaging, attaching a fresh FedEx label to each unopened carton. Sonny had already read the label on the bottle of isopropyl alcohol, and knew it was exactly what he’d ordered. He took a knife from the rack on the counter now, and slit open the tape on the second carton. Feeling around among the Styrofoam chips, he took out another brown bottle, this one labeled ISOPROPYLAMINE. Satisfied, he placed the bottle back onto the chips again, and slit open the last carton.

  Burrowing under more Styrofoam pellets, he found a small paint can near the bottom of the box. He lifted the can out gingerly, opened a kitchen drawer to remove from it a butter knife, and pried off the lid. The paint can was filled with vermiculite. He felt around under the fine brownish packing flakes, found what he was looking for, and lifted out a sealed plastic envelope some three inches wide by six inches long. Inside the envelope was a glass ampoule with an amber-colored fluid in it. He read the label on the ampoule, and then put the plastic packet back into the paint can. Making sure there was a second ampoule in there, he resealed the lid, and put the can back into its packing carton. He would be running his reaction here at the kitchen sink, under a window open wide for ventilation. For now, he pushed all three cartons to the left of the counter, in the corner under the hanging wall cabinet, where they would be safe until he did the actual mixing.

  The chemical name of the nerve agent he planned to produce was isopropyl dimethyl sulfonofluoridate. Its common name was sarin, an imperfect acronym derived from the names of its German creators: Schrader, Ambrose, Rüdriger and van der LINde. Sarin. A so-called G-agent, sarin was a deadly substance that short-circuited the nervous system, interfering with the enzyme necessary to muscle rela
xation. Within seconds after ingestion or absorption, muscles all over the body would go into spasm, causing nausea, choking, vomiting, diarrhea, convulsion, coma, and death.

  A drop of water weighed fifty milligrams.

  For a man of the President’s weight, the lethal ingested dose of sarin was .65 milligrams. This meant that an amount only 1.3 percent the weight of a water drop would kill him if he swallowed it.

  If Sonny’s reaction went to completion, he would have made a bit more than twenty thousand milligrams of the nerve agent. More than thirty thousand times the lethal ingested dose. He did not expect the President to swallow any of the stuff. But the liquid was immediately absorbed through the skin and the membranes of the eye.

  He now needed only one other ingredient—to give a little body to the mix, he thought, and smiled. He would look for that today. And try to find his delivery system at the same time. Something that might allow him to walk away safely—although in his heart of hearts he did not believe escape afterward was possible. He had carefully planned tomorrow night’s escape route. Push open the doors that led to the pantry on the left and—dead ahead—were the steps leading upstairs to the business offices. Past the offices, down the narrow corridor, turn right at the elevator, then down the fire stairs leading to the lobby. But he knew security would be thick, and he knew that only a miracle would take him safely from that dais to those doors on the left.

  He accepted his possible death as the risk of service to his leader and to God, knowing full well that his reward was not here on this earth but in Paradise. It was written in the Koran, “Think not of those who are slain in Allah’s cause as dead. Nay, they live, finding their sustenance in the presence of their Lord.” If Sonny died tomorrow night, it would be with the certain knowledge that he had killed the man responsible for the murder of young Hana.

  He wondered now if the two women he’d known as Priscilla Jennings and Annette Fleischer had met their deaths in the same cause.

  Today he would look for whatever else he needed.

  The rest was up to God.

  Carolyn was in the shower when Sonny’s car pulled out of the driveway. She did not know he was heading into town, and probably would have asked to go along with him had she known. She had never felt this way about anyone in her life. That he had fallen into her lap out of the blue was ample proof of the rewards of leading a clean life. Smiling as she lathered herself, she planned what she’d wear when she went over there later today.