Scimitar

by Ed McBain

  “There,” she said, and looked up, satisfied.

  “Thank you,” he said softly.

  “This is nice, isn’t it?” she said, and smiled and sank back into the yielding leather seat, and unexpectedly took his hand.

  He’d gone into the shower at ten minutes to six.

  Soaped himself leisurely and calmly, shampooing his thick hair into a luxuriant froth of foam, thinking of the movie he’d seen this afternoon, wondering if Julia Roberts was as pretty in person as she was on the screen. Only saving grace. Otherwise, a totally dumb movie. He wondered who she was sleeping with now that she’d dumped the Sutherland kid.

  He came out of the shower at nine minutes past six.

  Watch on the counter, ticking off time digitally.

  6:09.

  He was through shaving at 6:24 … no, 6:25, the watch informed him, the numeral changing even as he looked at it.

  He combed his hair.

  Sprayed deodorant under his arms.

  Looked at himself in the mirror.

  Winked.

  And went into the bedroom to dress.

  Geoffrey looked at his watch.

  It was already six-thirty, and he was eager to get upstairs to the Baroque Foyer, where the reception line would be forming. This would not be the P.M. arriving—Major being too major for such a minor event, oh dear, Geoffrey thought—but it was most certainly a P.M., and Geoffrey wanted to be on hand to greet her. Shake her hand and let her know he was a loyal servant of Her Majesty the Queen, not to be forgotten if ever Maggie shared tea and opinions along with the scones and clotted cream at Buckingham Palace.

  He was standing discreetly beyond hearing distance of Elita, who was at one of the wall phones downstairs at Trader Vic’s, where the Plaza people routed anyone desperate to ring up anyone else. If he wasn’t mistaken, she was now dialing the same number yet again, or perhaps a different number this time. She had slipped out of one high-heeled blue satin pump and was standing with the stockinged foot resting on the toe of the other shod foot, looking entirely girlish and adorable, but he did wish she would hurry up.

  He looked at his watch again.

  6:32.

  Please, Elita, he thought, get off the phone or we’ll entirely miss her arriv …

  Ah. At last.

  He began moving toward her as she replaced the receiver on its hook, hoping she didn’t plan to dial yet another number, catching her elbow as she turned away from the phone, a concerned look on her face.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “I still can’t reach her,” Elita said, and fell silent, obviously troubled as he hurried her upstairs and through the main lobby now, toward the elevator banks.

  “Are you sure you dialed the right number?” he asked.

  “I know it by heart. I even called the man next door …”

  “This way,” he said, and led her into the closest elevator.

  “… but I didn’t get an answer there, either.”

  She was nibbling at her lower lip now. He took her hand in his, gave it a little reassuring squeeze.

  “Perhaps she’s at a party,” he said.

  “I hope so. It’s just … so odd. Her not being in all day.”

  He refrained from suggesting that her mother was, after all, a grown woman who did not need to inform her daughter of her exact whereabouts at any hour of the day. The elevator had whisked them up to the first floor, and he allowed her to precede him into the corridor, which he immediately saw was afloat with security people bobbing like blue-suited buoys on a sea of tuxedos and dinner gowns. He took her elbow again and led her to the entrance doors to the foyer, flanked by two agents, one of whom held a clipboard.

  “Geoffrey Turner,” he said. “And Miss Elita Randall.”

  The agent with the clipboard flipped to the second page of sheets attached to it. The other agent kept checking the corridor, making occasional eye contact with the floating agents scanning the arriving guests, most of them consular personnel eager to be on hand when the heads of state rolled in with the tide.

  “Turner, yes, I have that right here, sir,” the agent at the door said, British from the sound of him. “And the other was Crandall, sir?”

  “Randall,” Elita said.

  “Yes, of course, pardon me, Miss,” the agent said, and ran his finger up the page to the R’s. “Yes, here we are, step right in, won’t you please? Have a nice time.”

  “Thank you,” Geoffrey said.

  Elita was thinking how very polite the British were.

  Ozzie Carruthers stood at the top of the carpeted steps on the Fifth Avenue side of the hotel, watching the uniformed doormen opening the doors of limousines and ushering elegantly dressed men and women onto the sidewalk. A black plastic tag with white lettering on it was pinned just over the breast pocket of his jacket, O. CARRUTHERS. A laminated Plaza Hotel identity card was clipped to the lapel above that pocket. A walkie-talkie was in his right hand. In his dark suit, white shirt, and maroon silk tie, he looked discreetly official. He was waiting to say hello to the President, a man he’d loved—still loved—a man he’d voted for each and every time.

  A limousine with miniature British union jacks flying from both front fenders pulled to the curb. One of the hotel doormen approached the rear door and was politely but pertinently shouldered aside by a man in a dark suit who took up a position at the curb while three other men covered the car front, rear, and driver side. The chauffeur came around and opened the rear door. The Right Honorable Margaret Thatcher accepted his gloved hand as he assisted her out of the limousine. The hotel doorman smiled graciously and bowed her toward the steps. Surrounded by the four British agents, she swept past Carruthers, who inhaled the faint scent of her delicate perfume.

  The Canadian Prime Minister and his wife were at the head of the greeting line—this was, after all, their day. Margaret Thatcher, simply but elegantly gowned, her hair splendidly coiffed, wearing no jewelry but a pair of diamond earrings and a gold necklace with a diamond drop pendant, spent at least five minutes chatting with them before moving along the line. Her smile gracious and warm, she exchanged handshakes and a few words with each of the people from the Canadian, British and Mexican consulates. Elita could hardly wait till she reached them.

  “How do you do?” she said, and offered her hand to Geoffrey.

  “Mrs. Thatcher,” he said, taking her hand, “I’m Geoffrey Turner, Her Majesty’s Foreign Service.”

  “Delighted,” she said.

  “And this is Miss Elita Randall …”

  “How do you do?” Mrs. Thatcher said.

  “I’m a great admirer of yours,” Elita said.

  “Why, thank you,” Mrs. Thatcher said.

  “I admire you greatly,” Elita said, and thought Oh God!

  “That’s very kind of you,” Mrs. Thatcher said, and moved on down the line, offering her hand and a “How-do-you-do?” to Lucy Strident from Passports and Visas, and managing not to wince when Lucy blared out her name, rank and serial number.

  His obligation fulfilled, Geoffrey led Elita from the reception line the moment the Prime Minister’s security people escorted her to the bar, where one of them obtained for her a glass of white wine. Elita told Geoffrey she would love a scotch and soda, and immediately wondered if anyone here would card her. Waiting while Geoffrey went for the drink, she looked around dazzle-eyed at all the handsome men and beautiful women in the room, the buzz of conversation everywhere around her, the clink of ice in glasses, the floating sound of laughter on a summer’s night, and wondered who else famous would be here tonight.

  Sonny came out of his room at ten minutes to eight. The walkie-talkie he’d bought at Radio Shack was in his right hand. The plastic name tag he’d had made at a place called Jefferson Office Supplies on Third Avenue was pinned above the breast pocket of his jacket. G. RAMSEY. White lettering on black plastic, three inches long by three-quarters of an inch wide, at a cost of eighteen dollars plus tax, which h
e thought was highway robbery. The Plaza ID card McDermott had fashioned for him was clipped to the right-hand lapel pocket of his suit jacket. GERALD RAMSEY. SECURITY. He was wearing the blue suit, the white shirt, and the quiet silk tie. He looked very much the way Carruthers did, except for one thing. Carruthers wasn’t armed. Tucked into the waistband of Sonny’s trousers was the 9-mm Walther. Single cartridge in the chamber, loaded magazine containing eight additional cartridges in the butt of the pistol. And in the inside pocket of the jacket, just under the handkerchief pocket on the left, Sonny was carrying the twelve-ounce bottle of sarin, the transparent tape removed from its nozzle now. He had practiced reaching inside the jacket to draw it; it was only a bit more difficult than yanking a pistol from a shoulder holster. He had practiced turning the nozzle from OFF to STREAM. It took no more than a micro-second.

  He was ready.

  He stepped out of the room, looked up and down the empty corridor, and started walking toward the elevator bank. A chambermaid dressed in nighttime black came out of one of the rooms, carrying soiled towels.

  “Security,” he said. “Everything all right?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” she said, and virtually curtsied him by.

  The corridor outside the Baroque Foyer was crawling with spooks. Sonny could virtually smell them. He walked past them confidently—never explain, never apologize—and went directly to where several men and women in formal attire were having their names checked at the entrance door. Two more agents stood there, one of them consulting a clipboard to which was attached several sheets of paper, the other scanning the corridor this way and that, the way agents did when they wanted to look terribly eagle-eyed and alert. Sonny went directly to the head of the line.

  “Excuse me,” he said to a white-haired woman in a bouffant pink gown. “Plaza Security,” he said to the agent with the clipboard, and showed him a page he had torn from the message pad alongside the telephone in his room. The Plaza Hotel logo was at the top of the page. Under it, he had scrawled Dr. and Mrs. Harry Rosenberg. He showed this to the agent now. “Young girl called the office five minutes ago,” he said. “Told me she was their baby sitter, needed to talk to them. Said they’re at the party here.”

  The agent with the eagle eyes had zeroed his laser beam in on the ID tag and the name plate. Sonny simply ignored him. The one with the clipboard seemed impatient to get on with his job. There were a lot of important people standing on line here, waiting to be admitted to the foyer.

  “Are they on your list?” Sonny asked.

  The agent flipped to the second page on his clipboard.

  “How do you spell that?” he asked.

  British, Sonny thought. Meaning dull and plodding and stupid.

  “R-O-S-E,” he said.

  “That all of it?”

  “Here, have another look,” Sonny said impatiently, and extended the piece of paper again.

  The agent scanned the R’s. “No one of that name,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “I’d better check inside,” Sonny said, and nodded to the eagle-eyed one, and walked right past both agents into the foyer.

  He did not arrive until almost eight o’clock.

  His limousine was immediately surrounded by Secret Service men in dark blue suits. He stepped out, offered his hand inside the car, and helped his wife out onto the carpeted sidewalk. Escorted by Secret Service men fore and aft, he and his wife came up the carpeted steps toward where Carruthers was standing near the entrance doors.

  “Welcome to the Plaza, Mr. President,” he said, grinning.

  The Baroque Room was crowded and noisy, the guests milling in from the foyer and searching the tables for place cards, people recognizing friends or associates, men shaking hands, women kissing air. The dais was set up precisely where the good Miss Lubenthal had said it would be, in front of the columns at the far end of the room, opposite the three entrance doors. There were two agents standing on this side of the doors in the corner of the room closest to the dais.

  “Big crowd,” Sonny said to one of them.

  “Very beeg, yes,” the agent answered.

  Spanish accent. Part of the Mexican team, Sonny guessed. The other agent was checking out Sonny’s ID card and name plate. Slow-moving Mexican eyes roving over them in seeming casualness. Checking out, too, the bulge under Sonny’s jacket where the bottle of sarin nested in the inside pocket. Figuring it for a pistol, finding it permissible on security personnel; the agent himself was packing what looked like a howitzer. Through the oval portholes in the doors, Sonny could see other suited men in the corridor outside. His escape route.

  “A que hora servirán la cena?” he asked, switching to fluent Spanish.

  “A las ocho,” one of the agents said.

  “Pero no para nosotros,” the other one said sourly.

  Margaret Thatcher was moving toward the dais now, being escorted by her personal heavy mob, four of them in all, each and every one of them as wide as the Thames. Sitting to the left of Mulroney, the Canadian Prime Minister, exchanging pleasantries with him. She would be the second to go, the whore. The chair on her left was still empty.

  The chair to the right of Mrs. Mulroney was similarly empty. Sonny assumed that this was where Bush would be seated. President of the most powerful nation on earth would naturally take precedence over the Mexican leader for the place of honor on his hostess’s right. This would make things more difficult. If Sonny took out Bush first, he would then have to sweep to the right for his second target and that would take him further away from the exit doors.

  He was beginning to think it no longer mattered.

  The moment he squeezed off the sarin, first at Bush, next at Thatcher if there was time …

  He could no longer see an escape.

  Everywhere he looked, there were agents. Agents to the left and right of the dais, agents behind the dais, agents at each of the windows overlooking the park, agents outside and inside all the doors. Thatcher’s heavy mob behind her, trying to look as cuddly as teddy bears, but coming off as grizzlies. Bush would have his own army of Secret Service men. There was no way Sonny could get out of here alive.

  He closed his eyes.

  The Mexican agents looked at him in surprise.

  They did not know he was praying.

  One of the men from the British Consulate was telling a joke about Red Adair, the man who had worked to put out all the oil fires in Kuwait.

  “Adair’s sitting in the lobby of a hotel there, y’know, when this American tourist begins chatting him up. ‘I hear Red Adair’s in Kuwait,’ he says. ‘So he is,’ Adair says. ‘I hear he’s staying right here at this hotel,’ the tourist says. ‘So he is,’ Adair says. The tourist says, ‘I’d love to meet him, I’m a great admirer of his …’”

  Just what I said to Mrs. Thatcher, Elita thought, still embarrassed.

  “… and Adair says, ‘Well, you’ve met him—I’m Red Adair.’ The tourist jumps to his feet, takes Adair’s hand, begins pumping it madly, and says, ‘Am I glad to meet you! I’ve been an admirer of yours forever! Are you still screwing Ginger Rogers?’”

  Everyone at the table began laughing, except for a woman Geoffrey had earlier introduced as Lucy Phipps, who now blushed scarlet and sank lower into her chair. And all at once, the laughter trailed, and all conversation seemed to stop as well, not only at the table where Elita sat with the Brits but everywhere around the room. In the hush that followed, Elita turned to look toward the entrance doors.

  Sonny opened his eyes when the room went silent.

  The Mexican agents were looking toward the entrance doors.

  “Aquí viene,” one of them said.

  Sonny looked.

  And saw not President Bush coming through those doors with Barbara on his arm but President Reagan with Nancy on his arm. The wrong goddamn President! Waving his familiar wave to the hushed and reverent crowd, grinning his familiar grin. And suddenly there was applause for this popular idiot, this fool who’d succumbed to his
vice-president’s advice: Send the bombers. Had the letter not fallen into their possession, they’d have believed forever that the blood was on Reagan’s hands. But through the merciful goodness of God, they now knew that the man responsible for young Hana’s death was the man who’d written that persuasive document: Send the bombers. Destroy the Beloved Leader. Murder the infant daughter where she sleeps in her bed.

  Bush.

  The murderer Bush.

  Not Reagan, the easily led fool, here to take his place beside the great whore of Britain, his one-time infamous partner.

  Sonny would have killed them both in the next instant, but his instructions were clear.

  Bush was the target.

  You must not do anything to jeopardize your main objective.

  It would have to wait till the Fourth, after all.

  “Buenas noches,” he said to the Mexicans, and began striding across the floor, passing the orchestra where it was tuning up discreetly on his right, the applause for Reagan tapering as he took his seat beside the bitch of England, Sonny’s eyes searing with almost blinding hatred for both of them, the doors not twelve feet away now, the two agents who’d earlier been checking names now standing inside the doors, side by side, legs apart, hands behind their backs, six feet away, and …

  “Sonny!”

  The name stopped him as effectively as a rifle shot.

  He turned, but only for a second.

  And caught a glimpse of Elita rising from her chair at a table near one of the big arched windows.

  He turned back to the doors again. Nodding to the agents, he said, “See you later,” and they parted to let him through.

  Behind him, he heard Elita calling yet another time.

  “Sonny!”

  He did not look back.

  12

  Why had he run?

  Hadn’t he seen her last night? Heard her?

  She’d screamed at the top of her lungs. Startled the Brits—especially Miss Lucy Phipps—out of their collective wits. Well, the shock of it. Seeing him there. In a business suit and wearing some kind of identification tag, was he the doctor in residence or something? I mean … what was he doing there? And why had he ignored her, dashed through those doors and out into the corridor as if there was an emergency someplace, calling Dr. Hemkar, emergency in the operating room, Dr. Hemkar, report to the operating room at once.