I cranked up the BMW and swung around onto West Street. Traffic was light, and we made it to Forty-second Street in eleven minutes. It could have been faster, but I got caught at three lights on the trip uptown. It was quiet in the car. Both of us were immersed in our thoughts, and I hadn’t even cued my iPod. It amazed me that Alice felt comfortable cruising the city while every law enforcement agency in town was looking for her. But I didn’t know what that should suggest. Stupid and reckless came to mind. She most definitely was not the former, and I never before considered her the latter. Some things just are.
I broke the silence by suggesting a Japanese restaurant in Midtown under the flag of hiding in plain sight. We had been there together in the past. It was one of the few decent sushi places open on Sunday, and it offered the added benefit of an exclusively Japanese crowd with very little English in the air. Sunday evening driving in New York is eerie. No traffic, easy parking, and quick commutes. Crossing half the length of Manhattan south to north and west to east had taken a total of twenty minutes, which were spent mostly in silence. After all that talking, I was happily mute. I found a legal parking place on East Forty-ninth Street, just across from the restaurant. Most of the cars parked around us were SUVs with Jersey plates. Japanese families in town for Sunday dinner.
Finally, my curiosity got the best of me. “Alice,” I said, “why aren’t you worried about being picked up? Have you gotten a free pass?” Alice had already opened her door and was about to step out of the car. She pulled her leg in, closed the door, and looked across at me.
“If I’m stripping myself naked in front of you, perhaps you should start calling me by my true name, Alison. And no, no free pass,” she continued. “My superiors know I’m back here. They sent me here. But they have not shared my whereabouts or my suspicions with your agencies. Much as we all cooperate, I have never announced myself as Her Majesty’s asset in the United States. If it came down to it, my superiors would own up, but for now, they seem to think I can do more outside the system.”
“So, all these guys looking for you have no idea you’re anything but a doctor who is not who she said she was. Who is somehow connected to the dead men, and who, for some reason, beat it out of town. Brilliant. What’s your plan, Sherlock?”
21
Eight thirty on a Sunday night, and the place was buzzing. The petite hostess kept us waiting briefly in a tiny foyer with a blond-wood lectern, well out of sight of the dining room. We stood uncomfortably in the passageway until two Japanese families carrying innumerable sleeping children made their way to the exit. We were led to a table in the corner of the dining room, well removed from street windows and other diners. It was probably the worst table in the house, and fine for us. Talk from the tables around us was barely audible, and there was every reason to believe that our conversation would be private as well.
I got right down to it, but each time Alison tried to answer one of my questions, a waitress appeared. Alison would stop speaking abruptly and smile blankly. Ordinarily I would have laughed, but this time it didn’t seem funny. During the forced silences, water glasses were filled, and boxes of dry, cold sake and plasticized menus were placed neatly in front of us. We continued to smile stupidly and remained quiet until the waitress returned to take our order. Alison looked even better in the brightly lit restaurant than she had in the car. Her face looked unstressed, her eyes sparkled, and she even wore a touch of fresh lipstick, which I hadn’t registered before. Even the smile worked. She couldn’t have looked more casual or carefree.
I ordered for both of us. Fresh tofu, lots of sushi, and a couple of cut rolls. It was plenty of food, too much food, but as I was contemplating the order, my hunger got the best of me. For the moment I forgot everything swirling around us and enjoyed the company, the drink, and mostly the thought of eating. Then I figured it was time to ruin the moment.
“Why did you disappear after Tahm Tahani went missing?” I asked, in what I thought was a neutral, dispassionate manner.
“Do you mean, did I kill him? The answer is, I am not even sure he is dead. Are you? So no, I did not kill Tahani. And while you’re at it, what about Farzan? Do you want to know if I killed him?” Her words were neither sharp nor as contentious as the phrasing might imply, but she sounded a bit disappointed.
“That would help clear the air. You’re going to have to answer that one for my friends from Homicide, so you might as well practice on me.” I switched on the bullshit detector and waited. After so many years of “the dog ate my homework” from malingering cops, I knew the signs. Avoiding eye contact and changes in breathing rhythm were a dead giveaway, but I didn’t expect to see them. I was looking for subtle changes. Alice . . . Alison was a pro, and I teed up for a contest. I needn’t have.
“I was working when Farzan was killed. You know that. And I was called back to London when Tahani went missing.” The time line was reasonable, if anything in this mess could be called reasonable.
“How did you find out everyone has been looking for Tahani?”
“Oh, come on, Wendell, we’re in the business. Your guys told my guys. That’s when they realized they couldn’t leave me in the mix. Too difficult to explain without declaring myself. It seemed to make sense to pull me out and think it through.”
“So, what do you need from me?” The nature of our relationship had changed precipitously, at least for the moment, and my question was businesslike. So was her answer.
“We think the details of the murders will help direct us to the players, or at least confirm who we think they are. If you could get that information, we could begin to move on them without sounding alarms and scaring them back into their holes. Having everyone in the mix is a recipe for disaster.”
“This isn’t High Noon. The marshal can’t hack this one alone.”
Alison looked blank. Totally. She could not make any sense of what I had said.
“It’s a cowboy movie from the fifties. Gary Cooper is the marshal. And he is forced to take on the bad guys alone.” She nodded and said, “It’s not that way, Wendell. The Firm is pouring resources into this. We are simply being prudent about avoiding leaks.” Alison was every bit as sure of herself as an MI6 person-spy as she was as a plastic surgeon. Precise, rational, and quite certain that her way was the right way.
“What about our intelligence services, the United States?”
“We are in continuous contact. We have the same goal. Though, in truth, I don’t feel they are taking the threat seriously enough.”
“Come on. Homeland Security has a $68 billion budget. This is what they do. There must be some reason they don’t seem to take this as seriously as you.”
Alison shook her head. “Any organization that large is automatically crippled by the bureaucratic logjam. As soon as they focus, they will be all over this. We just need to get them to focus. Too much is at stake to simply allow them to be proven wrong. ‘I told you so’ doesn’t count for much.” True, but I wasn’t comforted.
“Wouldn’t talking to them be the most expedient way to accomplish that?”
“Apparently our people have tried . . . are trying. Just think about it.”
I promised to think about it. That was an understatement. I wouldn’t be thinking about anything else. I was about to list the reasons for my obvious reluctance when she raised her right palm in front of my face and interrupted.
“Shhh. I know what you’re thinking. I need your decision in the morning. Just promise you won’t tell anyone about this conversation.”
I had to think about that as well.
“I promise,” I said.
I handed the waitress my AmEx card before the check was presented and waited for the paperwork. I added 20 percent to what seemed to be an arbitrary number and scribbled my name. I took Alison’s hand as she slipped out of the banquette, we shared a smile, and she held on to me as we headed for the street.
22
The street was quiet. The big, glass office tower on the sou
th side, where the car was parked, was dark, and the usually bustling sidewalk at the side entrance to Saks Fifth Avenue, on the north side, next-door to the restaurant, was deserted. We crossed casually at mid-block and walked directly to the car. I beeped the remote unlocking mechanism and handed Alison off at the passenger door. She slipped into her seat and beamed the first melting smile of the evening at me. I stopped long enough to lock onto her eyes, then walked around the front of the car and dipped to enter.
I remember only a flash of light followed by an explosive crack, and a million splinters of glass pricking my skin. I think I heard the noise fill the night only after my hands went to my face. It was too quick to be sure. There was shock but no pain, and I felt only the warm ooze between my fingers. Alison shouted something and pulled me down. A big car sped by and a series of muzzle flashes lit the street. Huge cobwebs grew around each bullet hole in the safety glass of the destroyed windscreen, and by the time I finally exhaled, I was aware of sitting on a bed of glass. I saw nothing more than orange and red, and the pain made me throw my hands at my eyes.
“Don’t do that,” Alison shouted. She pulled my hands from my face and held them forcibly by the wrists. “You may have glass in your eyes. Keep your eyes closed and don’t touch. I’m going to come around.” She released my wrists and I did as I was told.
“Who the hell was that?” Her voice came from my left. Alison had come around the car and was leading me from the driver’s seat.
“Sit in the back. We have to get out of here.”
I dropped onto the rear seat and blindly swept away the few shards I felt. “We have to call this in. Where did the shots come from?”
“It was a dark-colored full-size SUV. American, and it’s long gone. We can’t call it in. The last thing we need is to spend the night answering stupid questions. Give me the key.”
“It’s up front somewhere. I had it in my hand when the shooting started. Don’t worry about it; the car will run as long as it’s in here someplace.”
“Shit.” I could feel her bouncing around in the seat. “Damn, that hurts. Okay, I’ve got it.”
She fidgeted in the seat some more and swore under her breath. Then, in one motion, she started the car and spun out of the parking space. I remember glancing at the empty street just before the roof fell in, so I wasn’t shocked by Alison’s rapid moves. I didn’t dare open my eyes. The pain was excruciating, and I couldn’t risk dragging the glass fragments across my cornea. Gently holding my lids shut brought some relief, or at least didn’t make the pain worse. But even the slightest eye movements created waves of unbearable piercing sensations as the glass bits were pressed between my eyes and the inside of my lids. I sat still and stared rigidly at the inside of my closed eyes. Tears ran down my cheeks, stinging the little lacerations studding my skin. Every bounce and jerk was torture.
“Alison, we better get me to the hospital. Head over to East Sixty-eighth Street. We can be at New York Presbyterian in five minutes.”
“Not smart, Wendell. I’ll deal with it at your place.”
“Shit, Alison, this isn’t funny. Screw your fucking intrigue. I need to get to a hospital.”
“No you don’t. I know it hurts, but I can deal with this easily, and we can avoid unnecessary questions and the police.”
“Jesus.”
We were in my garage after the longest ten minutes of my life. Bumping over New York City streets was a traumatic enough experience without an eye full of broken glass. The garage ramp was east of the building on Sixty-fourth Street. The garage was quiet. Alison came around the car, helped me out, and led me gently, like an aged relative, to the passenger elevator. I stood there with my eyes glued shut. She drove the car down to the attendant. I heard some buzzing of conversation between them, but it was out of range. Alison returned to me and I handed her the keys as we waited for the elevator. We managed to get to my door without incident, and she worked the locks to the tune of Tonto circling and yelping. When the door finally opened, he could not be denied. He surveyed the scene, and his happiness quickly turned solicitous. He rubbed against my leg and let me think I was petting him. The reality was quite the reverse. Once we were inside the apartment, we headed directly to the bathroom. Tonto planted himself on the threshold and watched everything. Alison sat me on the toilet and lifted my chin. I dreaded having to open my eyes.
“Where do you keep your emergency kit?”
“On the shelf in my closet. The attaché case.”
“Attaché case? Oh, right. I haven’t heard the term since my father left the Foreign Service. Righto, I’ll be back in a flash.”
“Back in a flash. Now we’re even. I haven’t heard that term since my uncle Ben went out for the newspaper and never showed up again.”
“Sounds like you’re feeling better.” I wasn’t.
Alison was gone for what felt like an eternity. And then she returned. The sound of the old leather case smacking down on the sink counter was easy enough to identify, even before she snapped the clasps open. She rummaged around and set some things on the countertop. I imagined the plastic vial of tetracaine, a boat of gauze, and I definitely heard a metal instrument, which I expected to be forceps. This wasn’t going to be fun.
“Okay, now, I’m going to gently open your left eye, love. You hold the right one shut. We need to get it numb so I can work.”
With that, she pinched the skin of my left upper lid between her left thumb and index finger and pulled it off the globe of my eye. There was a pop as the suction released, or I may have imagined it. Sensations and sounds were more acute than usual. “Here we go now. A bit of burning.”
That was an understatement. The searing lasted for eight seconds, by my count, then the pain in my eye abruptly subsided. The relief was substantial as the local anesthetic worked its magic. She repeated the process in the right eye after cautioning me, once again, not to blink. I would have been insulted if the urge to open my eyes or rub them hadn’t been so great. She held my left lid off the eye with what she told me was a forceps and a Q-tip and made unintelligible, clucking sounds as she worked. After another eternity, she said, “Not so bad. One shard that stuck through the upper lid caused a small, superficial corneal laceration at two o’clock. Nothing else here. I’m going to put some bacitracin in and patch it before we look at the right.”
I felt nothing. The endorphins were raging, and the rest of scratches and punctures were very distant and not bothersome.
Alison repeated the process on the right eye and found only a few small lacerations of the lid and one ugly one in the lashes. It took only a moment for her to put a single fine-silk suture into that one; it wasn’t worth injecting with anesthetic. The others required nothing more than removal of the glass splinters. She didn’t patch the right eye, so I could see.
“Thank you.”
“Very welcome, indeed.”
“I’ll see my ophthalmologist in the morning.”
“No need for that,” Alison snapped back. “I know what I’m doing.” Before I could defend my position and explain that I trusted her but thought an ophthalmologist should have a look, she added, “And we do not want to answer any questions.”
“You don’t. I have nothing to hide.”
Alison raised her eyebrows and looked at me questioningly. “Sure you do. Harboring a fugitive, for one, and not reporting a shooting incident, for another. Not the stuff your superiors will look kindly upon.”
Alison must have expected me to go under with her. There was no other way. It would be begging reality to expect to show up with a patched eye and not elicit questions. I didn’t bother saying so, but my plan was to go to the ophthalmologist, then to the job. After that I’d find the right ears for my story.
We spent the next half hour shaking out our clothing and picking glass splinters like a pair of chimps grooming each other. When we seemed to be finished, Alison wiped the floor down with wet paper-toweling. She volunteered to walk Tonto. He went willingly, looking
back only once to see whether I was joining the party.
When Alison returned, we showered. Separately. We still hadn’t had a substantive conversation about the shooting. I assumed it had been an attempt on Alison’s life. I figured she had come to the same conclusion.
“What do you think that was all about? You don’t even know who’s involved in this . . . so why should someone want you dead? Does it make any sense to you?” It made no sense to me. None of this made any sense to me. How I got from being a Good Samaritan on an airplane to a bystander in a drive-by shooting was difficult to compute. I figured Alison was a lot closer to the answers, and she was definitely not telling me the whole story. The vision in my unpatched eye was blurred with ointment, and I tried focusing on the ceiling while I pondered the situation and waited for Alison to answer. And then I heard her gently snoring.
23
The first light nudged me from sleep at a little after six. I had been too tired to pull the shades. Actually, too disoriented by the events of the evening to even think about it. I felt like I had been through a meat grinder. I couldn’t shift positions without wincing. Like Leonard Cohen says, “I ache in the places where I used to play.” With some effort, I turned to Alison, or to the place where she had been when I fell asleep.
The pent-up anxiety was getting the best of me, and I angrily whispered through my teeth, “What the fuck is wrong with her,” but very soon I was enveloped by great relief at being alone. Being free of her theories, the urgency, and the catastrophic implications allowed for a momentary respite, which I savored. I happily dug my head into the sand, even though I knew it wasn’t going to last. My eye was still patched, and I stayed put until almost seven, when I felt a need for music. I had gotten out of the habit of awakening with radio, and the invasive idiocy of television in the early morning vanished with my former wife. I love music. The depth of my technical ability to reproduce it was limited to managing the Sonos music system all over the apartment. It had been installed against my will by a cop from the Nineteenth, who had a semi-high-tech moonlighting business, and thought he owed me for overseeing his ruptured appendix and slow recovery. The truth is, I feel really cool being a step ahead of all the other blockheads my age.
Wendell Black, MD Page 10