Rosemont hit various computer keys, but nothing happened. He unplugged his computer, plugged it in again, typed in his password, and the same sepulchral skull mocked him. He crossed the office and threw open his door. His assistant Mark leapt to his feet. Rosemont could see the same death’s-head skull was on his computer screen.
“This is on all of the computers, sir.”
“Get the tech guys in here right now!” Rosemont shouted. “I haven’t got time for this crap. I’ve got to catch a plane to Chicago. If our own techs can’t get past whatever firewalls this asshole has put up, call that specialist company we talked to a few months ago, what was their name?”
“Cyber Solutions, sir.”
“Yeah, them.” Rosemont strode back to his desk and slammed shut his briefcase. “Damn good thing I’ve got the merger contracts right in here.” He picked up his briefcase and stalked back to his open office door. “Get the Uber car here now! Make sure this hacker is off our company systems by the time I get back into the city tonight.”
“I’ll take care of it, Mr. Rosemont.”
Rosemont strode to the main reception area and a bank of elevators. Mark picked up the phone on his desk and dialed the limo company. He stared at the menacing death’s-head on his screen, which played some classical composer’s tune that was as jarring as fingernails down a blackboard. He could see some nerdy hacker putting in an ironic musical riff from the Grateful Dead or Armageddon or Black Sabbath.
But who the hell composed Ach, arme Welt?
* * *
When McCall walked into Bentley’s Bar & Grill it felt like he was visiting an old friend. The place was packed for lunch. Two of the servers came hurrying over and gave McCall a hug. Gina, an actress with sorrowful eyes, said, “You’re back,” like Arnold in The Terminator. Amanda, looking as sepulchral as ever, her hair a raven red today, said, “You’re back,” but it conveyed the idea that she’d like to take McCall back to her place and ravage his body. Brahms had decided her place was a coffin in a crypt in some Manhattan church.
Sherry, the ebullient Asian hostess, ran over. “It’s so good to see you, Bobby! Tell me you want your old job back!”
McCall smiled. He had taken a bartending job at Bentley’s after he’d quit The Company and disappeared off the radar. Andrew Ladd, the young head bartender, had taught him how to mix drinks with style. No one at Bentley’s had anything to do with his other life of betrayal and duplicity and death. They were just happy to see him again.
Hayden Vallance was waiting for McCall at the bar. He motioned for another greyhound, which Andrew Ladd brought over. When he saw McCall, he smiled with genuine affection.
“Great to see you, Bobby.”
“How’s your play coming along?”
“I’m reworking the second act. You know, we could use a hand behind the bar.”
“Some other time, Laddie,” McCall said. “But if you’re really shorthanded, I may have someone for you.”
“If it’s your recommendation, they’re in.”
Amanda set a tray of empty glasses right beside Hayden Vallance and did four hand signals for Laddie before she rushed off. McCall slid onto a barstool and translated for Vallance. “Sex on the Beach, Bloody Mary, and two vodka gimlets.”
“You used to bartend here?”
“For about a year.”
“I guess it was as good a place as any to disappear.”
McCall slid across a piece of paper to Vallance. “These are the coordinates. I need you to fly me there, no questions asked.”
“Did I ask questions the last time we went abroad?”
“No, you didn’t. But this location is trickier to get in and out. What’s your usual fee?”
“Fifty K.”
Laddie set Amanda’s drinks order onto a new tray. She came back, grabbed the tray, looked Vallance over, gave him a seductive smile, and moved back into the fray.
“Don’t even think about it,” McCall said. “She’s very high maintenance.”
“Can’t be higher than my first wife. She was a USAR drill sergeant in an Echo Company. You breathed the wrong way and she had you drop and give her fifty.”
Vallance opened the piece of paper, looked at the coordinates, closed it. “If it was anyone else, I’d charge double my fee. But not for you, McCall.”
“Getting into the country may be easier than getting out.”
“Fifty K gets you to those coordinates on a one-way ticket. Getting to an extraction point is on you.”
“I figured.”
Vallance drank the second greyhound and slid off the barstool. “I’ve been asked to go to Uzbekistan. The OSCE Office for Human Rights have accused the government there of unlawful termination of human life and denying citizens freedom of assembly and expression. A rebel faction needs some serious players.”
“So you’re still a mercenary for hire?”
“I like to think of myself as a gunfighter getting a telegraph to go to Deadwood.”
“How long will it take you to arrange the transport?”
“A couple of days. I’ll call you.”
Vallance walked out of Bentley’s.
Laddie leaned across the bar. “Someone from your old life?”
“A reminder of why I left it,” McCall said quietly.
Then he thought again about Emily Masden, frightened and alone somewhere in the city, if she was still alive, and realized he hadn’t left it very far.
* * *
Norman Rosemont walked out of the terminal at JFK at 8:05 p.m., clutching his leather briefcase with the documents in it, all signed, sealed, and delivered. He should have been on cloud nine. But his computer system’s being hacked had robbed all of the triumph from the day. He’d made six frustrating calls from Chicago back to his office to discover that his tech guys, and the tech guys from Cyber Solutions, had all failed miserably. All of his computers still had the same grinning death’s-head on them. He was royally pissed. His company had already lost God knew how many millions in one day with all of his systems off-line.
He hadn’t been sure which flight he was going to take back to New York, so he hadn’t ordered a car. Normally he’d have gone to the Russian Tea Room for a celebration with some babe from an escort service, but he didn’t feel like celebrating. Then he noted a stretch limo at the curb and a chauffeur in a black suit carrying a sign that read MR. NORMAN ROSEMONT. Rosemont frowned. He walked over to the chauffeur.
“I’m Norman Rosemont. Who ordered this?”
“Compliments of Mr. Jim Sterling, sir.”
Rosemont almost smiled. Jim Sterling was the CEO of Webstar Telecommunications, which had merged this afternoon with Rosemont’s subsidiary Digital Communications Network. The chauffeur opened the back door.
“Mr. Sterling has also provided you with some company, sir.”
Now Rosemont did smile. This was a welcome surprise. He slid into the back of the limo. The chauffeur slid behind the wheel and pulled away from the curb.
In the back Rosemont found a gorgeous babe in her twenties, petite but with a spectacular figure, dressed in a long black cocktail dress showing a lot of cleavage. A slit up one side revealed a tantalizing expanse of bare leg. A small jeweled bag was beside her. She was holding a glass of champagne, which she handed to him. She had on Diane von Furstenberg tortoiseshell glasses. She took them off, revealing gorgeous brown eyes, and smiled at him. It was enough for Rosemont to get an immediate hard-on.
“Where to, sir?” Jimmy asked.
“Russian Tea Room. Can you raise up the partition?”
“Sure thing, sir.”
Jimmy raised the window, shutting off the back of the limo.
Mary looked at Rosemont with frank appraisal. “Mr. Sterling tells me you like to play a lot of kinky games.”
She leaned in and kissed him. There was a lot of tongue action on Rosemont’s part. He plunged his hand down into her cleavage, grabbing hold of her bare right breast, no room for a bra in this dress, and sque
ezed her nipple hard. Mary gave a little gasp, unbuckled his belt, and reached in for him. Now it was his turn to shudder. She broke the embrace and whispered in his ear, “Take off your shoes.”
Rosemont leaned down, starting to untie his right shoelace.
Mary took a hypodermic syringe out of her jeweled bag and stabbed him in the neck, pressing the sedative into his vein.
Norman Rosemont shuddered again, this time with an icy cold, and the world fled away until all that was left was utter darkness.
CHAPTER 19
They made love as fiercely as they ever had, but with poignancy this time. They both knew it would be their last in Monrovia. Dr. Patrick Cross climaxed and Ann Crosby shuddered as the ecstasy swept through her. Cross rolled off Ann’s body. Both of them were perspiring freely in the humidity. Cross ran his hand lightly over Ann’s right hip. His fingers strayed across her buttocks.
She snuggled closer to him. “You know what I was just thinking about?”
“What a fantastic lover I am and how you can’t get enough of me?”
She smiled. “That’s what I should have been thinking about. I was worrying about lopinavir/ectonairre.”
“The HIV medicine? How romantic.”
“Dr. Ryan had a meltdown Thursday about what’s happening in South Africa. He said AbbVie markets LPV/r and are very protective of their product. There are generic versions of the drug, but patients are being turned away from hospitals in Johannesburg and told to purchase LPV/r on the private market, which they can’t afford.”
“Dr. Ryan always has some cause to champion,” Dr. Cross said.
“People are going to die.”
“We save the lives we can.”
“But you can do more than that. You can save thousands of lives. That’s why your project is so important. Do you have the vials ready to take with you?”
“I’m all set. I’m just afraid of being stopped at the airport.”
“No one’s going to search your med kit. You’re with Doctors Without Borders, for God’s sake. You’re taking samples home to Atlanta to deliver to the CDC headquarters for further analysis. You’re going to make a breakthrough, Patrick. You’re going to change the lives of so many people.” Then she whispered, “I don’t want you to leave.”
He stroked her brown hair, tracing his fingers over her forehead, disturbing her pageboy bangs.
“I can’t delay going home. There’s nothing Dr. Ryan would like more than for me to extend my tour. But I have responsibilities.”
“Will you tell your wife about us?”
The question kicked Dr. Cross in the stomach, even though he’d been expecting it.
Ann hugged him closer.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again. “I shouldn’t have asked you that.”
“Of course you should have. It’s an issue I need to resolve. When do you fly back to South Carolina?”
“In two weeks, but Dr. Ryan is lobbying for me to join the contingent flying out to northwest Pakistan after that 7.8 quake on Tuesday. Survivors are being treated, but it’s really in the aftermath that the Red Cross needs help. They’re talking about taking over the emergency room at the Timengara Hospital to be able to deal with the number of injured. They need every MSF nurse they can get.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I’d consider it. But if I go to Pakistan, that’ll add six months to my tour. And who knows what will happen to us then? You’ll have had another six months to patch things up with Beth.”
“She knows the marriage is over. We just don’t talk about it. When do you have to give Ryan an answer?”
“By this afternoon.” Then Ann said softly, “I love you, Patrick.”
She reached down for him, getting the erection she wanted within seconds. He stroked her right breast and smiled up at her.
“I love you, too,” he whispered.
He kissed her and rolled back on top of her.
Then he put his hands around her throat and strangled her.
Her eyes bulged, first in utter surprise, then it terror. She writhed, trying to scratch at his eyes, but his grip was strong and her struggling only lasted a few seconds. Her body went limp and her hands fell back to the sheet. He looked down at her face, her bright blue eyes staring sightlessly up at the fan that sluggishly rotated the hot air around at the ceiling. Gently he closed her eyes.
He got dressed and wrapped her in a blanket that was kept in a closet, as if any guest would ever need one in the heat. He carried her down a back staircase into the parking lot of the hotel. It was deserted. There were no surveillance cameras here. He slid her into the back of his Land Rover and covered her with an old tarpaulin. He drove out of Monrovia into the tropical rain forest, following a GPS unit on the dash, to where a dirt track led deeper into the jungle. He’d already dug a shallow grave and covered it over with dirt and leaves. He stopped the Land Rover, surrounded by densely packed trees. The jungle was moist and damp and oppressive. He caught a glimpse of a Diana monkey swinging through the branches of one of the thirty-foot trees. Otherwise it was silent, or as silent as the jungle ever was. He hauled Ann’s body out of the back of the Land Rover and dropped her into the grave. Then he covered her up again with dirt and foliage. The chances of anyone finding her were remote.
He stood for a moment over Ann’s grave. He hadn’t wanted to do it. He had loved her, in his way. But he wasn’t going to leave his wife and family. At least, not yet. And she knew too much about his secret work.
But still, he thought, it was a damn shame.
Then he climbed back into the Land Rover, turned it around, and drove back to Monrovia.
* * *
Sunlight was streaming through a grimy window when Norman Rosemont woke up the next morning. He was lying naked in a queen-size bed in a shabby bedroom. It contained a dresser, a cane chair, and two bedside tables with functional lamps. The furniture looked like it had been delivered from a secondhand store in some forlorn part of Queens. Rosemont felt groggy. He didn’t know what that babe in the back of the limo had injected him with, but it had left him with a pounding headache. He’d been kidnapped. He assumed for ransom. Or maybe for revenge? Some personal indiscretion against someone’s ex-girlfriend or daughter or sister? For a moment Rosemont lay very still, listening. He could hear nothing.
He tried to stand, but started wheezing. Then he saw his inhaler on a bedside table and grabbed it. He pressed two puffs into his mouth, and his breathing regulated. He got to his feet and staggered into a bathroom, hitting the light. The mirror over the sink was spotted with black. He used the toilet and checked the shower. A large yellow ring was around the plug and it smelled to high heaven.
Rosemont walked back into the bedroom, feeling self-conscious about being naked. He saw the trousers of his Hugo Boss suit folded neatly on the cane chair, a new pair of boxers and black socks folded on top. His black oxford dress shoes were underneath. Rosemont felt the pockets of his pants, assuming they’d be empty, but his wallet was still there and all of his credit cards. He put on the underwear, socks, and trousers. He cautiously opened the bedroom door and walked into a small living room. The furniture was threadbare. He walked into the kitchen. The appliances looked like they’d been installed when I Love Lucy was the number one show on television. He was surprised to find the refrigerator was well stocked. He glanced down suddenly and saw two cockroaches skittering across the worn linoleum. Rosemont shuddered and went back into the bedroom and the bathroom. He took a whore’s bath, soap and hot water under his armpits; he wasn’t going to set foot in that shower. He dried off, found a new Turnbull & Asser shirt in the closet, pink with a white collar and cuffs, and stepped into his oxford shoes. He walked across the grungy living room to the front door. He looked through the keyhole, but no guard was posted outside. He stepped out into the corridor. There was no elevator. Before he could take two steps toward a door marked STAIRS, the door to apartment 4A opened with a flourish.
Sam Ki
nney stepped out.
“Hey, new neighbor!” he said cheerily. “Welcome to the building!”
“I am not your neighbor,” Rosemont snapped.
His fear had been replaced by mounting anger. Whoever had played this practical joke on him was going to be sorry.
“You’re the new tenant in apartment 4B, right?” Sam said, ignoring Rosemont’s retort. “Hey, would you like to come in for a cup of coffee? It’s instant, but Maxwell House, come on, good to the last drop.”
Rosemont ignored the invitation, opening the door to the stairs.
“Maybe tomorrow morning,” Sam said affably.
“I will not be coming back here!” Rosemont said curtly.
“Hey, it ain’t such a bad place! You’ll get used to it!”
Rosemont slammed the door behind him. Sam walked to one of the bright living-room windows in his new apartment. After a moment he saw Rosemont run down the limestone steps outside the building and hail a passing yellow cab.
Sam grinned. “Have a great day.”
* * *
Melody met McCall at the Rock Café beside the Rockefeller Center skating rink. It was her favorite place in the city. Through the window she watched the skaters whirling and passing each other like an intricate ballet being performed for the benefit of the lunch crowd. It had a festive feeling to it with the golden Prometheus statue keeping a benevolent eye on the skaters. The restaurant was jammed. Melody was sitting at the last table against the windows. McCall slid into the chair opposite her. She was totally caught up in the interplay between the skaters.
“I love coming here. It’s a joyous place.”
“Why’s that?”
“I grew up in Lake Geneva. I used to hike the shore path around the lake all the time. I liked to go to the Racine Art Museum to see the displays of exquisite jewelery and ceramics and glass. I’d sail on the lake with my friends. It was tranquil and exhilarating. But the longer I lived there, the more convinced I became that I had to get away from that place. I didn’t know what to expect coming to the Big Apple, but it’s so … thriving! All the people and the traffic and the energy! I love it!”
“So being a dancer at Dolls hasn’t taken the gloss out of your rose-colored glasses?”
Killed in Action Page 14