by Unknown
He sauntered down West Broadway to Eighty-Second Street, enjoying the spray of spring rain on his face. The streets were lined with dark brownstones and art deco apartment buildings with their uniformed doormen hanging out in front smoking cigarettes and waiting for their shifts to end. John nodded cordially to them as he made his way to number 224. There was no fancy-pants doorman here. Just a dusty lobby with a row of metal mailboxes and a chandelier with a few cracked crystals and one missing light bulb.
As he waited for the elevator, he couldn’t help but notice himself in the smoky, mirrored wall across the hallway. At thirty-three, he didn’t look half bad in the snappy vintage suit he had donned for the big AA birthday bash. His short, dark hair was neatly cut and his dimples flashed as he smiled at his one-year-sober self. The green eyes he had inherited from his Irish father sparkled with a bit of the devil in them, but overall he decided he looked like a fine, upstanding man.
A loud ding announced that the elevator had finally lumbered its way down to the lobby and John pushed open the heavy steel door. He punched the button for the fifth floor and a small wave of apprehension started at the pit of his stomach. Had he remembered everything at the store?
The elevator came to an abrupt stop, which almost sent his groceries flying. He stepped out into the familiar old hallway. When he was a kid, he used to play hockey on the shiny linoleum floors before his mother returned from work. He found himself wishing he could just stop with those memories instead of continuing in time and remembering how much she had suffered watching him destroy himself with alcohol.
“You can never pay your mother back for all the years of boozing and acting like an asshole,” Simon counseled him, “but what you can do is be the best son possible here in the present.”
John had taken this advice to heart, and slowly his mother’s suspicions had been replaced by confused smiles when he showed up with potted plants for her, scrubbed her kitchen floor, and took her out for Chinese food or the symphony. Still, old habits die hard, and he knew she had her eye on him, waiting for him to screw up.
He pushed open the door and the smell of lavender talcum powder and potpourri air freshener greeted him. “Mom?”
Rose’s head popped out from the den. Her hair was perfectly coifed in a silver bouffant and she had her reading glasses on. Her face spread into an annoyed smile.
“Johnnie, you didn’t tell me you were coming tonight.” Her Yugoslavian accent was still strong after thirty years of living in the US. “I got nothing to make you for dinner.” But she gave him a kiss as he entered the den.
“I brought you food, Mom.”
“Oh, what you got?” She peered into the bag and began pulling out items. “You got those cookies?” she asked hopefully.
“No, I forgot to get them.”
The one thing he didn’t get.
“Oh well, that’s okay.” She shuffled into the kitchen with John in tow.
“What are you going to eat?” she asked, opening cabinets that were stocked to bursting with enough food to last through any terrorist attack they could cook up. She looked at her stash and shook her head as if the cans and boxes of food had in some way disappointed her.
“Don’t worry, I have a turkey sandwich.” John gently closed the cupboard doors only to have her reopen them.
“That’s it?” she asked astonished. “You don’t want no soup? I got extra coleslaw I made for lunch yesterday in the fridge.”
“No, I’m okay. Seriously.”
Rose raised her eyebrows and shook her head.
“I’m going to run now, Mom.”
“But you just got here.”
“I know, but I have a lot of stuff I need to take care of.”
“What stuff?” she demanded. “You don’t got no job.”
“Well, I think maybe I need to deal with that.”
“You going back to the FBI?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he was suddenly getting defensive. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I need to do something.”
“Yeah,” she said shaking her head. “You got to do something. Why don’t you become a teacher? That’s a good job.”
“I’ll think about it,” he promised, nodding his head politely.
“Yeah,” she persisted, “you could get good benefits.”
“That’s right, I’ll think about it.” He started to inch his way out of the kitchen.
“So, you gonna go now?”
“Yes, I’m going to get a good night’s sleep.”
She couldn’t argue with that. “Well…that’s good,” she sighed.
He kissed her cheek, but she grabbed his arm and said, “Oh, wait a minute. I have something to give you.”
While she shuffled into her bedroom, John ripped the deli paper off his sandwich and started eating. He was halfway through the sub when Rose reappeared with a little black box in her hand and an impish grin lighting up her face.
“What’s that?”
She came to John’s side so they could both look from the same angle. Rose lifted the lid to reveal a Silver Star that had belonged to John’s father. During WWII, Bill Monroe had sprinted through a hailstorm of German bullets to rescue a wounded soldier in his regiment. John had never heard his father talk about the incident but his Aunt Maureen loved to brag about it at Thanksgiving dinners after she’d had too many cocktails.
For the second time that night, John felt tears stinging his eyes. Pasted inside the lid of the box was a little dog-eared black-and-white photograph of Private Bill Monroe in his uniform. It had been a long time since John had seen the photo and the medal.
“Here,” Rose pressed the box into John’s hands. “This is for you, for your one year. I want you to remember that your father was a hero. Now you are a hero, too.”
“Are you sure?” John knew this was one of his mother’s most prized possessions.
“You just take good care of it,” she warned sternly.
“I will,” he promised. “Thank you.”
They shared a warm moment, mother and son smiling at each other, remembering his father in a good way.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” promised John.
“Okay, I hope you sleep good and be careful. It’s dark out there,” she warned him.
“Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll be careful.” He shook his head as he walked out the door. Nine years with the FBI and his mother still thought he couldn’t make it three blocks without getting stabbed to death by evil hoodlums. Some things never changed.
****
Dornal could see the faintest glimmer of moonlight reflecting off the water as he finally reached the end of the slime-covered storm drain. He inhaled deeply and the chill air cleansed his lungs after the putrid stench of the tunnel he’d been crawling through for hours. As he climbed out, he found himself on the shore of the Hudson River. Across the water, he could see the Palisades rising up dark and mysterious and to his back lay a tangle of pitch black trees.
This wasn’t supposed to be his stop on the pipeline. His employer had arranged for a car, clothing, and money to be waiting for him in one of the alleys off the storm drain. But after setting off the alarm, Dornal knew he needed to get as far away as he could without any risk of being seen. The underground tunnel had provided the cover he needed.
Instinctively, he crouched down as the whir of a helicopter reached his ears and he could see the searchlight sweeping through the trees behind him. It wouldn’t be long before the chopper’s heat vision cameras picked him up.
The Austrian thief quickly slid into the freezing river. The snow in the Hudson Valley had only begun to melt two weeks ago. Dornal knew, even with his tough physique, he wouldn’t survive long in the frigid water, but for the moment, it took care of the heat vision cameras. In this ice bucket, his body temperature was sinking fast.
He scanned the water with his gray shark eyes, spotting a sailboat anchored offshore about a quarter of the way into the river. It was difficult to tell from
here if anyone was aboard, but it was that boat or the chopper-infested forest. Still grasping the scalpel he’d picked up in the prison operating room, he began to swim toward the boat.
As he got closer, he could see a dim light coming from the cockpit and the shadow of someone walking around inside. Things were going to get messy.
He didn’t like for things to get messy. It was the mark of an amateur, but, then again, this hadn’t been his plan in the first place. He’d have to make the best of the situation. Once he had the Hope Diamond in his possession, he’d be back in charge.
Quiet as the mist rising off the water, Dornal swam to the side of the boat and, grasping the anchor line in his iron grip, began to raise himself out of the river.
With the deftness of the professional thief he was, he swung himself over the rail, his powerful arm muscles rippling under the prison jumpsuit before he landed silently on deck.
The helicopter was still cruising around, sweeping the shoreline with its bright beam. Dornal had to get inside the cabin fast.
Peering in the window, he saw a man in a faded blue T-shirt and beat-up jeans sitting in the glow of a hurricane lamp with a guitar on his lap. As far as he could tell, the man was the only person on board. Dornal fingered the scalpel. At least he had a good, clean instrument.
The thief leaped down to the back deck just outside the cabin door, purposely landing with a loud thud. He stepped to the side with the boat’s wheel at his back and waited for his prey to emerge.
A square of golden light illuminated the deck as the cabin door opened and the man tentatively stepped out. Before the man could react, Dornal twisted his victim’s arm and pulled him back against his own big, barrel chest. The scalpel’s blade flashed in the moonlight before it bit flesh and slit clean through the man’s jugular.
Without missing a beat, Dornal dragged the body into the cockpit and stripped it bare. He peeled off his own dirty prison jumpsuit and pulled it over the man’s lifeless limbs. Then he paused for a moment, paralyzed by the sound of a chopper approaching fast. He held his breath as the white beam spilled in the narrow windows and the roar of the propeller whipped up what sounded like a tornado directly overhead. He could hear the whir of the engine as the electronic bird circled over the sailboat, combing every inch of the vessel with its bright light. Dornal crouched low, waiting.
After one final pass, the helicopter roared down the river and he allowed himself to exhale. He waited a moment to be sure and then slipped back on deck. The chopper was moving farther away now. He could still see the searchlight but the ominous sound of propellers was fading out of earshot. Going below again, the convict picked up the body and carried it to the lower deck.
With only a minor splash, he sent the man into the river and watched as the bright orange jumpsuit disappeared under murky water. He had no illusions that once the body washed ashore it would fool the police for long, but it might slow them down a couple of days and he wouldn’t need much more time than that.
Heading back inside, the thief found a suitcase full of clothes. He slipped on a pair of faded jeans much like the ones his predecessor had been wearing and a warm wool sweater. In one of the cupboards of the tiny kitchen, he found a bottle of Remy Martin. He took a couple slugs straight from the bottle and felt the warmth flow back into his frozen flesh.
After a bit more searching, he found the dead man’s wallet with his license, credit cards, and $120 cash. He studied the photograph of the man. With some brown hair dye, Dornal could pass. He took another long, slow pull from the bottle. He’d managed to find himself an identity, a mode of transportation, and a place to crash all in one fell swoop. For the first time in months he smiled. If there was one thing Dornal Zagen enjoyed, it was efficiency.
He relaxed back onto the banquette that served as both sofa and bed in the small boat. Two things were on his mind, the Hope Diamond and revenge. His plan to seize the Hope at the Diamond Ball was already worked out and it was just a question of waiting until the right time. Meanwhile, he had only to discover the whereabouts of John Monroe to take care of his other plan. It was going to be a pleasure to execute the former FBI man.
****
John arrived home to his cramped one bedroom apartment on West End Avenue. The apartment was in one of those 1970s buildings that looked like the projects but wasn’t. He had decorated accordingly.
He fidgeted with the little black box in his pocket, finally pulling it out as he sat down in his chair by the window. So much light poured in from the street lamps and the twinkling George Washington Bridge, he could see quite well without switching on the mushroom lamp he had found in an old junk shop. He held the box with his father’s medal in his hand, turning it around in his fingers.
The sharp ring of his phone jolted him out of his reverie.
Don’t let it be a crazy newcomer, he prayed, remembering the myriad of jonesing heroin addicts, speed freaks, and potty-mouthed alcoholics he’d given his number to in the last month, inviting them to call him any time they needed a friend.
Warily, he picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
It was his old partner from the FBI. “John, it’s Quinn. I’ve been calling you all night.”
“Quinn!” said John, relieved. “Sorry, I thought you might be someone from AA.”
There was a pause on the line.
“John, have you watched the news or read the paper lately?”
“The Ghost strikes again.” John parroted the newspaper headlines.
“We could use your help.”
Chapter Three
John passed his hand over his eyes trying to think of how to respond to his ex-partner’s invitation. “You know, I just don’t think I’m ready to come back. I don’t know if I ever will be,” he said, trying to be honest.
“That’s too bad.” Quinn sounded disappointed. “We’re so swamped here these days with all this terrorist shit and now they’re reorganizing all the computer files and upgrading the systems. I swear to God, my eleven-year-old daughter has a more advanced computer network in her grammar school than we do here.”
John shook his head in the dark. “I know, it’s ridiculous, but can’t you get someone else to help you out over there?”
“Yeah, I can, but not someone who’s tracked the Ghost for as long as you have.”
“Unsuccessfully tracked him.”
“Listen, no one has been able to get anything on the Ghost, not Interpol or Scotland Yard—nobody.” Quinn reminded him.
“True,” John admitted. “So there’s no word from California?”
“Well, Katherine Park had quite a few words to say, but other than that, we got nothing,” said Quinn gloomily.
“Well, at least you have the whole thing on film. Every TV crew in the world must have been there.”
“Yeah, I’ve been combing through it frame by frame all day, but Katherine Park didn’t take the route up the red carpet she was supposed to. So all I have is a shot of her ass for the most crucial moments when she was hamming it up with her fans in the bleachers. There was one old lady who looks like she could be the Granny, but it’s hard to tell from the camera angle. She’s also wearing a hat with a veil which clouds things even more.”
“Ah, the Granny,” said John with a smile. After nine years of chasing down jewel thieves, he had developed a certain amount of affection for some of them and she was one of his favorites. He had first become aware of her when she toddled into Tiffany’s and asked to try on a ten carat, $480,000 star sapphire ring. She slipped the ring on her finger and watched it flash blue in the store’s perfect lighting.
“I’ll take it!” she’d declared continuing to view the ring. “Only…wait…may I please see how it looks in the box?”
The well-trained salesperson had obliged by carefully placing the ring in a box so that it sparkled to its best advantage. Granny had held the box in her hand and examined the ring from all angles. Then snapping the box shut, she’d ordered the salesman to wrap it up! She
was just going to step outside and get her checkbook from her driver.
Only later did the unfortunate salesperson discover that, like a magician at a kid’s birthday party, Granny had switched the box and taken off with her loot, leaving him with an empty box in his hands and a lot of explaining to do. He had to give her credit, the old lady had guts.
John had eventually tracked Granny down in Stockholm where she had taken the sapphire to be cut and sold. But remarkably, despite mountains of evidence, a jury had found her innocent. Probably because they just didn’t have the stomach to send such a sweet old lady up the river in her golden years.
“How is the old broad?” asked John.
“Way too active for a woman of her years.”
“Well, it sounds just like her to pull something like this. She has the balls for it, we know that.”
“Could be her. We’re just not sure yet. The whole Ghost hysteria is really just the press trying to sell papers,” admitted Quinn.
“Everyone loves a good Ghost story.” John remembered the packs of rabid reporters he’d had to deal with every time the mysterious jewel thief took off with another rare gem. “Besides, there hasn’t been any real Ghost activity since we put away Dornal Zagen.”
“I can’t argue with that,” said Quinn, sounding as if he’d like to.
“Maybe he’s the Ghost,” observed John.
“You still working that angle?”
“I’m not working any angles anymore,” John replied matter-of-factly.
“What would you say if I told you Zagen busted out of Sing Sing this evening?”