The parking lot was surrounded by a high chain-link fence, barbed wire slung in three looping strands across the top. I went to my car, grabbed the box off the backseat, then I hitched the box under my arm and wove my way back through the rows of parked vehicles toward the gate. Halfway across I caught sight of Dimitri’s car, an unmistakable four-wheel-drive Mercedes with a black top and a Yankees sticker plastered midway down the rear window. My view was obscured, but someone—Dimitri?—appeared to be crouching by the driver’s door doing what, exactly, I couldn’t quite figure. It seemed as good a time as any to confront him, so I moved toward his Mercedes telling myself to stay cool, to let him have his say. Just possibly he might have a reason for his earlier display. Failing that, maybe an apology.
Two cars back from Dimitri’s I finally got a clear sight of him and I stopped like I’d hit a stone wall. His ass was propped on the footboard, both his legs were buckled up beneath him and his right hand was up at the door handle. That’s the only thing that was holding him up, his right hand, it was jammed somehow, caught in the handle, his torso leaned away from the car, his head lay on his left shoulder, he looked like a puppet with all its strings cut or a man too drunk to stand up. But he wasn’t drunk. One eye was glazed, but the other wasn’t even an eye anymore, it was just a bloody mess where a bullet had torn through to his brain. God knows what the back of his head looked like. The blood was pooled under him like an oil slick; there was a spray of pink lumps on a neighboring car.
I stood there with the goddamn box under my arm. I stood there some moments taking it in, absorbing the searing shock. It was Dimitri. That twisted body suspended there was my one-time West Point roommate, Dimitri Spandos. I felt myself going under, swayed, then managed to will myself back. Back to the world around me. To the parking lot. The arms fair. I went into automatic.
My hand, heavy as a lump of iron, rose. I touched my clammy fingertips to my forehead like I’d forgotten something. Then I turned and walked straight back to my car. There I put the box on the hood, unlocked the passenger door, and reached in to search the glove compartment. If anyone had been watching, if there was a security cam, then maybe—God help me—maybe my pause and retreat from near Dimitri’s car might be interpreted as the action of some dozy, forgetful sap who’d passed near the scene but noticed nothing. Palming the perspiration off my face, I grabbed an old garage bill from the compartment, then I stood up and made a show of folding the bill into my breast pocket. After relocking my car I set off with the brochure box across the parking lot again, keeping several rows clear, this time, of Dimitri’s silver Mercedes. When I went through the gate the security guy didn’t even look up from his comic.
The hangar had almost emptied, most stands were deserted now that lunch had started out in the pavilion. I dumped the box at the Haplon stand, then retreated to the johns, where I pulled a thick wedge of paper towels from the dispenser before locking myself inside one of the cubicles. I took off my jacket and shirt and hung them on the back of the door. Then I braced my arms against the wall, hung my head, and breathed deep—long and steady, in and out—and tried to quiet my wildly clammering heart.
Jesus, I thought. Oh, Christ.
The main door to the johns opened.
“Ned? Are you coming out to the tent for eats?”
Micky Baker, he must have seen me come in. I raised my head.
“Yeah. But don’t wait. I’ll be along.”
I heard him wash his hands. He tried to strike up a conversation, but when I ignored him he got the message and left me alone. The door closed behind him. I finally pushed off the wall and took the paper towels one at a time and wiped them across my chest, under my arms, and everywhere else the perspiration was coursing off me. After a minute it seemed to be easing, so I balled the last few towels in my fist and swiped them over my neck and face, then I put on my shirt and jacket again. I collected up all the soaked paper and dumped it in the trash can on my way out.
I had to go through the motions, I knew that. I had to put in an appearance.
But on my way over to the pavilion I lingered a moment at the edge of the grass behind the hangar. Off to my right was the parking lot. Straight in front of me, fifty yards away, the grand pavilion. To my left, the temporary firing range, the red earth banked up like a levee, the last shots blasting off and echoing off the hangar wall. I looked from the range to the parking lot and saw Dimitri’s Mercedes two rows back from the chain-link fence. There was a direct line of sight from the firing range to Dimitri’s car; all a shooter would have had to do was turn around and fire. But that was a maneuver, of course, that would have been seen and prevented by the range-master and any number of other people standing near. A couple of yards farther on, the line of sight was blocked by several armored personnel carriers that had been parked between the hangar and the pavilion throughout the morning. While I watched now, the drivers began moving the vehicles out to the runway, preparing for a later demonstration.
Micky Baker called my name from over by the pavilion. I took one last look at the firing range, then went to join the Haplon team for lunch.
They found Dimitri somewhere between dessert and coffee. A security guard hurried over to the Fettners table, then seconds later the toastmaster rose to make an announcement: Anyone and everyone who had fired weapons that morning was requested to report at once to the firing range.
“Oh, for chrissake,” said Rossiter, a chocolate mint halfway to his mouth. “For what?” He turned to me, his brow puckered.
Gillian Streiss, my deputy marketing manager, departed our table along with half a dozen others; there was a general air of annoyance that some unexplained screwup had spoiled lunch. A minute later there was another announcement, more a demand this time: It was imperative everyone who had used the firing range should report, the rangemaster had a list of names, it was necessary he speak to each one of those people immediately. Around the pavilion another twenty or more people got reluctantly to their feet. Rossiter tossed his napkin on the table.
“Look after Jack,” he told me in a peeved tone, then he excused himself to Jack Trevanian and went out to report to the rangemaster.
A small crowd was gathering at the Fettners table. Micky Baker went over to see what he could find out. I was left facing Trevanian over an untouched bowl of peaches. He raised a brow in question. I turned my head in dumb reply.
Micky came scurrying back a moment later. “Some accident on the firing range,” he reported. “One of the Fettners guys—” but that was as far as he got because then the sirens started. We got up and went outside to see.
Two squad cars and an ambulance were making their way through the parking lot. Word was already spreading out from the Fettners guys, Dimitri’s name was suddenly in the air. People were saying he was shot, badly wounded.
After a minute I left Trevanian with Micky Baker and went back into the hangar and sat down at the Haplon stand. There was nothing I could do then but wait. And so I waited. The next quarter hour, people wandered in and out of the hangar, the day unexpectedly cut loose from its moorings, suddenly drifting. The police gathered the Fettners team together and interviewed them all. The likes of Micky Baker started spreading the word that maybe Dimitri was more than just badly wounded. Around two P.M., there was an announcement over the loudspeakers: The fair was closing early, anyone who wanted to could leave just so long as they checked their security tags at the main gate. Then four names were read out, none I recognized, three men and one woman who’d neglected to report to the rangemaster.
I delegated Gillian Streiss to pack up our stand, then I gathered my papers together and told Rossiter I was leaving.
At the main gate I checked my security tag, the guard consulted his clipboard and waved me on through. I drove out to the turnpike, put ten miles behind me, then turned off at a giant Wal-Mart sign and made my way over some speed bumps into the parking lot of a mall. I parked and reached into the glove compartment and took out my “scramble-and-s
quirt” device, a box of electronics the size of a book of matches. Then I reached farther back and took out a rubber cup and fixed it to the device. I put the whole thing in my jacket pocket and got out and crossed to a pay phone, where I picked up the receiver and fixed the rubber cup to the mouthpiece. Then I inserted two quarters and dialled. After two rings a machine at the far end came on and I got three long beeps, the signal that the machine was ready to receive.
I hung my head. I gathered myself, then spoke. “Blue Hawk is dead.” I repeated it once, then I dropped my finger onto the phone bar, breaking the line.
This book is a work of fiction. The story takes place primarily within the New York City headquarters of the United Nations, the physical setting and organization of which are realistically depicted. However, the names, characters, and incidents portrayed are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY
A Bantam Book
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Copyright © 2001 by Grant Sutherland.
Map illustration by Hadel Studio.
Library of Congress Card Number: 00-050807.
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