The Greater Good

by Casey Moreton

  “Echo-Two and Echo-Three are in position,” Porter said.

  “Acknowledged,” Desmond responded.

  Porter stepped cautiously through the big main room of the apartment, and then hurried to the picture window that overlooked the street below. He removed a bulky flashlight from the sleeve of his coat. He thumbed the switch, activating the light, then pressed the glass of the flashlight’s lens to the glass of the window, and clicked the switch off and on, repeatedly.

  From his post, catty-corner down the street, Desmond spotted the flicker of light through his powerful field glasses. “Roger that, Echo-Two. I have visual.”

  Over the course of the next twenty minutes, the two of them scoured Donovan’s apartment in search of the VHS videocassette. At this stage in the ball game, it was important not to tear the place apart. It was important to leave everything the way they’d found it. If they caused even the slightest suspicion, she might really tighten the screws on them.

  Desmond made periodic radio contact, watching anxiously through his field glasses. Each time he was met with a negative report. There was no sign of the tape.

  In less than half an hour, the two intruders had done an admirably thorough room-by-room search of the premises. Still no tape.

  Desmond cursed under his breath. His reflection in the window frowned at him. He cursed at his reflection. Time was becoming the enemy. If he failed to find that tape, and find it soon, Mr. Stott would have his head served on a platter.

  A final sweep of the apartment produced no further results. Careful to cover their tracks, the pair made sure that nothing had been disturbed, then eased out of the door, locking it behind them. They hurried down the stairwell and crossed the street to the van. When the van’s sliding door slammed shut, Lewis put the van in gear and accelerated into traffic. It was time to move on. But they’d likely be back very shortly.

  Desmond set down his field glasses.

  Static crackled from his radio. Then a voice said, “Echo-Two and Echo-Three are clear, over.”

  It was nearly 10A .M. They needed results, and they needed them fast.

  Desmond held the radio at his side, still staring out the window at the glass-and-steel facade across the street. He thought of Mr. Stott, Yates, Shelby, and of Julius Albertwood. He wasn’t sure whom he hated more. He hated them all. But only Mr. Stott truly frightened him. If he didn’t get results very soon, Mr. Stott would certainly not be pleased.

  Desmond had killed men in rain forests and deserts and at sea with his bare hands. He could live in the wilderness, surviving off nothing but roots and dirt. He could disappear from the face of the earth at the snap of a finger. But he could never hide from Mr. Stott. No one could. “Roger that, Echo-Two. On my way.” He put the field glasses in his bag and headed for the door. He eased open the door, and ducked his head into the hall. When the door clicked shut behind him, he inserted a business card between the door and the doorjamb about three inches above the carpet. He’d plucked the card from his windshield wiper that morning after his meeting with Shelby. It was a solicitation from a weight loss company. If anyone opened the door before he returned, the card would provide the evidence.

  As per the usual routine, the drop could be made at any time over a three-day period. Olin St. John entered the bank at a quarter to ten, Thursday morning. They had used this particular bank a number of times over the past few years, so St. John was familiar with the layout and atmosphere of the place.

  The arrangement was simple: once a job was completed, there was a four-day safe zone, an interim allowing him to slink away and lay low. Following this period, he was to be notified within the next three days as to where his payment would be wired and when. The notification was deposited in a safe-deposit box at the agreed-upon bank. Then he simply had to go where the money was to be wired.

  St. John carried a leather attaché case. He strode across the expansive atrium. This part of the job always made him uncomfortable. He was conscious of the cameras staring down from all over. He knew exactly where to go and was prompt at finding the person who could help him. A woman wearing a business suit led him down a flight of stairs to the sublevel, where many of the safe-deposit boxes were located. She asked him to wait in a room furnished with long, narrow tables. St. John set the attaché case on a table as the bank employee disappeared through a vault door.

  This was the part he hated. Considering who he was and what he did for a living, it was nerve-racking having to voluntarily step inside such a fortified environment. The only disguise he now wore was a pair of nonprescription eyeglasses. The process of collecting his money made him feel maddeningly vulnerable.

  An old man was sitting in a chair at the far end of one of the other tables. St. John watched him closely, but the man appeared harmless. He had a box on the table before him, but St. John could not tell what had been stored inside.

  The bank employee returned carrying a metal deposit box. She gave him instructions for when he was finished. He thanked her and she left him alone.

  Olin St. John took a seat at the table and removed from his attaché case the small pink envelope he’d received in Nantucket. He slit open the envelope with his pinky finger and dumped its contents out onto the table. A small brass key toppled out, making a metallic chime as it skittered across the surface of the table. He scooped up the key, unlocked the box, and opened it.

  The box was empty.

  St. John exhaled. They hadn’t come yet.

  This frustrated him somewhat, only because he’d hoped to be done with it. He was walking away from the life he’d known, and the sooner he could be rid of it the better. But this was only the first day. The notification would be ready for him, Saturday at the latest, but hopefully Friday. He and Megan had plans, and he was itching to get their life together under way. And sure, he’d already collected enough money over the past ten years to retire in opulence. He could walk away now, and no great harm would be done. But he’d agreed to this last job for a reason. The $5.9 million was the great brass ring. It would ensure them a life without worry. It would ensure that he’d never have to work again. Two more days and the money would be his. All he had to do was be patient.

  He notified a bank employee that he was finished with the box and ascended the flight of stairs to the main business floor of the bank. He looked around as he crossed the broad expanse toward the exit. Hopefully he’d be making only one more trip inside these walls. Two at the most. But two was one too many for his taste.

  Be patient,he told himself.Just be patient.

  The old man exited the bank a safe distance behind St. John. He ducked out of sight behind a massive support column, peeled the facial prosthetics from his nose and jowls and chin, and removed the too-thick reading glasses. He was in his midtwenties, and his name was R’mel. He knew that the man he’d followed from the bank was an assassin, and he knew the assassin’s name was Belfast.

  R’mel dumped the pieces of his disguise into a receptacle as he descended the steps from the bank. He straddled his Ducati motorcycle, keeping his man Belfast in view. The Ducati roared to life. R’mel put on his helmet, and spoke into the built-in mike.

  “This is R’mel,” he said in his native French. “Belfast has left the bank, and I am pursuing.” He received instructions through the earpiece in his helmet.

  St. John hailed a cab, heading back across Manhattan.

  The Ducati followed at a reasonable distance.

  The news of the vice president’s death was screaming through the airwaves. Satellites far above the earth worked overtime, bouncing signals from dish to dish. The media tasted blood. The face of President Clifton Yates was broadcast nonstop from the moment he began his announcement.

  Darla already had a tape of the president’s statement in her office, and her production staff had gathered around her desk, gawking at the television screen, still unable to grasp the full reality of the earthquake that had hit. She knew that Brooke would be sick that she’d missed it.
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  Darla had befriended James Ettinger early on in President Yates’s first campaign. She’d treated him fairly, and he’d rewarded her with interviews at times when nobody else could get a word out of him. But she was still a member of the media, and therefore not high on a politician’s list of favorite faces. She and Ettinger weren’t friends, not by any means. But over the course of the Yates administration, she’d managed to earn a certain level of trust. For that, she’d been grateful. And because of that, she’d miss him.

  Now Darla was on the phone, pounding away at the usual places for more info from the White House than they were offering in the official press releases. She’d be on the phone all day. She was exhausted, and it was only just beginning.

  23

  THEPI’S NAME WASCROUDER.HE WAS DIRECT AND TO THEpoint. He asked specific questions that Joel did his best to answer informatively. Crouder charged $125 an hour, which was the best price of the dozen agencies Joel had found in the Yellow Pages. Crouder wanted a picture of Megan, and luckily Howard Tate had come through for him. Howard had done a good job getting the photograph of Ariel faxed. Crouder wasn’t pleased with the quality of the facsimile. It looked almost as if it had been snipped from a newspaper.

  The meeting lasted barely twenty minutes. Crouder said he’d need three days. He said he thought he could find her but wouldn’t make promises. He gave Joel a card with his office and cell numbers on it, but he told Joel not to call during those first three days.

  Joel left Crouder’s office feeling some sense of relief at having another set of eyes on the lookout for Megan. He told himself to give it a rest while Crouder went about his work. Just take a break, get some rest, have a nice meal, take a load off. Crouder was the professional, and Joel was simply wasting time chasing shadows around the city. Let the man do his job, he told himself firmly.

  At noon, the main lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel was busy with the rush and flow of travelers and guests, businesspeople and hotel staff. Joel sat in a wing chair, an unread paperback in his lap.

  Reading wasn’t possible. His mind simply couldn’t stay still long enough to care about anything but finding Megan. He eyed the people in the main lobby, studying the faces of the hotel staff. He rubbed his eyes, feeling useless. Surely he could dosomething.

  The page that Howard had faxed to him was folded in half and tucked between pages in the book. Four days had passed since Joel had spotted Megan outside La Guardia. In that time his mental snapshot of her had altered and faded into sort of an ambiguous image. Staring now at the photo of Ariel, taken nearly twenty-three years ago, he found himself startled anew at just how eerily similar Megan was to her mother. Whatever doubt had arisen in his mind between Monday night and this moment as to whether the young woman he’d caught only a fleeting glimpse of was his daughter was gone. The face in the photo brought the face from La Guardia into clear focus. The image in his mind’s eye sharpened into a distinct still-frame. He knew it was Megan.

  An elderly couple was checking in at a reception desk, and a tall blond kid in a Waldorf uniform loaded their bags onto a wheeled cart and headed for the elevator. The elderly couple remained at the desk, taking care of business. Joel arrived at the elevator ahead of the kid, holding the door for him until the luggage cart was safely inside.

  “Thanks,” the kid said.

  “My pleasure,” Joel said, nodding. The kid looked to be no older than nineteen or twenty. He was tall and clean-cut. They rode in silence.

  The bell chimed, and the doors opened onto the tenth floor. The kid rolled the cart forward, and then headed down the corridor. Joel came out and turned in the opposite direction, walking slowly away toward his own room but glancing over his shoulder to see where the kid was headed. When at last the kid stopped the cart and unlocked the door to the room where the luggage belonged, Joel paused and turned around, watching. He watched the kid lift the bags and tote them inside. He suddenly felt inspired.

  The bellboy crossed the big suite carrying the first two of six pieces of luggage, then turned and hurried back for the next load of luggage.

  The man standing in the doorway startled him. He stopped suddenly. For a moment he thought perhaps he recognized the man but couldn’t put his finger on just how.

  “Excuse me,” Joel said, smiling, doing his best to come across as friendly and nonthreatening. “I’m sorry if I spooked you,” he said, noting the kid’s name badge said TODD.

  “No, sir.” Todd shrugged. “I simply didn’t notice you there. Can I help you, sir?” It was then that Todd recognized the man as the fellow in the elevator. He relaxed a little.

  “Well, yes, actually…you can. Ihope, anyway.” Joel took a step inside the room, easing the door closed a hair, so that he and the bellboy were out of sight of anyone who might happen by in the corridor. He pulled a folded bill from a pocket and offered it to the kid.

  Todd unfolded the fifty.

  “I’d like to ask a favor of you,” Joel said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Joel smiled. He unfolded the photocopy of Ariel’s picture and handed it to the young man. “I was wondering if by chance you had seen this woman here?”

  The kid frowned at the picture and said, “Not that I remember, sir. No.” He looked up and then handed the photocopy back to Joel. “But I’m not supposed to discuss our clientele, sir. It’s hotel policy.” Now he was frowning at Joel, suddenly suspicious and uncomfortable.

  “Oh, I understand, I understand,” Joel said on the defensive.

  Todd reached out to return the fifty.

  “No, no,” Joel said. “You keep that.” And he pulled out another fifty-dollar bill and held it out. But this time, the kid only looked at him. “I’m not asking you to tell me anything about anyone, except if you’ve happened to see this young lady around the hotel at any point in the past couple of days. There’s no harm in that, is there?”

  The kid studied him for a few seconds, staring him dead in the eye.

  A bead of sweat trickled down from Joel’s armpit.

  Finally, the kid said, “I suppose not.” And he snatched the fifty from Joel’s grasp. He took another, longer look at the face on the photocopy. “No. I don’t remember seeing her. Doesn’t mean she wasn’t here though, sir. So many people come and go every day. And I only see the folks who come through during my shift.”

  “Of course.” Joel nodded.

  “Why do you need to find her?”

  Joel had prepared for this. “Well, to be honest with you, Todd, she’s my daughter.”

  Todd looked at the photo, then looked skeptically at Joel. “Looks a little old to be your daughter.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Todd considered this. He examined the picture more closely. Then he asked, “Why not show this to the front desk? They see everyone who comes through. They could help you more than I could.”

  “You’re right, and I probably will. But I saw you, and just thought I’d ask.”

  Clearly uncomfortable, Todd said, “I wish I could help, sir, but—”

  “Tell you what,” Joel said. “You keep that photo. And you keep the cash—you’ve earned it. Just keep your eyes peeled over the next couple of days, maybe show it around to some of the other staff. You can find me in room ten-eighteen. Or ask her to call me there. Okay? It’d be a big help, Todd.”

  Todd looked very uncomfortable, but a hundred bucks was a hundred bucks, and all he had to do was throw the photocopy in the garbage and forget he ever saw this guy. And that’s what he fully intended to do. He shrugged. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

  “Great, great. Listen, Todd. I appreciate it.”

  Todd watched the man open the door and step out into the corridor.

  Joel had half a dozen copies of the photo in his room. The conversation with the bellboy had been spur-of-the-moment. It couldn’t hurt. Perhaps he could have one set of eyes working for him at the Waldorf and one set at the apartment building on East Fifty-seventh. That way he didn’t hav
e to be at both places at all times. If somebody spotted her, they could contact him in his room or leave a simple message for him at the front desk. For a moment he seriously considered approaching a manager or the front desk with the same request but quickly shrugged off the notion. It was probably best just to leave the footwork to Crouder.

  He wasn’t sure how much he trusted this Todd character to do any more than rip off his hundred bucks. But the money was the last thing on his mind, and anything the kid might see or hear could very well make the difference between finding Megan or losing her forever.

  Megan had retained very few memories of the United States from her childhood. She hadn’t been back to America since she was twelve and had spent nearly all of those years in California. This was her first visit to New York City.

  She inserted her quarter and looked through the viewer that was mounted to the railing at the top of the Empire State Building. She couldn’t help but smile. Olin St. John stood behind her, his hands in the pockets of his coat. He’d been to New York many times on business. And though he had some business to take care of while he was here, he had designated this trip primarily for leisure and for celebration.

  Megan was acting like a child with a new toy. She pivoted the viewer, taking in the cityscape. Olin took a step forward and put his arms around her. She giggled, pointing to this and that in the distance. He kissed her on the neck. A biting wind coursed through the viewing area, and she grabbed him by the wrist, urging him to hurry back to the warmth of the elevator.

  They found a cozy little bar a few blocks from the Empire State Building. She found a table while Olin waded through a crowd to the bar and ordered drinks. Megan took a long sip of her Chivas, plenty happy to finally have her insides kick-started by a little alcohol. Olin ignored his Heineken and stared at her.