“The vice president isdead?” Brooke’s words came out in a gasp.
“It’s been all over thenews,” Grace said. “The president made an announcement yesterday morning. You didn’t hear?”
“No! No!…I…I guess it was while I was on the train.” Brooke fell into the big recliner, every inch of her psyche flooded beyond overload. “James Ettinger…killed?”
“Yes. Not much has been released, yet. I thought—”
Brooke shot out of the chair. “I’ve got to get back to New York! Now! Today!”
“But—”
Brooke was already moving past her, wide-eyed and frenzied. “This is phenomenal! I can’t…” She threw her closet door open, stumbling over yesterday’s clothes heaped at the foot of her bed. “I can’t believe it!”
“Brooke! Please,” her mother was saying, doing her best to calm her daughter.
“I’ve got to call the airport…get a flight out in the next couple of—”
“Brooke…I—”
“How can this be…I mean, the explosion and the vice president killed, all in the same—” Brooke suddenly froze.
“Honey?” Grace said, touching a hand to her hair. “Are you okay?”
Brooke was silent. She stared at the closet door. “Mom, can you give me a minute?” she said as she swung her bedroom door toward her mother. Grace backed away as the door snapped shut.
Brooke sat on the edge of her bed. The gears of her mind were churning, and her heart was racing. A thought had occurred to her. An absurd consideration. It was ludicrous, preposterous—but there it was all the same. Her mouth went dry, and a hammering pain started in her head.
Her backpack was on the dresser. She stared at it for the longest time from her perch on the edge of the bed, paralyzed by a foreboding notion. The springs of her bed groaned as she slowly stood. She opened the zipper of the main compartment of her pack. She took a deep breath, releasing it slowly through pursed lips. The window above her dresser looked out over a small patch of lawn bordered by chain-link. The snow outside the window was undisturbed.
She removed the parcel from her pack and set it on a cleared space on the dresser. She fetched a pair of scissors from the desk in the corner and made a long gash in the brown paper. She peeled back the brown paper, revealing the cover of a book. She flipped the book over, then back, studying it. It was just a book.
Great Expectations.
But she knew there had to be more to this than met the eye. So, following this instinct, she touched a hand to the book’s cover, and opened it.
The book was hollow. And inside was a videotape. A creeping sensation raised the tiny hairs on her arms. The tape was not labeled.
The wordBeacon had struck her as oddly familiar when she’d first seen it at the post office, but nothing specific about it had come to mind. It had simply seemed curious. But now a cold chill creeped through her as she remembered the Secret Service’s designation for James Ettinger.
Directly opposite the foot of her bed was a thigh-high unfinished wooden table with drawers. Atop the table was her VCR and nineteen-inch television. She sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV and fed the videocassette into the VCR. The remote was in the drawer. She thumped the Play button.
The machine whirred, and the screen went from fuzzy to black. She leaned back against the bed. When the face of Vice President James Ettinger appeared, she gasped reflexively. He was dressed in a bathrobe, and his hair was slightly disheveled. He stared awkwardly at the camera for a moment or two, as if unsure whether it was yet recording. He took a sip from a glass of water, and cleared his throat to speak. Brooke sat transfixed. The man on the screen took a breath, and then spoke directly at the camera:
“Hello. My name is James Highfield Ettinger, vice president of the United States. Today is the seventeenth of December. By the time anyone views this tape, I will have resigned from office…”
A few minutes before noon, St. John entered the Waldorf-Astoria and rode an elevator up to his room. His self-loathing had peaked. All his greatest fears had come to pass. To allow himself to stop thinking and acting like a professional, even for a minute, was so amateurish it was vile. And now he was paying for his lapse.
He had taken a cab to the bar and grill where he and Megan had agreed to meet for lunch. He’d gone there in the off chance Albertwood was bluffing. But the photo was all the truth he’d needed. The photo didn’t lie. Megan had not been at the bar and grill. If they harmed her in any way, the remainder of his existence would be a campaign of retribution devoted to making sure that each of those involved died a heinous death at his hands. He was trained to find anyone, anywhere. And he was trained in methods to make the pain last just as long as he desired. He almost wished they’d provoke him. They had found him. He could most certainly find them. It would be an utter joy to pick them off one at a time. Maybe skin them alive.
The room was just as they’d left it that morning. The bed was in disarray, the sheets twisted into vines and sagging to the floor. Clothes were strewn about. What to leave and what to take?
The clock was ticking.
The girl’s name and her address in Syracuse were written on the back of the photograph that the old freak had provided him. If he booked a flight now, he could be there this afternoon. But if all flights were booked for the day, he’d have to drive. That would eat up valuable time he simply couldn’t afford. A private aircraft would cut down on travel time and let him focus on the girl and the tape. He decided the latter would be best. He’d also keep the room and come back to it when this whole mess was over. His time would be better spent in the air, not folding shirts.
Twenty-four hours ago he and Megan had been two lovers beginning a new life together. Now she was a hostage of his trade. Even if he managed to pluck her out alive, their relationship would change forever. She would probably know who he really was and what he’d done for a living. Whether that would matter to her or not, he couldn’t say. He’d lied to her. He’d deceived her. She was engaged to a professional killer. And now she knew it. Or soon would.
If the planets aligned in his favor, he could even be back in the city late tonight. It was simply a matter of putting a bullet through the girl and getting the tape to Albertwood. But something in his gut told him this wasn’t going to be that clear-cut.
It was tempting to consider shucking the whole business. What if he spent the day and a half tracking down Albertwood, freeing Megan, and leaving a trail of carnage in his wake? The obvious problem with this strategy was that it put their future in jeopardy. Albertwood clearly had powerful connections. Albertwood’s people had no trouble picking him out of the multitudes of New York City. And he had no qualms about sticking a gun in a young woman’s ear.
No, he’d be going to Syracuse.
He’d take no luggage. Just the Glock and the info on the girl.
He sat in a chair at a table by the window and opened a phone book, flipping through entire chunks of pages until he found the Yellow Pages. He overshot theA s and had to backtrack. There was a slew of private charter services in theAviation listings. He only needed one. Money was no factor.
Near the bottom of the page was an advertisement for Atlantic General Aviation. AGA’s fleet included both Learjets and prop-driven aircraft. It was a place to start. They were located at a private airfield in Long Island. St. John dialed the phone. They were booked for the day.
He had better luck with his second choice, Eastern Charter, which, based on their small ad, appeared to be a smaller outfit. Their hangar was located in the general aviation section at JFK. He got them on the line. A woman with a husky smoker’s voice quoted him a price for a one-way flight to Syracuse, New York.
By the time they fueled up the Cessna and went through the whole maintenance routine, he’d be lucky to be off the ground by 3P .M., more like 3:30. He made the reservation under the name Allan Price. He tore the page of the phone book, folded it, and tucked it in a coat pocket.
&nb
sp; There was bottled water in the minibar. He screwed off the cap and took a long sip. His thoughts went to Megan. He hated himself for putting her in danger. His chosen profession was vicious and cutthroat, and he had to treat the threat against her life as impending. At the same time, though, he could not afford to dwell on her safety and treatment. There was a job to do, and there was a deadline. He simply had to perform, do it right, and be swift about it. No hesitation, no second-guessing.
All he had was the photo of the girl, Brooke Weaver, and her parents’ address in Syracuse. That should have been enough. He’d make it work. He folded the info into a pocket.
He looked at his watch. 12:30P .M.
He needed to be at the airport in two hours.
There was a full clip in the Glock. He checked that it was on safety and tucked it away. Thankfully, since he was flying out of the general aviation section of JFK, he wouldn’t have to pass through any metal detectors. He could carry the gun on him every inch of the way.
He made a quick pass through the hotel suite, making certain that everything was in order. When he was satisfied, he stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut. It locked automatically. He headed to the elevator.
The elevator doors opened onto the main lobby, and St. John strode purposefully past the service counter, heading for the Park Avenue entrance. A dozen paces from the doors, a hand touched him on the shoulder. Startled, St. John jerked away quickly, turning to look.
A young man dressed in a Waldorf-Astoria uniform smiled sheepishly, and said, “I’m sorry if I startled you, sir.”
St. John had been lost in his own thoughts. Lost in the day and evening ahead. “No…not at all.” He noticed the boy’s name badge saidTodd. “Not at all, Todd.”
Todd glanced around him anxiously. “I hate to bother you, sir. But I think there’s something you might want to know.”
“What is it?” he said to the boy impatiently.
Todd cleared his throat nervously and said, “Sir, perhaps it would be better if we spoke in private.”
St. John hesitated for a beat, then nodded. “Very well.”
Todd motioned for him to follow through a side door, which was posted with a metal plate that readSTAFF ONLY . They descended a short flight of stairs. Todd led him into a small utilities area and pulled the double doors closed.
Todd reached behind his back and removed something from a pants pocket. It was a folded sheet of paper. “Sir, yesterday morning a man approached me and handed me this, asking if I’d seen the woman in this photo. At the time, I hadn’t. He said he was trying to find her. Said he was related to her or she was his kid or something, but was pretty vague. This morning as I was working, I believe I saw the woman in the photo leaving the hotel. And she was with you.” Todd unfurled the sheet of copier paper, handing it over.
Ever cautious, St. John took the page in his hand, his eyes still on the bellboy. Then he let his gaze fall to the black-and-white photograph. What he saw stunned him. On the page was a photo of Megan, or someone who looked astoundingly like Megan.
Todd continued, “I was a little suspicious of the guy. He paid me a hundred bucks to keep my eyes out. I shrugged him off. To be honest, I’d forgotten about it. Then I saw her with you this morning, and thought you’d want to be made aware.”
“What else did he say?” St. John said. He took the boy by the sleeve of his shirt and ushered him farther back into a corner, away from the door. “What did he look like? Did he give his name or say how to contact him?”
The kid nodded. “That’s his room number there on the page.” He stabbed a finger at the photocopy. “He jotted it there himself.”
Suddenly swept up in an all-new wave of nervous energy, St. John struggled to take it all in.It had to have been Albertwood’s people, he thought.That’s how they found us! They must have seen—
What? What had the kid said?
“Room number? Room numberwhere?” St. John asked.
Todd’s eyebrows went up, as if the answer was obvious. He said, “Well, here in the hotel.”
“The hotel? You mean,here?”
“Right. The number’s right there on the page. Room ten-eighteen.”
Someone had been looking for Megan, had come to their hotel showing around a crude photo of her, and had even taken a room there. Could he still be there? Clearly, Albertwood had had the hotel staked out. There had probably been copies of the photo passed out all over the city in hopes of finding them. But how had they known what she looked like? Or that she would be with him? Or even that they were together? It had been years—that he knew of—since he’d last been photographed. So how would they know anything about him, let alone whom he was dating?
And why would they have needed to keep tabs on him? Had that been the plan the whole time? None of it made sense. Why hadn’t they told him about the girl in Syracuse in advance? Then he would have been able to better prepare.
“Did he speak with anyone else in the hotel, that you know of?” he said to the kid.
“I really don’t know.”
St. John took out his wallet and tipped the kid handsomely. “Listen,” he said. “You did the right thing coming to me. If you see this guy again, leave a message for me at the front desk. I’m in room eight-oh-seven. Got that?”
Todd nodded. “Like I said before, I’d forgotten about him altogether until I spotted you and your wife. Then I got to thinking it was kind of creepy that this guy would be trying to hunt down somebody’s wife or whatever, you know?”
St. John nodded, a thousand nerve endings curling beneath the skin of his back. “Keep this to yourself,” he said.
He returned to the main lobby. He noticed then that he’d begun to perspire. His armpits were damp. The old fears were rising. His throat was tight. He needed to mellow, to fall into the zone, to let his instincts take over. Someone had hunted Megan down within the Waldorf-Astoria. And whoever it was might very well still be there, or come back very shortly. But now St. John had the man’s room number. Charge a mistake to their team, he mused. Finally he’d gotten a break.
If he could surprise the guy in 1018, he might just be able to turn the tables on Albertwood. Surely the man in 1018 would know where Albertwood was keeping Megan. If they were expecting him to be in Syracuse tonight, he could catch them off guard and snatch her out from under them. Besides, he had no guarantee that Albertwood would honor the business deal. He had already reneged once. What was to stop him from pulling the same stunt twice? He now had an hour and a half to get to JFK. He couldn’t miss that flight. But the man in 1018 might just make the flight to Syracuse unnecessary. Either way, he had to make a move.
He double-checked that his Glock 9mm was handy, then left the rest room, crossing the lobby to the elevators. It was time to deal with the man in room 1018.
31
1:07P.M.
JOEL LAY FACEDOWN IN BED, SLEEPING LIKE A ROCK.TWOand a half hours earlier he’d staggered to his hotel room and fussed with the buttons on his shirt, finally peeling the thing off his arms and slinging it to the floor. He’d fallen into bed, then kicked off his shoes. His pants were still on.
The shades were drawn and all the lights were out. The only illumination in the room was the slight glow of daylight coming through the heavy drapery over the window. There was just enough visibility to vaguely make out the shapes of the furniture.
The cold and flu formula had gone straight into action. It hadn’t occurred to him to check the box to see whether or not it was a nondrowsy formula. No matter. It had knocked him out like a board to the side of his head, but he needed the sleep. His head had no more than hit the pillow before he was unconscious and he was floating along through kaleidoscope-patterned galaxies.
St. John had trained himself to work with little or nothing. In this case, his only available choice was a butter knife from a room service cart back down the hallway. The cutting blade was rigid and smooth, and just flat enough for him to slip it between the doorjamb and the do
or facing. He sidled up to the door to room 1018, throwing a glance over his shoulder to check that no one was coming. There was no light coming from beneath the door—either the guy was gone, or he was sacked out. He was confident he could enter the room undetected, even if the guy was a light sleeper.
He worked the blade of the knife down the narrow groove until he hit something solid, then angled it as best he could, held it firmly in place with the one hand, and gave the butt of the knife handle a good thump with the ball of his free hand. The knife sank in about a half an inch—just right. He double-checked over his shoulder, then, using the doorjamb as a fulcrum, pressured the knife handle to the left. He turned the doorknob and eased into the darkened space.
Having stepped from the well-lighted hallway, he was momentarily blinded by the darkness of the room. He eased the door shut gently. He then squatted in the corner where the wall and the door met, making time for his eyes to adjust a bit. He remained frozen and silent.
St. John took a careful step forward, easing the sole of his shoe down onto the carpeted floor. His eyes were still adjusting. The entry opened into a sitting area, and in the dark he could make out an open doorway to his immediate right that he presumed led to the bedroom. He eased the Glock from his coat and squirreled the silencer onto the end of the muzzle. The bedroom, like the sitting room, was dark and silent and still.
A figure was lying sprawled facedown on the bed, covered from the waist down by blankets. St. John wondered what kind of thug Albertwood had employed who would be asleep in the middle of the afternoon? Then he noticed the cold and flu formula box on the bedside table, and put two and two together.That should make my work easier, he thought.
He readied the Glock in his right hand as he approached one side of the bed. He wanted to make as little mess in the room as possible. Also, he wasn’t too keen on leaving a body in the room. If the man’s body was discovered in the hotel, there would be an investigation, and eventually the bellboy, Todd, would come around with his story, and suddenly the authorities would have a very good description of the man responsible for the murder.
The Greater Good Page 19