by Stuart Woods
“I want my daughter to have the money.”
“She will have it, if you complete your task before dying. We do not pay for work undone.”
None of this came as a surprise to Rawls, who had given similar briefings to others over the years.
“What is my daughter’s address?” Rawls asked.
“It is 1010 Fifth Avenue,” Jim replied, “across from the Metropolitan Museum, apartment 41A.” He gave Rawls a card with her phone number and his own.
The copter rose and flew quietly on toward Long Island at three thousand feet, in clouds. Rawls could catch an occasional glimpse of the ground. After nearly two hours of flight—helicopters are not all that fast—the aircraft slowed and descended, apparently on an instrument approach. As they set down, an SUV pulled up outside, and his luggage was loaded.
“Good luck,” Jim said. He didn’t offer his hand.
* * *
—
Rawls checked into his room, which was large and comfortable, and switched on the TV for background noise while he unpacked.
He found some little bottles of whiskey in the bar fridge and poured himself a bourbon, then he sat down and sort of watched CNN. He reflected that, when he got up this morning, he would not have guessed he’d be sleeping at the Carlyle that night. He found a menu and ordered a club sandwich from room service.
16
Rocky sat up in bed; it was late afternoon. “What are we doing for dinner?”
“We’re going out,” Stone said firmly. “I’m tired of ducking these people. If they try to shoot us, we’ll shoot back. I know that’s contrary to your instructions, but there is such a thing as cabin fever.”
“Am I part of that?”
“Negative. I’d have run amok days ago, if I hadn’t had you for company.”
“And sex.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, kissing her. “What kind of food do you want?”
“Not French,” she said. “Italian, but elegant Italian.”
“That can be arranged,” he said, picking up a phone and booking them into a restaurant.
* * *
—
They arrived at the restaurant on time and were greeted by Gianni, a former headwaiter at Elaine’s, and seated promptly at a table with a good view of the whole room.
“Well chosen,” Rocky said. “Lance would approve.”
“If I know Lance, he’s watching us on his iPhone right now.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” They were halfway through their first drinks and had ordered, when Stone froze, his gaze fixed on the front door.
“What’s wrong?” Rocky asked.
“Don’t look now, as the saying goes, but soon. I think one of the two men who entered is the supposed assassin we saw in New York and Paris.”
Rocky took a sip of her drink, laughed, and checked out the new customers being seated. “You are correct,” she said, nuzzling his shoulder, “that is Izak Pentkovsy, and the man with him is his younger brother. We have somehow landed in the hornet’s nest. Did you do this intentionally, in a fit of misplaced bravado?”
“I did not. I’m not that brave.”
“I don’t see any bulges under jackets, so they’re probably not armed.”
“The Italian tailors they have apparently been visiting are skilled at hiding bulges.”
“I’ll keep an eye on them,” she said.
“Rocky,” Stone said, “do you remember a story from the Agency, now a legend, about how Katharine Lee, during her tenure there, was able to nail an Agency officer who had been blackmailed into supplying secrets to the Soviets, and who Kate exposed? He later went to prison for a couple of years, until he was pardoned by Will Lee, after he became president.”
“I do remember that. What was his name?”
“His name was Ed Rawls, and he just came into the restaurant and took a seat at the bar.”
Rawls took note of him, and Stone raised a single finger from the table and got a tiny nod in response.
“I’ve stumbled into a few coincidences in my career,” Rocky said, “but never anything like this. I have a feeling that one corner of this triangle has been set up, but I don’t know which one it is.”
“Excuse me for a moment,” Stone said. He rose and walked to the men’s room. He had been there for about a minute, washing his hands, when Ed Rawls entered the room, locked the door behind him, and checked the stalls.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Rawls asked, mildly.
“I might ask the same question of you,” Stone replied.
“Working.”
“Really? I’m playing. What kind of work are you doing?”
“Surveillance, at the moment.”
“Me?”
“No, stupid, two Russian gentlemen.”
“Oh, them.”
“You know them?”
“Only by reputation.”
“They’re dying to know you.”
“I’ve heard something about that.”
“One of us should leave immediately,” Rawls said.
“That would be you,” Stone replied. “We’ve just ordered the risotto. It takes time, and we’re hungry.”
“I’ll communicate later,” Rawls said. He unlocked the door and left the room.
Stone dried his hands, flushed a urinal for effect, and went back to his table.
“What was that?” Rocky said. “He followed you into the men’s room.”
“I noticed that,” Stone replied. “But now he’s gone.” He nodded toward the bar, where Rawls’s stool had been vacated.
“Well, thank God for that. Do you think Lance sent him?”
“No, I don’t. I think if Lance knew about it he would be extremely upset.”
“Why?”
“Because Ed Rawls is still persona non grata with a certain strata of people at Langley, and Lance is probably among them.”
“What do you think is happening?”
“Rawls is the kind of ex-officer that someone might tap for a little off-the-books work. Lance would never get near anything like that. He’d be afraid he’d end up testifying about it before the Senate Intelligence Committee.”
“And that’s the last place on earth Lance would want to be.”
“Tell me,” Stone said, “did you mention to any of your people where we were having dinner tonight?”
“No, not a one. I wanted us to have some privacy.”
“Well, this is the very antithesis of privacy.”
“It certainly is. Do you think Rawls was following us?”
“No, in the men’s room, he mentioned a connection with two Russians. It’s them, not us. Ed was upset that we were here.”
“Do you think the Pentkovskys made him?”
“No. They might have if he’d stayed for dinner and left after they did, but Ed would be too subtle for a boneheaded play like that. Whatever you may think of him, he’s a fine operator.”
“Do you think we should leave?”
“No, they saw Ed come into the men’s room and saw him leave. I don’t think they’ve even noticed us. Let’s not look at them again.”
Their risotto fruiti di mare arrived, and they ate it with gusto and a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet. After that, they had Italian cheesecake for dessert, then espresso and cognac.
While they were on coffee, the Pentkovskys got up and left.
“Whew!” Rocky said. “I thought they’d never go.”
“Everybody goes, eventually,” Stone mused. “Do you hear any gunfire from outside?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“Because it occurs to me that Ed Rawls might have been hired to kill them, not just follow them.”
“You really think that?”
“Tell me, Rocky, would the Agency you know
and love stoop to that sort of action to protect you and me?”
Rocky thought about that. “You, maybe. Not me.”
“I’m flattered,” Stone said.
“Careful,” she replied, “flattery can get you dead.”
17
Rawls stood in a darkened doorway on Madison Avenue and waited. He had done hundreds of stakeouts in his time, and the waiting didn’t bother him. His back did, though, and he leaned against the masonry wall behind him and pressed his spine straight. As long as he held that position, he had no pain.
Madison Avenue was quiet enough at this hour that he heard their footsteps as they turned the corner. He retrieved the 9mm silenced pistol and watched them head uptown on the other side of the street. His sight line kept being interrupted as they passed trees and signage. He got a clear shot at one now and then, but not both of them, and he didn’t want to take the risk of being spotted if he followed them too closely uptown. They had seen him at the bar, and the last thing he needed right now was to become a familiar face to them.
They crossed with the light at Seventy-sixth Street, then were out of sight when he emerged from the doorway. Short of sprinting up the street, causing him to be noticed by passersby, he had no way of catching up before they turned into the Carlyle’s side entrance.
He walked slowly up Madison to give them time to clear the lobby, then turned into the main entrance, where the entrances were to the Café Carlyle, a nightclub, and Bemelmans Bar, a saloon with music. He looked through the glass doorway of Bemelmans, past the pianist, and saw the Pentkovskys sitting at the bar. He quickly sidestepped the door and went up to his room. No use taking the chance of being sighted by them again.
He sat down on the bed, fished out the iPhone he had been given, and dialed the only number he had.
“This is Jim.”
“This is who you figure it is,” Rawls said.
“Do you have sight of them?”
“I did, in the restaurant. But they left, and I couldn’t get a clean shot.”
“What is a clean shot?”
“Let me put it this way: You’ve given me a silenced weapon. Do you want to hear the sound of shattering shop windows on Madison Avenue?”
“Certainly not.”
“Neither do I. That’s what I mean by a clean shot, that and no obstacles. My question is: Do you have any details of their movements tomorrow?”
“I’ll check my sources and call you back.” He hung up.
Rawls got undressed for bed, and he was brushing his teeth when the phone rang. He rinsed, spat, then picked it up. “Yeah?”
“They’ve got a breakfast meeting at eight am tomorrow at the Drake Hotel restaurant,” Jim said.
“That will be jammed with people and employees. It’s the hottest breakfast spot on the Upper East Side, and there’s no good way out at that time of day.”
“I’ll take that as a no,” Jim said.
“Good guess. What else?”
“They’re having dinner at the University Club.”
“Forget it. Do they ever go below Forty-second Street?”
“Little Italy sometimes.”
“That could work very nicely,” Rawls said. “As you may recall, removals have been performed there before. The neighborhood even made it into The Godfather. I’ll need to know where they’re going and at what time, and anything else you can provide.”
“I’ll work on it,” Jim said, then hung up.
* * *
—
Let me get this straight,” Lance Cabot said. “You, the Pentkovskys, and Ed Rawls were all in the same restaurant at the same time last night?”
“Improbable, isn’t it?”
“Improbable on purpose,” Lance said.
“Who would have a motive to get us all there at the same time?”
“I don’t know. That’s what’s annoying me. I mean, I can see how you and the Pentkovskys might coincidentally book into the same restaurant. I just can’t figure why Ed would be there.”
“Lance,” Stone said, “this sounds to me like inner workings of the Agency, and that is something I can’t help you with.”
“You can, if I say you can,” Lance said, stubbornly.
“Okay, how can I help?”
Lance thought about it. “You can’t,” he said, then hung up.
Stone looked across the bed at Rocky, who was demolishing a breakfast sausage. “Lance is angry,” he said.
“He only gets angry when he’s made a mistake, or someone else has and won’t admit it.”
“Has Lance ever admitted a mistake?”
“Not in this millennium,” she replied. “He’s famous in the Agency for not doing that.”
“Neither he nor I can figure Ed Rawls’s being at Caravaggio last evening, along with the Pentkovskys.”
“Do you know what kind of work Rawls specialized in during his career at the Agency?”
“I didn’t know agents specialized.”
“Of course they do, dummy. Think about it.”
“I’ve thought about it, and you’re right.”
“Good answer.”
“I have the impression that Ed was a master of all trades while he was serving.”
“Then he would be a very valuable agent, indeed. Did he ever, to your knowledge, do wet work?”
“Like scuba diving?”
Rocky sighed. “Work that would be illegal if it weren’t being done by an agent. Maybe even then.”
“My guess, from former conversations, would be yes. He’s hinted as much.”
“And he’s fully retired now? On pension?”
“I believe so.”
“Is he the sort of guy who . . . if the Agency asked him to . . . well . . . get his feet wet, he would do it?”
“Again I’m guessing, but probably.”
“Do you think he might have been at the restaurant last night in pursuit of such work?”
“Maybe,” Stone muttered.
“Somebody in the restaurant?”
“I think so. During our encounter in the men’s room he seemed angry at me for being there.”
“Did you recognize anybody in the restaurant except Rawls and the Pentkovskys?”
“One mafioso, who seems always to be there.”
“Not him.”
“Then it has to be either the Pentkovskys or . . .”
“Finish that sentence.”
“You.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” Stone sputtered.
“You were both present.”
“You were present, too,” Stone pointed out.
“If they wanted to get rid of me, they’d just ship me off to some Central American post with no air-conditioning and lots of reptiles, two things that I can’t stand. They’re in my file.”
“I’d love to read your file.”
“Don’t you dare!”
18
Rawls was awakened by heavenly harp music at what seemed to be an unseemly hour. He sat up in bed, seeking the source. His attention was directed to the bedside table, where his two iPhones were charging. One of them was emitting that music, until he managed to shut it off. Eight o’clock, the bedside instrument said.
Shortly, the same phone rang. “Yes?”
“It’s Jim.”
“Swell. Make a note: I rise at ten.”
“Okay,” Jim said. “Our friends are lunching at a Chinese restaurant called Hong Fat, at twelve-thirty.”
“Address?”
“Chinatown.” Jim hung up.
Rawls ordered breakfast, got into a shower, and was clean again by the time the waiter rolled in the cart. After breakfast he checked the weather on his iPhone: raining a lot until after 6 pm. He googled the address for Hong Fat.
At eleven o’clock, Rawls
dressed, armed himself, and got into his trench coat and a hat. He didn’t take the hotel’s umbrella, because it was emblazoned with its name. He went downstairs and asked the doorman to get him a cab, and as he waited, a man came by selling umbrellas and plastic raincoats. He bought one of each.
It took, as he had imagined, nearly an hour to get down to Chinatown, what with traffic and the rain. He got out a block away from the restaurant, put on the raincoat, opened the umbrella, and walked up one side of the street and back. Hong Fat was plainly decorated, without dragon screens or potted plants. It seated few, and practically every seat could be viewed from outside. He crossed the street and walked down the block again, stopping under an awning across the street from the restaurant. His plan was simple: wait for them to study the menu, when they wouldn’t be looking for trouble.
They were ten minutes late and were shown to a table near the door. Rawls checked for their security while he waited for them to get out of their raincoats and sit down. He saw none. As soon as they were absorbed with the menus, he moved the pistol to a trench coat pocket, crossed the street, furled his umbrella, left it in the doorway, and opened the door. He stepped inside, took the pistol from his pocket, shot each of them once in the head, then turned around, exited the restaurant, picked up the umbrella, and walked around the corner, where he lost the plastic raincoat but kept the umbrella, then continued on his way.
He got lucky with a cab: two people got out of one, and he claimed it, asking the driver to take him to Bloomingdale’s. As they neared the department store, fifty minutes later, he called the number.
“This is Jim.”
“The work is done,” he said. “E-mail me the directions to the honeypot.”
“Not quite,” Jim said.
“Say again?”
“One of them is still alive.”
Rawls was stunned. “Which one?”
“The elder brother, Izak. He’s at Bellevue Hospital under his own name. The place is crawling with media, print and TV. The other one is in the city morgue by now. What went wrong?”