“Unbelievably lucky,” the surgeon had explained to Jordan. “I can’t begin to tell you how close this was to a lethal injury. They just missed his spine, his heart . . .”
Wincing at the lousy cup of coffee in his hand, Jordan said with a smile, “I didn’t know Danny had a heart.” He was hoping to be spared further torment, but the doctor would not be deterred. He described all the gruesome details of Peters’ surgery before Jordan could get away and spend a few moments on his own.
Just as he settled into that reverie, he heard someone say his name.
He slowly raised his head to see a broad, stern-looking man wearing a state trooper’s uniform and a chest full of medals. “Yes.”
“I’m Captain Reynolds,” the man said, his speech as stiff as his posture. “Jack Collins is one of my men.”
Sandor stood, his lean frame of just over six feet tall bringing him eye to eye with the trooper. “Jordan,” he said, offering his hand as he made a quick assessment of this authoritarian old cop.
Captain Reynolds looked like one of the tough, leathery career officers Sandor had served under, certainly a man who had experienced his share of fighting in the military. Now, years later, his weary, gray eyes said he had spent too much time in a rural area, chasing after too many drunk drivers and too many petty criminals, no longer seeing any real action. His glory days were long gone.
Reynolds’ grip was firm, and he held Jordan’s hand as if he didn’t mean to let go. “They tell me you saved Jack’s life.”
“Bit of an exaggeration, I think.”
“I’m not so sure. If you left him there, doctor says he would have bled to death as easily as anything else. You took a real chance, going back for him the way you did. Could’ve run for it yourself, right?”
Jordan was embarrassed for about the twentieth time that afternoon, and since Reynolds was obviously not the sentimental type, he figured he should put an end to this part of the discussion as politely as he could. “Look Captain, I needed a gun, and I figured Collins had one.”
Reynolds showed him as tight a smile as he’d seen in a while. It was one of those official smiles Jordan would get from a commanding officer who wanted to demonstrate his appreciation for something Sandor had done, without getting emotional about it. “That’s a lotta crap,” the Captain said, making the statement sound as friendly as hell. “I know a combat vet when I meet one, Sandor. You didn’t go back for a gun. You went back because you were trained not to leave your men behind.”
“Homework, Captain?”
“Yeah, checked up on you some. Sorry I never met you overseas. Could’ve used you in Nam.”
“Before my time,” Jordan said. Then he shrugged. “Wouldn’t have mattered anyway, right?”
“Probably not.” Captain Reynolds shook his head. “Buy you a real cup of coffee?”
“Thanks, but I wanted to stop by to see Collins, if I can.”
Reynolds nodded. “We’ll catch up a little later then. I have a few questions for you.”
“Right,” Jordan said.
Reynolds stood there for a moment, just to let Sandor know who was in charge. Jordan thought about asking if he was dismissed, but Reynolds turned around, executing something close to a smart about-face, then walked away.
As Sandor strolled down the hospital corridor, it seemed everyone there recognized him. Small town, big news. He stopped at the nurse’s station where he exchanged smiles with a cute brunette sitting behind a long, white counter.
“May I see Trooper Collins now? I understand he’s feeling a little better, and I’m—”
“He’s in the ICU, Mr. Sandor,” she interrupted. “His only visitors should be immediate family. But for you,” she added with a self-conscious tilt of her head, “I’ll speak with the doctor right away.”
She lingered an extra moment to smile into Jordan’s dark eyes, then stepped inside a glass enclosed area behind her, picked up the telephone and, watching Jordan through the partition, made her call. The discussion was brief. She hung up and came back to the counter.
“Follow me,” she said.
The intensive care unit was a jungle of antiseptic technology with large, complex machinery dwarfing the patients it surrounded. Beeping sounds and audiovisual monitors animated the peaceful, yet impersonal, infirmary. The nurse led Jordan through a maze of computers and stainless steel apparatus to Jack Collins bedside.
“This is Mr. Sandor,” she whispered softly, “the man who saved you.”
Jordan could have done without that introduction. “They’re the ones who saved you,” he protested mildly as he gestured toward the equipment and staff around them. “I just kept you company till they got there.” Collins looked about twenty-five, a young officer who had made a rookie’s mistake. A more experienced trooper wouldn’t have gone down that way, his gun still snapped into the holster.
Collins did his best to smile. He was rigged up to intravenous tubing, his head and neck bandaged, his complexion the color of the sheets pulled up to his chin. Jordan thought he looked pretty good, considering the last time he had seen him he was crumpled in a heap on the blacktop, oozing blood.
“They told me what you did,” he said in a hoarse, unsteady voice. His tired eyes searched Jordan’s face for something, then looked past him. “Thanks.”
“Seems you’re already on the mend,” Jordan said cheerfully. “I just wanted to stop by, see how you’re doing.”
The nurse, who remained at his side, said, “He’s doing fine, Mr. Sandor, but he needs his rest. Just a minute or two, please.”
Jordan nodded. “Right,” he said, watching her slowly walk away, giving himself a good look at her exit. “Nice girl.”
“Yeah,” Collins agreed. “Grew up right nearby, in Saugerties. You’re not from around here, Mr. Sandor.”
“It’s Jordan. And no, I’m from the city. Came up to visit an old army pal, Dan Peters. Know him?”
“Not really. Think I heard the name when he moved into town.” He spoke haltingly from the combination of pain and medication. “It’s been a while since anyone rented the Larsen place.”
“But you never met him.”
“Don’t think I ever laid eyes on him.” Collins blinked slowly, the drugs balancing him on the edge of sleep. “I hear they did a number on him too.”
“They did.”
“Captain told me. Coulda been both of us, hadn’t been for you.”
“Forget it,” Jordan said.
“How’d it go . . . down at the barracks?”
“The questioning, you mean? All right, I guess. I gave a description of the little guy with the automatic. I only saw the driver for a second, caught a glimpse of him in the mirror.”
“Driver’s the one who plugged me.”
“Tall blond guy,” Jordan said.
“Yeah. Captain tells me you gave a pretty good ID on both. License plate too. How in hell d’you manage that?”
“Instincts, that’s all.”
“Sure,” Collins said, sounding like he was about to pass out.
“Strange looking pair, weren’t they?”
Collins opened his eyes a bit. “How do you mean?”
“The little guy was Arab. The driver looked like an All-American linebacker.”
“Yeah,” Collins said with a slight nod. He was fading fast now.
“I wanted to ask you something, Jack. All right if I call you Jack?”
Collins tried to smile again, his lips dry and uneven. “Ask away.”
“They tell me you stopped them for speeding. How did it happen? You give them the siren?”
“Uh huh.”
“And they stopped right away?”
“Sure. Probably knew they were gonna blast me.” The idea of that seemed to rouse him. “If they took off, they had to know I’d go for the radio.”
Jordan nodded. That was how he figured it. “Did they say anything? Anything at all?”
Collins took a long, hard swallow. “Not a word. Sonuva
bitch just nailed me.” He hesitated. “I never even got my gun out of the holster.”
Jordan frowned.
“Why do you ask?”
“Nothing really,” Jordan said. “I just heard them yelling to each other. I thought maybe if you heard something . . .”
“Nothing.” He paused again and drew a shallow, awkward breath. “Now that you mention it though . . . I thought I heard them speaking in a foreign language when I was on the ground. I wouldn’t have known French from Chinese by then.”
“Don’t worry about it. They’ll get picked up soon enough.”
“The car,” Collins said, his voice growing weaker as the medication was getting the best of him. “Captain said they found it.”
Jordan nodded, pretending to know what he was talking about.
“Down by the reservoir. Another set of tire tracks. Second car waiting for them.”
“Right,” Jordan said.
“Professionals,” Collins muttered.
“We were all lucky to get out of there,” Sandor said.
Collins reached out and took hold of Jordan’s arm. “You were the luck.”
“Just one more question, then I’ll let you get some rest. Know a guy up here, name of Jimmy Ryan?”
Collins started to shake his head, but it hurt too much. “No. Can’t say as I do.”
“Never mind.” Sandor patted his hand and offered a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. Your boys will catch them.”
Collins looked up at him in a way that told Jordan he knew it was a lie. “They knew what they were about,” he said. “They’re long gone, aren’t they?”
“We’ll see.”
The young man hesitated, then said, “Take care of yourself.”
“You too,” Jordan said and turned away.
Collins was asleep before he left the room.
THREE
Sandor found Captain Reynolds just outside the ICU, where he was quietly giving instructions to two troopers standing guard in the hospital corridor assigned to protect Jack Collins.
“Captain.”
Reynolds turned from his men.
“I was wondering if we could have that cup of coffee.”
Reynolds told his men he would be gone a while, then took Jordan by the arm and led him down the hallway. “How’s Jack?”
“Good as can be expected.”
The Captain nodded. “Come on, we’ll take a walk.”
They sat across from each other in a booth in the small diner a couple of blocks from the hospital. Reynolds told Sandor about his days in Vietnam with the 101st Airborne, information Jordan had not requested, but the trooper wanted to share all the same.
“Ran that computer check on you,” Reynolds told him after he finished his personal reminiscence. “Like I said before, saw some of your service record.”
Jordan waited.
“Not all of it, though. Some major gaps. Looked to me like CID blocks. Where’d you disappear to after your first tour? Military Intelligence, am I right?”
“An oxymoron,” Jordan replied.
“Like ‘civil servant’?”
Jordan smiled.
“So you were still in some kind of government service.”
“Some kind.”
“And now you’re some kind of reporter?”
“Some kind.”
“I’m not a big fan of reporters.”
“Neither am I.”
Reynolds gave him a look that told him saving Jack Collins was not a license for any smart mouth crap, not if he knew what was good for him. “So, what happened to government duty?”
Jordan looked up from his coffee and met the captain’s eyes. “It got old, Captain. Too many friends got sold out by too many fat-ass bureaucrats.”
“It’s all part of the game, son.”
“It shouldn’t be a game.”
“Lapsed patriot, eh?”
“No, still a patriot,” Jordan said. “Just too much bullshit.”
Reynolds shook his head, making a face like he just remembered something he never wanted to think about again. “Yeah, lost my taste for those games myself. Took my retirement, came back home. Got this nice job, working towards a second pension. Local politics are a piece of cake once you’ve done the Potomac shuffle. It’s funny though, even now. Always thought I’d spend my entire life in the military.”
“Any regrets?”
“Sometimes. Nine Eleven happened to all of us, know what I mean?”
Sandor nodded.
“Especially when you’ve worn the uniform. Made me want to re-enlist.”
Sandor stared directly into Reynolds’ eyes.
“So what really went down today?” Reynolds asked.
“I was hoping you’d tell me.”
The captain did not reply, retaining his erect bearing as he took a drink of his coffee.
“If I knew I’d tell you,” Sandor said.
“I wonder,” Reynolds said. He shook off another thought. “I suppose I should get over to the barracks, see what they’ve turned up.”
“Tell me about the second car, Captain, the one they had waiting near the reservoir.”
Reynolds took a moment to study Sandor. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Let’s just say there are a lot of rumors flying around here today.”
Reynolds frowned. “They were professionals, that much is certain.”
“That’s exactly what Collins said.”
“They had the second car waiting. Made the switch and took off, headed for God knows where.”
“Were there any more victims today?” Jordan’s question caught the captain halfway between sitting and standing.
Reynolds nodded slowly. “Who have you been talking to?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might.”
“Okay.” He sat back down. “Call it a guess, then.”
“That the truth?”
“It is. I heard about the second car at the hospital. The other part is just common sense. Two pro shooters didn’t come up here to nail a cop for a speeding ticket.”
Reynolds nodded again. “Okay. They took out a guy, name of James Ryan.”
Jordan did not respond to the mention of the name, the man he and Peters were on their way to see. Reynolds searched Sandor’s expression for any sign of recognition, but saw nothing.
“Ryan just moved up here a month or so ago,” Reynolds said. “We’re checking it out now.”
“Uh huh.”
“We backtracked from where Collins first spotted the car. Didn’t take much. The house this Ryan was renting isn’t far from there.”
Sandor waited.
“Apparently, they caused that boy some pain before they did him.”
“How’s that?”
“Tied him up and beat the living crap out of him. Then put two in his head.”
“You been there yet to have a look yourself?”
“I’m going over, soon as I clean up some of the paperwork at the barracks.”
“Mind if I ride along?”
“Not regulation, you know.”
“Neither is the hole in Dan Peters’ chest.”
Reynolds paused. “What the hell. Need you at HQ anyway, to look through some of the mug shots they brought down from Albany, the usual routine.”
Jordan slid out of the booth. “Mind if I make a quick stop first? Just want to see how Peters is doing.”
“Not a problem,” Reynolds said as he stood.
Jordan grinned. “Might even like to have a look around. Beautiful country you have here.”
The captain fixed him with a hard stare. “You know, Sandor, I may be from a small town in upstate New York, but I’m no yokel. You follow me?”
“Yes sir,” Jordan said, stopping with his jacket half pulled on.
“Relax,” the captain said, giving him a slap on the shoulder. “I just want you to keep it in mind, is all.”
FOUR
At the same time Jordan was havi
ng coffee with Captain Reynolds, a uniformed waiter at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York was delivering a meal to a suite on the seventeenth floor. The young man wheeled in a large tray of fresh orange juice, poached eggs, several rashers of bacon, wheat toast, and a pot of espresso. Also at hand were the pleasant incidentals this grand hotel provides—fresh marmalade and preserves, poppy seed rolls with sweet butter, and a fine setting of flatware and china. The sitting room was decorated in a sedate yet affluent style, an elegant motif harmonizing with the cool blues and greens of the drapes, warm woods, and the rich brocades of the upholstery.
“Will that be all, sir?” the young man asked.
The well-dressed Saudi gentleman seated before his mid-afternoon breakfast did not look up. One of the two men attending him pressed a tip into the waiter’s hand and escorted him out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Mahmoud Rahmad removed the cloth napkin from the serving cart, then stared down at his decidedly American meal. He did not speak until his assistant returned to the room.
“The timing was truly unfortunate,” Rahmad said without looking up. His English was polished and formal, an accent produced by a British education. His features were smallish and soft, his complexion dusky, and his eyes were as dark as onyx. His black hair was combed straight back and kept neatly in place. A man in his fifties, he obviously took great care with his appearance. “However,” he continued, “it was a mistake to leave them behind.” He poured himself a cup of the dark coffee while his two subordinates watched in silence.
“But sir,” his younger assistant protested, “Kerrigan called him back to the car. Surely Mustafa could not risk being left there.”
Rahmad looked up for the first time, taking a moment before he spoke. “Mustafa was wrong not to have completed what he had begun.” The young aide grew uneasy under his superior’s critical gaze and lowered his eyes. Rahmad turned back to his meal. “How concerned you are for Mustafa. Do you really believe our American friend would have driven away without him?”
“I do not know Kerrigan, sir. I am sorry.”
“That is quite all right. Kerrigan is a skilled operative, and he will also be made to answer for his actions. Nevertheless, the problem created still remains.”
He poked at his eggs with a fork. “In England they serve kippers,” he observed with a smile, which amounted to a slight parting of his lips, revealing white teeth that gleamed in contrast to his brown, oily complexion. “I came to enjoy kippers. In many things I have become infected by occidental ways.” He laid down his fork, too perturbed by the notion to continue eating. “Here, for instance, we engage in thought and discussion when action is at a premium.”
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