He walked back into the living room, slowly surveying the damage. It left the apartment with an eerie coldness, as if he himself had been stripped and beaten by faceless strangers then left alone to suffer the violation and indignity.
When he was convinced he was alone, he went back and slammed the front door.
Make no mistake about it, he told himself, these people are killers, and whatever they want, whatever they believe Jimmy McHugh might have told you, they’ll sure as hell kill you to get it.
Jordan went to the bathroom, placed his gun on the counter, and leaned over the sink to splash cold water on his face. He had a look in the mirror, staring at himself for a moment, studying his dark features, preparing himself.
Back in the bedroom, he sorted through the clutter of shirts and trousers that were scattered across the floor. He had shaved and showered at Dan’s earlier that morning, but was still wearing clothes from the day before. He picked up a pair of gray slacks, a long-sleeved, black polo sweater, and found his favorite black loafers. He quickly changed then returned to the living room, righted a chair, and sat down to make a call. As he reached for the telephone, he saw the line had been cut.
“Sonuvabitch,” he said.
EIGHT
Rahmad’s assassin, Tafallai, was strolling down 76th Street. It was a quiet street by New York City standards, rows of brownstones lining both sides, trees planted in pavement cutouts, circled by short, wrought-iron grating. He moved at an unhurried pace, alert to any movement around him, as he approached Sandor’s building.
When he received the call informing him that his target had returned home, he had stopped at a Korean market and purchased the largest bunch of flowers they had.
He stopped and had a look up and down the street. There was nothing to make him suspicious, no indication that the police had responded to a call about the break-in. He resumed walking until he was directly in front of Sandor’s building, then he turned and headed up the stairs.
Jordan had packed his black leather overnight bag with a few articles of clothing and most of the contents he retrieved from the hidden compartment in his closet, including the Smith & Wesson .45. The smaller handgun, a Walther PPK .380, was already tucked into the back of his waistband.
He needed to make a couple of calls before he left town and, although he had a clean cell in the bag that he had never used before, he didn’t want to use that line. Not yet.
Florence Carter was an attractive black woman who lived directly below him, an actress of stage and screen whenever she could get the work, a waitress the rest of the time.
It was not yet noon, and she was home.
Jordan told her he was having phone problems. She let him in and said he should make himself comfortable.
“You need some privacy?” she asked.
“No, I don’t think so. But thanks.”
She offered him something to drink, but he passed.
“Say, Florence, you didn’t hear anything going on upstairs last night? Or early this morning?”
She shook her head. “I was working last night. What sort of thing you mean?”
“I was away overnight. Thought someone might have been in my apartment.”
“In your apartment?”
“It’s nothing. Just my phones are out. Service guy might have come by or something.”
“No. Not that I know of. My phone is fine.”
“Good. Well, I’ll just be a couple of minutes.”
“Take your time,” she told him.
Jordan sat on the couch and picked up the cordless telephone. When he checked his answering service, there were several messages, including a voicemail from Reynolds in the past hour.
His first call was to Sternlich.
“How bad?” he asked after Jordan had told him about his apartment.
“Like a small tornado ran through my place.”
“Call the police, Jordan.”
“No. Not yet, at least.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“I had enough of the gendarmes yesterday.”
“And what happens when these intruders make a return visit?”
“Maybe I’ll ask them to clean up.”
“I think you ought to make yourself scarce for a while.”
“The idea had crossed my mind. What’ve you found out for me?”
“Nothing yet. I’m a reporter, not a magician.”
“You’re not even a reporter anymore. You’re an editor, remember? Use your connections and get me some answers.”
“I’ll work on it. Please call the police.”
“First I’m going to see Beth,” Jordan told him.
“Beth?”
“We have a lunch date. Thought maybe I should keep it.”
“Why not?” Sternlich said in frustration. “Give her my best.”
“I will. Just call me when you have something.”
Jordan hung up and began dialing a new number.
“I owe you a buck, Florence. I’ve got to call upstate.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said as she answered a buzz from the front door of their small building.
Jordan was transferred three times before he finally got through to Captain Reynolds. “I have some news for you from down here,” he said, then described what he had found when he returned home. “Please don’t tell me to call the locals. You and I know this is no ordinary B and E.”
Reynolds didn’t disagree. “But you should have the place photographed and dusted for prints.”
“I haven’t touched much, believe me. I’d just prefer to put that on hold for a little while.”
“Reason?”
Jordan thought it over, but was distracted by the conversation Florence was having over the intercom.
“I’m getting enough attention right now,” he told Reynolds. “Might be better if these clowns don’t know I’ve been to my apartment yet.”
“That assumes you’re not being watched,” Reynolds warned. “And these are not clowns, Sandor. You know that already. I’ve got to advise you to report this. Off the record, I never heard a thing about it.”
“Agreed, and thanks.”
“Isn’t that something?” Florence was talking to herself. “Who’d be sending me flowers today?”
“How’re the patients doing this morning?” Jordan continued.
“Early report, they’re both stable. Your friend is in better shape than Collins—”
“What did you say, Florence?” asked Jordan.
“—may be safer up here—” Reynolds was still talking.
“Flowers,” she said.
“—got men all over the place—”
“What’s that?” Jordan asked over his shoulder.
“I said—” said the captain, beginning to answer Jordan’s question as though it had been meant for him.
“Not you.”
“What?”
“Hold on, Captain,” Jordan said, then turned to Florence. “Is it your birthday or something?”
“No.”
“Were you expecting flowers from someone?”
“Jordan, what’s going on?” Captain Reynolds’ voice sounded tinny coming from the receiver.
Florence saw the look in Sandor’s eyes and her smile instantly vanished. “No. No, I’m not.”
“Is your door locked?”
“No,” she said, feeling scared and not knowing why.
“Lock it,” he ordered her. “Now.”
She was suddenly so frightened that she couldn’t move, so Jordan raced across the room and bolted the door himself.
“Jordan? . . . Jordan—” Reynolds’ voice was growing anxious.
“Captain,” Jordan said into the phone, “I think I’ve got an unwelcome visitor on his way upstairs. I’ll call you back.”
“Call the poli—” Reynolds barked, but Jordan had already hung up.
“Listen, Florence,” Sandor said, “just stay cool and quiet and we’ll be all right.”
“This has something to do with last night, right? Your apartment? The telephones, like you were asking?”
“Just stay calm, we’ll be fine.” Even as he spoke the words, he remembered.
The look on his face froze her. “What is it?”
“My door,” he said. “I left my door open.” Jordan also remembered the .45 he had left upstairs in the leather bag. He cursed himself—a year in from the field and as rusty as an old hinge.
“Look—” she began, but Jordan help up his hand again.
“This guy who says he has flowers, he may be looking for me. He probably rang your buzzer to get into the building. One out of eight apartments, right? If he was really bringing you flowers he’d be knocking on your door by now.”
The look on her face told him she understood.
“Take the phone, go into the bathroom, lock the door, and call the police. Tell them there’s a burglary in progress. Tell them the man is armed. Give them the address. Then get in your bathtub and keep down till I tell you to come out. Got it?”
Florence nodded, then took the phone and punched in 9-1-1 as she hurried into the bathroom.
NINE
Tafallai was already in the building, walking up the stairs with a bouquet of flowers in his left hand. He stopped two steps below Florence’s landing when the metallic sound of a deadbolt sliding into place resonated in the hallway.
Was her door being opened or locked?
Tafallai trusted his instincts, relying on his ability to evaluate danger. And to survive. Would this woman unbolt her door but not open it? Perhaps if she were waiting for him to knock. But something didn’t feel right.
He laid down the flowers and gripped the butt of his automatic, drawing it carefully from the holster, the barrel lengthened by a silencer. Then, keeping low to ensure that he could not be seen from her peephole, he advanced to the head of the staircase, where he stayed in his crouch and waited. There was nothing but silence throughout the building.
In the small entry foyer he had tried ringing two other apartments with female names on the directory, neither answering, before he buzzed Florence Carter. Single or married, old or young, he knew that women generally
abandoned caution at the prospect of a flower delivery. Florence Carter and the bouquet was his entry ticket into the building.
He planned to deliver the flowers, with a note from “Your Secret Admirer.” Then he would begin downstairs as she closed the door behind him. She would have no suspicion of him, no cause to retain even the vaguest recollection of his appearance as she took the flowers into her flat and read the note. Once she shut her door, he would turn and head back up to Sandor’s apartment, dispose of his target, then return to the street and lose himself in the crowd.
But now something felt wrong. His man had reported Sandor’s return, which meant Sandor would have discovered that his apartment had been vandalized. But no police had been to the building yet. Why?
The sound of the deadbolt had persuaded him to move swiftly. He would forego the delivery and head directly to Sandor’s flat. He turned back for the bouquet and used the flowers to hide the automatic, just in case the woman opened the door. If she did, he would tell her he had trouble finding her door. Tafallai nodded to himself. This was the move.
Florence stood anxiously in the sanctuary of her cramped bathroom, worrying in the silence, expecting a sound, an action, a voice. She was whispering into her cordless phone, urging the operator to hurry.
Jordan was standing at Florence’s front door, straining to pick up any hint of movement in the stairwell. He felt the sensations he knew well, the dryness of mouth, moist hands, and pounding chest. For a moment he wondered if his imagination had run wild. He told himself he would have quite a laugh over this one when it turned out to be nothing more than a flower delivery. But if someone was delivering flowers, where was he? How long does it take to walk up two flights of stairs?
Jordan looked through the peephole and saw nothing.
Tafallai climbed far enough up the next set of steps to see the landing. There was Sandor’s door standing ajar.
He froze for an instant, like an animal on the prowl suddenly confronted by an unexpected situation, using the moment to weigh every possible implication before initiating his next action. When he moved again he kept as low as possible, creeping to the head of the stairwell. He put the flowers down and extended his weapon slightly, keeping it close to his side where he could not be easily disarmed by a sweeping move. But no attack came as Tafallai cautiously and efficiently moved inside and searched the apartment, stepping lightly, still aware that Sandor might be waiting.
It did not take long for him to confirm that Sandor was not there. He spotted the leather bag on the bed, had a quick look inside, and smiled at the sight of the automatic. Wherever Sandor was, he was unarmed.
Tafallai then realized that Sandor’s flat was directly above Florence Carter’s. Only scant minutes had elapsed since he heard the bolt turn on the floor below. His instincts told him that Sandor was in the apartment he had selected for his means to enter the building. He picked up the bouquet, left Sandor’s apartment, and moved quietly back down the stairs.
The only sound Jordan heard was the faint creak of floorboards from his apartment above. He was angry at himself for leaving his door open and, for a fleeting moment, considered bolting from Florence’s apartment and making for the street. But that wouldn’t take the girl out of harm’s way. If he took her with him, with such a slight lead, they would become too easy a target, especially if the man upstairs had backup waiting outside.
There was also the option of taking a run upstairs, but Jordan could not be sure where the man was or which of them would get off the first shots. And again, he had the girl to think about.
Then he heard the dull sound of steps heading back down the stairs and knew it was too late now to do anything but stay where he was. Jordan was loath to do nothing while waiting for the police, even it if was the obvious move. It simply was not his style. He would prefer to confront the man, to see if he was one of the shooters from the day before, to learn what he could. He realized that once the sirens came wailing down the street, his opportunity would be lost.
So Jordan stood by the door and waited and listened and struggled to come up with a way to protect Florence and still make a move.
Tafallai crept quietly down the stairs, resuming his crouch, until he was in the middle of the landing. He reached up quickly and, using the flowers to muffle the sound, shattered the small overhead light fixture with a swipe of his Glock 9mm, sending tiny bits of glass to the floor and bathing the landing in a shadowy darkness before he knocked on Florence Carter’s door.
“Miss Carter. I have your flowers.”
There was no response.
“Miss Carter. It’s the man from the flower shop.” He knocked again.
Jordan heard the dull pop of the light bulb breaking. A quick look through the peephole revealed nothing but darkness. He was startled at the sudden knock at the door and a man’s voice calling Florence’s name. The accent was foreign, the voice sure and unhurried.
Now he and this man stood face to face, separated only by the door. Who knew how long it would take the police to respond at this time of day? Even with sirens blaring, the traffic would be a mess. It might only be ten minutes, but it might as well be days. Jordan considered turning the bolt and yanking the door open, but the door opened in, not out, which would give the other man the edge if Jordan was going to charge at him. He had no choice, he decided, but to hold his position.
Miss Carter, I cannot just leave the flowers here.” The voice betrayed a growing impatience. “You must sign for them.” Tafallai knocked again, then grabbed the knob and gave it a short, firm twist. The woman who had buzzed him into the building was not answering, which meant he was right—she was not alone in the apartment. She was with Jordan Sandor. Jordan watched as the knob jimmied back and forth. The moment of silence that followed was sh
attered when Tafallai slammed his heel against the door. He wanted to draw Sandor to the door in front of him to brace it shut. He gave a second hard kick. And a third. Then he fired three shots, the rounds spitting through the silencer and splintering their way into the wooden door.
Jordan dropped to his knees at the sound of the muffled explosions, the crackle of fragmenting wood, the impact of slugs flattening on the fireproof metal insert reinforcing the door. He lunged to the side at the next thrusting kick against the weakened door. He stayed on his knees, his body straining to keep the door secure against another assault.
Tafallai fired two more shots, this time targeting the lock, the bullets caroming so loudly off the brass that Florence uttered a scream from the bathroom, provoking Tafallai to spend his last four shots in the nine-round clip.
The old door held fast.
“Ibn himar!”
Sandor adjusted his position, mindful of what might come next. The man might have explosives, or he might change to armor-piercing shells that would rip through the reinforced door. He listened, the momentary silence more frightening than the fusillade that had come before. Tafallai replaced the clip in his automatic and fired another series of shots.
Police sirens could be heard in the distance, and whether or not they were coming for him, he would not take the risk. He cursed loudly, knowing that for now he had failed. He had wasted too much time, performed too haphazardly.
He fired two more shots at the center of the door as he turned away, then ran down the stairs, past the flowers scattered on the landing. He replaced his Glock in its holster and, closing his coat, he strode down the steps and onto the street, disappearing around the corner just before a New York City Police squad car arrived on the scene.
Once Jordan heard the shooter run downstairs, he replaced the Walther in his waistband and let Florence out of her bathroom. He managed to calm her enough to explain that they were now safe. “It’s all over,” he told her. “He’s gone. Help is on the way.” He started to pull away, saying he was going upstairs to check his apartment, but she grabbed his arm.
Targets of Deception Page 5