“Wh—where are you going? Don’t leave!”
“Listen—”
“You can’t leave me here!” The more Sandor tried to get free the more she tightened her grip.
“Listen to me!” For reasons he could not explain to her, Jordan wanted no part of the local authorities, not now. Someone was trying to kill him, and he needed to get out of there before he got tied up in hours of questioning and bureaucratic time wasting. And the longer he waited the less chance he would have to follow his attacker. “The police are coming. They’re here. Just outside,” he said, pointing toward the window. “You can hear them.”
Florence began to loosen her hold on Jordan as the sirens grew louder and more reassuring. He gently but firmly removed his forearm from her grasp and rubbed the marks her fingers had imprinted on his flesh. He sat her on the couch and went to her refrigerator and poured her a glass of wine to calm her nerves.
“It’s all right now. The police are here,” he told her again. He was out of time and had no intention of spending the next twelve hours down at the local precinct answering questions and looking at another ream of mug shots while explaining things he had no interest in explaining.
“Look,” he said, “I have to go.”
Florence was too numb to speak. She remained on the couch, barely managing a nod.
“I’ll be right back,” he assured her. He made a motion to leave and she began to protest, but was too exhausted to offer any resistance. Jordan did his best to give her a comforting smile then headed out, shutting her splintered door behind him.
He raced upstairs to his apartment, pulled on his jacket, grabbed his leather bag, and went to his front door.
The police could be heard coming up the stairs to Florence’s landing. He waited and watched from the shadows as the officers surveyed the evidence of the shooting, drew their weapons, and knocked on the shredded door. The moment they entered her apartment would be Jordan’s only chance to get out of the building, and he took it. Once he heard her door close, he hurried down the three flights of stairs, then slowed to a saunter as he headed outside.
He looked up and down the street, but there was nothing unusual except the double-parked police cruiser. There was no one to follow, no leads to pursue.
He turned for Columbus Avenue, where he hailed a cab and headed south toward Midtown.
TEN
Dan Peters had dozed fitfully in his hospital bed, the discomfort of his wound and the intrusions of doctors and nurses throughout the night making it difficult to sleep. All of this was complicated by the confluence of memories and dreams that kept his mind spinning, awake or asleep. The memories would not go away.
It was daylight now, he noticed, but that made no difference. He was still trying to sleep.
His eyes opened slightly when yet another young doctor came into the room and stood over his bed. He adjusted the intravenous apparatus that fed him a steady flow of glucose solution and antibiotics. Peters closed his eyes again, not seeing the doctor inject a clear substance into the tube that ran from the plastic sack of fluid into his arm.
“Have a good rest,” the doctor said. Peters was happy to hear the suggestion. Maybe they were finally going to leave him alone for a while.
The doctor walked out of the room, nodding at a nurse who approached as he made his way down the long corridor. She responded with an automatic smile what was gradually replaced with an uncertain look. She slowed and turned to see him reach the end of the hallway and turn the corner.
When two uniformed troopers came out of the elevator, he stopped, made a show of looking at some papers he was holding, then made a gesture with his hand as if he had forgotten something. He turned back, stepping quickly around the corner and through the entrance to the stairway.
One of the troopers followed him until he disappeared around the corner. He took a quick look into Peters’ room, but saw nothing unusual there.
The nurse came out of another patient’s room, and the trooper stopped her. “Hey, who was the doctor who just came out of Peters’ room?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know him,” she said. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“Call for a doctor right away. Have Peters checked out,” the officer said, grabbing his radio and breaking into a trot back for his partner. “All stations. We’ve got some suspicious activity on three,” he reported into the walkie-talkie. “Cover the lobby and check the elevators for an unidentified man, dressed like a doctor. Five ten, Caucasian, brown hair.” The best he could do after a brief glimpse.
The young man they were looking for was already running down the interior staircase, removing his white lab coat as he went, the syringe still in the pocket. He dropped the coat to the floor as he neared the door to the lobby and then removed the wig he was wearing, his blond crewcut in stark contrast to the longer, darker hairpiece. He adjusted the brown sport coat he had worn underneath the white jacket and put on a pair of eyeglasses. As two troopers were responding to the radio alert from upstairs, he stepped calmly into the lobby. He appeared not to notice two officers rushing to the elevators and three others running to the stairwell.
They were too late. Dan Peters’ murderer reached the exit, stepped outside the building, then strode quickly to a waiting car that sped him away.
ELEVEN
Jordan arrived at the Algonquin early for his lunch date with Beth. He made himself comfortable in one of the faded armchairs and settled down to wait. He usually enjoyed the serenity of this old hotel, pleased for the moment to wrap himself in the solace of plush cushions and a stiff drink. He also appreciated the connection between this venerated room and the literary lights of days past, something Bill Sternlich found endlessly amusing.
Sandor was lost in thought, plotting his next move. Then, shaking his head at a bad idea, he heard, “Hello Jordan.”
Her voice startled him. He hadn’t noticed her come up from behind.
You’re out of practice, he warned himself.
He turned and said, “How long have you been there?”
“Boy, that’s some greeting,” she replied. “I just got here.” She looked down at the table. “Whiskey? Kind of heavy before lunch.”
“Tennessee whiskey,” he corrected her as he stood, then gently kissed her cheek. He caught a hint of perfume, recognizing her fragrance, wondering why he hadn’t noticed it as she came up behind him. The scent evoked a flash of remembrances, the moments of laughter and anger and passion, her soft, warm body next to his, and ultimately the realization again of why it was so difficult to let her go. “It’s early, I know, but it’s already been a rough day. Sit down.”
Beth Sharrow took the chair opposite his, easing herself gracefully into the seat. She was always graceful. “Bourbon.” she said thoughtfully. “I think I’ll go with something a little less potent.”
For a moment he lost himself in the hazel eyes and confident but curious smile he knew so well.
“You look like you’re in a trance,” Beth said. “Not wearing your hero’s laurels very well, are you?”
“My heroics are yesterday’s news, unfortunately. Boys in the office having fun with this?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Come on, Beth.”
He had met her years before on a visit to the New York office of the CIA, where they housed office personnel, communications experts, and a huge retinue of computer geeks. Jordan thought Beth was one of the best analysts in the Agency.
“Al Tamucci started a pool,” she admitted, referring to one of the computer techies he knew.
“For what? For when I’m going to buy it?”
“No. For when you’re coming back to work for the Company.”
“Not likely,” he said.
She nodded. “How’s Dan.”
“He’s a tough old s.o.b. He’ll be all right,” he said, then followed that with a quick shake of his head and a faraway look, as if deciding whether to reveal something he wasn’t ready to share.
Beth recognized the look. “What is it?”
He hesitated, then said, “Someone broke into my apartment.”
“What?”
“I didn’t want to tell you on the phone.”
Beth’s smile had melted into a look of concern. “When?”
“Not sure. Yesterday. Last night. Early this morning. They wrecked the place, whenever they were there.”
An elderly waiter in a dark, red waistcoat came by and asked if the young lady would care for a cocktail.
“Uh, a white wine, please. Chardonnay, if you have that.”
“White wine,” Jordan teased. “Here, at the Algonquin?”
“Please, Jordan, tell me what happened.”
“All right, but Dorothy Parker must be spinning in her grave.”
The waiter was still standing there.
Jordan glanced down at his glass. He said “I’m fine for now,” and the man trudged off to get Beth her wine.
“I don’t know what happened,” Jordan told her. “I don’t even know if it’s related to yesterday.”
“That’s nonsense and you know it. There are no such things as coincidences, isn’t that what you taught me?”
“Did I say that?”
“Why would they be after you, though?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“I thought the problem upstate was just . . . ”
“Bad timing? An ill wind? Wrong place at the wrong time?”
She shook her head. “I wish you weren’t so amused.”
Jordan took a swallow of the caramel-colored liquor. “I’m not amused,” he said, “believe me. You should see my living room.”
Beth searched his dark brown eyes for some sign of fear, but there was none. There was only that look of fascination that had always infuriated her so. “What did the police say?” she asked.
“I haven’t called the police yet.”
“Why?”
“I will, but not yet. There are some things I want to find out first.”
“Jordan, you’ve got to call the authorities.”
“The authorities? Kind of vague advice there, Beth. Maybe I should call the Company and have them traipsing around my life again.”
“Maybe you should.”
Jordan shrugged. “What’s the difference when I call? My couch will still be a goner when I get home tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“I thought going back there today might be a bad idea.”
“You’re right,” she agreed, then paused. “You can stay at my place. If you’d like.”
“Thanks.” He lifted his glass again, but didn’t drink. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with any of your plans.”
“Give me a break, Jordan.”
He smiled at the sudden flash of anger. “Thanks, really, but I should go upstate today and see Danny, check out what they’ve found so far. I’m not sure what I’ll be doing after that. Maybe I should call an interior decorator.”
She shook her head again in that disapproving way he found both charming and annoying. “You know, Jordan, I’d feel a lot better if you seemed less entertained and a little more concerned.”
The waiter returned with her wine, which provided Jordan momentary escape from her critical gaze.
“Believe me,” he said as the waiter ambled away, “I’m concerned. For starters, I got shot at yesterday. My friend actually was shot. And now my apartment looks like a bomb hit it.” He held up his glass and said, “Here’s to safe roads ahead,” then waited her out until she gave up staring at him and took up her wine. They touched glasses and he drank off a fair sized gulp of his Jack Daniels. “Hey, come on. It’s bad luck if you don’t drink after a toast.”
She sipped some of the Chardonnay, then replaced the glass on the small, wooden cocktail table. “You’re not a field agent any more, Jordan. You’re not an agent at all. You’re flying solo on this, unless you come in.”
“That’s not happening.”
“All right. So tell me the truth. What were they looking for in your apartment? You?”
“I don’t think they were searching for me when they slashed my mattress open.”
She frowned. “What, then?”
“I really don’t know. Papers or something, that’s my guess. Something I don’t actually have, if you want to know.”
“Papers having to do with what?”
“That’s what I need to figure out.”
“Why not let me take this in? Let us figure it out. Stay with me for a few days, let our people do what they can do.”
“I’m not ready for that yet. And you’ve got to consider that whoever broke in will eventually come looking for me. How safe would it be for you if I led them to your door?”
“Well then you need protection. This isn’t your fight anymore, Jordan.”
“You may be right,” he said. Then he leaned forward and took her hand in both of his, softly kissing her open palm. “With everything that’s happened, I’m just glad to see you.”
She took her hand back slowly. “Sure. So let’s get down to it. You didn’t keep our lunch date today, with everything that’s happened, just to tell me how much you’ve missed me. What do you want?”
“Want? I wanted to see you.”
Beth sighed. “All right, now you’ve seen me. What else?”
Jordan sat back and looked at her. “Well, you might get me some information.”
Tafallai had been waiting for the call. The team that was tracking Sandor told him they had picked him up again when he got in the cab on Columbus Avenue, followed him to 44th Street, and saw him enter the Algonquin.
Tafallai arrived and made eye contact with his spotter, dismissing him, and then quickly surveyed the area. There was no sense making an attempt on Sandor in a crowded hotel. Instead, he entered a small poster shop directly across the street from the hotel, pretending to browse through photos of old movie stars. From there he kept an eye on the entrance to the Algonquin and awaited his next opportunity.
Jordan and Beth agreed it was best to skip their lunch, once he promised to go directly to the police before returning upstate. It was a lie, of course, and he suspected that she knew it. All the same, she agreed to find out what she could about James McHugh. Jordan promised to call her as they said goodbye in front of the Algonquin. Beth closed her coat for the short walk back to her office. Then he gave her a kiss and sent her on her way before turning east toward Fifth Avenue.
The autumn afternoon carried a damp, gray chill, so he turned up his collar and hunched his shoulders as he walked along 44th Street. It was wonderful, he mused, how a couple of drinks and the cool air had him believing that he would figure something out before it was too late. Now he needed to clear his head for more serious considerations, pleased to be taking the short walk.
Beth disappeared around the corner at the Avenue of the Americas. But before Jordan had gotten fifty yards from the hotel, a black sedan pulled up to the curb beside him. A beefy man in a dark suit stepped out and blocked his path.
The car was so obviously a standard US government-issue vehicle that it didn’t even occur to Jordan to reach for his automatic. He simply watched as the man held up an identification card and badge.
“Mr. Sandor,” he said, “you need to come with us.”
Tafallai had watched Jordan and Beth part company on the street. He waited a few moments then left the shop. He had just begun to follow Jordan when he saw the black sedan pull up to the curb and a man, obviously some sort of government agent, intercept Jordan. Without hesitation, he reversed direction and went after Beth.
TWELVE
Sandor stood there, staring at the man without speaking.
“Mr. Sandor, I’m Agent Springs. FBI.” The man was about five feet ten and sturdily built with short hair, dull features, and an even duller affect. He was still holding up his identification when he repeated, “You need to come with us.”
“Is this about the parking ticket?” Jor
dan asked.
Agent Springs responded with a frown. As Sandor knew only too well, unlike the sedan, a sense of humor is most definitely not standard US government issue. “We need to speak with you, sir. Immediately.”
Jordan told him he would just as soon speak with him another time, but neither Springs nor the second agent, still seated at the wheel of the car, were budging.
“Please get in.”
Sandor nodded. “Right. Why don’t you make an appointment with my secretary, and I’ll be happy to meet with you. Say, next Thursday.”
“We prefer you come with us now, sir.”
“Prefer, as in, ‘you’re under arrest’?”
Springs’ demeanor was as insipid as his eyes. “You’re not being arrested.”
“Well, good. Then you won’t mind if I make a quick call and change my plans. I’ll only be a minute.” Without waiting for a reply, Jordan smiled and turned away, stepping towards the front of the Harvard Club. He pulled his cell phone out of his leather bag, powered it up and dialed Captain Reynolds. When the call was answered on the third ring, he said, “Jordan Sandor here. Looking for Captain Reynolds. It’s urgent.”
“Mr. Sandor? Yes, hold on,” the trooper told him.
This time, the captain picked up the call at once. “Sandor? I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I figured that. The feds have arrived, right?”
“Yes, but that’s not why I’ve been trying you. I’m sorry to tell you, I’ve got some bad news.”
“I’m listening.”
Reynolds paused. “Mr. Peters is dead.”
He felt all the air leave his chest in one sudden rush. Then he steadied himself and tried to keep his voice quiet. He stole a quick look at Agent Springs, who remained standing there, not moving. “How the hell can he be dead?”
“Doctors don’t know what happened yet. They’re going to do an autopsy. It appears he had a massive coronary.”
“What?”
“A doctor was spotted coming out of his room this morning, someone the nurse on duty had never seen before.”
“Did they catch him?”
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