Cure (2010) sam-10

by Robin Cook

  “Not a problem,” Warren said. “Those bastards killed my cousin and have Laurie and Jack’s toddler. I’d stay up all night myself. We’ll be using the court until early evening. After that, I’ll have the guys who’d been scheduled for today, but weren’t used, watch tonight.”

  “With the proviso they don’t let themselves be seen. This point is truly important. If kidnappers feel they are being watched or followed, they get very antsy, which invariably puts the victims in extreme jeopardy. If they start feeling the authorities are closing in, the kidnappers kill their victims and dispose of the bodies, never to be found.”

  “Understood,” Warren said simply, and he did.

  After leaving the neighborhood and before heading out to Whitestone, Grover and Colt drove down to Midtown to visit the home office. CRT occupied an entire floor on East 54th Street. It was usually a beehive of activity, but since it was a Saturday and since ten of the thirty-nine partners were currently away running ten active cases in eight countries, the place was mausoleum-like.

  “Robert told me to say he would be in the lunchroom,” Beverly had said when Grover and Colt first appeared. The so-called lunchroom was a windowless affair more suited for storing cleaning supplies than for serving as a snack room. There were several vending machines and a space for the communal coffee machine. Robert was alone, nursing a coffee while working on his laptop.

  “Did you have any luck?” Grover asked.

  “Not a lot but some. First, I did have luck with the assessor’s office, which, I might add, was a great idea on your part. They had a rudimentary site plan and better floor plans, as the estate went through a major renovation and reassessment after the current owner bought it about a decade ago.”

  “Are you using the word estate literally or figuratively?”

  “Literally. There’s over an acre, which is big for the area, with a pool, a tennis court, and a pier.”

  “So it’s waterfront property?”

  “Yes. It has four hundred feet of frontage on the East River. The house is almost ten thousand square feet, and pretty much covers the site except for the pool and tennis court. In my mind, that’s an estate.”

  “I agree,” Grover said. “Let’s see the plans.”

  Robert had printed out the plans from the assessor’s office on eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch paper. Colt kept the site plan but immediately handed the floor plan back. “Double the size of the copy. I might have to search for the child, and I need to know the house like the back of my hand.”

  “I also have a street map of the town,” Robert said, handing that over as well before running off to enlarge the floor plans.

  “Uh-oh,” Grover said after a brief look at the map. Robert had the location of the house marked with a red cross. “It’s on a dead-end street.”

  “That’s not a problem,” Colt said. “We’ll approach from the water. We certainly don’t want to be hemmed in by a dead-end street.”

  “Approach in what? You are not going to get me in the water again, no way.” About ten years previously, Colt had insisted on using scuba gear to approach another waterfront property in Cartagena, Colombia.

  “We’ll rent something like a Zodiac and pull in under the pier. There has to be a marina out there in the area.”

  “How did you do researching the owner?” Grover asked Robert when he came back with the blow-ups.

  “Not good. It’s listed as being owned by a Panamanian financial company who pays the taxes and utilities. But when I tried researching the Panamanian company, I found it was owned by a Brazilian company, et cetera. You know the story.”

  “Shell companies,” Grover said with a nod. “Another sign that this kidnapping involves organized crime.”

  Colt checked his watch. “Grover, it’s after two! We have to get our butts out to Whitestone, especially now that we need to locate a boat. And I’m going to need time to put together an operational kit for tonight.”

  “All right, let’s do it,” Grover said. “Robert, if you learn anything more about the house or its owner, give me a call on my mobile. This exercise has to go down tonight, so do what you can!”

  “Will do,” Robert said.

  “Also, Robert,” Colt said, “have you seen anybody from logistics this morning?” Logistics at CRT really meant one man. His name was Curt Cohen, and he was a master of the procurement and maintenance of just about anything in the world, particularly in the arena of electronics and weapons: anything and everything a risk management, ex-Special Forces agent would need to carry out his or her mission as a kidnap consultant.

  “Curt himself was here this morning looking for something special for Roger Hagarty, who is in Mexico running a case.”

  “How convenient,” Colt said happily. “Could you find him for me and have him call? I’m going to need some special things myself.”

  “I’ll be happy to,” Robert said cheerfully.

  “Let’s go,” Grover said, grabbing Colt’s upper arm and giving him a shove in the general direction of the elevators. “You’re the one’s been growling about the time.”

  On this second trip to Queens, they chose to use the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. As Grover drove, Colt used the time to study the floor plans and commit them to memory.

  “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble finding JJ,” Grover said, aware of what Colt was doing.

  “I’m glad you are optimistic. But I don’t want to get in there and be figuratively stumbling around in the dark.”

  “It’s always better to be safe than sorry—pardon the overused expression. But if the wife is so fond of the child, I’ll bet you the kid will be smack-dab in the middle of the master bedroom.”

  As they emerged back into the daylight from the tunnel, Colt went back to the floor plans, but his cell phone interrupted him.

  “It’s Curt,” his caller announced. “Robert said you were in need of some special equipment.”

  “I need a gas-based dart pistol loaded with enough ketamine to stop an adult water buffalo in heat. One that has the green laser aiming devices. To be truthful, chances are I’ll be facing a couple of Dobermans.”

  “Very funny,” Curt said, “but a humongous dose is not going to help. With ketamine darts, the animal doesn’t instantly fall over, even if I err on the high-dose side. That’s public folklore. The dog is going to stumble around for a few minutes and might still be dangerous. Keep that in mind.”

  “So a dog might be able to chew on me for several minutes after I hit him with a ketamine-filled dart?”

  “I’m afraid so. It can happen, unless you want to kill the dog.”

  “Thanks for the good news. In addition to the dart pistol, I’m going to need my usual climbing kit with several fifty-foot lengths of rope. Also, one window anchor for a fast escape.”

  “No problem. What else?”

  “Some sort of an over-the-shoulder bag capable of supporting up to forty pounds.”

  “How big?”

  “About a yard long, twelve to fourteen inches high. Big enough to hold a one-and-a-half-year-old child. And, oh, yeah, an eyedropper.”

  “What about any special weapons?”

  “Give me something small and light but makes a lot of noise and I don’t have to aim.”

  “You mean like an Uzi?

  “That’s fine.”

  “What else?”

  “The usual breaking-and-entering tools, like lock picks, glass suction cups, and glass cutters.”

  “Is that it?”

  “I believe so,” Colt said. “If I think of anything else, I’ll give you a quick call.”

  “When do you want to pick everything up?” Curt asked. “I’ll have it all at the front desk with your name on it. What about night-vision goggles?”

  “Thanks for reminding us,” Colt said. “Let me ask Grover.”

  “Of course I want night-vision goggles,” Grover said, hearing both sides of Colt’s conversation.

  “Tonight’s forecast is calli
ng for clear skies and a gibbous moon,” Curt said. “Just in case you haven’t checked.”

  “I still want the night-vision goggles,” Grover said.

  “Same with me,” Colt added.

  “And I want a sniper rifle with a night-vision scope in case Colt is being chased when he comes out of the house with the kid.”

  “Don’t even suggest it,” Colt said.

  “It’s better to be . . .”

  “Yeah, I know, ‘safe than sorry.’ Let’s abandon the clichés, will you please!” Colt pleaded.

  “What time?” Curt said, interrupting the two agents. “What time do you want this stuff available by?”

  “We don’t need it until around eleven. I don’t want to do this break-in until after one a.m., or even later.”

  “It will be waiting for you by nine p.m. If you suddenly think of anything else, call me and I’ll do my very best.”

  “Thanks, Curt,” Grover and Colt echoed into Colt’s cell phone.

  42

  MARCH 28, 2010

  SUNDAY, 12:31 a.m.

  WHITESTONE, QUEENS, NEW YORK

  After picking up all the equipment that Curt had rounded up for them, Grover and Colt had retraced the route that they had used that afternoon traveling from CRT’s main office out to Whitestone, Queens, a trip that had been very worthwhile indeed. The first thing they had learned that afternoon was that the group that had kidnapped JJ were not quite the amateurs Grover and Colt had earlier suspected. The perpetrators were cleverly and covertly watching the location where they were holding the child, 3746 Powells Cove Boulevard. It had only been over the last fifty or so years that professional kidnappers had realized that surveillance was a smart move, so that if the authorities, by one mechanism or another, were closing in on the hideout, the people holding the victim could be alerted to move on if there was time or kill the victim and hide the remains in a previously prepared location. Without the victim or the victim’s remains, prosecution of the case was always difficult at best. The only reason Grover and Colt had discovered these watchers was because they had specifically looked for them. It was two guys in a black SUV tucked into a neighbor’s driveway.

  The second important thing they’d been able to achieve on their afternoon reconnaissance was to locate a good-size marina in the town just beyond Whitestone. Although the marina was technically not yet open for the season, they had been able to rent a Zodiac and a boat slip. They had to rent the boat for a week to justify the marina to get the outboard out of winter storage.

  Trying the boat out, they had motored back to 3746 Powells Cove Boulevard. Seeing no one, particularly no guards, as they had from the land side, they’d allowed themselves to approach under the pier exactly the way they would that night. Sitting there under the wooden pier, Colt had used his laptop to scan the usual wireless alarm frequencies and write them down, while Grover had kept vigilance. At one point Grover thought he’d heard a baby wail. Looking at his partner to see if he’d heard, Colt lifted his eyes from the computer screen, smiled, and gave a thumbs-up sign.

  The three-story house itself was appreciated much better from the water side. It was constructed of reinforced cement in a faux-Mediterranean style. Half buried in the top of the surrounding retaining wall were pieces of broken glass, and above it coils of razor wire. Despite this formidable defense on the land side, the waterfront was completely open, with the house set back about a hundred feet from the water’s edge. Immediately in front of the house was the pool. Along the side was a tennis court. They had seen the dogs, but only from a distance when they had left.

  Now, just after midnight, pulling back into the marina where they had rented the boat that afternoon, Grover doused the headlights. With only the light from the moon, he drove around to the water side of the building and backed up to the pier where the slip they had rented was located. The marina itself was mostly dark, except for dim lights in a display window on the roadside, containing gleaming marine hardware, such as stainless-steel cleats and mahogany blocks. On the water side the only lights were positioned out on the pier complex on the top of long poles and directed downward to provide cones of light at various locations. The weather could not have been more perfect, without a visible cloud. There was no wind to speak of and the surface of the water was placid.

  With little talk, the men unloaded the gear at the base of the pier. Then while Grover moved the SUV back to the parking area, where it would be less conspicuous, Colt carried the equipment out to the Zodiac and quickly stored it aboard. They worked quickly and silently. Only two cars went by on the road, and neither stopped or even slowed.

  With a hand on one of the pier’s big cleats for mooring yachts, Colt steadied the boat while Grover jumped on. Immediately he started the engine before Colt boarded. Keeping the power low, Grover guided the boat out of the slip and then out of the pier complex. He had access to the night-vision scopes but didn’t need them for this phase of the operation. He did not turn on the running lights.

  Not before motoring a thousand yards or so out into Little Neck Bay did Grover significantly up the speed. Like most outboards, the motor was noisy, and he kept the power limited to what was needed to get the boat planing and then to maintain it.

  Moving progressively away from the shore, where there was significant artificial illumination, it became gradually darker except for the area immediately around the moon, and thousands more stars blinked on in the rest of the inverted bowl of the darkened sky. With the water temperature in the forties, the wind created by the Zodiac’s forward motion was bitingly cold, and both men hunkered down as best they could.

  Rounding Willets Point, Colt and Grover suddenly had the illuminated span of the Throgs Neck Bridge in sight with the Whitestone Bridge beyond, both soaring over the water from Queens over to the Bronx. Ten minutes later they passed under the Throgs Neck Bridge.

  As the Throgs Neck Bridge dropped behind them and the Whitestone loomed ahead, Colt steered the Zodiac to the left and headed for shore at approximately the location of 3746 Powells Cove Boulevard. About five hundred yards out, Colt cut the power. At one hundred yards, Colt turned off the motor. The two men picked up paddles and paddled the rest of the way.

  Most of the homes lining the shore were completely dark. A few had one or two lights on, either on their elaborate seaside terraces or within their homes. One home off to the far left was ablaze with lights. From where Grover and Colt were, they guessed it was a party because there were both indoor and outdoor lights and people could be seen on various terraces and balconies. Despite the distance, the faint sound of voices and music occasionally drifted across the water and reached their ears.

  Although Grover and Colt had conversed in low tones earlier, confirming their plans, once the motor had been turned off and they were approaching the tip of the Barbera pier, they were completely silent. They were even careful with their paddles as they drew them through the water, lifted them out, and slipped them back in unison, pushing the boat forward silently, closing in on the pier.

  Except for a slight incandescent glow from one of the second-story windows, the house was dark. Looking down the sides of the building, there was a much larger glow emanating from the street side of the house, where the garage was located. The only sounds were the intermittent distant sounds of the party and the continuous lapping of the waves against the shore.

  The tide was in so that the distance between the water surface and the underside of the pier had narrowed to only about four feet. Still, the Zodiac’s prow easily slipped in under the wooden deck. Grover remained in the boat while Colt jumped up on the pier to accept the equipment that Grover handed him. When everything was out of the boat, Grover climbed out as well.

  Colt was already dressed in what he called his custom assault pants suit, with specifically designed pockets and clips for all his gear. The benefit of such an outfit was that he had instant access to each implement, such as the ketamine-dart pistol hooked to a clip on his left, an
d the Uzi hanging on a similar one to his right. Grover had a similar outfit and helped Colt prepare for the current strike. After he’d loaded a particular pocket, he’d pat the pocket and whisper out loud the name of the object it held so Colt could mentally check it off. It could be a disaster to be in the middle of a task and be missing a specific tool. Another benefit of having a separate pocket or clip for everything was that Colt could move silently without tools or other devices hitting up against one another.

  “Ready?” Grover whispered.

  “Ready,” Colt replied. Quickly he tested his small radio clipped on the point of his right shoulder. A similar device on the point of Grover’s right shoulder came to life. “Testing: one, two, three. Testing.” The stock phrase popped into his own microphone positioned in his right ear.

  Now completely outfitted and with a shoulder bag hanging off his right shoulder, Colt silently ran the length of the pier and slipped into the shadows of the stairs that rose up to the level of the pool.

  Meanwhile, Grover quickly rearranged some deck furniture to serve as a rest for using the sniper rifle. He also moved the Zodiac around to the best position for a rapid getaway. With that accomplished, he returned to the deck furniture, climbed in among it, and sighted through the night scope of the sniper rifle.

  Thanks to the scope, Grover was able to see the problem before Colt. It was the sudden movement that caught his eye. It was the dogs coming along the left side of the building from the street side of the compound. Quickly, using the radio to warn Colt, Grover drew a bead with his laser on the front dog and squeezed off a single shot. He could tell instantly he’d hit the dog as it tucked its head and tumbled head-on into the pool. The second dog, ignoring the plight of the first, rounded the edge of the building, missing the pool and dashing laterally across Grover’s line of sight.

  With Grover’s warning, Colt had dashed up the steps, snatching the gas-powered dart pistol from his belt in the process. Worried about the two dogs, he’d bolted for the tennis enclosure. Although he’d not heard any barking, he’d heard the dogs’ snarls and heard their feet thundering against the ground. It was at that moment that he’d detected the suppressed sound of the sniper’s rifle. Reaching the door to the tennis court, he snatched it open, rolled around its edge, but had not gotten it fully closed when one of the Doberman pinschers collided with it at a full run. Had Colt not been holding fast to the door, he might have been bowled over by the animal’s momentum.