3 Great Thrillers

by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric

  Victor and Hugo were full of surprises, so why should I have been shocked? But I was. In fact, I was so stunned, I couldn’t think of a sensible question. So instead I said, “Was she alive at the time?”

  Hugo laughed. “He wouldn’t have much use for a dead sex slave.”

  I tried to wrap my brain around it. “Is she still in the country?”

  “Her body is.”

  So she was dead after all. Darwin would be pleased. But something still didn’t compute. “You hired me to kill Monica, and I did. Then you tracked me on spy satellite, grabbed her body, brought her back to life, and sold her as a sex slave. Now she’s dead again, right? Well pardon the pun, but that seems like overkill. Why didn’t you just hire me to kidnap her?”

  Hugo said there were two reasons. First, it would have been a conflict of interest, since they planned to sell her to terrorists and I’m a counter-terrorist. Second, they wanted to see if they could bring her back to life after a trained assassin had done his best to kill her.

  “So I was what, part of a medical experiment?”

  “Yes.”

  Hugo reminded me that their army of little people included scientists, microbiologists, and specialists in almost every field of research. One of their people had developed a revolutionary antidote to botulinum toxin, and since they had targeted Monica anyway, she would be their first test. They figured I’d give her the most potent injection possible, which I did. If she survived, they’d sell Monica to Fathi. If not, they’d keep working on the antidote.

  “And it worked,” I said.

  “That is correct. We intend to make one hundred million dollars selling the antidote to the military.”

  “Our military?”

  “Ours, theirs, whoever.”

  “Back to the conflict of interest,” I said. “I’m not comfortable working with you if you’re also working with terrorists.”

  Hugo sneered. “That is absurd. Your government works with terrorists every day. They call it infiltration. We do the same. We infiltrate them for our own purposes, which shall not be revealed to you.”

  Though my head was swimming, I managed to ask him about the two other targets they wanted me to kill. Hugo said they were part of a social experiment.

  “First a medical experiment, now a social experiment.”

  Hugo said, “That is correct.”

  “Can you give me the Cliff’s Notes on that?” I asked. Hugo looked at Victor before answering. Victor nodded. Hugo turned back to me and said, “Victor wishes to understand the true nature of evil. Before you injected Monica, we gave her a chance to name two people who caused her pain in her life. You will kill those two people and get two names from each. Victor believes we all have at least two people who have caused irreparable harm in our lives. You will exact vengeance for all the victims.”

  “He started with Monica because of her husband, the doctor.”

  “Yes. We could not have you kill the doctor. It would be too easy to link Victor to the crime. There is a saying: ‘If you would hurt your enemy, punish the one he loves.’ Since Monica was innocent, we gave her a choice: live in captivity or die in the van.”

  “And she chose life.”

  Victor and Hugo nodded together.

  “But you knew the Fathis planned to kill her.”

  Hugo and Victor nodded together. Hugo clarified, “We knew they would not use proper restraint. We knew they would not give her time to recover.”

  “So why have you involved me in all of this?” I asked.

  “We’ve got big plans for you, Mr. Creed.”

  “Such as?”

  “You’re going to help us take over the world.”

  “Well, why not,” I said. Then, for whatever reason, I thought of Joe DeMeo. I said, “I’d love to help you take over the world and all, but I’m going to be busy robbing and killing a very powerful crime boss.”

  Victor said, “Maybe … we can … help.”

  I thought about that a minute and said, “You probably could. You hijacked a spy satellite. Do you have access to drones?”

  “Killer drones?” Hugo asked. “Loaded? That is impossible.”

  I laughed. Maybe they weren’t as crazy as I’d thought. “I was thinking maybe you could divert one of the weather drones off the coast of California or a surveillance one flying between Alaska and Russia.”

  “To where?”

  “Hills of LA,” I said. “Just for a few minutes.”

  Hugo walked to the other end of the room with his cell phone. He was gone a couple of minutes. When he came back, he looked at Victor and nodded. Victor nodded back. “Yeah,” Hugo said, “we can do that.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  Hugo nodded.

  “What will it cost me?”

  “What’s … the … take?” Victor said.

  “Tens of millions, I think. If we do it right.”

  Victor thought a moment before replying. “We … don’t want … the … mon … ey,” he said. “We’d … ra … ther bank … the fa … vor.”

  “Works for me,” I said. Then I dialed Joe DeMeo’s number.

  “Well, you said you’d call,” DeMeo said. “So it must be Tuesday.”

  “You killed a lot of people in that hotel trying to blow me up,” I said.

  “Creed, listen to me. If you’re still worrying about that ten million for the burned kid, I got a better idea. I did some checking,” he said. “Turns out she’s got all kinds of life-threatening injuries, so I’m wondering maybe we should see if she survives before you and me ruin a good relationship.”

  “She’s well-protected, Joe.”

  “Yeah, I heard your giant was there. A face like that, he ought to fit in with the rest of the burn patients.”

  We were quiet awhile. Then he said, “Are we done here or is there something else you want to say?”

  I said, “I’m coming to get you, Joe.”

  “Oh yeah?” he said. Then he laughed. “You and what army?”

  I looked at Victor and Hugo, thought about the guys holding the gun and detonator under the table, thought about the mini scientists who could hijack spy satellites and create an antidote for the deadliest poison known to man. I thought about the dwarf who worked on the White House kitchen staff.

  I nodded at Victor. He winked at me and nodded back.

  “I got a hell of an army,” I told Joe DeMeo.

  Hugo’s posture went ramrod straight, and his chest swelled with pride. He saluted me.

  I hung up the phone. Hugo said, “Well? What did he say? Did he laugh when you said that part about the army? I bet he laughed. Tell me he laughed. Just say it, just tell me he laughed and I’ll kill the son of a bitch with my bare hands. I’ll rip his ears off his head. I’ll …”

  “He laughed,” I said.

  Hugo looked at Victor. “They always laugh,” he said. He seemed to instantly deflate.

  “Don’t let it get you down,” I said. “They don’t know what they’re up against.”

  “Ac … tually … they … don’t,” Victor said.

  36

  There is no scent of freshly baked bread in Little Italy, no Italians singing love songs or speaking boisterously while flapping their arms in the air. Still, enough charm remains to inspire a walk, if you’ve got the time. I did, so I told my driver to wait while I headed down Mott, and Mulberry, and Elizabeth and Baxter.

  The area is gradually being swallowed up by Chinatown, and most of the people who can speak Italian have long since moved to the Bronx. But the streets are still lively and colorful, and the fire hydrants are painted green, white, and red, the colors of the Italian flag.

  I didn’t find anything to buy, but I had a decent lunch and managed to clear my head after the meeting with Victor and Hugo. I didn’t think for one minute Victor and Hugo’s army of little people could take over the world, but I was gaining confidence that they could help me take down Joe DeMeo.

  A couple hours after lunch, I found my dri
ver and had him push his way through the traffic to the Upper East Side of Manhattan, where I got a room at the Hotel Plaza Athenee. By five, room service had delivered an incredible Panini sandwich filled with fresh spinach, mozzarella, and roasted red peppers. They also brought me a bottle of Maker’s and a heavy glass tumbler. I ate the sandwich and washed it down with three fingers of bourbon. By six, I’d had a hot shower and was freshly shaved and dressed. I watched the news on Fox for twenty minutes and still had more than enough time to walk the quarter mile east, to Third and Sixty-Sixth.

  It was Tuesday, after all.

  “For me?” she asked.

  There was an empty chair waiting for her at the tiny table I’d staked out at Starbucks, and Kathleen had instantly spied the raspberry scone on the small square of wax paper across from me. To my utter surprise, she rewarded me with a radiant smile, removed her coat, and joined me at the table.

  “Who’d a thought it?” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s a romantic component at work here,” she said, “one that might even rival your desire to separate me from my panties.”

  “The mystery never ends,” I said.

  “Do I want to know where you’ve been since Wednesday, what you’ve been up to?”

  The angel on my shoulder urged me to tell Kathleen everything and let her run out of my life so she could find true happiness. Of course, the devil on my other shoulder said, “When in doubt, just smile and change the subject.”

  “Can I get you a coffee?” I asked.

  Kathleen frowned and shook her head. “That bad, eh?”

  “I’ve had worse,” I said, and immediately realized I was telling the truth. I thought, What a rotten thing to have to admit, even to myself. I looked at Kathleen across the table. Her eyes were locked onto my mouth, as if she could read my thoughts by watching me speak the words. If that could possibly be true, I wanted to give her something better—a happier thought, one she might enjoy hearing. It would have to be something sincere.

  Lucky for me, I had one. “I missed you,” I said. I’d wanted to say more about it, wanted to say it better, but at least I’d said it.

  Her eyes remained fixed on my mouth while she processed the validity of my comment. Then she slowly twisted her lips into a smile, and I felt that thing I always felt in her presence.

  Hope.

  Maybe I still had it in me to be a better person than I’d been. Maybe I hadn’t yet descended so deeply into the pit that I couldn’t experience a woman’s love, capture her heart, have a decent life.

  She took a bite of her scone and made a production of licking the sugar from her upper lip. She gave me a sly smile. “You really like me, don’t you!” she said.

  I laughed. “Don’t get cocky.”

  “Oh, I can get cocky,” she said. “Judging by the way your tongue is hanging out of your mouth, I can get cocky anytime I want!”

  “That’s pretty big talk,” I said, letting my tongue hang out of my mouth.

  “Pretty big what?” she said, laughing.

  “Keep talking like that and you’re never going to get me in bed.”

  “Oh, yes, I will!” she said.

  37

  The arabelle is the Plaza Athenee’s signature restaurant. It was also far too ostentatious, Kathleen felt, for the way she was dressed. “However,” she said, cocking an eyebrow at me, “the Bar Seine was voted ‘Best Spot for Romance’ by the New York Post.”

  “Then we’re in the right place,” I said. We strolled across the lobby and entered the Bar Seine. I pointed across the leather floor to an empty couch that was covered with an animal print fabric.

  “Wanna cuddle over there in the private alcove?” I said.

  “Slow down, Romeo, and get me a sandwich first.”

  “You can think of food at a time like this?” I said.

  She winked. “I need to build some strength for later, you lucky dog.”

  We sat beside each other in overstuffed chairs with ridiculously high armrests. There was a small octagonal coffee table in front of us. “Maybe I’ll order a bottle of courage,” I said.

  “They don’t serve bottles here silly,” she said. “This is a high-class joint.”

  I looked around. “They’ve got a signature hotel, a signature bar, probably got a signature drink,” I said.

  “Here we go again,” she giggled. “Actually, they do have a signature drink!”

  “As long as it doesn’t contain the words venti or doppo,” I said.

  “If I tell you the name, promise you’ll order it?”

  “Is it really pretentious?” I asked.

  Her laughter started bubbling up, spilling out into the room.

  “More puffed up than the coffees at Starbucks?” I said.

  She feigned a snooty look. “Those are bush league by comparison,” she huffed. “Mere pretenders.”

  I smiled. “Okay,” I said, “hit me with it.”

  Our waitress came, and we ordered a watercress sandwich for Kathleen. “And to drink?” she asked.

  “I’ll have a pomegranate martini,” Kathleen said.

  The waitress smiled and looked at me. “And for you, sir?”

  I looked at Kathleen.

  “Say it,” she giggled.

  I sighed. “I’ll have a crystal cosmopolitan,” I said, and she howled with laughter.

  The drinks came, and I didn’t want to ruin the moment, but I had to know what happened to make her change her mind about seeing me.

  “Augustus,” she said.

  “Augustus?”

  “You sent him to guard Addie.”

  “I did.”

  “Even though you and I were through at the time.”

  “So?”

  “So you really cared about Addie and wanted to keep her safe. That warmed my heart, Donovan. It says everything about your character.”

  I remembered how I’d ruined the moment with Lauren the week before and was determined not to react or say anything that could turn the tables on what promised to be an epic evening. I thought I’d stick to a safe topic.

  “You had a chance to spend some time with Quinn?” I asked.

  “I did,” she said. “Augustus is wonderful with the children—so loving and gentle.”

  I couldn’t recall ever hearing the words Augustus and loving and gentle in the same sentence before.

  “Did you talk to him about me?” I asked.

  “Of course!” she said, her eyes sparkling.

  “And?”

  “And I told him I thought you were seriously flawed.”

  I nodded. “And what did he say?”

  Kathleen grew serious for a minute and paused to give weight to her words. “He said you were chivalrous. That you’re always on a quest.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. That you’re a good friend to have.”

  “Did he mention I liked puppies and butterflies, too?”

  “No … thank God!”

  An hour later, we entered my suite, and she mugged me with kisses before I got the door shut. Our hands were all over each other, racing to see who could touch the most skin in the shortest period of time. I pinned her against the wall in a full body embrace, and our mouths worked hard to keep pace with our passion.

  Then Kathleen broke away and dragged me to the bedroom. She spun me around and pushed me onto the bed. I sat up and reached for her, but she slapped my hands away.

  I said, “Damn, those pomegranates are amazing!”

  “You mean these?” she said. She ripped off her bra, and my brain circuits spun like tumblers in a slot machine.

  “Now, Donovan!” she said.

  “Now?”

  She stepped out of her clothes. Licked her lips.

  “At your cervix,” I said.

  We made love like teenagers, wrecking the sheets, rolling all over the place. At one point, she started moaning like a porn star, and I said, “Hey, calm down. We both know I’m not that
good!”

  38

  The wind in Cincinnati whipped and swirled under a gunmetal sky. Bits of paper came to life on currents of air. A bus stopped at the corner of Fifth and Vine, and a young lady stepped off, wearing a short gray sweater dress with pleats. The sudden gusts played havoc with her dress, causing it to flutter and dance about her legs in a way that revealed more than she’d intended. A cellophane wrapper rose from the gutter and became part of a tiny swirling cyclone that covered some twenty yards along Vine Street before coming to rest on the sidewalk in front of the Beck Building.

  The Beck was an austere building located a stone’s throw from the Cincinnatian Hotel, where I’d spent the previous night. It was also the building that housed the law firm of Hastings, Unger, and Lovell.

  According to the concierge, my corner suite on the second floor of the legendary hotel was tastefully flamboyant. Still, the kitchen and parlor offered a great view of downtown Cincinnati, as well as the Beck Building’s front entrance, so I did my best to ignore the décor while waiting for Augustus Quinn to call me.

  Quinn had arrived in town an hour earlier, carrying only a duffel bag. Now he and the duffel were locked in the trunk of Sal Bonadello’s black sedan.

  I could only hope he was still alive.

  Actually, I was almost certain he was alive, because that was part of the plan.

  Every city has a rhythm, and I absorbed what I could of the sights and sounds of downtown Cincinnati from my window, trying to get a feel for it. Half a block away, a homeless person sat on a frozen park bench in what passed for Cincinnati’s town square: a block-sized patch of green with a gazebo and enough open space to accommodate a small gathering for outdoor events. It was practically freezing outside, but he had a couple of pigeons hanging about, hoping for a bread toss. I wondered if he’d had a better life at some point, and hoped so.

  I didn’t expect Quinn’s call for at least ten or fifteen minutes and didn’t plan to worry unless a half-hour had passed without hearing from him. As I stood at the window, I was thinking that I had no reason to believe Sal would double cross me, and yet I had just bet Quinn’s life on that assumption.

  I was also thinking what a fine target I’d make standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows.