“I insist,” the man said in a heavy Eastern European accent, his tone unchanged.
Donoven tried in vain to pull his arm out of the grip.
“Mr. Donoven, why not just hear me out? Then you can be on your way.”
Donoven nodded dumbly. Lost time was no longer his concern. He let the man lead him to the Railway Tavern. Once inside, the man finally loosened his grip on Donoven’s arm as they made for an opening at the bar.
“What do you drink?” the man asked, facing Donoven, one hand resting on the bar.
“Gin,” Donoven mumbled quickly. He cleared his throat. “Gin and tonic,” he said over the man’s head to the barman, who was leaning in their direction, trying to hear the order over the loud chatter of the other patrons. Donoven looked nervously around the room, asking himself, why this place? Was the small man alone or were there others with him?
“Make that two,” Donoven’s escort said.
Donoven was still wondering who this diminutive stranger could be. Then, in a shattering revelation, he suddenly knew who it was. How much does he know? Donoven thought frantically. What will they do with me? Where will they take me? Donoven could not come up with an answer that made him feel better.
“Come,” said Yazarinsky, picking up the two glasses. “Let us sit.”
Donoven could feel the weakness in his knees as they headed for the cubicles at the back of the room. Yazarinsky stopped and indicated one. Donoven slid in, facing the back wall and the passage that led to the cigarette machines and washrooms. Yazarinsky set the two glasses on the rough wooden table. Then, instead of sitting on the opposite bench as Donoven had expected, he squeezed in beside him.
“Now would you please tell me what it is you want?” Donoven’s voice trembled.
“Did you talk to Larry in New York?” said Yazarinsky, coming straight to the point.
“Who’s Larry?” Donoven made a feeble attempt to sound convincing. He looked at the drinks on the table and had a sudden urge to down them both as quickly as he could. Tiny beads of sweat were developing on his upper lip and his bald head. He reached for the glass, his hand shaking visibly, causing the ice to rattle against the glass. He licked his lips nervously.
“This is no time to play guessing games with me, Mr. Donoven.” The man’s head seemed to be welded rigidly to his shoulders without the benefit of a neck. When he turned to look at Donoven, his whole upper torso moved with his head. “I ask the questions, you answer the questions. We keep it simple. Now one more time, did you meet Larry in New York?”
Donoven thought quickly, the wheels of his mind spinning, digging him deeper into the quicksand of fear. He considered jumping up and calling for help; he would have a lot to offer the police in exchange for his personal safety. But he was sure the place was full of Yazarinsky’s people, and doing so would only prove to them that he was not going to be cooperative and should therefore be terminated. “Terminated”—now that it applied to him, he hated the word. He had written and said it so many times over the years, never realizing its gravity until this very moment.
“No,” said Donoven. He had decided there was no point in beating around the bush. “I spoke to him before I left for New York.” Should he tell the little man about Edward too? Perhaps not right now. It was unlikely they knew about Edward. Donoven would keep him for later. He had no doubt Yazarinsky was going to escort him to some safe house where the treatment wouldn’t be so gentle. He wanted to have ammunition for then, something he could offer, bargain with. “I’m supposed to call him today,” he finally said.
“Do you have a number to call?”
Donoven nodded.
Yazarinsky drew a pen and a small notebook from his pocket, pushing them on the table toward Donoven. A cold smile appeared on his face. Donoven took that as a sign of hope. He wrote down the number.
“And where is this place?”
“I believe it’s in Utah, a restaurant of some sort where he gets his messages.”
“Thank you, Mr. Donoven. You have been very cooperative.”
Donoven didn’t dare look at the man’s face again. “What now?” he whispered.
“Don’t worry, Englishman. I have something for you. It’s a gift from the general, for your cooperation.” Yazarinsky placed his right hand inside the front of his greatcoat. The silencer barely coughed. The first bullet passed through the side of Yazarinsky’s coat, through the thinner material of Donoven’s jacket and shirt, and into the pink, hairless flesh. Traveling at an upward angle, it tore through Donoven’s liver and entered his heart, rupturing the aorta. From there it passed out of his body near the left shoulder blade and, with a low thud, lodged in the wood of the cubicle.
Donoven blinked. The thought of finishing his gin and tonic was still in his mind, even as his life drained away. The silencer coughed again, and the second bullet sliced into Donoven’s spinal chord, where it remained caught between two shattered vertebrae.
Donoven’s eyes remained open, his hand holding on to the base of his glass, as his body slumped slightly downward.
“Cheers,” said Yazarinsky. He clinked his glass against Donoven’s, downed the contents in a single draft, then got up and left the room, alone. It was not until seven minutes later that a librarian from the British Museum, returning from the men’s room, saw the figure with the glazed look slumped in the cubicle and called for help. But help, at this point, was not something Donoven could use.
The White House, Washington, D.C.
February 26
17:45 hours
Bud Hays called his wife to say that, once again, he would be held up at the office. It was an emergency meeting, he explained. He would be home for supper about eight. She didn’t complain; she liked being part of the Washington inner circle and knew there was a price to pay.
Bud already had on his jacket and overcoat as he hung up the phone. Fifteen minutes later he entered the underground parking garage of the Lexington apartment building on Q Street. Even though he had a key to Angela’s apartment, he allowed his executive secretary the courtesy of opening the door for him. He rang the door and waited while the light in the spy hole was momentarily obscured. Then the deadbolt clicked open.
She opened the door wide, standing still for a few seconds. Bud caught his breath. The thin, semitransparent nightgown she was wearing accentuated everything that was beautiful in her full, voluptuous body. Her skin glowed milky white with a hint of rose. She knew unmistakably the full power of her sexuality.
Without a word, she linked her little finger into the front of his belt, turned, and led him through the apartment to the bedroom. He followed silently, knowing she was about to scorch into his gray brain tissue another memory that would cause him discomfort every time she passed by him in the office.
In the dim light she swayed to the sound of the soft big-band music coming from the stereo system in the next room. Like a cat, she was rubbing her smell on him, claiming him as her territory. She knew it would be all over as soon as he’d had his fun, but still her female instinct claimed its prey. His nostrils flared and his heart pumped ever more blood to his oxygen-starved muscles as she helped him undress.
At that moment it was worth more than anything: His career, his family, his position in life—he would risk all that and more if he had to for this glorious stolen moment. He felt alive, vibrant, as he came in a great shuddering gasp that was quickly followed by a wave of guilt. As they lay silently together, he wanted to escape.
The light was too dim. Her smell, which only moments before had intoxicated him, now seemed heavy, cloying, and cheap. He stared at the ceiling, knowing this strange feeling of revulsion would dissipate as soon as she aroused him again.
He told himself he deserved these secret meetings, that they were the reward for the extreme pressure he was under. They were good for his work, and Bud believed in his work. He enjoyed it and he put everything he had into it. But one aspect of his work was bothering him. It was not the daily pressure of
decisions, deadlines, politics—that he could cope with, always had. It was that time was running out on him. There was a phone call he had to make. He’d been putting it off for some time now. He had planned to make the call from a pay phone, but then he thought Angela’s phone would be as good as any. There was no reason for it to be monitored, and if it had been, he would be the first to know.
“I have to make a call,” he said.
“Now?” She sounded disappointed.
“Sorry, you know how it is.”
She got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. “Okay, you can use the phone in the living room.” She stopped and turned to face him, stark naked. He could feel his heart start pounding again. “Don’t be too long, okay?”
He put on his underwear and went into the living room. The phone was answered on the third ring. “The Singleton residence,” said a British-sounding voice. “How may I help you?”
“Mr. Singleton, please.”
“And whom may I say is calling?”
“Just tell him it’s a friend.”
“Very well, sir. Please hold.”
He waited, feeling slightly cold in his underwear. There was no sound coming from the bedroom. He wanted to get back there as soon as he could. This call was not going to be pleasant. He knew Singleton well enough to know that he would not appreciate a blunder.
“Singleton here.” The man’s voice was deep and full of authority. It seemed to suggest that everybody else belonged among the little people—and it did mean everybody.
“Hello, sir.” Bud was hoping Singleton would recognize his voice; he did not like saying his name on calls such as these.
“Hays, is that you?”
“Well, I’d prefer . . .”
“I don’t care what you’d prefer. In a perfect world I wouldn’t have my own people spying on me.”
“What! Who’s spying on you?”
“You are, you little twit. Or are you so stupid that you didn’t even know?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your man Larry Williams had a mole in the Wish Foundation.”
“Are you sure? He never told me . . .”
“Where did you think he was getting his information?”
“He never told me. We were working on a need-to-know basis only,” Bud said stiffly. This conversation was not going the way he had planned.
“I see. Well, what you needed to know—but obviously didn’t—was that he was getting very close to the communication array.”
“I did know that. He called me—he told me he’d found out about the array being stolen. He figured that if he could get his hands on the array’s activation device, no one could use it. He was going into Hill to make a switch and he asked me to send in some backup. So I sent the backup over. He was supposed to hand over the component, which I was then going to pass on to you.”
“And? Can you get to the point? I have guests here.”
Bud found that his next words did not come easy. “Something went wrong. He killed two of my people and the third was wounded. I understand that Larry was hit, too, but he had a woman with him who got him out of there and they took the component with them.”
“I see,” Singleton said again. “Tell me, Hays, why did you get this guy to work for you in the first place? You were supposed to get some jerk who would stumble all over himself. From what I hear, this guy is good. He should be working for me.”
“Well, he’s regarded as somewhat of a loose canon in the Agency. They were quite surprised I asked for him. The good thing about him is that if we try and make him look dirty, they’ll buy it in a minute.”
“So where do we stand now?”
“If we can’t get the activation device, the whole array is useless. We should let the buyers know. I mean, if your clients try to use it they will be a very disappointed bunch, whoever they are.”
“I’ll handle that. They don’t need to know. The array is only one component of their operation. Once they’re committed, array or not, they have to take it to the end.”
“So what do you want me to do about the mole in the Foundation? I could get our British friends to pick him up.”
“He’s already been taken care of. I don’t think he will give us any more trouble. Keep me informed about Larry Williams. I want to know as soon as you get him.” There was a short silence on the line. “You are trying to get him?”
“Yes, sir, we sure are. I have the Agency and the Bureau out looking for him. He’s regarded as armed and dangerous. They’ve been told that he stole and was trying to sell advanced technology that could help some third-world dictator build a weapon of mass destruction.”
“Did you come up with that all on your own?” Singleton said, mockingly. “Just get the guy, okay? Otherwise I will not be pleased, Hays.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Keep me in the picture.” The phone went dead.
Bud sat there for a few more seconds. He knew that this private sideline to his official duties could turn bad on him at any moment. He also knew that if he could pull it off and stay clean, he was destined to be a very rich man. Nothing else mattered now. He had to get his hands on Larry, if the man was still alive.
“What’s up, honey?” said Angela, startling him as she appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a loose terry-cloth robe. Apparently she had taken a shower, and now she looked ready for a second round. She came in and sat beside him on the sofa. “You look kinda preoccupied.”
“It’s nothing,” he said, reaching for a cigarette.
“That can wait,” she said. Laughing, she began to caress him, her fingers moving lightly over his body until he was fully aroused again.
Later, as he drove home, Bud again thought about Larry. The irony of Bud’s having been picked to run Larry was not making him laugh anymore. He was no longer sure he was so lucky. Now it was Larry or himself.
First thing in the morning he would have to brief the secretary of defense. He would make sure Townes knew Larry was a bad apple. Then they would have to admit to the president they had screwed up by picking the wrong man for the job. He would take full responsibility. Bud’s mood was improving. After all, who could blame him? If you can’t trust a veteran from the CIA, whom can you trust?
CHAPTER 10
New York City
February 28
10:00 hours
Edward looked shabby in his old coat, worn sneakers, and wrinkled T-shirt. The fact that he had not shaved for three days, or washed for that matter, added considerably to the strength of his cover. Before going on the streets, he had burnt a cigarette hole in the sleeve of his coat and rubbed ash into the T-shirt to give it that lived-in look. But after the second day, he not only looked the part, he also smelled it. He knew that when people are cast or fall into the gutter of life and are regarded as non-persons by the rest of society, they have to adapt in order to survive. It’s a caveman existence on the rim of civilization. All the rules change, and there are no milestones to mark the path. Once he started to look for ways to clean up rather than look bad, he knew they would accept him.
The only way to get information from people who had nowhere to go was to listen. If you asked questions beyond the immediate needs of survival you had to pay for the answers, and what you got for your money was usually not worth much.
Edward thought he might find what he was looking for here. He left his car where he had parked it, on 34th Street, and headed down on foot to 32nd. Underneath the bridge, invisible to all but their own kind, were a few faded figures, blending into the heaps of garbage and discarded appliances. They were gathered around a black oil barrel from which the open end spewed black smoke and a few orange flames. He moved toward them. Thrusting his hands into his coat pockets, he could feel the small transistor radio he had bought from a pawnbroker on 37th Street the previous morning.
Already it seemed a long time since Edward had left the so-called civilized world, although in fact he was only forty hours i
nto the grime.
“What can you tell me about street people?” he had asked Robert, his buddy from the NYPD, before starting his descent into the underworld.
Robert made a face. “What do you want to know? They’re everywhere—can’t get away from them. Most of them smell bad. What else can I tell you?”
“If I was looking for one guy in particular . . .”
“Good luck. There’s a thousand of the suckers in New York City alone. Where you gonna start?”
“That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me.”
Robert looked at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you? Okay, let me think.” Robert chewed his toast for a minute, took a drink of coffee, and looked to the ceiling, his brow wrinkled. “Okay. Who is this guy? Who was he before he became a street person?”
“He was a radio operator in the Navy.”
“Name?”
“Montgomery Houston.”
“Ever use a nickname?”
“Monty, I guess. Why?”
“A lot of them are only known to other street people by a nickname. Okay, what else? Joined the Navy. Likes the sea. You could try the waterfront, for a place to start. Be careful, though. They are very protective of themselves. They know we don’t give a shit about them, so they can get tough.”
There was something about Montgomery Houston that Edward just couldn’t turn away from. He had no doubt that whomever else the gatekeeper had found for him would do just fine, but he wanted Houston. It was very possible, as Joe Falco had said, that even if they found him he might not be in the kind of shape they could use. But Edward knew that he was looking for part of himself out there. He needed to try to bring the man back, to let him know that even if he was no longer useful they still owed him. They owed them all, but Edward was going to try to pay one back, even if the debt wasn’t his.
Edward approached the ragged group of people around the fire. One was a tough man in a brown trench coat. His hair showed random bald spots, as though someone had given him a haircut with a machete. He had a mad, vicious look in his eyes. Next to him was an old-timer with a dirty gray beard. He looked as if he was waiting to pass away where he stood in peace. Between them stood a black woman who mumbled, chanted, and sang like a person in the throes of religious ecstasy and spoke in tongues. The two men ignored her.
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