The Deadliest Game

by Hal Ross

  The apprehension he was feeling vanished. This would be Castaway, he knew, bringing his daughter back to him. As promised.

  He didn’t move along the corridor, he glided. He paused to compose himself, to allow his silly grin to dissipate. He placed a hand on the doorknob and turned.

  There were two of them. Each was wearing a blue, nylon jacket. The word POLICE was stenciled across their chests in bold, white lettering. The taller of the two introduced himself as William Campbell, NYPD. “Blair Mulligan?” he asked.

  “Yes?” he tentatively acknowledged.

  The cop handed him a document. “We have a warrant to search the premises,” he said.

  The hair on the back of Blair’s neck bristled. “What’s this about?”

  The shorter of the two policemen pointed to the document. “Read it,” he said.

  He started to. But he was so disappointed in not seeing Sandra, he couldn’t make any sense of it. “Why don’t you summarize for me?”

  The cop looked at him askance. “Your ex-wife claims you have conspired to keep your daughter away from her against her wishes. We are here to seek out clues to your daughter’s whereabouts. You’re lucky we’re not arresting you.”

  All Blair could do was step aside.

  The policemen split up. One began to rummage through the kitchen cupboards and drawers. The other started his search in the hall closet. After an hour, Blair approached the taller of the two and asked if he could help him find what he was looking for.

  “Afraid not,” the cop said.

  Blair was just turning away when he remembered Sandra’s torn blouse, the one he had found on his bed when his apartment had been ransacked. Instead of leaving it lying around, he had locked it in the trunk of his car. If he hadn’t done so, his arrest would no longer be pending but imminent. Thank God for small favors, he thought.

  When the policeman’s search of the kitchen was completed, Blair took a seat at the table. He picked up the phone and dialed Castaway’s office number.

  After the seventh ring he grew apprehensive. Why wasn’t voicemail picking up?

  He strolled through his apartment.

  “You guys get paid by the hour?” he finally asked the shorter cop.

  He was waved off.

  “Well, how much longer are you going to be?” he asked.

  “As long as it takes,” he was told.

  CHAPTER 46

  At his office the following morning, he let Rena Castaway’s line ring for over a minute before disconnecting. Rationalizing, he told himself voicemail wasn’t picking up because it had been turned off or was full. He would give it another hour before trying again. In the meantime, he considered calling his ex-wife, to vent his anger at what she had done, getting the police to search his condo.

  He picked up the phone and began to dial.

  Something stopped him. He put the phone down. To occupy his time, he tried doing a comparison of sales numbers from last year to this. It was hopeless.

  Just after ten o’clock, he punched in Castaway’s number and let it ring a dozen times.

  No answer.

  She was probably called back to Washington, he concluded. As an employee of the federal government, Castaway would be asked to travel on a moment’s notice. But why was her voicemail turned off? And why didn’t she show up yesterday, as promised?

  Blair left his office at one o’clock and went out for a bagel and coffee. When he returned a half-hour later, he immediately tried Castaway’s number. After two rings, a mechanical voice said: “The number you have dialed is out of service.”

  He stared at the receiver, figuring he must have dialed wrong. He hung up and dialed again.

  “The number…”

  It can’t be, he told himself.

  Blair peered at the phone as if it could unravel the secret.

  He had two other numbers for Castaway, just as he had for her predecessor, John Dalton. One was for her general office, the other her cell. Both were local New York numbers.

  He tried the general office number first; he received the same recorded message about the line being out of service. He dialed Castaway’s cell. No answer.

  Quickly, he punched in directory assistance.

  “For what city, please?”

  “Washington, D.C.” He spoke slowly. “B … I … S.”

  “We are sorry, there is no such company listed.”

  “There has to be!” he yelled into the receiver.

  He was cut off, as if the mechanical voice knew he was hollering at it.

  He reached for his attaché case. He found his Day-Timer, and began to rummage through it. Page after page of names and numbers, all drawing a blank. Quickly, he began scrolling through the contact list on his BlackBerry.

  What the hell am I looking for? he asked himself.

  He didn’t know. Some name to tweak a memory? If he couldn’t reach Castaway, how in God’s name would he be able to obtain Sandra’s release?

  At soon as he arrived home that night, Blair picked up the phone in the kitchen and tried Castaway’s cell.

  There was no answer.

  He tried her direct office number; once again he received the same annoying recording about the line being out of service.

  He took a seat at the table and began to go through his mail. There were bills mostly. But one was a letter from a law firm in Queens.

  Speed-reading, the gist of it became clear. Apparently, he had five days in which to return Sandra to her mother. Otherwise, he would face the consequences of legal action being commenced against him.

  On Sunday, he retrieved his car and headed out to the suburbs. His intention was to keep himself occupied by doing store-checks, to see what new toys were on the shelves. Unfortunately, no matter where he went, he could hardly concentrate.

  On Monday at his office, every time his phone rang he expected it to be Castaway, calling to give him an explanation, to tell him everything was fine.

  It wasn’t until late afternoon that he questioned the unthinkable: if terrorists were responsible for the death of John Dalton, could they not have eliminated Castaway as well?

  Blair stood from his desk and went home.

  He poured a stiff Scotch.

  Sandra was out there somewhere and he was going to find her.

  But how?

  He needed help, and he needed it now. The time for procrastination was over.

  He tried Castaway’s cell. This time it rang twice and then went into limbo, meaning it too was no longer in service.

  Blair thought of Jeremy. He placed the call to Israel. The connection was poor and he could hardly hear Jeremy’s secretary. She said something about his friend having gone on a business trip to Europe.

  About to drain his drink, he paused. Thinking of Jeremy reminded him of something else. Hurrying, he rummaged through the top kitchen drawer. Jeremy’s words came back to him: how he was to call this New York number if his situation should become worse. He found the piece of paper and unfolded it.

  Blair picked up the phone and dialed.

  A mechanical voice answered, male and robotic: “After the tone, please speak your name and phone number clearly. Your call will be returned.”

  He did as he was told. But he was tempted to hold on to the receiver, as if this act by itself could bring help that much sooner.

  No one called back.

  Every half-hour or so, Blair would peek at his watch and cringe.

  A little after 9:00 PM, someone rang from the downstairs lobby.

  A voice in his head told him it would be Rena Castaway. Without hesitation, he buzzed the caller in, then opened the door and waited in the hallway, his heart pounding.

  Lisa came out of the elevator and walked toward him without a smile or “hello.”

  He was about to tell her that this was not a good time, that he wished she would have called first.

  She told him that she got his message.

  He looked at her strangely. “What message?”<
br />
  “Your phone message.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said, his frustration beginning to show.

  “Blair—” She tugged on his arm, guiding him inside the apartment. “Come take a seat for a minute.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Yassin was in the same makeshift mosque in Brooklyn. He leaned forward on his haunches, closed his eyes, and let his mind wander. He was surrounded by a dozen or so worshipers, yet felt quite alone.

  His plan was in place. There had been a few bumps along the way. But his people knew their roles and were handling them well. This operation was complicated. It had started off as expected and he was certain it would follow its course to a positive conclusion.

  The chant of familiar prayers reached his ears. Yassin had studied the Koran from a young age. It amazed him how its verses had been misinterpreted by non-believers. Not that it mattered. As a messenger of Allah, he would see that the world finally understood.

  The service came to an end.

  Yassin slowly rose and moved to the back of the room. It did not take long to make eye contact. He indicated with his head.

  The other man acknowledged him.

  They met a few blocks from the mosque.

  A white Lincoln pulled to a stop. Yassin opened the door and waited for the other man to get in. Instructions were given to the driver in Arabic.

  Like ports in other large cities around the world, New York’s had a pulse all its own. Numerous warehouses lined their route. It was noon and traffic was heavy.

  They pulled into the parking area of a two-story building. The sign out front read, G.H.McSwain and Sons, Importers. Est. 1915.

  Yassin knew that the business was no longer owned by the McSwain family. Years ago it had been sold to Saudi interests through an intermediary. Now it was registered to a numbered company whose head office was located in the Cayman Islands. It was one of thousands of such U.S. businesses controlled by the Saudis, totaling billions of dollars.

  This thought brought a smile to Yassin’s lips. They would not only win the physical war, but the financial one as well. Americans remained either stupid or oblivious. Perhaps both.

  He was first out of the car. He pretended to stretch but was actually observing his surroundings. Once he confirmed that there was nothing out of the ordinary, he followed his compatriot into the building and closed the door behind them.

  A jovial, pot-bellied man in his fifties, whom he had never met, greeted him as if he were a long, lost friend. “Come, come,” he said, guiding him further inside. They were joined by two of the man’s subordinates.

  They headed along a brightly lit corridor and passed a large showroom. Yassin noticed modern glassware and stemware. There were vases of various sizes. Serving bowls and plates. Decorative pieces. And statues in brass, gold, and silver. His host made mention of there being something to satisfy anyone’s taste.

  They continued up a staircase and passed a series of offices. The man paused in front of a bold-lettered sign marked Danger! Keep out! He inserted a key into the lock. The door opened and they stepped inside.

  Yassin was confronted by a showroom that was a fair bit larger than the one below. There were risers on tables and recessed lighting brightly illuminating the wares.

  His host laughed at Yassin’s expression. “Nothing can beat our selection or price,” he boasted. “Come, let me show you our most recent arrival.” They moved to a corner of the room where he pointed out an odd-looking, cast-iron chair. It was straight-backed with unusual wide arms. “This just came to us from Germany,” he announced proudly. “You know the Germans. They don’t miss a trick.” He touched a remote switch. There was a crackling sound. And a blue electric charge lit up the base of the seat.

  “It won’t kill you,” the man explained, “but it will give you third-degree burns and a sizeable shock.”

  Yassin smiled at the thought.

  “But there is more,” his host continued. “Much more. Come, come…”

  There was an updated version of a ball and chain. An odd-sized pair of pliers. Various cat o’ nine tails, brass knuckles, knives, pistols, semiautomatics, and an assortment of machetes.

  “Ibrihim,” the man called to one of his employees. “Come here for a moment.”

  The boy stepped forward rather sheepishly. In his early twenties, rake-thin with a shy demeanor. His right hand was hardly brushed with the blade of one of the machetes. A narrow line of blood immediately appeared. The boy did not flinch. Instead, he licked the blood away.

  “Nothing as sharp as these in the world,” came another boastful statement. “Perfect for beheadings, if you are so inclined.”

  Before Yassin could pose his question, his host explained how thousands of containers arrived at U.S. ports on a daily basis, how no country, let alone one as ill-prepared as the United States, could manage to inspect each and every one. “Besides,” his host said, “I am a legitimate importer of giftware, am I not?” He laughed. “But you tell me what you would like. We can have everything delivered to any address you choose in the continental United States. Freight prepaid.”

  Yassin excused himself and gestured to his companion. They headed off to compile their list. He doubted he would have need for most of what had been shown to him. But some of it was worthwhile.

  It did not take long. “Don’t give out our address,” he warned when they were done. “Make arrangements to pick everything up. Use Yusef, if you have to. And the other one. Ahmed.”

  He returned to his host. In order not to lose face, he began to haggle over price. It went back and forth. Once they had an agreement, they shook hands as if they liked each other and made their goodbyes.

  Yassin walked out. He was more anxious than ever to get his mission started. He figured it would be a matter of a day or two, possibly one more week at the most. Then his dupe would take the final bait and the trap would be sprung.

  Inshallah…

  CHAPTER 48

  “You called a private number that few people in New York know exists,” Lisa said once they were seated. Blair’s mouth fell open. “Jeremy’s contact?” “One and the same.”

  “You?”

  “Me. I’m sorry, Blair. I was going to tell you.”

  “You?” he repeated. Stunned, he got back on his feet. “No lies between us,” he said. He pointed a finger at her. “You made me promise—remember? What the hell was that all about?”

  His mind flashed back in time. “Billie’s wasn’t a coincidence,” he said. “Being stood up by whatever the hell his name was supposed to be—Robert? Richard?—was all a load of crap. Wasn’t it? Jeremy probably asked you to keep an eye on me. So not only do you throw your eye my way, but your body. You feigned an interest, acting as if we were what?” He snapped his fingers. “Simpatico? Yet all the while it was your bloody job!” His voice rose. “So what does that make you? Not only a liar but a whore?”

  “Blair,” Lisa said, “Please sit down. I’ll explain…”

  Despite his anger, he couldn’t deny his attraction. Even now. It served to make everything he was feeling worse. “I’ve heard enough explanations,” he said.

  “You haven’t.”

  “Get out, Lisa.” He indicated the door.

  “I’m not leaving. I can’t leave until I tell you the truth.” She came to her feet, and tried to approach.

  He moved into the corridor.

  “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she said. She remained by the couch, her voice a whisper. “I was given instructions to get close to you. To get you to like me. To get you to confide in me.”

  “Was Jeremy behind this or not?” Blair couldn’t help interrupting.

  The pause was abbreviated. “Yes, Jeremy was behind it. He was worried about you. He suspected something was going on.”

  “How intuitive.”

  “He knows you like a book, Blair. At first, the plan was for me to call you. I was to tell you that I had just arrived from Israel. But Jeremy knew y
ou would never ask me out. So … I followed you for a while. Got to know your habits. Got to see which bars and restaurants you preferred. That night we met you talked to me for hours. Remember? And for the only time in my professional career,” she hesitated, “I became attracted to one of my assignments.”

  Blair’s jaw dropped. “Is that how you think of me?” His voice flared. “As one of your assignments?”

  “At first, I did. And I tried everything in my power to turn this from being personal back to business. The internal warning signs were everywhere. But it was already too late. Attraction isn’t something…” She sucked in her breath. “Attraction isn’t something you can regiment. It was totally unprofessional of me. I know that now. But my resolve wilted. I fell for you, Blair.” She paused. “And now I want to help. I can see how angry you are. And I can’t say that I blame you. But Mossad has invaluable resour…”

  “Mossad?”

  “Didn’t Jeremy tell you? We both happen to work for a division of Mossad. I thought you knew.”

  Jeremy’s personal story came back to him. About how he moved to Israel. How he made a contribution in unimaginable ways. “So you being a masseuse is all bullshit,” he stated flatly.

  Lisa tried to make light of it. “I am a therapeutic masseuse,” she said. “That’s my cover. And I’m good at it.”

  “And Jeremy’s cover is what—toys? With Mossad’s blessing?”

  “They prefer it. The toy industry necessitates the need for travel. Jeremy is responsible for more than one part of the world.”

  “I’ll bet he is,” Blair said. “What about Montreal?” he asked. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

  Lisa blushed. “Good thing I was there, wouldn’t you say? You could have been killed.”

  “Did you find whoever was in the blue truck?”

  “No. I tried to, but I lost them in the downtown core.” She paused. “Take advantage of my offer, Blair. I will keep it strictly business, if that’s what you want. Only, please, don’t shut me out.”