Wild Card

by Stuart Woods

  He spoke with two of his compatriots, with whom he had worked on a dozen killings, and he suggested to them that they might lead an even more luxurious life, and a safer one, by becoming independent contractors.

  They procured documents from a forger who equipped terrorists of every stripe, and within a couple of months they found themselves in New York removing an Israeli member of a United Nations delegation from the earth. Other assignments came along, then he met Rance Damien through a shadowy contact. Damien had heard of him and believed he could offer them work. At the moment, Harod had four active contracts with Damien.

  His phone rang, and he picked it up.

  “They’re just leaving the Plaza Hotel, getting into a cab,” his colleague Avin said.

  “Follow them and find a way,” Harod said.

  “Yes,” Avin said and hung up.

  While on the phone Harod checked his messages and found one from Damien, canceling his four contracts. He knew they would be paid anyway, but it disturbed him that four people worthy of assassination had escaped his hand, especially since he had worked so hard to complete the contract. Their first victim, though shot in the head in a thoroughly professional manner, had somehow survived, and now the Grant woman and her mother, whom they had tracked to a police safe house, were suddenly available for elimination. He thought about it, but he did not respond to the cancellation message.

  A few minutes later, Avin called again. “They are at Bloomingdale’s,” he said, “and it’s very crowded. I can make it happen here.”

  Harod thought for a moment. “Then make it happen,” he said.

  * * *

  • • •

  Elena sat for a makeover in the cosmetics department, while Elise watched and took mental notes. Then her mother bought two hundred dollars’ worth of cosmetics, and they moved on, up the escalator to the designer shops.

  They strolled into the Ralph Lauren department, and both found things they liked. The dressing rooms were all full, so they sat down among other women who were waiting, their arms full of garments to try on. Finally, a compartment became available, and they moved in to try on things. As Elise closed the door, a man walked past, not seeming to notice her. What was a man doing in a dressing area of a women’s department?

  Elise called the store, asked for security, and reported the presence of the man.

  “Don’t leave your compartment,” the officer said. “Someone is close by and on the way.”

  She hung up and, while waiting, slipped into a wool dress that looked just great on her. A moment later, she heard two odd popping noises and running feet in the corridor outside, then screams.

  Someone was shouting at someone else to stop. She opened the door a crack and could see a uniformed security guard in the room just opposite hers. She could also see two women, lying on the floor of another compartment in a pool of blood.

  Elise pushed her mother back into their room, leaned on the door, and called Joan Robertson. “Get dressed, Mother,” she said as the phone rang.

  “Hello, Elise,” Joan said.

  “Stone said we were in the clear, so we went shopping,” Elise said.

  “Yes, all is well.”

  “No, all is not well! We’re at Bloomingdale’s, in a dressing room at the Ralph Lauren shop upstairs, and two women across the hall from us have just been shot.”

  “Stay where you are,” Joan said. “Don’t move.”

  “Forget that. We’re getting out of here, and now. Come on, Mother!”

  48

  Elise and Elena hailed a cab on the Third Avenue side of Bloomingdale’s and got into the rear seat just in time to see a policeman shoot a man on the sidewalk.

  “You think that guy was after us?” Elena asked.

  “Maybe,” Elise replied, “but if he was, he isn’t anymore.” She gave the driver Stone’s address and prayed for traffic to get out of the way.

  * * *

  • • •

  Dino was on his way uptown in his car for lunch with Stone when his phone rang. “Bacchetti,” he said.

  “Dino, it’s Joan,” she said.

  “Hi, Joan.”

  “There’s trouble, and Stone isn’t answering his phone.”

  “Tell me.”

  “This morning, after Jamie’s story about the Thomases ran in the Times, Stone called Elise and gave her the all-clear—thinking they wouldn’t dare go for her now.”

  “That seems reasonable.”

  “Elise and her mother went to Bloomingdale’s. They were trying on clothes in the Ralph Lauren department when two women were shot in a dressing room opposite theirs. They’re on their way here now.”

  “Shot in the middle of Bloomie’s?”

  “Exactly. Will you tell Stone about this and also tell him to watch his ass?”

  “I’ll do more than that,” Dino said. He hung up and called the Nineteenth Precinct and found they were already on the job, and that a suspect had been shot by a street cop on Third Avenue, outside the store. He asked to be kept apprised of the details and hung up.

  Stone was already at their table when Dino arrived and gave him the news.

  “I’m flabbergasted,” Stone said. “The Thomases have gone absolutely bonkers, and I’ve made a big mistake thinking they would behave sensibly now, in their own interests.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Dino replied. “We haven’t connected these killings to the Grants yet. At least we took out the assassin, though.”

  “Where?”

  “On the street outside the store.”

  “Who was he?”

  As if in answer to his question, Dino’s phone rang, and he walked away from the dining room to answer it. He returned shortly.

  “This is very interesting,” Dino said, sitting down. “The killer had a notebook with the Grants’ names in it and the Plaza was mentioned. Do you know if they had breakfast there?”

  “No.”

  “Here’s the other thing. The guy was carrying an American passport in the name of Jonathan Morgan that, when checked, was valid, until our intelligence unit started running down the name. Turns out, Morgan doesn’t exist, but the shooter entered the country on that passport, and the computer didn’t kick back.”

  “What do you take that to mean?” Stone asked.

  “It seems to mean that there’s a foreign intelligence aspect to this thing. No street forger could make that passport. It requires a special kind of expert and a real number from the State Department or, abroad, an embassy or consulate. Our people are running prints and our facial recognition program now. We’ll have to wait and see if they get a hit.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Harod Avaya was still sitting on his park bench when his telephone chimed loudly. That meant a news alert from the New York Times app. He pressed the alert and waited for the story to come up.

  Two women were fatally shot twenty minutes ago in the dressing room of a designer shop at Bloomingdale’s. Shortly afterward, the alleged shooter was himself shot on the street outside the department store. No word yet on his identity or that of the victims.

  Harod was stunned that Avin could have allowed himself to be chased down in the street and shot by the police. He began thinking ahead. Avin was carrying the passport by the same forger as that of his own. They would be tracking the ID down by now, but he had been assured that the document would hold up under scrutiny. He remembered that the three passports sold to Harod and his two compatriots did not have consecutive numbers; that was a relief.

  His phone rang, and he recognized the number as that of a throwaway used by Rance Damien.

  “Yes?”

  “We have to meet right now,” Damien said.

  “Park bench on the East River, near the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge,” he replied.

  �
�Forty minutes,” Damien said, then hung up.

  Harod put away his phone and took a stroll, always keeping the bench in sight. Damien turned up on schedule and sat down, putting a briefcase between his legs. Harod went into his phone and deleted the voice mails and texts from Damien. Then, satisfied that the man had not been followed, he approached the bench and sat down. Damien was pretending to read the Times.

  “Why didn’t you return my calls?” Damien demanded.

  “What calls?” Harod took out his iPhone, checked his e-mail and message pages. “Nothing here,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

  Damien put down the newspaper and slid it across the bench to Harod. “Front-page story on us,” he said, “continued at length inside.”

  “I got that on my iPhone this morning. It’s nothing to do with me.”

  “Did you send a man to Bloomingdale’s to kill the Grants?”

  “We located them at a police safe house this morning, and Avin followed them from there to the Plaza, where they had breakfast, and then to Bloomingdale’s. I just got a flash from the Times that two women were shot in Bloomingdale’s and the shooter was killed by police outside. I assume they are talking about the Grants and Avin, though no names have been released yet.”

  “Goddammit, I canceled the four contracts!” Damien shouted.

  “Keep your voice down, or I will walk away.” Harod looked around the area for threats. “I showed you my phone. I got no messages or texts.”

  “Don’t you see what this means?” Damien asked. “As soon as they identify the women, they’ll be coming for us. We may have to leave the country.”

  “There’s no need to panic,” Harod said. “They’ll question you, and you were in your office at the time. They can’t connect you to Avin or me. You’re safe. Do you still want to cancel the other three contracts?”

  “Yes, for now,” Damien said.

  “Then I’ll have the money, as per our agreement.”

  “It’s in the briefcase between my feet,” Damien said. “Two hundred thousand dollars, as agreed.”

  “Then, when you reactivate the other contracts, there will be no further charge. Now go.”

  Damien rose and left, leaving the briefcase under the bench.

  Harod’s phone rang, and he checked the caller ID. Avin’s phone; the police had found it. He switched off his iPhone, removed the data card, and ground it under his heel before kicking it into the grass. He then picked up the briefcase and laid it across his knees. It was beautiful, he thought, brand-new. He wanted to see the money. He placed his thumbs on the latches and pressed.

  His world exploded in fire.

  49

  Rasheed Khan, the third member of Harod’s team, sat and stared at his phone. He had called both Harod and Avin, and the calls had gone straight to voice mail. The TV was on, and a story came up about two killings at Bloomingdale’s. Avin had called him earlier and said he was following the Grants there, so the women had to be them. But a man was dead, too, described as the assassin; that had to be Avin. But where was Harod?

  Rasheed left the apartment and walked the three blocks to the East River, where Harod liked to go and sit. From a block away, it was clear that something was wrong. There was police tape across the street at the end of the block, and patrol cars and uniforms on foot were everywhere. He turned away and went into a coffee shop, where he ordered tomato soup and tea. Surreptitiously, he removed the data card from his iPhone and replaced it with another, then he dropped the old one into the remains of his soup. Harod and Avin had the new number, and he had their spares. He called them both and got nowhere.

  He went back to the apartment, packed his things, and wiped it down. He dropped Harod’s and Avin’s clothes down the incinerator, then left the building. He walked four blocks to the backup safe apartment that was their last line of defense. From there, he would have to make his next move carefully.

  * * *

  • • •

  Elise and Elena Grant entered Stone’s building through the downstairs office and were greeted by Joan.

  “Thank goodness you made it out safely,” Joan said.

  “It was a close call,” Elise said, then told her their story.

  “You’re safe here,” Joan said. “Would you like to see your new apartment?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Stone and Dino left the club and rode downtown in Dino’s SUV. They stopped at Bloomingdale’s, where a big police operations van was parked on Third Avenue, partly obstructing traffic. Two EMTs were putting a body, hidden by a sheet, into their wagon.

  Dino got out. “I want to see this guy,” he said, hopping into the rear of the wagon and pulling the sheet back.

  “Two in the chest, Commissioner,” an EMT said.

  Stone, who had no interest in the corpse, waited outside. A moment later Dino joined him. “Just a kid,” he said, “no older than his mid-twenties.” Dino went and conferred with the officer in charge, then he and Stone went back to Dino’s car. “Below the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge,” he said to his driver. “Ashore on the Manhattan side.”

  “What’s under the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge?” Stone asked.

  “The remains of what used to be a man,” Dino said.

  “Any connection to the shooter at Bloomingdale’s?”

  “Not yet,” Dino said, “but I’ve got a feeling.”

  They drove as close as they could to the scene, then got out of the car. Dino sought out the detective in charge and collected a salute or two.

  Stone looked around. A man’s left arm, in a sleeve, lay on the grass, and on the wrist a Rolex was still ticking. Cops in cotton booties were searching every inch of the sidewalk and the lawn next to it.

  “Got something!” a cop yelled, holding up a hand to identify himself.

  A crime scene tech made his way carefully over to the cop and, as Stone watched, took out a pair of tweezers and picked up something. “Cell phone data card!” he yelled to his supervisor.

  “Bring it home, and let’s run it.”

  Stone walked up to where Dino was speaking with the on-scene supervisor.

  “There must be a dozen security cameras round here trained on this scene,” Dino said.

  “Four, so far,” the officer replied.

  “I want to see the results, ASAP. E-mail them to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dino took Stone’s arm and guided him back toward his car. “They found a piece of an American passport; they’re running it by the State Department now.”

  “And a cell phone data card,” Stone said. “I watched them pick it up, not far from the arm over there.”

  “That looks like the biggest piece of the guy remaining,” Dino said. “We’ll pick up prints and DNA from that. Nothing more we can do here.”

  They got back into the car and drove to Stone’s house. “Too early for a drink?” Stone asked.

  “What kind of question is that?” Dino asked, getting out of the car.

  They entered through the office door and found Elise inside, sitting in her new office and looking around. Her mother was admiring it, too.

  “Welcome aboard,” Stone said, then led Dino upstairs to the study.

  “Aboard?” Dino asked.

  “We hired Elise as Joan’s new assistant.”

  “Why does Joan need an assistant?”

  “I asked the same question, but she was ready for me, had a barrage of answers. Elise is moving into Fred’s old apartment.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Rance Damien got back to his office to find a note from Henry: See me soonest. He went directly to Henry’s office.

  Henry and Hank were waiting.

  “Where have you been?” Henry asked.

  “Confirming the cancellation of the contracts,” Damie
n said.

  “God, I hate paying those characters for doing nothing,” Henry said.

  “I didn’t pay them,” Rance said. “I made other arrangements.”

  “What arrangements?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “God, I hate being told that,” Henry said.

  “Poppa,” Hank said. “Rance is right. You don’t need to know, and neither do I.”

  “You heard about Bloomingdale’s, I assume,” Rance said.

  “We did,” Henry replied.

  “My guy didn’t get my phone messages. It was his colleague who took out the Grants and got shot on the street up there.”

  “So the contract wasn’t canceled in time?”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Whose fault is that?” Henry demanded.

  “Nobody’s,” Rance said. “The messages didn’t go through. If you need to blame somebody, try AT&T.”

  “Don’t you get smart with me, boy,” Henry said.

  “Poppa!” Hank said. “He’s just telling you the truth. At least, we won’t have to worry about that girl now.”

  “Well, the police are going to make that connection pretty quick,” Henry said. “I’m surprised they aren’t already here.”

  “We’ve been in a meeting all morning, the three of us,” Hank said. “I’ll let the girls know.” He left the office, then returned. “All square.”

  “Look,” Henry said, pointing at the TV, which was muted. “Breaking news at Bloomingdale’s.” He turned up the volume.

  “The man shot on the sidewalk, the assumed assassin, has not yet been identified by the police, but the two women shot in the changing room upstairs were Betty and Barbara Swearingen, of Greenwich, Connecticut. They were sisters, who were apparently in town for a day’s shopping.”