Dirty Work (10 page)

25

Marie-Thérèse was awakened at three in the afternoon by the housekeeper. She was in a safe house for a Middle Eastern intelligence service, in Hampstead, a north London suburb.

“He’s here,” the woman said.

“I’ll be down in five minutes,” M-T said. She took a quick shower and, her hair still wet, dressed in Ginger Harvey’s good suit and went down to the dining room, which had been turned into an operations center. Abdul, as he was code-named, sat at a desk, reading his e-mail on a laptop computer. There were three other computers in the room, along with a high-frequency radio and two satellite phones. There was also equipment for encoding messages, plus a special recording device for creating short-burst transmissions that could be transmitted, then expanded by anyone who had the codes and proper equipment.

Abdul looked up from the laptop. “I take it you had to leave New York in a hurry?”

“I had to go before they called in the local authorities. There would have been too many people looking for me. I made sure they knew I left the country.”

“And now?”

“And now I want to go back, preferably today. I need very good cover, and I hope you can help.”

“You’re in luck,” Abdul said, “but you can’t leave until tomorrow.”

“How will I do it?”

“We are infiltrating a young couple into the States. They’re married and have a young child.” He went into a briefcase beside him and took out two passports, handing her one.

“We don’t look at all alike,” she said.

“I’ll put your photograph into her passport now. She’ll travel on the same flight with another passport. You’ll carry the child and sit with the husband.”

“I like it,” M-T said, smiling. “They won’t expect me back so soon, especially not with a child.”

“Are you sure you want to go back now?”

M-T nodded. “Yes, I have unfinished business, and they won’t be looking for me since they know I’ve left the country.”

“You’re very bold,” Abdul said, smiling.

“Sometimes boldness works best.”

Abdul handed her a package. “You’ll need to dye your hair black before I take your new passport photo. Better get started. You’ll find some women’s clothes in a cupboard upstairs. Find something suitable.”

“What time is my flight tomorrow?”

“Eleven a.m., British Airways. You’ll arrive in New York around two, what with the time change. What else will you need? Weapons?”

M-T shook her head. “I couldn’t carry them onto an airplane these days.”

“It can be done,” Abdul said, “but we prefer to save that for special occasions.”

“I have sufficient resources in New York, but I could use a couple of passports.”

“All right, but we’ll have to send them via diplomatic pouch to our UN embassy. I’ll give you a contact there.”

“Good.”

“How many people did you kill in New York?” Abdul asked.

“Three,” she said. “Two of them were British intelligence. The other was merely for convenience.”

Marie-Thérèse was back downstairs in half an hour to have her hair done by the woman of the house, then she was photographed for the new passports, two of them in wigs.

“It’s good,” she said when she saw the Polaroids.

Abdul went to work on the passport, deftly removing the old photograph and replacing it with that of M-T. When he was happy with his work he gave her the passport and a few sheets of paper. “This is the woman’s background,” he said. “It’s completely legitimate. She was born in Cairo, studied economics in Paris and London. She’s never been suspected of any involvement with us.”

“What am I going to owe you for this, Abdul?” M-T asked.

Abdul smiled. “We have a man in our UN embassy in New York who has been talking to the CIA, taking their money. We’d like him eliminated in an obvious sort of way, then we’ll blame the CIA for his murder. We’ll furnish you with the sort of weapon the agency would use.”

“Very good,” M-T said.

“I’ll have the other passports done before you leave. That should square us,” Abdul said.

Stone arrived back at his house and entered through his outside office door. Joan was working at her desk.

“Welcome back, boss,” she said. “What did you think of Harborview?”

“It was wonderful, what little I saw of it. I never slept in my bed, as it happened. The only sleep I got was on a small boat, and it wasn’t comfortable.”

“Did you get Herbie back?”

“I did. Herbie’s off the hook, and so am I. Send Tony Levy another thousand dollars today, and send Bill Eggers a bill for my services and for the twenty-five thousand I paid to Irving Newman for Herbie’s bail.”

“Will do. By the way, your friend Felicity is upstairs, sacked out in your bed. She got here a couple of hours ago, with company: There’s a man in your study and another in the garden, pretending to read a book.”

“Swell. I need some sack time, myself, so hang on to my phone messages.” He took the elevator upstairs, and as he stepped out of it he felt cold steel on the back of his neck. “I’m Barrington,” he said.

“ID?”

Stone showed the man his driver’s license. “I’ll take over your duty up here. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in the library, downstairs?”

“All right,” the man replied, then headed for the stairs.

Stone went into the bedroom as quietly as possible. Carpenter lay on her belly, breathing softly. Stone undressed, got into bed, and lay down beside her.

“Welcome home, sailor,” Carpenter said sleepily. “I suppose you want a sailor’s welcome?”

Stone lay on his side and cupped a buttock in his hand. “Nothing too strenuous,” he said. “I am, after all, home from the sea.” He moved his fingers up and down between her cheeks, and she made an appreciative noise. He explored a little further and found her already wet.

She rolled over on her side and pressed her buttocks into his crotch, reaching between her legs for him.

A moment later he was inside her, feeling her cheeks pushing against his belly as they moved together. He reached around and found her clitoris, then, while kissing her on the back of the neck, continued moving in and out of her while letting his fingers do the walking.

Carpenter began moving faster, and a moment later, came in little whimpers, while he joined her. They lay still for a minute or two, then she rolled over and nestled in his arms. “An Englishman would never have started that way,” she said. “It would have been the missionary position or nothing, not that I have anything against the evangelical. How did your trip go?”

“Later,” Stone breathed. “Don’t you know that sex renders men unconscious?” He took a deep breath, and by the time he had exhaled, he was asleep.

26

Her traveling companions arrived at the Hampstead safe house six hours before their departure time. Marie-Thérèse met the husband and baby, but not the wife, who was taken to another room. She played with the nine-month-old baby girl, whose name was Jasmine, talking to her in Arabic, making her feel comfortable with her temporary mother. Marie-Thérèse had always liked children, and she got on very well with the baby.

She went through her legend with the young man, whose name was, rather unfortunately, Saddam, discussing details of his wife’s background. Saddam seemed very pleased to be in her company.

Three hours before their flight a taxi arrived to take the baby’s mother to the airport, followed a few minutes later by another cab to take M-T, Saddam, and the baby. It would take a long time to get through security, but they wanted to be in the thick of a crowd, not too early or too late, which might call attention to them.

After checking their baggage the “family” approached the outgoing emigration control booth, and they could see the child’s mother only a few people ahead of them. M-T stepped out of line and took the baby into the ladies’ room for an unnecessary diaper change, and when she returned, the mother had passed through the control point, apparently with no problem.

M-T stepped up to the window and handed over her borrowed passport, which included details of the baby, and that of Saddam. She gave the inspector a little smile, which was not returned, and he stamped their passports.

The child behaved well in the departure lounge but offered real cause for another diaper change, which M-T accomplished expertly. After an interminable wait, they were herded onto the airplane, passing the child’s mother a few rows ahead of their seats. She ignored them, as she had been told to do. M-T had been afraid she would pay too much attention to the baby.

The transatlantic crossing was routine, marked only by an attempt by Saddam to grope his new wife, which got him a hard pinch that nearly drew blood. He behaved himself after that.

Then they were at Kennedy Airport, lined up for customs and immigration. M-T and Saddam presented properly issued visas for a thirty-day visit to family in Dearborn, Michigan. The immigration officer, a woman, was distracted by the happy baby and passed them through after a routine check of their documents.

Then, as they were about to leave customs, a man in a dark suit approached them. “Will you come with me, please?”

M-T began looking for escape routes from the terminal. There were none. He led them into a small room containing four chairs and a steel table and indicated that they should sit down.

M-T was concerned, now. This man was no fifteen-dollar-an-hour security guard. He was intelligent, efficient, and knew his business. M-T, in the role of a good Muslim wife, let Saddam do the talking, and since he was accurately describing the background of himself and his wife, he did well. Then the man turned to Marie-Thérèse.

“Your date and place of birth,” he said.

M-T told him and continued to answer as he picked his way through her life history. She was perfect, but not too perfect, but the man was unsatisfied. Clearly, his instincts were telling him that there was more to this couple than met the eye. Then little Jasmine did a wonderful thing.

The officer suddenly wrinkled his nose and pushed back from the table. “What the hell is that smell?” he asked. He was clearly not a parent.

Marie-Thérèse became embarrassed and flustered and started removing the soiled diaper. Before she was finished cleaning and rediapering the baby, the officer had his back against the wall and a hand over his nose and mouth.

“What shall I do with this?” Marie-Thérèse asked, extending a hand with the soiled diaper.

“Take it with you,” the man said curtly. He pointed at the door, and the little family left. They stood in a long line for a taxi, and Jasmine, once again, came through, beginning to cry. They were pushed to the front of the line and got the next cab.

“Well,” Saddam said in English, “I’m glad to be through that security gauntlet.”

M-T elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “Shut up,” she said.

They checked into a reserved room at the Roger Smith Hotel on Lexington Avenue and waited for the child’s mother to arrive. She knocked on the door a few minutes later. The two women silently exchanged clothes, M-T wished them luck and left them in the room.

She changed taxis twice going uptown. Finally, she got out at a corner and walked down the block to a storage company. Once inside and satisfied that she had not been followed, she opened the combination lock on her rented storage closet, switched on the light, and stepped inside, locking the door behind her. She changed clothes again, put her hair up and chose a blond wig, then she checked the available weapons. She decided on a tiny .22-caliber semiautomatic pistol with a silencer. She unscrewed the silencer and placed it in a pocket in a large handbag, along with an extra magazine. She also put an ice pick into the handbag, then she packed a few items of clothing into the bag, locked up, and left.

Stone woke up before Carpenter did, but by the time he returned from the shower, she was awake, sitting up in bed, her breasts exposed. “If that is supposed to interest me, it’s working,” he said.

“You smell all soapy and clean,” she said.

He made a grab for her, but she eluded him and ran for the shower. “Fix me some breakfast,” she called.

“What would you like?”

“Fruit, yogurt, and coffee.”

“That’s way too healthy for my kitchen,” he called back. “You’ll take fresh croissants and like it.”

“If I have to,” she said, closing the shower door.

“What do you have to do for the next few days?” Stone asked, munching a croissant.

“I’ve been given time off,” she said.

“Oh? Why?”

She told him about the events of the day before.

“So she’s in London now?”

“Apparently,” Carpenter replied. “But I’m not taking any chances. I’m still in hiding.”

“I think I have a better place to hide you than here,” Stone said.

“And where would that be?”

“I have a cottage in Connecticut, in a lovely colonial village called Washington, and if you’re willing to ditch your bodyguards, I’ll take you up there.”

“To the country? Now, that sounds wonderful.”

“I have some catching up to do in my office,” he said, “but I’ll be ready to go by mid-afternoon. Put some things in a bag.”

“Will do.”

It was closer to four before Stone got free of work. The two bodyguards worked both sides of the street before calling Carpenter on her cell phone to report the coast clear. By that time, she and Stone were sitting in his car, waiting for the word to move. When it came, Stone opened the garage door with the remote and drove away from the house, closing the door behind them. They turned up Third Avenue, and as they made a left on Fifty-seventh Street, they nearly ran down a young woman, a well-dressed blonde.

The black Mercedes E55 with the darkened windows meant nothing to Marie-Thérèse, except that it had nearly killed her. The young woman meant nothing to Stone and Carpenter either.

Stone drove to the West Side Highway and turned north, toward Connecticut.

“How long a drive?” Carpenter asked.

“An hour and forty minutes from this spot,” Stone said.

“Can I cook you dinner tonight?”

“I was going to take you out, but if you
really
know how to cook, well . . .”

“You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?” she said.