Dirty Work (11 page)

27

Marie-Thérèse showed one of her passports at the front door of the embassy on the Upper East Side and was let in. She approached a window in a thick glass wall.

“May I help you?” the woman at the window asked in Arabic.

“Yes,” Marie-Thérèse replied. “I would like to speak to the vice-consul in charge of tourism.”

The woman blinked and paused for a moment. “We do not have a vice-consul for tourism,” she replied.

“Please tell him that Abdul suggested I speak with him.”

Again, the woman said, “We do not have a vice-consul for tourism.”

“He is expecting me,” M-T replied.

“One moment, please.” The woman left the window and went to a telephone. She spoke a few words, listened, then returned to the window, filled out a pass, and pushed it through the narrow opening. “Take the elevator to the fourth floor. You will be met.”

“Thank you,” M-T replied. She turned and walked to the elevator, then rode it to the fourth floor. As she stepped out of the car two men in civilian clothes approached her.

“Your handbag, please,” the shorter of the two said. He was thickly built, with thick, black hair. Though clean-shaven, his beard showed through the skin.

She handed it over, then raised her arms for the search.

The shorter man emptied the handbag onto a small table in the hallway and quickly found the pistol and the ice pick. He picked them up in one hand and the handbag in the other. “Follow me, please.” He led her down a hallway to the rear of the building, stopping at a steel doorway. He tapped a code into a keypad beside the door, then opened it and motioned for her to follow. He climbed a flight of stairs, entered another code beside another steel door, then took her down a hallway to a comfortably furnished office, where a rather handsome man sat at a desk, writing on a pad. The shorter man set M-T’s handbag and weapons on the desk and left.

Without looking up, the man motioned for her to sit down. He kept her waiting while he finished writing, then closed the folder before him and set it aside.

“You have come to see us sooner than I expected,” he said.

“I had a little time on my hands,” she replied.

The man took a pair of latex gloves from a desk drawer, then picked up her little pistol. “Crude but effective, no doubt,” he said.

“It does very nicely at short ranges. I wouldn’t like to try to hit a target across a street.”

He stood up, took a clump of keys from his pocket, and unlocked a steel cabinet. From it he removed a black cardboard box and set it on his desk.

“I’m told that you are proficient with firearms,” he said.

“I am.”

He handed her a pair of latex gloves, then opened the box, removed a pistol from it, and laid it on the desk. “Have you ever seen one of these?”

M-T donned the gloves, picked up the weapon, and examined it. It was a .22-caliber semiautomatic with a slightly thicker barrel than she would have expected. She ejected the magazine and examined that, too. “I’ve never seen one like this. It has no markings of any kind.”

“We took it from a CIA agent in Beirut late last year,” the man said. He took a silencer from the box and handed her that, too. She installed it with a simple half turn. “Very nice,” she said. “An assassin’s weapon—light, easily concealed, and, I’ve no doubt, very accurate, especially with the silencer.”

“It was custom-manufactured for the CIA. Only a couple of hundred were made, according to the man we took it from in Beirut. While it has no manufacturer’s markings and there are no identifying marks on any of its parts, we have discovered that the barrel’s rifling leaves a very distinctive pattern on the bullets fired from it. Part of the inside of the barrel is a freely rotating cylinder, so every time the weapon is fired, a different ballistic pattern is etched onto the bullet.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” she said admiringly. “It’s ingenious.”

“We have also learned that if any American police department runs a ballistics check on one of its bullets, the FBI comparison program will flag it as being very special and highly classified.”

“So, when the police remove the bullet from your traitorous colleague, it will be known that he was killed with a CIA weapon?”

“Exactly. But if you fire more than once, each bullet will appear to have come from a different weapon.”

“And who is the gentleman? Do you have a photograph?”

“He is the man who brought you to this office,” the man said. “The shorter of the two who greeted you at the elevator. Do you remember him well enough, or do you still want a photograph?”

“I remember him very well,” M-T replied.

“He lives six blocks north of the embassy,” the man said, “and he always walks home after work, leaving at around five-thirty. He walks up the east side of Park Avenue, where the sidewalks are wide and not crowded, even at rush hour.”

“Will today be soon enough?” M-T asked.

“Today will be very satisfactory. What assistance do you require?”

“I will need an untraceable escape vehicle—a motorcycle, preferably—and someone to drive it. Can you do that in the time available?”

“We can manage that.”

She looked at her watch. “I have a little over an hour. I’ll reconnoiter and phone you with a location.”

He wrote a number on a piece of paper and showed it to her. “Memorize it,” he said.

She did so, then put the weapon into her handbag and stood up. “If there’s nothing else?”

He took an envelope from his desk and handed it to her. “Some walking-around money, as the Americans say.”

“I assume that, since the ballistics will identify the bullet as CIA, you will not need me to dump the weapon where it can be found?”

“Please keep it, with my compliments,” he replied, standing up.

They shook hands, in spite of the latex gloves, and she left.

Downstairs, she walked to Park Avenue, then uptown. Four blocks along, she found a recessed, wrought-iron gate leading to a narrow alleyway beside a large apartment building. She stood in the recess and looked up and down Park. This would do nicely. She used her cell phone to call the number.

“Yes?”

She gave him the address of the building she stood next to. “Please have the vehicle follow your friend from a little distance. When the driver sees him fall, he is to pull up near the body. I will hop on, and he can drop me a few blocks away.”

“It will be done.”

“I won’t shoot unless I see the motorcycle there. If the driver tries to go past me, I’ll shoot him, so please instruct him carefully.”

“I understand.”

“Goodbye.”

“You may call this number if you ever need assistance. I am called Ali.”

“Thank you.” She punched off. She walked over to Madison Avenue and window-shopped for half an hour, then walked back to her chosen spot. She stood in the little recess, leaning against the building, and looked downtown, from whence her quarry would be coming. Ten minutes passed before she saw him, a block away. She did not see the motorcycle.

“Right on time,” she said aloud to herself. “Let’s hope my transportation arrives as promptly.” She watched the man approach, now half a block away, waiting to cross the street. As he stepped off the curb, she saw the motorcycle. She knelt beside her handbag and checked the weapon, then she stood up and slung the bag over her shoulder and put her hand inside. She turned to look uptown, then down again. He was walking quickly, and the nearest pedestrian was half a block from him. The motorcycle stopped at the corner, idling.

She pressed her back against the downtown side of the recess, so that he couldn’t see her. Then he appeared. She stepped out of the alcove with a last look around, took the weapon from the bag, and fired once at the back of his head from a distance of six feet. He fell like a butchered animal. She stepped closer and fired two more rounds into his head, then returned the pistol to her bag.

The motorcycle came to a stop a few feet away. She hopped onto the pillion seat, sidesaddle. “Drive to Seventy-second Street and turn left,” she said.

The driver followed instructions.

“Now, straight ahead, and into the park.”

He drove into the park.

“Stop here,” she said, “and thank you.”

He stopped, she hopped off, and he drove away without a word. From his size, and in spite of the helmet, she thought he was Ali, the man who had given her the pistol.

She strolled south in Central Park, found a bench, and waited, her hand in her bag, on the pistol, to see if anyone pursued her. No one did.

28

Stone left the interstate north of Danbury and turned onto narrower country roads.

“It’s beautiful up here,” Carpenter said as they crossed a bridge over a long lake. “Like England, but with a great many more trees.”

“It’s not called New England for nothing,” Stone said.

“England would have looked like this in the eighteenth century,” she said, “before we denuded the country of forests.”

They drove alongside a creek and passed an old mill. “Now
that’s
my idea of New England,” she said, “taken mostly from picture postcards.”

They drove through Bridgewater. “Another twenty minutes,” he said.

“Take as long as you like,” she replied. “I’m enjoying it.”

They came to Washington, and Stone turned left, then, after a short distance, left again. A couple of hundred yards along, he turned into his driveway.

“Oh, it’s lovely!” They got out of the car, and Stone took their luggage from the trunk.

“It was originally the gatehouse for the big place next door,” he said.

“Who lives there?” she asked, looking over at the large Shingle-style house.

“A writer, until recently, but he moved to the city. A movie producer bought it, but he hasn’t moved in yet.”

“Still, you have a lot of privacy,” she said, “with the trees and the hedge. And I love the turret.”

Stone unlocked the door, entered the alarm code, and adjusted the thermostat. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I’d love one of your bourbon whiskies,” she replied, walking around the house, inspecting the new kitchen, the mahogany floors, and the comfortable furniture. She chose a sofa and sat down.

Stone brought in their drinks and sat down beside her. “We’ll need to go to the grocery store soon. It closes at six-thirty.”

Dino was clearing his desk, getting ready to go home for the day, still tired from lack of sleep the night before, when a message generated by a 911 call popped onto his computer screen. A shooting on Park Avenue? That hardly ever happened. Through the glass wall of his office, he saw two detectives rise from their desks. They were next on the rotation, and they would take the call. He would tag along, just to see what people were doing to each other on Park Avenue these days. Anyway, it was on his way home.

The block had been closed off, creating a huge, rush-hour traffic jam. Dino got out of his car, ducked under the crime-scene tape, and found a uniformed officer. “What happened?” he asked.

The officer pointed at the body of a man, lying facedown on the sidewalk, leaking blood. Two EMTs were just turning him over.

“As soon as they pronounce him, throw a sheet over the body and open the street,” Dino said to a sergeant as he approached the body. “Whataya got?” he asked an EMT.

“Looks like two, maybe three, to the back of the head,” the EMT replied.

“You calling it?”

The EMT nodded.

“Okay,” he said to the sergeant. “Run it down for me.” His two detectives had arrived and were ready to take notes.

“The building doorman saw the guy fall,” the sergeant said, “but he didn’t hear anything. A woman—a blonde, medium height and weight, thirties—walked away from him, hopped onto the back of a light motorcycle, and was driven north on Park. That’s about it.”

“Two or three gunshots, and he didn’t hear anything?”

“That’s what he says. We haven’t found anybody else who saw what happened.”

“It’s an execution,” Dino said, “using a silencer. The lady was a pro. Who’s the dead guy?”

“Mohammed Salaam, works at one of the UN embassies, about four blocks down, between Park and Lex. He was carrying a diplomatic passport.” He showed it to Dino.

“Sounds political,” Dino said. He turned to the detectives. “Report it to the FBI after the scene has been milked dry. Tell the techs to hurry it along, and get the body off the street as soon as you can. We’ve got traffic backed up to Forty-second Street, and even opening Park isn’t helping because of all the rubbernecking. I do not want to hear from the commissioner, or worse, the mayor, about this. Do you understand?”

“Yes, boss,” the senior detective said.

Dino got into his car. “Take me home,” he said. “Use the siren, if you have to.” He dialed his captain’s cell phone.

“Grady,” the captain said.

“It’s Bacchetti, Cap. We’ve got what looks like a political assassination on Park Avenue, diplomat from one of the UN embassies, Arab.”

“Aw, shit,” the captain said.

“My sentiments exactly. I told my guys to call the Feds after they’ve worked the scene. I’d appreciate a call to the ME to get the autopsy done before they yank the body out of our hands.”

“Will do. You need any help?”

“I think we’ve got it covered. I’ve told the team to clear the scene as soon as possible. We’ve already got traffic moving on Park again, should anybody ask.”

“You got any theories yet?”

“Could have something to do with this lady assassin the Brits are all hot about,” Dino replied. “I’ll look into that.”

“Good man. Call me if you need me.”

“Thanks, Cap.”

Dino’s car drew up in front of his building, and he went upstairs. His son, Ben, was lying on his belly in Dino’s study in front of the TV, apparently making a stab at his homework. “Hey, kiddo,” Dino said, ruffling his hair. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Math,” Ben said.

“Do it in your room, okay? I gotta make some calls.”

Mary Ann came into the room wearing an apron dotted with red sauce. She kissed him firmly on the lips. “You’re home for dinner? Good God!”

“Don’t gimme a hard time,” he said, kissing her again.

“How was Saint Thomas?”

“Awful. I had to sleep on a goddamned boat last night, got about two hours. I’m beat.”

“Have a drink, that’ll help. Dinner’s in an hour.”

Dino poured himself a stiff Scotch and sat down in his favorite chair. He picked up the phone and called Stone, got an answering machine. “Call me,” he said, and hung up. He tried Stone’s cell phone and got a recorded message. “What the fuck?” he muttered to himself. He found his phone book and looked up the Connecticut number.

“Hello?” Stone said.

“What are you doing up there?” Dino asked.

“Hiding Carpenter.”

“What’s the latest on La Biche?”

“She got a late flight to London last night, and this morning murdered another passenger and took her ID. The Brits lost her.”

“So she’s not in the city?”

“Who knows? Carpenter says she wouldn’t be surprised if she doubled back. Why do you ask?”

“An Arab guy got himself popped on Park Avenue an hour ago,” Dino said. “Two or three in the head, no noise.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Could be our girl.”

“Let’s not jump to that conclusion. Could have been an irritated Israeli. That situation is hot right now.”

“We’ll look at that, too. Tell Carpenter to call me if she wants to talk, and I’d like to hear anything she has about what her people think.”

“Okay. She’s cooking dinner right now, and I’m sure as hell not going to disturb her.”

“Time you had a home-cooked meal,” Dino said.

“I won’t argue with that.” Stone hung up.

Dino hung up, took a big swallow of his Scotch, put his head back, and fell immediately asleep.