Flood (34 page)

53

MICHELLE ANSWERED THE phone on the first ring, her voice all breathy and excited, not like her at all. “Burke, is that you?”

“What is it?”

“He hit the hook, baby. He sent a kid—”

“Don’t say anything more. I’m on my way.”

I ripped the phone from the connectors and sprinted for the Plymouth. Flood would be safe with Max, and if anyone hit the top floor looking for Michelle they’d have to get past the Mole. Everything was locked in place now, and phone conversations weren’t going to help.

The Plymouth slipped through the light traffic like a dull gray shark. The smaller fish moved aside, and it took only minutes for me to get back uptown. I rolled into the parking spot, waved my arm to attract the attendant, and slipped him the ten bucks as I was locking up. The lobby was deserted—the indicator said one elevator car was on the eleventh, the other on the ninth. I hit the Down switch for both cars and charged up the stairs.

Still quiet—still empty as I went along. I timed my breathing so I had a burst of oxygen left at the end of each flight—you don’t want to be out of breath if you meet unfriendly people. I sucked in a nasal blast before each flight, let it out as I was climbing. I stopped at the top floor, waiting for my blood to settle down and listened. Nothing. I approached the door, tapped softly. Not a sound. I tapped again, said, “It’s me, Michelle,” and the door swung open.

I moved inside and found myself facing the Mole hunched over some kind of plastic box glowing ruby-red from its insides, a slim metal cone pointed directly at the door. The Mole looked at me, blinked, took his hands out of the box.

Michelle was sitting in a corner, a petulant expression on her face, like she was being punished for something she didn’t do. She opened her mouth to say something and the Mole held up his hand to silence her before she got a word out. “She went out,” the Mole told me in his soft voice.

“You
what?”

She bounded off her perch, came over to me, glaring over her shoulder at the Mole. “He sent a kid, Burke. A little kid. We got the whole thing on this hookup the Mole has here. Some little kid walks in downstairs and tells them he needs the phone number for his older brother. Like his older brother doesn’t want to come in
personally,
right? He says he wants to establish contact—like he memorized the words. So the jerks downstairs, they give the kid the new number for their operation and the kid just walks out. Can you believe it?”

“And . . . ?”

“So I ran downstairs and followed the kid when he came out of the elevator.”

The Mole began in an injured tone, “I told her not to leave—”

“You don’t give me orders, Mole!”

“I could have followed him.”

“Cut it out, Mole—you couldn’t follow your nose,” Michelle shot back. I could see the two of them were prepared to spend hours over this, so I finally asked the key question. “What happened?”

Michelle preened her feathers before she answered, the little kid in school who had the right answer all along and had her hand up and was finally getting called on by the sluggish teacher.

“The kid was a street boy, you know? A real chicken-hawk’s special. Sweet little face, maybe ten years old. He looked like one of those Colombian kids they sell in the adoption scams—just a baby. He stops for a hotdog a couple of streets down from here. I thought he might be going to one of the flophouses or something. I was just going to get the address, that’s all.”

“Did he hook up?”

“He sure did, baby—but let me tell it. The kid bobs and weaves, the little clown. Takes a bus uptown, walks around near the park, then just starts to bop down Broadway like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Never goes
near
a phone. Finally he goes into Happyland. You know, that videogame arcade on Broadway? So I go in there after him and he meets up with a guy at the Space Invaders game in the back. And he gives him a piece of paper—it had to be the phone number.”

“Was it our man?”

“Honey, there is no doubt in my mind. He’s the same freak,” she said, holding up her Xerox of the mug shot.

“What did they do then?”

“Wait a minute, baby, slow
down.
It’s him, all right, except he’s dyed his hair blond. Can you believe it? But he’s the one. I even saw the tattoo. What a freak—he just stands there patting the kid on the back of the neck and whispering something to him. He gives the kid money and the kid starts to play the machine and this creep just stands there watching the kid play. He keeps trying to pat the kid on the ass and the kid just wants to play the game. You know that place—nobody gives a shit what happens as long as you put the money in. Times Square, right? So I made sure it was the same guy and I got to a phone and called the Mole and he told me something was coming down and to get back here and I did.”

Michelle finished her story, smugly looking at me for approval. What she got was, “You dizzy broad . . . that freak would put you down as easy as stepping on a roach if he saw you following him. The Mole was right.”

And before Michelle could answer that one the Mole said, “He called.”

“What?”

“He called. While Michelle was outside playing. I have the tape,” and he flipped a switch without saying anything else.

I heard the ringing on the phone through the speaker, and then I heard James’s confident voice. “Falcon. James speaking.”

In response, a voice with a threatening top edge. “I heard about your operation. You people on the level?”

“Certainly, my friend. What can we do for you?”

“I want some work. Overseas.”

“You are familiar with our standards?”

“Look, I’m a decorated combat veteran, all small arms, qualified jumper. And I’m a black belt in karate.”

“Do you have a valid passport?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got all that.”

“Well, my friend, we’d surely like to speak with you. Shall we make an appointment—say at four this afternoon?”

“No daylight for me, understand? I got problems here—nothing with the law, but I just came off a special operation and I don’t want to be walking around. Tonight, okay?”

“If you insist. Are you ready for immediate work?”

“Mister, I’m ready to leave anytime—sooner the better.”

“You understand that we can’t reveal the departure point until you’ve cleared our interview?”

“Yeah, yeah, how long will that take?”

“It depends on your references. But if all goes well you can expect to leave within the week.”

“Good. I’ll see you anytime tonight. Meet me at the—”

“I
am
sorry, my friend,” James said, “but you know how these things are. You come
here.
And you bring your passport and proof of military service with you. There are no exceptions.”

A pause from the other end. Then, “Yeah, okay—about nine tonight?”

“That will be satisfactory.”

“You need my name?”

“That won’t be necessary. As you know, we allow all our recruits to select the name of their choice upon enlistment. You understand the conditions?”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand everything. I’ll be there around nine tonight. You’ll be there, right?”

“As we said,” replied James, and rang off.

I listened to the tape over and over. It had to be the Cobra. Who else would have the phone number? By the time it got listed with Ma Bell the operation would have folded its tents and vanished. You can get a new listing from the operator, but not the same day the phone’s installed—and the phone company wouldn’t have this one anyway. The Cobra wouldn’t wait, and he was too sly to just walk in. Nine o’clock, the scumbag had said. My watch said it was already past three. Now was no time to start alienating my troops.

“Mole,” I said, “that was perfect. And Michelle, you shouldn’t have gone out like that but I believe you’ve made the whole thing work,” and I reached out to give her hand a squeeze.

Michelle flounced over to the Mole, hands on hips. “See, smartass Mole,” she sang out, but the Mole just blinked at her, still annoyed.

“Okay, Michelle. Pack your stuff—you’re leaving, okay? You did your job. If you see the Prof on the street tell him to go over to Mama’s and wait for a call. Mole, you go with her, take all this stuff with you. Make it like nobody was ever here.”

Michelle and the Mole started to clean up, not speaking to each other but working well together. The Mole would snap together some electrical connections and box them up, and Michelle would be right behind him with the paper towels.

“Mole,” I asked, “can you take out the elevators?”

The Mole refused to dignify such a question with an answer, but Michelle piped right up. “Are you serious, Burke? The Mole could take out NASA if he wanted to.” And I caught the ghost of a smile crossing the Mole’s face, which immediately vanished when Michelle said, “And
I’m
not leaving either. Not until this is finished. I want that freak too, Burke. You should’ve seen the way he was—”

The Mole had turned to Michelle and was speaking in his softest voice, the words coming slowly and evenly spaced, like from a talking machine with a heart. “Michelle, I am sorry I yelled at you. You were very, very brave to follow like you did. I was just . . . worried. You should go now. The work we have to do now, it’s bad work. Not for you.”

And this got the Mole a quick kiss from Michelle, who picked up her makeup case, said, “You let me know” in a warning voice to me, and was out the door.

“You’re a charmer, Mole,” I said, and it looked like he blushed, but it was hard to tell in that lousy light.

The Mole said nothing, just busied himself with the rest of the equipment. I snapped out the final instructions, in a hurry now like never before.

“Mole, hook up something so you can be signaled from the lobby. When you get the signal, take out the elevators. Where will you be?”

“Basement.”

“Okay, now listen. After the elevators go down, get ready to move out—don’t leave anything behind. You see this?” I showed him a tiny airhorn powered by a tube of compressed air. The Mole nodded. “You know the sound it makes?” He nodded again. “If you hear this go off it means we’ve got problems. So knock out as much of the electrical power in this area as you can in a minute or two and get
out.
Okay?”

“Okay.” We shook hands. I wouldn’t be seeing him for a while. If I was busted he’d hear about it and see the people who had to be seen for me. It was a lot to ask of the Mole—not blowing things up, that was just a day’s work—but talking to people . . .

I got into the street fast. I had to see a lot of people before it got too dark. I left the Mole in the little room, his fat white fingers flying over the machinery.

54

THERE ARE SOME citizens who will tell you that all big cities are alike. Those people are born chumps. Where else but in New York could you find a Prophet sitting in the lobby of an empty office building in the early evening, poised over a shoebox and looking for all the world like an elderly black man just trying to pry a few coins loose from society. Or a warrior from ancient Tibet without the power of speech but with the strength of a dozen men standing still as a statue on the second-floor landing of that same building? And could you find a little round man with an underground complexion and a brain that understood the cosmos sitting in the basement of the same building, waiting to make electrical systems magically disappear? It was all there in place as I strolled into the Fifth Avenue lobby that night, dressed up for the role in a belted leather trenchcoat, soft suede snapbrim hat, tinted glasses, carrying a pigskin attache case and a .38, some anesthetic nose plugs, a can of mace, and a set of handcuffs.

I caught the Prof’s eye as I entered the lobby, raised my eyebrows behind the glasses. He flipped the cover of his shoebox to show me the Cobra’s picture taped inside. The portable radio sitting next to him wasn’t playing, but the Mole would hear its song when the Prof sent him the message. The elevators had a neatly printed sign: CLOSED FOR REPAIRS, PLEASE USE STAIRS.

I walked past the lobby entrance and climbed the stairs. Max was in position. I held up one finger, moved my lips like I was speaking, pulled my fingers away from my mouth to show words spilling out. Max nodded—we’d talk the freak out of the building if we could. He could come easy or he could come hard. But he was coming. Max would watch—if he saw the Cobra and me leaving together he’d wait a beat, then slip out so he’d be in the front seat of the Plymouth before us. If Wilson panicked when he saw me on the stairs and tried for the door he’d find it locked. If he smashed his way past that, the Prof would pull his just-released-from-Bellevue madman act on the sidewalk to give us another clear shot. So if Wilson, a.k.a. the Cobra, stepped into the lobby, he was going to be leaving with us one way or another.

I checked the time—21:01 on the face of my genuine Military Assault Watch ($39.95 from a mail-order house). I thought it was a nice touch. My mind wasn’t open to the possibility that the Cobra wouldn’t show. If that happened I’d have to use Michelle, track down that kid in the video joint . . . too much to think about and I had to get into character for the meet . . .

I heard the Prof’s voice. “Shine, suh?” and no response. But that was the signal. And when I heard a muttered “Fuck!” I knew the Cobra wasn’t happy about the stairs. Some soldier of fortune—his idea of jungle warfare was probably blowing up a few African villages at long range and then moving in to mop up. But when I heard his footsteps coming up at me I knew he wasn’t a complete phony—he had the light, patterned steps of a martial arts man moving toward an objective, and his breathing sounded correct.

When he came up to where I was waiting against the wall, I took a flash-second to decide—the gun or the game—and then there he was, right in front of me. The Cobra—a little taller than me, thin and hard-looking, his nose and earlobes both too heavily tipped, just like they were in the mug shot, the acne scars in place. Wearing a fatigue jacket so I couldn’t check for tattoos, but it was him. His hair was longish in the back but cropped close up front, and blond, like Michelle had told me. His mouth opened when he saw me and I saw the fear flash in his eyes. I spoke first—calm, level—reassuring. Just a man doing a job. “Sorry about the elevator, my friend. Mr. James insisted—security, you know. You’re the appointment for twenty-one-hundred hours, I assume?”

“Who’re you?”

“My name is Layne. I work for Falcon.”

“You American?”

“Sure. The limeys are just the recruiting end, pal. At our end it’s all the U.S. of A.”

He stood facing me in a karate stance, slightly modified so it wouldn’t be too obvious—keeping both hands in sight. I didn’t like that—it didn’t mean he wasn’t packing a gun, just that he thought his hands were enough to do the job. If he decided to take me out, Max wasn’t close enough to stop him. He would never get out of the building alive, but that was no comfort. Revenge was Flood’s game—mine was survival. I kept both my gloved hands clasped on the handle of the attache case, holding it in front of me.

The seconds slipped by as the Cobra eyed me. It was like the staring contests young bloods would get into on the yard when I was in prison—the kind of game you can’t win. If you drop your eyes, the other con thinks you’re weak—and a weak man in prison doesn’t stay a man for long. If you lock eyes for real, you’ve got to fight. And if you have to fight, you have to kill. Once you’re on that slide, you can have a decent life for yourself inside the walls . . . but you can never get out. I had to end this part fast.

“You know me?” I asked him.

“No,” he said softly, “I just wanted to see . . .”

“See what, pal? You did this before, right?”

“Yeah . . . right,” but his eyes never shifted and he didn’t move.

“All right, let’s get rolling. I got some contracts for you to look over and we got a place for you to stay with the other guys until we move out.”

“Where is this place?”

“It’s downtown, near the docks. Come on, pal. I don’t want to stand in this goddamned stairwell all night, okay?”

And I walked past him like there was nothing for him to do but follow me, deliberately leaving my back exposed to anything he wanted to do—but finally getting myself out of the line of fire between him and Max.

I heard the sharp intake of breath through his nose as I went past. He wasn’t relaxed—wasn’t going for it yet. I kept walking, talking over my shoulder about the “operation” like he was right next to me. When I got to the bottom of the first flight of stairs, I turned around and looked back. The Cobra had moved down a few steps, but he wasn’t coming along—just staring down at me.

I turned to look up at him, now holding the attache case in one hand while the other was comforted by the feel of the revolver in my coat pocket. With twenty feet between us the odds had changed: between my pistol at his front and Max the Silent at his back, he was deader than disco if he moved wrong.

The Cobra seemed to realize he’d lost the edge, and he started toward me. I shrugged my shoulders elaborately, calling up to him:

“Hey, pal, you in or you out? I got a rendezvous at oh-two-hundred over in Jersey and two other men to pick up. What’s your problem?”

“Let’s go,” he said, flashing his snake’s grin for the first time, and staring down toward me.

I turned and went down the next flight, like I expected him to catch up. I was part-way down when I heard movement behind me—he was coming. The muscles in the back of my neck tightened as I concentrated on the sounds. An amateur would try to rush up behind me and knock me down the stairs, but the Cobra would want to get close and do it right.

Now he loomed up silently on my right side, lightly touched my arm. “Can’t be too careful, right?” he hissed, and fell into step with me. I could only see his right hand—the left was somewhere behind me. The Cobra was back in control, he thought.

One more flight to go. I still couldn’t see his left hand. When he spoke he turned to look at me and his body got closer—it wasn’t an accident.

“How long’s this operation going to run?”

“Hey, you know how it works, it runs until it’s over. You’re in for the duration, right? You draw a month’s pay up front in cash, the rest goes to wherever you want it sent.”

“Yeah, right . . .” It was like I’d thought: all he knew about mercenary work was what he’d read in magazines.

We got to the lobby together, walking past the Prof, who tried another “Shine, suh?” which got no response from me. The Cobra, in character, said, “Shine this, nigger,” hawking and directing a blob in the Prof’s general direction. The Prof ducked his face behind the shoeshine box, and the Cobra smiled his smile more brightly now that he figured he was among friends. But when he glanced over at me and I kept my face deadpan he seemed to realize that he’d made a mistake: real men didn’t spit at niggers, they blew them away. He shifted his shoulders and I knew what was on his mind. “Forget it,” I told him, “we’ve got better things to do.”

He nodded and we went out the door into the street, about a block from where the Plymouth sat waiting dark and quiet, only a whisper of smoke from its exhaust. Max was already there.

Another block to go. I had to keep him off balance, stop him from thinking.

“Got your passport with you?”

He tapped his breast pocket, saying nothing. We were at the Plymouth—I walked over and opened the back door, climbing in myself so that it wouldn’t remind him of the last time he got busted. But he stayed quiet, slid in next to me like he was supposed to, and pulled the door closed.

It was dark in the car. Max didn’t turn around—with the black watch-cap over his skull and the canvas gloves on his hands he looked like anybody else.

“What’s with him?” the Cobra wanted to know. “I thought you’d be alone.”

“I do liaison work, friend—I don’t drive the cars, okay?”

The Cobra moved slightly away from me and reached his left hand across his body to roll down the window on his side.

“Don’t,” I told him. “From this point on the mission’s rolling. We’re in a gray sector here and we don’t need any attention, right?” The Cobra nodded, looking pleased, glad finally to be among true professionals like himself. The Plymouth rolled away from the curb with its catch.

The Cobra leaned back and we both lit cigarettes. I kept talking to calm him, but there was no place for him to go now—the back doors couldn’t be opened from the inside.

“You ever work before?”

“I did some jobs, local jobs—not in Africa, though.”

“How’d you know this was an African operation?” I said, sounding surprised.

“I know these things. I just read between the lines,” he said, grinning his winning snake’s grin.

“You do combat or penetration jobs?”

“Either one, man. Either one.”

“You got your choice with this operation.”

“You got a lot of guys signed up already?”

“We got ten men besides you already on-board here in New York, another fifteen in Houston. I understand our people on the Coast are doing real well too. You got any particular specialty? They pay extra for that, you know the scene.”

“Interrogation,” said the Cobra. No smile this time.

I nodded, then told him, “You’ll have to bunk with us for a few days until we’re ready to shove off. The accommodations are pretty good, we got food, TV, access to phones. We even bring in a whore or two every couple of nights.”

“I get my own,” he said quickly.

“Yeah, well, once you’re in we can’t have people just walking around the streets, right? Security. We bring in what the guys want.”

“Yeah . . .”

I figured he was thinking he didn’t know me well enough to ask me to bring him a kid for him to practice his specialty on.