Recoil (36 page)

“Or rolling over in his grave.” Mathieson put the newspaper down. “It's time we wrote the script for the first piece of film.”

“You write the script, old horse, I'll direct it.”

“We'll both write it. It's got to be right.”

“Go ahead. I'll take a peek over your shoulder now and then.”

“We've got four days,” Mathieson said. “Thursday, as they say in the vernacular, the snatch goes down.”

“Why Thursday in particular?”

“Because it's her birthday.”

2

She let her mind drift; under the dryer she neither read nor spoke. Alexandre returned after forty-five minutes and lifted the cone off her head and removed the curlers and began to brush her hair out. “Glorious,” he intoned with professional cheer. “Madam is a vision.”

She inspected herself critically in the mirrors. “It's nice, Alexandre. A really fine job.”

“Thank you. I'm thrilled that madam is pleased.”

He helped her into her full-length suede coat. She gave him a smile that seemed to brighten his day; he went to the door and held it for her.

It was another of those crystal fall days and she blinked when the brightness hit her eyes; she found the sunglasses in her handbag and put them on.

The limousine was not at the curb; there were no parking spaces. She looked at her watch: 11:40. She'd told Belmont to pick her up at a quarter to twelve. She looked down the length of Madison and didn't see it anywhere; probably he was waiting double-parked in a side street—Belmont was always punctual, it was what he was paid for. She window-shopped antiques and paintings for a few minutes, not really looking at them. She was still thinking about the child. Frank Junior. She still heard Frank's laughter last night:
Let's hope the kid has your looks and your brains
. She caught her own smile in the window's reflection—and behind it she saw the long Mercedes draw up.

She crossed the curb toward it; Belmont was just getting out, starting to come around the car to open the door for her; people straggled by along the sidewalk, topcoated against the chill; two men were coming toward her, deep in animated conversation, and she hurried briskly across their path toward the car. She stepped off the curb between two parked cars and suddenly the two men crowded against her.

“Anna—Anna Pastor, isn't it?”

The voice was vaguely familiar and she turned with a polite hesitant half-smile. Belmont came around the back of the limousine and she glanced at him. Then she froze. It wasn't Belmont.

The man who had spoken was reaching amiably for her arm. Something glinted in his hand. She drew back instinctively but his companion moved in closer and when she took a backward step she felt hard fists grip her by both arms from behind: the man who wasn't Belmont.

She opened her mouth but the taller man, the bearded one, said in a low voice, “Honey, I wouldn't do that was I you. You could get hurt real bad.”

In a terrified confusion she glanced down. The man who had spoken first—the one with the moustache and glasses—had a firm grip on her right arm and now for the first time she saw the syringe clearly.

There was no time to react, no time for anything. The needle plunged into the soft web of skin between her thumb and forefinger. All three men held her tightly: She couldn't move. The bearded man loomed, screening her from the curb. A bus went by with a swishing roar, filling the air with a noxious stink. The man behind her had something against her mouth—a handkerchief, she thought dispassionately.
To keep me from screaming
. It all went so fast …

They were pushing her into the car. She kept waiting for a shout of discovery from the people crowding past on the sidewalk.

She found herself in the back seat between the two tall men. The man in the chauffeur's uniform got in behind the wheel. The doors shut, sealing her off from the world.

She cleared her throat. “What was in that needle?”

The man with the moustache said, “Sodium pentothal. It won't hurt you. You'll go to sleep for a while.”

The voice: Finally she recognized it. She turned and stared in horror at the man with the moustache.

“Merle.”

“Just take it easy, Mrs. Pastor. Nobody's going to hurt you.”

The bearded man said, “Move it on out, driver.”

“I don't see the boss's car.”

“Probably hung up in traffic. Get going—he'll catch us up.”

The limousine eased out into the knotted traffic. Anna tried to reach the door. Merle gripped her arm—surprisingly gentle; he forced her back in the seat between them. “Easy now.”

Her head swam. “My God this stuff works fast.” By the time she spoke the last of the six words her tongue was thick. She tried to rouse herself, to stay awake. In five seconds she gave up the struggle and plunged into darkness.

3

She awoke with a sensation of having been asleep for a very long time. But they were still in the car, still moving. She seemed unable to open her eyes. She could hear and understand but her body was still asleep. She listened to their voices.

“Transfer point coming up.”

“She should come around in a minute. That stuff wears off fast.”

“Gave me a turn, old horse. Right out there in front of God and everybody. But nobody raised an eyebrow.”

“It's all a matter of plausibility. People see it happen in broad daylight on a crowded avenue, they can't believe it's a real abduction. Everything moving so fast, it looked as if she'd had a fainting spell, that's all. She was too surprised to put up a fight—we counted on that.”

“Likely fight like a bobcat when she comes to. You get that needle ready, old horse.”

“It's all set when we need it.”

The car rolled to a stop. Her eyelids fluttered. She felt the car sway—someone getting out. Voices outside—the chauffeur and an unfamiliar voice:

“Anybody behind us?”

“No. But someone may have noted the license number. Have you made sure of fingerprints?”

“We're all wearing these plastic gloves. Haven't touched the car anywhere bare-handed.”

“Fine. Leave it here then. Let's go.”

They were pulling her out, sliding her across the seat. She tried to resist it but the muscles were sluggish. She opened her eyes: They wouldn't focus. The sunglasses had slipped down on her nose; the daylight was painful.

They hustled her across a few yards of pavement. She had a vague impression of shopping center and parking lot. They lifted her into the back seat of another car. She licked her dry lips.

“She's awake.”

“It'll be a few minutes before she starts tracking properly.”

Doors slamming; once again she was between Merle and the bearded man. Hazily she saw the other two men in the front seat. The car began to move.

Merle said, “Can you understand me, Mrs. Pastor?”

“Yes.” A croak: She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes.”

“If you've had time to think about it you can understand that I've got no interest in hurting you. Quite the opposite. You're only of use to me alive. So please don't fear for your safety.”

“Where's Belmont?” She slurred the words and felt angry with herself: so little control.

“Waiting in his limousine to pick you up at Saks Fifth Avenue at twelve-thirty. That was the message we gave him.”

“But the car——”

“That wasn't your limousine, Mrs. Pastor. We hired it from a livery leasing outfit.”

“I don't know what you expect to prove by this,” she said. “You'll all be killed, you know that. If it takes the rest of Frank's life and every penny he's got.”

The bearded man patted her knee. “Ma'am, don't fret yourself none, just relax and enjoy the ride.”

The man in the front seat said, “Give her the shot, Mr. Merle. She's not to know where we're going.”

She tried to fight it but it was no use: She went under again.

4

It was a small bedroom, cheerfully decorated with print wallpaper. The double bed had a good hard mattress. The first thing she noticed was the bars on the windows. Through the glass she could see trees, almost bare of leaves now except for a few tall pines.

She turned her head on the pillow. A man sat on a chair near the door. The door was closed; there was a large brass lock on it that appeared new.

The man's face was deep in shadow until he reached up to switch on the lamp on the table beside him. Edward Merle.

“You're in a house in the country. I suppose you can see that for yourself. You've been asleep for about two hours.”

“Two hours?”

“It was a different drug this time. Chloral hydrate. You'll probably want to sleep several more hours to get it out of your system. The only thing that's keeping you awake now is anxiety.”

“You know everything, do you?”

Merle didn't reply.

“Where do you think this is going to get you?”

“I intend to get free of your husband and his pack of animals, Mrs. Pastor. You're the instrument of that freedom.”

“You're out of your mind.”

“Maybe. Would you like coffee? Anything to eat?”

“No.”

“Don't be stubborn. You're probably thirsty—drugs do that, of course. There's a plastic pitcher of ice water on the bedside table there, if you didn't notice it. If you want anything at any time, just knock on the door. One of us will be outside at all times.”

“How considerate.”

“We're not going to harm you. I want you to understand that. We may want to sedate you now and then, merely to benefit our own freedom of movement at certain times. Don't be alarmed when you see hypodermic needles. It's more humane than tying you up and putting a gag in your mouth.”

“How long do you intend to keep me here?”

“As long as it takes to convince Frank Pastor.”

“Convince him of what?”

“That he's vulnerable.” Merle stood up. “You'd better try to sleep it off now.”

He left the room; she heard the lock slam home. She tried to think but drowsiness overcame her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

New York City: 6–7 November

1

F
RANK WAS A PASSIONATE MAN BUT EZIO HAD NEVER SEEN
him in such a towering rage.

The guests had come and waited and gone; the party had been limp and awkward without its guest of honor. Now the children had been sent to their rooms, Ezio's wife and Ramiro's were in the kitchen putting loads into the dishwasher, Belmont and Gregory Cestone were in the front room awaiting orders and Ezio sat locked in the study watching Frank pace back and forth like something in a zoo cage, darting savage glances toward the telephone as if willing it to ring.

“Let's go over it one more time.”

“Frank, we've been over it a hundred times.”

“Get Belmont in here.”

“What for? We know everything he knows.”

“Maybe he forgot something.”

“We pumped him half a dozen times. There's nothing wrong with his memory.”

“Get him in here.”

Ezio got up and went to the door. He crooked a finger at Belmont. Cestone sat near the door looking at the monitor screen. There were two men in the hallway, standing there. No one else; the elevator doors were shut. Ezio said, “Gregory, see if those two guys want some coffee or anything.”

Cestone went out through the foyer. Ezio returned to the study and closed the door. Frank was talking to Belmont: “I want to go over it again. Maybe you'll remember something else.”

“I'm sure willing to try, Mr. Pastor.”

“I know you are. All right. You dropped her at the beauty parlor at ten-fifteen, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She told you to come back and pick her up in an hour and a half.”

“Right.”

“You got back when?”

“About eleven-thirty. I parked at Fifty-third right at the corner. At a hydrant. I figured at a quarter to twelve I'd pull out around the corner and pick her up.”

“You were just sitting there parked at the hydrant, reading the
Daily News
, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this guy walked over and tapped on the car window.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you actually see him come out of the beauty parlor?”

“No. He came from that direction.”

“Describe the guy again.”

“Small guy. Kind of wiry, you know, but he looked like he had muscles. Built like an acrobat, sort of.”

“Clean shaven?”

“Yeah. Dark hair, kind of narrow face, little tiny mouth. I never saw him before.”

“What about the clothes? You said he was wearing a dark suit.”

“Black. No topcoat or anything. Just the black suit. I think he had a colored shirt on, yellow or pink or something. He was wearing a tie—I couldn't say what color.”

“What about his voice?”

“I didn't notice anything unusual about it. He didn't have an accent or anything. He talked clear, like a radio announcer, you know, the guys that get all the accent rubbed out of their voices in broadcasting school.”

“Tell me again what he said.”

“He said he was just coming outside, a lady in there asked him to pass a message to me, she said she wanted to pick up something at Saks and she felt like a walk, and would I pick her up at Saks at twelve-thirty.”

“Before you said he asked if it was Mrs. Pastor's car.”

“That's right, he asked me that first. And he said the reason she asked him to deliver the message she was under the hair dryer and couldn't come out.”

“Can you remember any of his exact words?”

“I don't think so, I'm no good at that kind of thing. I'm sorry, Mr. Pastor. I'm doing my best.”

Ezio said, “We know you are. Nobody's blaming you.”