Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels (138 page)

At that moment, Marie-Thérèse was looking at the top of the head of a member of the U.S. delegation to the UN. He performed with enthusiasm and considerable skill, she thought, and she told him so.

They were interrupted by the doorbell. Purdue grabbed a robe and signed for breakfast, then wheeled the cart into the bedroom.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Purdue said.

“You should have told him you'd already eaten.”

He laughed and handed her a plate of sausage and eggs. “How much longer are you in New York?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Since my wife isn't along on this trip, I thought we might see more of each other.”

“It's hard to know how we could see more of each other than we already have,” she said, laughing.

“You have a point,” he agreed. “Stick around for a while? I'm here through next week.”

“And then, back to the wife.”

“It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it.”

“Tough?”

“Being married to a rich woman is a hard way to make a living,” he said.

“So, get a divorce.”

“I've learned to like my lifestyle, but I can't afford it on a State Department salary.”

“So, if you want the lifestyle but not the wife, get somebody to kill her.”

He laughed. “You Texans,” he said. “I don't want to end up the subject of some TV movie-of-the-week.”

It occurred to her that Washington might make a nice change of scene, at the moment. She could rent a car and drive down. “Oh, it can be done quite discreetly,” she said. “I can arrange it.”

“What?”

“You'd be at a Security Council session, or someplace with a lot of witnesses. She'd be the victim of a burglary gone wrong, or something like that. No one would ever be able to connect you to it.”

“
You
can arrange it?”

“I'm a resourceful person. I was thinking of traveling to Washington, anyway. It would be my pleasure.”

“That sounded as if you wanted to do it yourself.”

“I have some experience at these things.”

“What sort of experience are you talking about?”

“I lied to you, Jeff. I'm not a Texas matron, I'm a professional assassin.”

Purdue laughed heartily. “I'm not sure I can afford you,” he said.

“I'll work cheap. Tell you what: Allow me the use of your suite through the weekend, and she'll be dead by the middle of next week.”

“You sound serious,” he said.

“And you sound interested.”

He stopped eating. “All right, I'm interested,” he said warily. “Tell me why we wouldn't get caught.”

“Because you and I have no history together that could be discovered later, and because I have no motive to kill your wife. Also, when I leave New York for Washington, I'll no longer be Darlene King, but someone else, who will disappear the moment she's dead.”

He set down his plate. “Ah, the stuff that dreams are made of,” he said wistfully.

“I imagine you'd be a very eligible man as a widower—handsome, well connected, and, finally, rich.”

“That's perfectly true. But, if you're what you say you are, why are you confiding in me? I could walk down the hall, rap on the door of the presidential suite, and tell the director about you. I'll bet he would be interested.”

“Oh, you couldn't do that, Jeff: You'd have too much to explain. You'd end up having to explain it to your wife, and she might react badly. You might find yourself living on your State Department salary. No, I'm perfectly safe confiding in you.”

“Convince me you're what you say you are,” he said.

Marie-Thérèse set her plate on the room-service cart and got out of bed. She walked over to where
her purse rested on a chair, dug out her little silenced pistol, walked back to the bed, and pointed it at Purdue's head.

Purdue's face froze.

“Oh, relax,” she said, “I'm not going to shoot you.”

“What kind of gun is that?” he asked, fascinated.

“An assassin's weapon. It was made by your very own CIA,” she said.

“And how did you come into possession of it?”

“By means too convoluted to explain.”

“If you shot my wife with that, could the gun be connected to other murders?”

“No, it could not. You'll have to trust me on that.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” he said.

“You think it over,” she replied. “I'm going to have a shower.” She walked into the bathroom, taking her purse and the pistol with her.

 

Carpenter closed her phone. “The NYPD has given up on La Biche's returning to the Carlyle suite, so they're going to concentrate on our local headquarters,” she said to the meeting, “in the belief that she might watch the place again. They're stationing snipers on the rooftops nearby.”

“I don't see what else can be done,” the director said. “My people are watching the airports, train and bus stations. We've circulated her description to the car rental agencies, too. What identity was she using at the Carlyle?”

“Mrs. Darlene King, of Dallas, Texas,” Carpenter replied. “She's apparently stayed there before under that name.”

“I don't suppose she'd be so foolish as to use it again,” he said.

“I doubt it. She's abandoned the suite at the Carlyle, and I expect she has abandoned that identity for another.”

Mason leaned over. “Look, if you don't need me anymore, I want to go back to the office and pick up some fresh clothes.”

“Go ahead, but watch yourself,” Carpenter said.

 

Marie-Thérèse checked herself out in the mirror. She looked very good in Mrs. Purdue's Armani pantsuit, she thought, and she felt clean and fresh in her underwear, too. She walked back to the bathroom, where Purdue was shaving.

He looked at her reflection in the mirror. “Hey, you can't wear that,” he said. “That's my wife's.”

“She's not going to be needing it, is she?”

He continued shaving. “Let's drop this little game,” he said. “You're no assassin, and my wife is not going anywhere. Now put on your own clothes and get out of here. You're a great fuck, but we're not going to be seeing each other again.”

His tone annoyed Marie-Thérèse, not to mention that he was talking with his back to her.

“Well, Jeff, I was going to do you a favor, but since you take that attitude, I think I'll do your wife one, instead.” She took the pistol from her purse and fired once into the back of his head. The soft-nosed bullet splattered his face all over the bathroom mirror.

She hung her dress carefully in the closet, so as to blend in with Mrs. Purdue's things, dropped her
dirty underwear in the hamper, and walked out of the suite, closing the door behind her. The guard from the night before was still on duty. “Good morning,” she said sweetly.

“Good morning, ma'am,” he replied, pushing the elevator button for her.

Another man came down the hall and stood with her, waiting for the elevator. When it arrived, they both got on.

“Good morning,” he drawled.

“Good morning,” she said, looking at him for the first time. “Well, upon my word, if it isn't Mason!” She laughed aloud.

He squinted at her. “How do you know that name? Have we met?”

“No,” she said, “but your reputation precedes you.” She fumbled in her handbag, as if she were looking for her lipstick. When her hand was on the pistol, she pressed the emergency stop button on the elevator.

“What are you doing?” Mason demanded, then his face fell as he realized who she was.

“I'm getting off here,” she said, withdrawing the pistol from her bag. “You're going all the way down.” She shot him twice, then stepped off the elevator, reached back inside, and released the car.

The meeting in the presidential suite was just breaking up, when an FBI agent walked quickly into the room and whispered something in the director's ear.

The director's eyebrows went up. “You cannot be serious,” he said.

“I am perfectly serious,” the man replied.

The director turned to Carpenter. “Your man, Mason, has just been found dead in the elevator, shot twice.”

Carpenter stood up; she wasn't sure why. Before she could say anything, her cell phone rang. Automatically, she answered it. “Yes?”

“It's Stone. Dino and I have just arrived at the Waldorf. We'd like to meet with you and the director.”

“Stone, she's in the hotel.”

“Who's in the hotel?”

“La Biche. She just shot Mason in the elevator.”

“Don't leave the suite, and tell the director not to, as well. I'll call you back.” He broke the connection.

“What is it?” Dino asked, as they walked up the steps from the drive-through under the hotel, headed for the Tower elevators.

“Marie-Thérèse is in the building,” Stone replied. “She's just killed Mason in an elevator.”

Dino ran back to his car and retrieved a handheld radio. “This is Bacchetti,” he said into it. “La Biche is at the Waldorf. Pull everybody off the Brits' offices and get them over here. Call hotel security, too, and get every available patrol car to the hotel. I want every woman alone stopped and ID'ed, then held if there's the slightest suspicion.”

 

Marie-Thérèse waited impatiently for an elevator to stop, but none did. Then she realized what had happened. She had been on an express elevator to the Towers, one that stopped only because she had pressed the emergency button. The elevator to this floor was not an express, but stopped at any floor that had requested it, and at this hour of the day, it was receiving many requests. She had planned to reach the lobby while there was a commotion over the discovery of Mason's body, before anyone had time to begin searching for his killer, but now her time was running out while she waited for an elevator. And at this moment, the security guard on the Tower floor was giving her description to her hunters. She looked around for an exit, a stairway, and found it. The door was plainly marked, sixteenth floor. If she took the elevator, someone would very likely be waiting at the bottom. How long would it take her to walk down sixteen flights of stairs?

She looked in the other direction and saw an open door, with linens and supplies stacked inside. She ran down the hallway into the closet and closed the door behind her. She found a maid's dress, freshly laundered, on a shelf, and quickly got into it, buttoned it closed over her suit. She rolled up her pant legs, so that they disappeared under the skirt, and she found a maid's cap and put it on. Then she heard a key in the lock, and the door opened.

A maid stood in the hallway beside a cart laden with supplies. Before she could speak, Marie-Thérèse asked, “Excuse me, where is the service elevator? I'm lost.”

“Down there,” the woman said, “but you'll need a key.” Then she realized that something wasn't right. “What are you doing in here? I don't know you.”

Marie-Thérèse grasped her wrist and yanked her into the closet. She hit her sharply on the back of the neck with the heel of her hand, and the woman collapsed in a heap. Marie-Thérèse searched her for her keys and found them in a pocket. She left the closet, closing the door behind her, and began pushing the maid's cart toward the service elevator, placing her handbag in the cart's hamper. As she walked, she grabbed a towel and wiped her face vigorously, removing her makeup.

 

Stone called Carpenter's cell phone again.

“Yes?”

“Dino and I are at the Tower elevators, and hotel security has it roped off. If she comes down in one of the other elevators, we'll stop her.”

“Good.”

“Now, you're going to have to organize a search of every floor between you and the ground, knocking on every door and checking out every woman who even vaguely fits her description.”

“The FBI is already working on that,” she said.

“Dino has called his people off your offices and is bringing them here, but if Marie-Thérèse has already made the ground floor, they're going to be too late to stop her. Our only chance is if she's still somewhere upstairs.”

“We have a new description,” Carpenter said. “She's wearing a pantsuit, color undetermined, and she has short blond hair and is carrying a large handbag.”

“Got it,” Stone said. “Call me with any news.” He hung up. “She's now got short blond hair,” he said to Dino, “and she's wearing a pantsuit.”

 

Marie-Thérèse found the elevator key, slipped it into the lock, and turned it. She looked up at the floor lights. The car was three floors above her and headed down. After a long moment, the door opened, and she pushed the cart aboard. She looked at the buttons on the control panel and discovered that the hotel had a basement and two subbasements. She inserted her key and pressed the basement button. The doors closed, and the car started down.

To her alarm, it stopped again almost immediately, and the doors opened. A busboy pushed a room-service cart aboard, but her cart was between him
and the control panel. “Push SB-one for me, will you?” he asked.

She inserted her key again and pressed the button. The elevator began moving down again.

“Man, this day is a bitch,” the busboy said in Spanish-tinted English. “I got half a dozen carts to get downstairs, and somebody's stopping me every two seconds.”

“Why are they stopping you?” she asked, alarmed.

“They're looking for somebody upstairs,” he said, “some woman. That's all I know. Security is all over the place, and there's lots of other guys I don't know, guys in suits.”

“I'm new here,” she said. “What's in subbasements one and two?”

“Kitchen on SB-one, laundry on SB-two,” the man said. “Hey, I buy you a cup of coffee sometime in the lounge, okay?”

“Sure,” Marie-Thérèse said. She was starting to sweat under the two layers of clothing. And she was frightened.