The black fellow who'd been arguing on the phone passed behind Philips and left the bar. Martin pushed off his stool, and taking his fresh drink, he headed back toward the rear of the room. He felt somewhat calmer and thought he could make a more intelligent case to the police. There was a little shelf below the phone and Philips put his drink there. Dropping in a coin, he dialed 911.
Over the sound of the disco and the TV he could hear the ringing on the other end of the line. He wondered if he should say anything about his discoveries and the hospital, but decided it would only add confusion to an already confused situation. He decided not to say anything about his medical concerns unless he was specifically asked what he was doing at Werner's apartment in the middle of the night. A bored husky voice answered.
"Division Six. Sergeant McNeally speaking."
"I want to report a murder," said Martin, trying to keep his voice even.
"Where about?" asked the sergeant.
"I'm not sure of the address, but I'll be able to recognize the building if I see it again."
"Are you in any danger right now?"
"I don't think so. I'm in a bar in Harlem…"
"A bar! Right, mac," interrupted the sergeant. "How many drinks have you had?"
Philips realized the man thought he was a crank. "Listen. I saw a man get knifed."
"A lot of people get knifed in Harlem, my friend. What's your name?"
"Dr. Martin Philips. I'm staff radiologist at the Hobson University Medical Center."
"Did you say Philips?" The sergeant's voice had changed.
"That's right," said Martin, surprised at the sergeant's reaction.
"Why didn't you say that immediately. Look, we've been waiting for your call. I'm supposed to transfer you immediately to the Bureau. Hold on! If you get cut off, call me right back. Okay!"
The policeman didn't wait for a response. There was a click as Philips was put on hold. Pulling the receiver away from his ear, Martin looked at it as if it would explain the odd conversation. He was sure the sergeant had said that he'd been waiting for his call! And what did he mean by the Bureau? The Bureau of what?
A series of clicks was followed by the sound of someone else picking up the other end of the line. This voice was intense and anxious.
"All right, Philips, where are you?"
"I'm in Harlem. Who is this?"
"My name is Agent Sansone. I'm the Assistant Director of the Bureau here in the city."
"What Bureau?" Philips' nerves, which had begun to settle, tingled as if he were connected to a galvanic source.
"The FBI, you idiot! Listen, we may not have much time. You've got to get out of that area."
"Why?" Martin was bewildered, but he sensed Sansone's seriousness.
"I don't have time to explain. But that man you clobbered on the head was one of my agents trying to protect you. He just reported in. Don't you understand? Werner's involvement was just a freak accident."
"I don't understand anything," shouted Philips.
"It doesn't matter," snapped Sansone. "What matters is getting you out of there. Hang on, I've got to see if this is a secured line."
There was another click while Philips was put on hold. Glaring at the silent phone, Philips' emotions were strung out to the point that he felt anger. The whole thing had to be a cruel joke.
"The line's not secure," said Sansone, coming back on the phone. "Give your number and I'll call you back."
Philips gave him the number and hung up. His anger began to fragment into renewed fear. After all, it was the FBI.
The phone jangled under Philips' hand, startling him. It was Sansone. "Okay, Philips. Listen! There is a conspiracy involving the Hobson University Medical Center, which we've been secretly investigating."
"And it involves radiation," blurted Philips. Things started to make sense.
"Are you certain?"
"Absolutely," said Philips.
"Very good. Listen, Philips, you're needed in this investigation, but we're afraid you might be under surveillance. We've got to talk to you. We need someone inside the medical center, understand?" Sansone didn't wait for Philips to respond. "We can't have you come here in case you are being followed. The last thing we want at this moment is to let them know the FBI is investigating them. Hold on."
Sansone went off the line but Philips could hear a discussion in the background.
"The Cloisters, Philips. Do you know the Cloisters?" asked Sansone, coming back on the line. "Of course," said Martin, bewildered.
"We'll meet there. Take a cab and get out at the main entrance. Send the cab away. It will give us a chance to make sure you are clear."
"Clear?"
"Not being followed, for God's sake! Just do it, Philips." Philips was left holding a dead receiver. Sansone hadn't waited for questions or acquiescence. His instructions weren't suggestions, they were orders. Philips couldn't but be impressed by the agent's utter seriousness. He went back to the bartender and asked if he could call a cab.
"Hard to get cabs to come to Harlem at night," said the bartender.
A five-dollar bill made him change his mind and he used the phone behind the cash register. Martin noted the butt of a forty-five pistol in the same location.
Before a taxi driver would agree to come, Martin had to promise a twenty-dollar tip and say his destination was Washington Heights. Then he spent a nervous fifteen minutes before he saw the cab pull up in front. Martin climbed in and the taxi squealed off down the once fashionable avenue. Right after they'd pulled away, the driver asked Martin to lock all doors.
They went over ten blocks before the city began to look less threatening. Soon they were in an area familiar to Philips and lighted store fronts replaced the previous desolation. Martin could even see a few people walking beneath umbrellas.
"Okay, where to?" said the driver. He was obviously relieved as if he'd rescued someone from behind enemy lines.
"The Cloisters," said Philips.
"The Cloisters! Man, it's three-thirty in the morning. That whole area will be deserted."
"I'll pay you," said Martin, not wishing to have an argument.
"Wait a minute," said the driver, stopping at a red light. He turned to look through the Plexiglas partition. "I don't want no trouble. I don't know what the fuck you're up to, but I don't want no trouble."
"There will be no trouble. I just want to be dropped offal the main entrance. Then you're on your way."
The light changed and the driver accelerated. Martin's comment must have satisfied him because he didn't complain anymore and Martin was glad of the chance to think.
Sansone's authoritative manner had been helpful. Under the circumstances, Philips felt he could not have made any decisions for himself. It was all too bizarre! From the moment Philips had left the hospital, he'd descended into a world not bound by the usual restraints of reality. He even began to wonder if his experiences had been imaginary until he saw Werner's bloodstains on his parka. In a sense, they were reassuring; at least Philips knew he had not gone mad.
Looking out the window, he stared at the dancing city lights and tried to concentrate on the improbable intervention of the FBI. Philips had had enough experience in the hospital to realize that organizations typically function for their own best interests, not those of the individual. If this affair, whatever it was, was so important to the FBI, how could Martin expect they'd have his best interests at heart. He couldn't! Such thoughts made him feel uneasy about the meeting at the Cloisters. Its remoteness disturbed him. Turning, he peered out the back of the taxi, trying to determine if he were being followed. Traffic was light and it seemed unlikely, but he couldn't be certain. He was about to tell the driver to change direction when he realized with a sense of impotence that there was probably no safe place to go. He sat tensely until they were almost at the Cloisters, then leaned forward and said: