“What the fuck?”
A light came on, defining the room as an entrance area for an even larger space.
“Jacobus Van Cortlandt bought the park, along with this stone hill, from John Barret at the end of the seventeenth century,” Mel explained as we walked into the most secret place in New York City. “Barret wanted to keep the use of his gunpowder and alcohol storage area. He was a paranoid motherfucker and planned to hole up here if his enemies ever decided to do him injury.
“They hid weaponry here during the Revolution. It was such a highly guarded secret that after a while there was no one around that knew it.”
I was what they call gobsmacked. For the first time in days I wasn’t thinking about Quiller or Ingram, the Russians or even prison. The entry hall opened into a neat little two-story apartment.
“If nobody knew, how’d you find it?” I asked Madman Frost.
Mel winced. That’s an unusual response for a man who’s shouldered evil for every minute of his life.
“It’s a long story, Joe. Maybe some other time.”
“Okay. Then tell me where you get the electricity.”
My friend smiled brightly at this reprieve.
“Off the city grid,” he said. “Connection is way underground so nobody’s likely to find it, but there’s a gasoline generator in the storage room just in case. Even if they cut the cord I could keep this place running for months.”
It was the First Wonder of New York. Mel showed me how to work the stone barrier entrance and all the little tools he had put in place over the years. There was even a well that provided water.
“I looked into that bodyguard thing,” Mel told me when he was about to leave.
“I don’t want a bodyguard.”
“You need somebody anonymous to watch your back. The guys you’re going up against know my face.”
It was a standoff. I shook his hand and he left me to figure out next steps.
The Bronx hiding place was a marvel of architecture and technology. There were six monitors that looked out on the park from every possible vantage. Nine rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom with a walk-in vestibule like they sell on TV for elderly individuals who have trouble climbing in and out of a tub. The cupboards were filled with canned meats, soups, vegetables, and fruits. There was even canned brown bread on the shelf with butter and half-and-half in the refrigerator. The television was connected to some satellite that offered shows in a dozen languages.
After I felt comfortable with the ins and outs of the hole in the ground, I called Aja.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“How’s it going at Silver House?”
“Mr. Ferris has this great library. And, and, and he has a full-size theater with digital and film projectors.”
“A real Joe Stalin.”
“Stop it, Dad. He’s been very nice to me and Mom.”
“Yeah. You better let me talk to her.”
“Joe?” Monica asked a minute or so later.
“How you doin’, Mon?”
“I talked to Coleman. He says he’s out and that you’re going to help him.”
“All he has to do is be truthful and do what I say.”
“He hates the place you put him in. Can’t you do anything about that?”
“He’s lucky to be out of stir.”
“Can’t you let him come here?”
“No.”
“But—”
“Monica, I’m doin’ what I can. He’s safe and we’re working to get him out of trouble. Leave it at that, okay?”
“I guess. I’ll talk to you later.”
After that I said a few more words to Aja before returning to my solitude.
I was asleep in the blue bedroom on the second floor when the phone rang. I answered immediately because only the most important people had that number.
“Hello?”
“I’m at the stone door,” a woman’s voice said.
My consciousness poked through the veil of sleep only enough to hear the words but not really to comprehend, at least not immediately. At first I thought that it must be a wrong number. But who could this wrong number be calling who also had a stone door? A stone door.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Oliya Ruez,” she said, “and you are Joe. I’ve been sent here by the Int-Op Agency to assist you.”
“You’re gonna have to give me a little more than that. I never even heard of the word Int-Op.”
“Redbird.”
She was Ali Baba and I the forty thieves.
I pressed a button on the universal remote that ran the joint. This lifted the stone door, revealing my late-night caller.
Oliya Ruez was five-five and 150 pounds without an extra ounce of fat. It was hard to be certain about her age because of the severity of her expression, but I placed her at about thirty. Short-haired, she had fingers like pilings and forearms with writhing muscles reminiscent of the steel bands that formed the inner workings of some nineteenth-century perpetual-motion machine. Scarred upper lip, discolored left forearm; she wore black knee-length tights under a short black skirt and a loose-fitting black T-shirt. She could have been white or brown, a Pacific Islander or Spaniard from the south of that nation. Her haircut was too short to reveal texture.
There was a pretty big rucksack on her back and a duffel bag at her side. Both black, of course.
“Ms. Ruez?” I said, blocking her entrée with my body.
She looked up into my eyes in a stance that could allow her to take a step across the threshold or throw a roundhouse kick at my head.
When she didn’t reply I asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I already told you, Joe.”
“I didn’t send for no assistant.”
“I’m here to assist you, but not as an ordinary girl Friday. My duties are more... specialized.”
“Melquarth sent you?”
“I don’t know anyone by that name. Who is he?”
A chill breeze was coming through the doorway, but I wasn’t satisfied yet.
“Where’d you get the word redbird?”
“It’s what I was supposed to say if you questioned my being here.” Her expression added, Of course.
“Okay,” I said after a gusty pause. “Come on in.”
As she strode past I lowered the drawbridge door.
“Have a seat,” I said when we entered the living room.
Oliya put her bags down and sat in a plush blue sofa seat set at a perpendicular angle to the emerald-green sofa. I watched her a moment and then lowered onto the couch.
“You want a drink?” I asked.
“Not right now, thank you.”
“So let me get this right — you’re here to provide specialized assistance.”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know Melquarth.”
“He may have contracted for the services of Int-Op but I take my orders directly from Luxembourg.”
“What is this Int-Op you’re talking about?”
“The term stands for International Operatives Agency. My designation is Int-Op 17.”
“And your special services?”
“Bodyguarding, hostage retrieval, some specialized mercenary work, and intelligence reclamation are all in my job description.”
“And which of those services are you here for?”
“As I understand it’s bodyguarding mainly, but I am to provide help in any way I can.”
I was wearing a white T and gray exercise pants that I’d found in a drawer upstairs. I didn’t feel embarrassed and doubted that my guest would have turned red in the Saharan sun.
“You wanna drink?” I asked again.