The young man showed her his identification. “I’m Special Agent Harding, with the FBI,” he said.
“How may I help you?” Edith replied, trying to keep her voice steady. Forty years before, Edith, whose name was not Edith, had participated in a Weather Underground bank robbery in downtown New York, and a bank guard had been killed. She had only driven the getaway car, but she knew that somewhere in the Justice Department bureaucracy there was an arrest warrant with her real name on it and that there is no statute of limitations on murder.
“I understand that your firm handles short-term rentals on the Upper East Side,” Harding said. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is,” she replied, relieved that he did not seem interested in arresting her. “It’s a specialty of ours.”
Harding handed her a sketch of a middle-aged man. “Have you, during the past few weeks, shown an apartment or rented an apartment to a man who looks like this?”
Edith tried not even to blink. “No, we haven’t,” she said. “I handle the short-term rentals, myself, so if he had come in here, I would have seen him.”
“You’re certain you haven’t rented to someone who looks even vaguely like this man during the past weeks?”
She shook her head. “I’m sure; I’ve only rented to couples for the past three or four months. It’s been more than a year since I rented to a single man. And none of the men in the couples looked like this. Why are you asking?”
“It’s just a routine investigation,” Harding said. “We’re talking to all the realtors in the neighborhood.”
“I see.” She stood up. “Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help, Agent Harding. Good day.”
“Good day, and thank you.” The young man left her offices and turned up Madison Avenue.
Edith closed her office door, sat back down in her chair and rested her face in her hands, trying to tame her wildly beating heart. She took a tissue from the box on her desk and dabbed at the beads of perspiration that had popped out on her forehead, then she got out her compact and repaired her carefully applied makeup.
For a moment, there, she had thought her life would go up in smoke: her partnership in the realty firm, her marriage to a Park Avenue physician, her two sons and her five grandchildren.
What was that man’s name? She got out her card file of rentals and began going through them, then stopped at one. Foreman; Albert Foreman. She dialed the number.
TEDDY WAS IN HIS WORKSHOP when the phone rang. He routinely forwarded the calls from his apartment to this phone, but he never got calls, except from telemarketers. He picked up the instrument. “Hello?”
“Mr. Foreman?”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“This is Edith Timmons of Crown and Palmer. Is this Mr. Foreman?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure you’ll recall that I rented you your apartment at the Mayflower a few weeks ago.”
“Of course, Mrs. Timmons. Is anything wrong? Are the owners returning earlier than planned?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. I just wanted to tell you about something, purely for your own information.”
“Yes?”
“A few minutes ago I had a visit from an FBI agent, who showed me a sketch of someone who looked vaguely like you and asked if I had rented an apartment to such a person.”
Teddy’s gut clenched. “And what did you tell him?”
“Mr. Foreman, I have to tell you that I have no love for the FBI and I have no wish to help them. I told him that I had not rented to any such person, so you shouldn’t be bothered.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Timmons. It’s just a tax matter. I’ll contact them, and I’m sure we can work it out.”
“Well, of course, I knew it would be something like that. I just wanted to let you know that you need not be concerned. They won’t come looking for you.”
“Well, thank you again, Mrs. Timmons. I very much appreciate your concern.”
“One thing, Mr. Foreman: if you should have a conversation with these people, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention that you rented the apartment from me. I wouldn’t want to be caught in a lie.”
“Of course not, Mrs. Timmons, and thank you again.” Teddy hung up and breathed a sigh of relief. They were looking for him, but they had missed. He’d be all right for a while longer.
FORTY-SIX
TEDDY NOW TURNED HIS ATTENTION to his next victim. He still had the photographs of the others he had identified as prospects, but he was growing tired of small fry; he wanted a bigger fish, someone who would strike fear into the hearts of America’s enemies.
He looked at his watch; time to call Irene. He dialed her cell phone number.
“Hello,” she said, knowing who was calling. “It’s been a while.”
“I’ve been a busy fellow,” he said,
“Believe me, I know all about it. I’ve completed my investigation of how you’re getting the information, and I turned in my report to the director.”
“And?”
“And I’ve blamed it on the FBI.”
Teddy smiled. “Good.”
“And, I understand, the FBI is blaming it on us.”
“Perfect! When are you coming to New York again?”
“Maybe in a couple of days. Can I let you know?”
“Sure, call me anytime on the cell phone.”
“Anything I can do for you?”
“Yes. I’m looking for a new kind of target, a bigger fish.”
“At the U.N.?”
“That would be good; I’d rather not have to travel to Washington.”
“Let me poke around and see who I can come up with. Maybe I can bring you a name when I come to New York.”
“Good. I’m looking forward to seeing you. Bye-bye.” Teddy hung up. He really was looking forward to seeing her. His increasing interest in Holly Barker was making him horny, and he needed relief.
Teddy went to his workbench and returned his attention to something he had been working on for several days. He didn’t have a sniper’s rifle, and buying one that would suit his purpose would be too complicated and too dangerous. Instead, he had decided to make one himself that would break down and be easily concealable.
He owned a virtually unused Walther PPK-S, the stainless-steel, updated version of the gun made famous in the James Bond novels. The caliber was.380, which posed a problem, but he could deal with that. He also had a Douglas.380 rifle barrel that he’d ordered more than a year ago.
He cut down the rifle barrel to sixteen inches and built a six-inch silencer to add to that. Then he replaced the pistol’s grip panel with an L-shaped piece of flat aluminum plating that came over the top of the gun. He shaped a folding stock of a strip of one-inch alloy that was fixed to the plating by a single screw, so that it could be quickly attached or detached using a dime for a screwdriver.
Finally, he mounted a 6x18 power Leupold zoom scope to the top of the L-shaped plating. He broke down the little pistol, removed the barrel and replaced it with the new, longer barrel, then reassembled it. Then he carved an eight-inch wooden grip and affixed it to the barrel, to protect his hand from the heat buildup when the weapon was fired. What he finished up with was a neat, small, very quiet rifle with a pistol grip that could be broken down and carried in a briefcase or raincoat pocket. This was perfect, but if the rifle were going to be effective at, say, a hundred yards, he was going to have to upgrade the ammunition; the standard.380 round was just not powerful enough.
He hand-loaded a hundred rounds of ammunition with a 115-grain, pointed, lead-tipped bullet and a cartridge packed with five grains of Unique powder. That would give the round the extra velocity, accuracy and destructive power it would need to hit an eight-inch target dead center at a hundred yards. Still, the bullet would drop more than it would from a higher-powered rifle, so he was going to have to fire the rifle to sight it in for the range.