Of course, the same software that is designed to avoid the T wave can be reconfigured to initiate it.
I reclined the electronic seat a few degrees and relaxed. It was a safe bet that Holtzer would be heading over to the CIA’s campus sometime in the morning, so I expected to have to wait only a few more hours.
At six-thirty, about a half hour before it would get light outside, I walked over to the far end of the garage and urinated into some potted hedges. I limbered up for a few minutes, then headed back to the van, where I enjoyed a breakfast of cold coffee and Chicken McNuggets, left over from the previous evening. The culinary joys of surveillance.
Holtzer showed an hour later. I watched him emerge from the elevator and head toward me. He was dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, dark tie. Standard Beltway attire, practically Agency issue.
His mind was elsewhere. I could see it in his expression, his posture, the way he failed to check the likely hot spots in the garage, especially around his car. Shame on him, being so careless in a potential crime zone like a parking garage.
I slipped on a pair of black cowhide gloves. A click of the switch on the Thunder Blaster produced a sharp arc of blue sparks and an electric crackle. I was ready to go.
I scanned the garage, satisfying myself that for the moment it was empty. Then I slipped to the back of the van and watched him move to the driver’s side of the Taurus, where he paused to remove his suit jacket. Good, I thought. Let’s not get any wrinkles on your funeral suit.
I waited until the jacket was just past his shoulders, the spot that would make effective reaction most awkward for him, then swung the van’s side door open and moved in on him. He looked up when he heard the door open, but had no chance to do anything but drop his mouth open in surprise. Then I was on him, my right hand jamming the Thunder Blaster into his belly, my left propping him up by the throat while the shock scrambled his central nervous system.
It took less than six seconds to drag his dazed form into the van and slide the door shut behind us. I pushed him onto the ample backseat, then gave him another hit with the Thunder Blaster to make sure he was incapacitated long enough for me to finish.
The moves were routine and it didn’t take long. I buckled him in with the lap and shoulder belt, pulling the latter all the way out and then letting it retract fully until it was locked in place. The hardest part was getting his shirt open and his tie out of the way so I could apply the paddles directly to his torso, where the conducting jelly would prevent any telltale burn marks. The seat belt and shoulder restraint kept him in place while I worked.
As I applied the second paddle, his eyes fluttered open. He glanced down at his exposed chest, then looked up at me.
“Way . . . way . . . ,” he stammered.
“Wait?” I asked.
He grunted, I guessed to affirm.
“Sorry, can’t do that,” I said, affixing the second paddle with medical tape.
He opened his mouth to say something else and I shoved the Super Ball into it. I didn’t want him to bite his tongue from the force of the shock — it could look suspicious.
I shifted to the side of the van to make sure I wasn’t touching him when the shock was delivered. He watched me as I moved, his eyes wide.
I flicked the switch on the unit.
His body jerked forward to the limit of the automatically locking shoulder belt and his head arched backward into the anti-whiplash head restraint. Cars are amazingly safe these days.
I waited for a minute, then checked his pulse to be sure he was finished. Satisfied, I removed the ball and the paddles, wiped off the residue of the conducting jelly with an alcohol swab, and fixed his clothes. I looked into his dead eyes and was surprised at how little I felt. Relieved, maybe. Not much more.
I opened the door of the Taurus with his key, then placed it in the car’s ignition. I scanned the garage again. A woman in a business suit, probably on her way to an early meeting, came out of the elevator. I waited for her to get in her car and drive off.
Using a modified fireman’s carry, I scooped up the body, walked it over to the car, and dumped it into the driver’s seat. I closed the door, then paused for a moment to examine my work.
That’s for Jimmy, I thought. And Cu Lai. They’ve all been waiting for you in hell.
And waiting for me. I wondered if Holtzer would be enough to satisfy them. I got into the van and drove away.
26
I HAD ONE more stop to make. Manhattan, 178 Seventh Avenue South. The Village Vanguard.
I had checked the Vanguard’s Web site, and knew that the Midori Kawamura trio was appearing at the club from the first Tuesday in November through the following Sunday. I called and made a reservation for the 1:00 A.M. set on Friday night. I didn’t need to use a credit card, although I knew they’d give away my seat if I didn’t show up at least fifteen minutes before the set, so I was easily able to use an alias: Watanabe, a common Japanese name.
I headed up Interstate 95, crossing from Maryland to Delaware and then to New Jersey. From the turnpike I could have picked up I-80 and gone on to Dryden, two hundred miles and someone else’s lifetime away.
Instead I left the turnpike for the Holland Tunnel, where I entered the city and drove the quarter mile to the Soho Grand Hotel on West Broadway. Mr. Watanabe had reserved a suite for Friday night. He arrived before six o’clock to ensure that the hotel didn’t give away his reservation, and paid cash for the suite, counting out fourteen hundred dollar bills for the night. The staff, to their credit, evinced no surprise, probably guessing that the wealthy man with a passion for anonymity would be meeting his mistress.
The early arrival gave me time to shower, sleep for three hours, and enjoy an excellent room service dinner of Paillard of Veal and an ’82 Mouton from the hotel’s Canal House Restaurant. With another hour to kill before I left for the Vanguard, I repaired to the visually spectacular Grand Bar, where the ambience of the high ceilings, warm lighting, and wonderfully symmetrical black glass tables made up for an unimaginative selection of single malts and the annoying house music. Still, there’s no quarreling with a twenty-five-year-old Macallan.
I walked the mile or so from the hotel to the Vanguard. It was cold, and I was glad for the charcoal gabardine trousers, black cashmere mock turtleneck, and navy blazer I was wearing. The charcoal trilby I was wearing low across my forehead also provided some warmth, while obscuring my features.
I picked up my ticket at 12:35, then continued walking until almost 1:00 sharp. I didn’t want to take a chance on Midori or anyone else in her trio walking past me at the back of the wedge-shaped room before the set began.
I passed under the trademark red awning and neon sign and through the mahogany doors, taking a seat at one of the small round white tables in back. Midori was already at the piano, wearing black like the first time I saw her. It felt good to watch her for the moment, unobserved, separated by a sadness that I knew she must have shared. She looked beautiful, and it hurt.
The lights dimmed, the murmur of conversation died away, and Midori brought the piano to life with a vengeance, her fingers ripping into the keys. I watched intently, trying to lock in the memory of the way she moved her hands and swayed her body, the expressions of her face. I knew I’d be listening to her music forever, but this would be the last time I would watch her play.
I had always heard a frustration in her music, and loved the way it would at times be replaced by a deep, accepting sadness. But there was no acceptance in her music tonight. It was raw and angry, sometimes mournful, but never resigned. I watched and listened, feeling the notes and the minutes slipping away from me, trying to find some solace in the thought that perhaps what had passed between us was now part of her music.