That thought caused her to squeal and kick her feet on the footrest.
Quietly and unnoticed, Raffey had loaded the many routines he had developed at home into his workstation in the collider’s main control room. He masked it as a prototype routine, one of many he was paid to develop, although this one had the ability to end his dilemma in one bright flash.
XXIII. SQUARE PEG
As she walked down Fifth Avenue, a plan was forming: when Mush came back, she’d sell the New York place and they both could move down to D.C. She could probably find work there as a consultant or security analyst.
Brooke had often thought about moving permanently to Washington D.C. after Quarterback had taken her on, but she had a real good deal on her third-story walkup on Forty-Ninth Street, only a few blocks from her old office on Fifty-Seventh Street and Eleventh Avenue. Even though she got to New York only on rare weekends, she had never wanted to give the place up — until now.
Thirty-five more days and he’s home. She’d get to Hawaii a few days before, get a little color, and learn her way around a little. At Forty-Seventh Street, she turned west and walked down the street, navigating around the shoppers and gawkers at the windows. Then out of the corner of her eye she saw it: a FedEx truck, one of hundreds in Manhattan on a typical workday. But something red caught her eye, right there by the driver’s door. She was torn; the cop in her wanted to see what the substance was, but she also had lunch plans at one o’clock with some agents she used to work with over on West Fifty-Seventh, and she wanted to squeeze in a visit to a jewelry store to see if they still made the kind of ring she had admired on her brother for years. Mush might like a ring like that. Of course, the fact that she turned on to Forty-Seventh Street’s Diamond District, with the largest concentration of engagement rings on the planet, never entered into her decision.
Her police instincts took over and she found herself walking toward the truck. She bent down and touched the red; its stickiness and viscosity between her fingers told her it was blood. She casually walked in front of the truck to look through the windshield. No one was inside. She looked over and saw one of the dozen plainclothes security men who add an extra layer of protection for the diamond merchants as they shuffle from one building to another, sometimes with millions in diamonds in little envelopes in their breast pockets. Not used to being addressed, other than for directions, the man didn’t immediately warm to Brooke’s take charge attitude. “Get the beat cop, now. Tell him to meet me by the truck.”
“I’m sorry, what is the problem you are having?”
Brooke recognized the Israeli accent. “Regular Army, IDF? Or Mossad?”
The man was a little taken aback, but the cold steel of her eyes told him not to trifle with her. “IDF. My uncle owns a shop here.”
“Brooke Burrell, FBI. Former.”
“ID?”
As she fished it out of her bag, he noticed a small-caliber gun in her purse. He was about to ask her if she had a permit when she produced her FBI card with the word, RETIRED stamped through in little holes. “See former. Now get the cop. I think something is going down with the FedEx truck and it could be happening right now.”
“That truck?”
“Yes.”
“The driver went in here.” He pointed over his shoulder to the building behind him.
“When you get the cops, have them search the truck. Tell ’em I am in the building and tell them what I am wearing. I don’t want to get shot.” Brooke disappeared into the building, and the man went off down Forty-Seventh looking for the beat cop.
She approached the building’s desk where the guard had everyone sign in. “Do you have the FedEx guys sign in?”
“Everybody signs, lady.” The guard said.
“Do you usually see the same guys every day?”
“Yeah, what’s this about?”
“Was he the usual guy?”
“No…”
“Where was he going when he signed in?”
“I can’t…”
“Look,” she read the name from his badge, “Mr. Jackson, in about two minutes the cops are coming.” She pulled out her ID again. “What floor, which company?”
“Twelve, Abramowitz and Abramowitz.”
She entered the elevator and pressed the twelfth-floor button. On the way up she negotiated with herself: I am just going to get a handle on the situation; I am not going to get involved. Just surveillance.
As the door opened, she looked both ways and saw a metal door with a small square window. The sign next to it simply said Abramowitz & Abramowitz. Above the doorframe was a small surveillance camera. She reached into her bag and pulled out a dark scarf. She draped it over her head like a kerchief and approached the door. She looked through the glass square. Immediately behind that door was another door with a slightly larger window and a similar electric lock with an anti-jimmy plate. The two remotely locked doors created a holding cell of sorts. Someone inside needed to ring a person in or out twice. So a potential bad guy could be trapped in the small prison created between the two. Through the window, she saw a woman get slapped hard and Brooke recognized the grey arm of a FedEx uniform as the woman reeled from the impact. The arm swung and she could see the other arm brandishing a gun in a sweeping motion.
Brooke rang the intercom buzzer. No answer. When she rang it again, she could see the sudden freeze in the inner office. She saw the arm of the FedEx guy gesturing with the gun and then a voice came over the box. “We’re closed.”
“What means, closed? It’s Rachel. I got the Goldfarb diamonds for Moishe and I am doubled parked so let me in. I don’t want to get a ticket.” Brooke did her best Delancy Street fabric-storeowner impersonation. There was no response. She pressed again. “Look, David sent me in with the diamonds in a rush and I got to get back to Brooklyn. Didn’t he call Moishe?”
Inside the wholesale jewelry company, Nick Foust was trying to figure out what to do next. He had been planning this robbery for a month. He learned the FedEx schedule. He knew the truck route. He knew that the normally suspicious diamond merchants seldom pay attention to the FedEx guy. He had jacked the truck on west Forty-Third Street. The stupid driver had put up a fight so he had to shoot him right there in the driver’s seat. He had thrown the body on the floor, taken his hand scanner thing and badge. He had already lifted the FedEx uniform from a drycleaners, where he had gotten the whole idea when he saw a driver drop it off for cleaning last month.
Now this chick was at the door with more diamonds. If he ignored her she could start trouble, but if he brought her in he’d have more diamonds. Goldfarb diamonds! Whatever the hell they were. He waved with the gun to the counter clerk in the small diamond showroom, a woman who was shaking as if she were freezing. “You. Ring her in.”
Brooke saw part of the gesture through the bulletproof glass; then the buzzer sounded. She pushed the door and was in the vestibule. The door closed behind her, then the door to the showroom buzzed. She walked in. “Thanks. I got to get back to my car, I am double parked.” She reached into her bag, “Tell Moishe, I got the diamonds from Goldfarb — who are you?”
“Shut the fuck up, give me the bag.” Nick ripped the bag away from Brooke’s hand. She already had a grip on her gun and just jutted it into his forehead.
“Don’t breathe or I’ll blow your brains out. Drop the gun. Do it!” She punctuated the command with a jab over his eyebrow.