“There are cameras in the parking lot. Security will have seen that,” she said. Her voice was scared.
Smith shook his head. “Doubtful. He managed to mess up the one in your reception area, he’ll block the lot ones as well.”
“I’m going to warn them. He could kill others.” Nolan sounded determined and she straightened. She pulled the clip out and the rest of her hair fell around her shoulders. Smith doubted that the killer would continue his rampage, and he couldn’t allow her to take the time to find a security guard, relay her story, and then wait in the lobby for the police. They had to move. The doors hissed open on the lobby level, and he saw several police officers standing at the reception desk speaking to building security. He grabbed her by the arm once again.
“Tell them, but be prepared to run. He’s after you and me. I’m not sure why he shot the receptionist, except perhaps to use her as a threat or to create a distraction while he hunted you. I’ll let the CIA know that he’s lurking in the parking lot.” Smith let go of her, pulled out his phone and began texting Russell while he headed toward the lobby.
“Go out the back,” Nolan said.
“No. He’d expect that. We’re strolling right out the front door. They may want to detain us, so be prepared to talk our way out of here.” He hit the door and swung it open. As he expected, the lobby was filling up with police. Three of them looked across at Nolan as she walked to the first one in the main reception area. A male officer swept a glance at them. Smith watched him catalog Nolan’s expensive dress, briefcase, and trench coat before turning his attention to Smith. Smith was aware that of the two of them Nolan looked more the part of a Wall Street banker than he did. He hoped she trusted him enough to help him leave the building. If she turned him over to the police, it would be hours before he could leave, and they’d likely hold him in full view while they did it. Smith had no wish to be a target.
“Officer, there’s a man in the parking lot waving a gun. I just went down there to get my car and saw him. He’s dressed in black and his face is covered as well. Hurry!” She indicated the stairs to the garage. The other officers and the lobby attendants heard her, and everyone seemed to begin talking at once. The officer and three others pulled their own weapons and headed to the stairwell. Smith took the opportunity to haul Nolan across the marble floor and out the revolving doors. They hit the street and Smith turned left, walking fast and moving through the crowd.
“Good work,” he said. Nolan didn’t reply. She stayed with him, but kept turning around and giving frightened glances behind her. “Try not to look so afraid. It’ll only draw attention to us,” Smith said.
“Where are you going?” Nolan replied. Smith couldn’t help but catch her use of the term “you” as opposed to “we.” She still expected to strike out on her own.
“Around the corner to a cab stand. We’ll grab one and get as far away as possible.”
“And from there?”
“To one of the CIA safe houses.” He glanced at her to see if she’d protest. To his relief, she seemed amenable to the idea. His phone buzzed with an incoming text. It was from Russelclass="underline" Head to the West Side. Use this location and call me when you get there. She left an address and instructions. They hit the corner and crawled into a cab. Smith gave the cabbie instructions to an intersection on the Upper East Side.
“That’s a block from my house,” Nolan said.
“Nice area,” Smith said. She didn’t reply. Twenty minutes later they pulled up to the address and got out. Smith waited until the cab disappeared around the corner before heading to the park. Nolan walked alongside, saying nothing. He hailed another cab.
“Where to now?” Nolan sounded exasperated.
Smith gave the new cabbie instructions to an intersection on the West Side near the safe house. Nolan gave a loud sigh, but remained silent while they crossed Central Park. Ten minutes later they were standing in front of Russell’s safe house. It was one of a series of four-story walk-ups, well maintained and with a realtor’s sign on the front. A lock box hung on the door handle.
Smith punched the button on the box, and it opened. A set of keys fell into his palm. He grabbed them and then reached for Nolan, wrapping his hands around her bicep.
“Quit grabbing me. I’m not going anywhere,” she said.
“Liar.” He pulled her with him, ignoring the annoyed sound she made.
The safe house door was located on the third and last landing. He was thankful for the runner that covered the wood stairs, muffling their steps. There were two doors per landing, but the quiet told Smith that the occupants were gone. When they reached the third landing, “3B” was to Smith’s right. Smith put the keys in the deadbolt, shooting it back, and swung the door open.
They entered a foyer that contained a small credenza with a wooden charging station for cell phones. Smith tossed the keys onto one of the felt-covered spaces on the station and walked into the living area, past an open door to his right that led into a kitchen. The living area was furnished with a minimalism that screamed disuse. A leather couch faced a television console that held a flat-screen television and, on the shelf below, a stereo system. A glass cocktail table sat between the two. To the left was a set of stairs that led to the next floor, where Smith presumed were the bedrooms. The entire first level would be considered small by most American standards, but large for a duplex in New York City. He estimated there to be no more than four hundred square feet on the first level, and the same on the second.
Next to the couch an end table held a remote control and a curved, sleek silver telephone on a stand. The phone started ringing. From the corner of his eye he saw Nolan step into the living room from the kitchen. She paused to watch him.
Smith walked over to peer at the small screen built into the handle that revealed the phone number. The display read “Unavailable,” which told him it was probably someone from the CIA checking on their status. He picked it up and put it to his ear to answer.
“You made it?” Russell said.
“Yes. Did you catch the shooter in the garage?”
“No. Long gone, or so we suspect. Has Nolan given you any information?” Smith looked at the woman in question, who was still gazing at him with her ever-present serious expression.
“Haven’t had a moment to breathe. Will let you know once I do.”
“Good. We’re still drawing blanks on Dattar’s location. Until we find him, it might be best if you both stayed inside. There’s food in the refrigerator and alcohol in the small bar at the corner of the living room. I stocked it with your favorite drink.” Smith spotted the corner wet bar. For a moment he was confused because, while he had a favorite drink, he didn’t recall filling Russell in on it.
“Which is?”
“Shaken, not stirred.”
Smith smiled. “Bond was cool under fire. In contrast, I’ll need liberal amounts while I debrief her.”
“Think she knows something?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Call me if you learn anything useful. Anytime. I’m in Manhattan — Midtown — and expect to stay here at least another twenty-four hours. We could use a break. Every terrorist has died before we could interrogate him, the coolers are still missing, and Dattar has vanished.”
“Any news on Howell?”
“Nothing. But no body either, so perhaps he’s still alive.”
“Who’s searching for him?”
“I pulled Beckmann out of The Hague and put him on it.”