Smith sighed. “Probably not.” He shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll track her and try one more time to knock some sense into her. If you hear anything about Howell, let me know. I really need him.” Russell stood, swaying.
Smith frowned. “You should rest.”
Russell waved him off, took one step, and began to crumple. Smith grabbed her before she hit the floor. He lifted her up and placed her gently on the couch. Her breath came in short gasps and she was sweating profusely. Her body started to jerk and her legs contracted in a spasm. Smith heard the front door open and close and Harcourt stepped into the room.
“Call an ambulance,” Smith said. He sat next to her on the couch and felt her head, which was cold to the touch. He checked her pulse.
Russell opened her eyes. “I think I’m going to throw up.” She struggled to rise.
“Stay down.” Smith ran to the small bathroom off the entrance hall and grabbed the wastebasket. He carried it to the side of the couch.
“You feel sick, just lean over and use this.”
Russell eyed the bucket. “This feels much worse than the flu. Almost like food poisoning.”
Smith heard the wail of a siren in the distance. Harcourt appeared next to him.
“That ours, you think?” Smith said.
“I hope so.” Harcourt crouched down next to Russell’s head. “I have an ambulance on the way. Don’t worry.”
Russell gave a slight nod. The wailing grew louder.
“I’m going out front to direct them here,” Harcourt said. Smith heard him run down the hall stairs.
“Hang on,” Smith said.
“What if it is the refrigerator smear?” Russell said. Smith didn’t want to answer her. If it wasn’t the cholera, then it would have been the H1N5. Avian flu was so virulent that he didn’t want to consider the possibility. Harcourt appeared at his side.
“It’s ours. They’re bringing up a stretcher.”
“Don’t let them see you,” Russell said to Smith.
He held her hand, giving it a brief squeeze. He nodded to Harcourt and jogged up the stairs to the same window that Nolan had used. As he climbed out onto the fire escape, he heard the clumping sound of feet on the lower floors. He ran down the stairs, feeling like the fugitive that he was.
22
MANHAR CROUCHED IN THE CORNER of the stinking utility closet and pressed his eye against the small space created by the open door. He’d cracked it an inch in order to see when the Englishman left the hotel room. The closet smelled of industrial cleaner and mold. A nearby washing pail gave off the ammonia odor and the spaghetti mop shoved inside it added the mildew top note. A cockroach scuttled past him in the darkened space, and Manhar reached out and crushed it with the plastic dustpan that leaned against the wall. Manhar hated New York, with its crowding and bugs and air filled with the smell of animal fat stewing in the hot dog carts. He wanted to finish off the Englishman and get on the next flight to Pakistan. He hoped Dattar’s weapon would kill everyone quickly. Manhar saw no value to be gained from America’s continued existence.
The door at the end of the hall creaked open and a man stepped out. He was slender, rangy, and in his fifties. He had the craggy, thin face of the stereotypical inbred Englishman and Manhar thought that he would be easy to kill. Manhar was the same build, but he was in his twenties and he clutched a gun that made the attack all that much easier. The Englishman appeared to be unarmed. The man turned to lock the door and Manhar rose, crossed the threadbare carpet and reached the Englishman in three quick strides. He shoved the metal gun tip into the man’s lower back and felt him freeze.
“Get back inside,” Manhar said. The man didn’t reply, but turned the key and opened the door. Manhar stepped in tandem with him as he reentered the room. Once inside, Manhar kicked the door shut. The cheap pressed-wood panel shook on impact with the jamb. Noise would travel easily through the paper-thin walls. Whatever he did, it would have to occur quietly or the other guests would hear, though Manhar thought that the types who would reside in such a filthy, dilapidated hotel might be inclined to ignore any criminal activity.
The shabby room held a bed with a sagging mattress, a chair with upholstery fraying at the arms, and a round coffee table with water ring stains. The tiny kitchenette had a small two-cup coffeepot and a toaster oven on its narrow counter. A white range, its burner pans covered with aluminum foil, and a small refrigerator were the only appliances in the room. The gray linoleum floor was grimy in the corners. Manhar saw that the stove was gas and an idea formed.
“May I turn around?” The Englishman sounded calm. Too calm, Manhar thought.
“Stay still and put your arms up.” The man did as he was told and Manhar frisked him, checking for a weapon and finding none. “Now get over to the bed.” The Englishman walked to the bed and slowly turned until they were face to face. He lifted an eyebrow.
“You’re older than I expected.”
Manhar felt the first stirring of alarm at the words “than I expected.” He decided to finish things fast. Something about the man’s blazing, intelligent eyes and detached manner made him seem lethal despite his lack of a weapon. Manhar shook off the thought. The man was old, after all. No danger. No danger at all.
“Shut up. Lay down face-first on the bed.” Manhar didn’t have a silencer and so would be required to shove a pillow against the man’s head and shoot through that. He’d done it before and found that it worked well enough. As the Englishman began to lower himself to the mattress, Manhar shot another look at the range. He backed up to it, keeping his gun trained on the bed. When he reached the stove, he placed a hand on it and pulled. It didn’t move. He needed help.
“Stop,” Manhar said. The Englishman reversed off the bed and once again gazed at Manhar, who waved at the stove with the gun. “Get over here and pull this away from the wall.” The man flicked a glance at the appliance.
“Why?”
“Just do it,” Manhar said. He kept his gun at the ready. The man shrugged.
“I’m Peter Howell. And you are?”
“The man who’s going to kill you. Now shut up and pull the stove away from the wall.” Howell shrugged again and Manhar felt his anger rising at this deliberate display of nonchalance. He watched as Howell placed a hand on the back of the stove, another on the front handle, and strained. The heavy steel body shifted, scraping across the floor. For an old man he was strong, Manhar thought. Howell stopped when the range sat two feet from the wall. “Why are you stopping? Keep going.”
“Keep going where? My back’s already against the wall.” In fact Howell was sandwiched between the equipment and the edge of the opposite counter in the tiny galley kitchenette.
Manhar stepped aside. “Get back on the bed.”
Howell slid out and strolled back toward the small sleeping area. “Face-first again, I assume?” His voice was amused.
“Yes.”
Once Howell was prone, Manhar focused on the stove, reaching behind it and yanking on the gas line. He pulled it free and instantly smelled the unique odor. He smiled. His plan to cover the crime was good. They’d find a dead guy on the bed in a fleabag hotel that explodes from a gas leak. He returned his attention to the Englishman.
Howell was standing up, with his own gun aimed at Manhar’s heart. For a moment Manhar was disoriented by the speed with which control of the situation had shifted. Panic made his stomach clench. He’d never faced down a man with a gun before because he’d always taken his victims by surprise, sometimes simply shooting them in the back. He felt himself begin to perspire and sweat trickled down his face.
“A bit of advice: always get your victim away from their mattress. Untold numbers of people hide their guns underneath. Me included,” Howell said. Manhar started breathing fast while he gauged what would happen if he shot Howell first. Howell shook his head. “I can see what you’re thinking and I don’t advise it. I’ll certainly be able to get my own shot off as well, and you’re near the open gas line. It’s entirely possible that a spark from your gun will blow us both up. Now move toward the door slowly. We’re going to leave here and find a nice quiet place to talk.”