Retiring to the entrance hall, where no one was being allowed in or out, Rudi Crane thought about what he had witnessed. Had someone made an attempt on the FBI Director’s life? Certainly, Wells had been behaving strangely. Could one of the foreigners have brought explosives into the UN’s neutral domain?
The only thing to be said for the episode was that it could be spun for the good of security companies like his. If Hercules Solutions had been handling matters, no one would have been allowed to smuggle explosives in. It struck him that the whole thing might be a welcome distraction from what had gone on in Texas. Although there was nothing to tie H.S. with the camp down there, he didn’t like loose ends. The FBI would be working on the bodies of the assassins he had hired and, no doubt, their identities would eventually be uncovered. There was no link to him, but he would have preferred a tidier ending to his strategy of disrupting Jack Thomson’s activities and gaining possession of the conditioning program. Who knew what had happened to that? He suspected his former collaborator would have made sure law enforcement wouldn’t find it. There would be other government agencies after it, as well.
He took a seat in the entrance hall and watched as media people ran past, cameras and hairstyles wobbling. On reflection, he didn’t regret the so-called Hitler’s Hitman killings-the name had been suggested off the record to a journalist by one of his PR people. The assassin had followed their instructions and Thomson had been duly pressured. The unknown quantity had been Matt Wells. He had never expected the FBI to use a murder suspect in an investigation, especially not one with a grudge. Had the Director known about that? The fact that the lead investigator, Peter Sebastian, had been found dead was, at the very least, convenient for some people.
No, he would go back to the apartment and pray for a better day tomorrow. He should have known that cuddling up to politicians would be a waste of time. Hard-hearted businessmen were much easier to deal with.
Which reminded him: he needed to sign off on that stewardess’s promotion-what was her name again? She had the soul of a sinner, but her mouth was a miracle.
To my surprise, I came round quickly. I was still lying on top of the Director and the same besuited legs, both vertical and horizontal, were in my close vicinity. There was a foul smell in the air and Arthur Bimsdale’s hair had been scorched. Otherwise, he seemed okay. He sat up as I studied him, my eyes stinging, and looked toward me.
‘Are you all right?’ His voice sounded tinny.
‘Yeah.’ My own voice was weird. I was probably lucky I could hear anything.
‘What about the Director?’
I put my hands on either side of the old man’s head and levered myself off him. His face and hair had turned black in the blast, most of which had been directed back at him when I crashed into him.
‘Chemical bomb,’ Bimsdale said redundantly. ‘The proportions must have been slightly off. We were lucky.’
‘He wasn’t.’
The Director’s blue eyes were wide open, the whites crisscrossed by broken blood vessels. A piece of sharp plastic from one of the containers had penetrated his throat. Now I was standing, I realized that the clothing on the upper part of my body was drenched in arterial blood. People all around were gasping and raising their hands to their mouths.
I took off my jacket and accepted a blanket from a paramedic.
‘What happened to you?’ Bimsdale asked.
‘Trigger,’ I said, in a low voice. ‘I fought it off.’
‘Good for you. And the Director?’
I stepped aside to allow the paramedics to attend to the dead man. ‘Something similar, I’d guess. He spoke the word that nailed me.’ I thought back to what the Director had come out with as I overpowered him. ‘They’ll miss you.’ What had he meant? The people of the world? My friends?
The next three hours were a tedious succession of statements to various law enforcement agencies-UN, NYPD and others-and a trip to hospital for a check-up. I was given the all clear, though I was to see a doctor if my hearing didn’t improve within a week. I had numerous aches and pain across my body, the result of my fights with Bimsdale and others before the explosion, but none of them were important. When I was escorted out of the hospital by Special Agent Simonsen and his sidekicks, a battery of camera lights flashed on and the vultures let loose their questions-‘How does it feel to be a hero?’, ‘Was the FBI Director a North Korean agent?’ and ‘Are you going to write a book about this?’ were three of them. A headache had settled over my ravaged brain, so I kept quiet. That only made them more interested.
‘Do you want to freshen up?’ Simonsen asked.
I nodded.
‘Back to the hotel then.’ He led me to a waiting car.
‘Jesus,’ he said, as we were driven away. ‘Imagine if the Director had managed to take out the cream of the Russian and Chinese governments.’
‘Don’t forget the President of Europe.’
‘Oh, yeah, he was there, too. Good moves, my friend. You ever played gridiron?’
‘Rugby league.’
‘What’s that?’
I waved a hand feebly and sat back. The buildings of New York moved by, the rain still teeming down. Was that really it, the end of the affair? I felt a wave of exhaustion crash over me, which was hardly surprising, considering my physical and mental exertions and the lack of sleep recently. But that wasn’t the whole story. While I’d been on Rothmann’s tail and fighting through the Hades complex, even when I’d been with the Director, I’d been able to keep the ones I’d lost at the back of my mind. I couldn’t do so anymore. I could see them again, clearer than ever, Karen holding our son and smiling sadly as they hovered forever out of reach. Was this what the rest of my life was going to be? The prospect nearly made me jump out of the car.
‘Are you okay?’ Simonsen asked.
I raised a hand again, unable to speak. My eyes filled with tears. At first I thought I could pass that off as a result of the explosion, but then I gave up. I wasn’t going to be able to hide what had happened to Karen and the baby anymore. Well, maybe a bit longer-Simonsen was a nice enough guy, but I didn’t feel like opening up to him, especially with another agent in the front seat.
‘Home away from home,’ Simonsen said, as we approached the hotel reception. I had only just realized that the Chrysler Building was down the street and was trying to get a look at it. The rain and mist cut off the upper part of glass and steel tower.
Simonsen came with me to the thirty-second floor. ‘I’ll be outside,’ he said, with a tentative smile.
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘Acting Director’s orders. You’re a celebrity now.’
I tried to raise an eyebrow, but that hurt. ‘I presume the press conference isn’t going ahead tonight.’
‘Not the one the admiral set up. But stand by for one about today’s fun and games.’
‘Have I got a choice?’
He laughed. ‘Sure. You’re not one of us.’
‘You got that right.’ I opened the door and went inside, pulling the blanket from around my shoulders and dropping it on the floor. Then I looked up and saw them.
Karen and our son were framed by the window and behind it was the top half of the Chrysler Building, pointing to the sky like a rocket on the launch pad.
I fainted.
I came round for the second time that day. This time I was lying on a carpeted floor rather than a dead body. Two women were on their knees beside me. One of them was Special Agent Julie Simms, Peter Sebastian’s sidekick from the Illinois camp, and she looked guilty as sin. The other was Karen.