Silence filled the other end.
“Andy?”
“Hell of a mess you made outside Madame Rosa’s,” Stimson said sharply.
“Thought I’d warned you.”
“You damn near blew up the whole street. It’s a can of worms, Blaine, and if the truth comes out about your involvement, it’s gonna get spilled all over my lap. Every agency in the book is up there trying to piece together what happened … and I mean literally. There isn’t much left standing.”
“What about innocent bystanders?” Blaine asked reluctantly.
“Some hospitalized, none critical. Relax, your record’s intact. The essential point now is that it won’t take the Company and Bureau boys long to put together that a pro was responsible up there and that might lead them to my doorstep. They won’t like what they find inside. Remember, this whole assignment exists only between you and me.”
“I know.”
Stimson sighed. “I won’t tell you to go easy because I know I gave you a job to do. I would suggest that under the circumstances you leave New York.”
“Not until I find out where Sebastian fits in. Any luck finding him or it on your software?”
“It’s a he and he’s somebody else’s property.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the FBI’s been on to Sebastian — alias Don Louis Rose, alias J. D. Sabatini, alias Dominque Derobo — for some time. He’s a trafficker.”
“Drugs?”
“Some,” Stimson said. “But he specializes in people.”
“Ah, an old-fashioned white slaver …”
“Except Sebastian’s as black as they come and he deals in meeting orders for men and women, boys and girls of all makes and models. Most of his business comes from high-fashion whorehouses like Madame Rosa’s, but he has quite a few private clients as well.”
“The twins,” Blaine muttered.
“What?”
“The twins. Madame Rosa told me Easton ordered them special. She must have put me on to Sebastian because she knew he was the only other person who knew the twins’ delivery date, and not from the stork either. Where can I find Sebastian, Andy?”
Stimson hesitated. “I think you better steer clear of him.”
“Uh-uh. There are too many loose ends he can tie up. He had to tell somebody about the twins and that somebody set up the hit on Easton.”
“Blaine, the FBI’s got Sebastian eyeballed twenty-four hours a day. You walk in and they’ll have you eyeballed as well.”
“I’ll be subtle.”
“Sure.”
“Look, Andy, whoever infiltrated Madame Rosa’s would have known everything except the date of delivery for Easton’s twins. Only Madame Rosa and Sebastian would have known that and since the madame maintained the ultimate in discretion, that leaves us with Sebastian. Where is he?”
Stimson didn’t hesitate this time. “FBI reports indicate he moved out of his Manhattan penthouse two days ago. Since then he’s been holed up in a freighter he owns. It’s docked in New York harbor.”
“Two days ago. … Interesting.”
“I thought you’d like that. And there’s more. Sebastian’s got an army guarding his ship, almost like he’s expecting a siege.”
“The question is by whom?”
“If you’re set on looking for the answer,” Stimson cautioned, “make sure you do it without attracting attention from the FBI. If they ID you …” The Gap director let his voice trail off at the end to illustrate his meaning.
“Don’t worry, Andy, I’ve already got a few ideas.”
“And no repeat performances of Eighty-sixth Street.”
“One a day’s my limit. Anything on the carolers or Santa Claus?”
“Freelance muscle, as near as we can tell. Pros, for sure, as you suspected, but all without links to any major group. Looks like they were hired for this one job.”
“Or two,” McCracken corrected him. “Lest we forget Easton.”
“The two who nailed him were black.”
“As was the Santa Claus.”
“A pretty thin connection.”
“I don’t think so, Andy. How many black Santa Clauses have you seen ringing money bells in posh sections of Manhattan?”
“None with acid in their cups, if that’s what you mean.”
“It goes deeper. I can feel it. I assume there’s nothing new with the microfiche.”
“The computer’s working overtime, but the fiche was burned worse than we thought originally. My people assure me we’re still close to something.”
“Which brings us to Chen, Andy. What’d your people turn up on him?”
Stimson cleared his throat before answering. “Our records are inconclusive.”
“What do they show, Andy?”
“Blaine—”
“What do they show, Andy?”
“CIA. They show Chen’s on the Company’s payroll.”
Sebastian’s freighter, McCracken learned, was called the Narcissus and was docked at West Twenty-Third Street on the Hudson River. Blaine decided to make his appearance after dark, ruling out commando tactics since Sebastian’s private army would significantly reduce the chances they would succeed. Something more subtle was called for, something that would keep the FBI off his back at the same time. The answer came to Blaine quickly and might even allow him to have some fun in the process.
What wasn’t fun was considering Chen’s link to the CIA. It was certain that he had infiltrated Madame Rosa’s for the express purpose of executing her if she became a threat. But why would the Company want her dead and, more, want Easton dead? It made no sense any way he looked at it. Sure, there was competition between the various intelligence groups, some of it heated. Never, though, did one agency go around murdering the operatives of another. More likely, Chen had been doubling during a lag in his Company duties. Doubling for whom, though?
Around sunset McCracken changed back into the sport jacket and slacks returned by the hotel valet service and hired a limousine to pick him up outside at seven o’clock sharp. Then he walked two blocks to a men’s store and purchased an expensive camel’s hair overcoat to complement the modest deception he was planning.
He was really running up an expense account on this assignment, but it didn’t matter much. Since Gap and Company agents seldom maintained permanent addresses, bills for credit cards and the like all ended up at a central location to be dealt with in-house. Personal expenses were deducted directly from salaries. It was simpler that way.
The limousine arrived right on schedule. McCracken paid the driver in advance and gave him the address.
“You sure you got that right, pal?” the driver asked him in a gravel voice.
Blaine said he was.
“Usually people go down there, they do it in fast cars to make fast exits, not in tanks like this.” The driver shook his head. His face was creased with scars and his nose was permanently swollen. He looked like a boxer who’d fought on well past his time. Blaine noticed his knuckles were callused as he gripped the wheel hard after restarting the car. “You ask me, the goddamn Port Authority should build an electrified fence around the whole fuckin’ complex, keep the damn foreigners from shitting up the city. Know what I mean?”
Blaine just shrugged.
“I live in the city all my life,” the gravel voice continued, pulling into traffic now. “Fought Carlos Monzon twice and he busted my nose both times. But he didn’t bust it good enough I can’t smell the stink rising from where you’re headed. I got a piece stashed at my place. You want for a few extra bucks we’ll stop over and I’ll watch your back.”
“Just watch the road.”
“Suit yourself, pal. But if I hear shots from inside that boat, don’t expect me to stick around and find out who caught the lead. Name’s Sal Belamo by the way.”