Someone had devoted a great deal of time and thought to wringing the last drop from the incident at the Plaza. Someone deep in the security think-tanks had made the connection and seized the opportunity. From their point of view, the massacre was the starting point of an ideal cover. From where Vickers sat, it was humiliating and dangerous. The first move was for Contec to publicly acknowledge that one of their security people was the target of the attack. Without admitting any measure of liability and promising to stand by their man, the corporation would express their distress at the terrible tragedy.
Of course, the signals they were giving out were quite the reverse. The implication that lurked just below the surface, plain to those in the know, was that they were embarrassed by the killings and fearful that the involvement of one of their employees would stink up the corporate image. Thus they were beating their detractors to the punch by making the admission themselves. Since the world was clearly looking for a live scapegoat, the security exec in question would be dropped down the long chute.
Vickers would be held, under guard, at a fairly anonymous New York hotel pending a final dispatch of the problem. The Holiday Inn at Kennedy Airport had been chosen for the purpose. There'd be sufficient leakage of the supposedly secret action to again let the cognisenti know what was being done. At the appropriate moment, however, Vickers would escape. Behaving like a revenging corpse on the run, he'd take a flight to Las Vegas. In Vegas, he'd hide out among the tourists and wait to be contacted by one of Lloyd-Ransom's agents.
"What maniac thought up this scheme?"
"You don't need to know that."
"It won't work. It's insane. How do we even know that Lloyd-Ransom has agents in Las Vegas?"
"We know."
"And even if he does, why should they come anywhere near me? What the hell would someone who's got his own bunker want with a newly dumped corpse?"
"It would appear that Lloyd-Ransom is recruiting himself a smart, heavy goon squad. You'd be ideal."
"Thanks."
"We don't quite understand why and we don't know the details, but it appears that Herbie Mossman is somehow helping him in this endeavor."
Vickers was genuinely surprised.
"Herbie Mossman? The Herbie Mossman? Herbie Mossman of Global Leisure? He's involved in all this?"
"Global Leisure is a much more exotic corporation than ours. They still take pride in a sordid past, and they still enjoy the semblance of an adventure. We will make sure that he knows of your situation. You'll be the bait and we're confident he'll rise to it."
"Bait frequently gets eaten."
"If you don't have any more questions…"
"Sure, I've got a whole lot more questions. For a start, what about this escape?"
"What about it?"
"Do the people doing the guarding know what's going on?"
"No."
"Who does know what's really happening?"
"You, me and five other people whom you'll probably never meet."
"That's just great. Nobody will be pulling any punches."
Victoria smiled. "No one."
"So how much force do I use when I go through my chaperones at the Holiday Inn?"
"Anything that's necessary. It has to look good."
"The easiest way is usually the most extreme."
Victoria didn't say a word. Vickers' eyes narrowed.
"Who is guarding me?"
"Van Doren and the two Internals who picked you up. You think you can get by them?"
"Of course I can get by them. Particularly if you don't care whether I waste Ilsa or not."
"Naturally, we'd rather you didn't."
"But you don't care either way? Is dumping Nasty Ilsa policy or personal?"
"That's something else that's none of your damn business."
In the back of the car, Ilsa was pawing through a red folder. It was the same red as the disk sleeve. It was full of printouts. The two ballerinas were in the front. One was driving and the other was staring back at Vickers with his hand under his coat clutching his Yasha. The men were as skittish as Ilsa was cool. As they turned into the Midtown Tunnel, she glanced up from the folder and grinned at him.
"You know what this is?"
"Some poor bastard's file?"
"It's yours, sucker."
She held up a color eight by ten that had been taken some eighteen months earlier. Vickers grunted.
"Does it make interesting reading?"
"You're a loser, Vickers. If you get much worse, you'll be scarcely human."
"I get by."
"Barely."
"Are you going to ride me all the way to the end of the line?"
"Sure, why not. Isn't it all part of the fun?"
An NYPD cruiser cut in front of them with its lights flashing and sirens howling. Vickers scrunched lower in his seat. He was becoming increasingly certain that not only did Ilsa not know what the real deal was but that she'd also been given the impression that she'd be the one to kill him when the time came. The bitch was a sadist. She liked to talk her targets into the ground before she greased them. She was leafing through the folder again looking for more ammunition.
"You were married."
"It didn't work out."
"She took an overdose."
"She found out how I made a living. Before that she'd been convinced I was a bucket salesman."
"How did you feel when she died?"
"I had a lot on my mind at the time. There's been plenty of other bodies since."
"Is that why you've got this thing about hookers and video tapes?"
"Doesn't it say anything about hair dryers and ten volt batteries?"
For an instant, van Doren was totally taken in. She scanned down the page as if searching for the relevant item. Then she realized and caught herself. Her eyes slitted, promising Vickers that he'd pay for the lapse. While she was still off balance, he shot the question.
"Are you having an affair with Victoria?"
To his complete surprise, she actually colored. Was this a hang-up that hadn't been crash-therapied out of her?
"That's none of your goddamned business, Vickers."
Vickers settled back in his seat to enjoy the rest of the ride. Some kind of orange smoke drifted across the highway. Despite his overall sense of doom and betrayal, he had to admit that life was at least taking a turn for the interesting.
Vickers glared Wearily at the nearest ballerina.
"Why don't you make yourself useful and call room service. The scotch is almost gone again. Get some food while you're at it."
He was pretending to be much drunker than he really was. Red, late afternoon sun streamed through the half-open curtains. He was slumped in a deep armchair with his back to the light. The suite on the top floor of the Holiday Inn was starting to turn funky. Nobody had been allowed in to clean for the three days that they'd been there. Only room service with hotel booze and hotel food. Beyond the windows, the planes thundered in and thundered out again. The television played constantly and boredom was closing its grip. Control called three times a day but the lengthy instructions amounted to little more than that they should stay put and do nothing. There was also nothing to indicate to Vickers that he should make the break that was dictated by the master plan.
While he waited for a sign, he did his best to make Ilsa and the two Internals believe that he was practically harmless. He behaved like a man who truly believed that he was going to die and had given up. He drank a lot, stared out of the window and watched a lot of TV, impatiently flicking from channel to channel. He didn't shave, he didn't bathe and he didn't change his clothes. The two Internals started to behave like they were his private death watch. Their names were Malmud and Klauswitz. Out of their trademark hats and armored coats, they were almost human. They came on cheerfully sympathetic and kept offering to play cards with him.