“And, to no one’s surprise, Secretary of State Holly Barker has won the Democratic primary by twenty-two points.”
There followed several clips of comments from as far away as California.
“I guess Mr. Smith is going to be ecstatic,” Annie said.
“William doesn’t seem to get ecstatic,” Ari said. “Nor does he get depressed. He just wants results for his money.”
“And he’s getting that in spades, isn’t he?”
As if on cue, Ari’s Skype alarm rang. He put a shirt on, turned the monitor away from the naked Annie, and logged on.
“Congratulations,” Smith said, in his usual monotone. The bandages were gone from his face, and he looked fairly normal.
“Thank you,” Ari replied. “Given the margin of his victory, we think he might do very well in other states, particularly Texas and Florida.”
“Please see that he does,” Smith replied. “Our group would be very pleased to see that happen. Good night.” He went off the screen.
“There,” Ari said. “That was William being enthusiastic.”
Harod Avaya sat on a park bench at the base of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. During his two years in New York he had begun to think of this as his favorite spot in the city.
Harod had been born thirty years before in Paris, son of Palestinian parents who had spoken Arabic at home and had moved back to the Middle East when he was twelve. They found themselves herded into Gaza, and there Harod had joined a youth group and had risen through its ranks. By the time he was nineteen he had been performing assassinations of Israeli military and intelligence commanders, and his life had become luxurious. He was being very well paid and had secured a new apartment for his parents. Then the commander of his unit was murdered by a man on a motorcycle, and Harod had begun to think that life there was getting too dangerous.
He spoke with two of his compatriots, with whom he had worked on a dozen killings, and he suggested to them that they might lead an even more luxurious life, and a safer one, by becoming independent contractors.
They procured documents from a forger who equipped terrorists of every stripe, and within a couple of months they found themselves in New York removing an Israeli member of a United Nations delegation from the earth. Other assignments came along, then he met Rance Damien through a shadowy contact. Damien had heard of him and believed he could offer them work. At the moment, Harod had four active contracts with Damien.
His phone rang, and he picked it up.
“They’re just leaving the Plaza Hotel, getting into a cab,” his colleague Avin said.
“Follow them and find a way,” Harod said.
“Yes,” Avin said and hung up.
While on the phone Harod checked his messages and found one from Damien, canceling his four contracts. He knew they would be paid anyway, but it disturbed him that four people worthy of assassination had escaped his hand, especially since he had worked so hard to complete the contract. Their first victim, though shot in the head in a thoroughly professional manner, had somehow survived, and now the Grant woman and her mother, whom they had tracked to a police safe house, were suddenly available for elimination. He thought about it, but he did not respond to the cancellation message.
A few minutes later, Avin called again. “They are at Bloomingdale’s,” he said, “and it’s very crowded. I can make it happen here.”
Harod thought for a moment. “Then make it happen,” he said.
Elena sat for a makeover in the cosmetics department, while Elise watched and took mental notes. Then her mother bought two hundred dollars’ worth of cosmetics, and they moved on, up the escalator to the designer shops.
They strolled into the Ralph Lauren department, and both found things they liked. The dressing rooms were all full, so they sat down among other women who were waiting, their arms full of garments to try on. Finally, a compartment became available, and they moved in to try on things. As Elise closed the door, a man walked past, not seeming to notice her. What was a man doing in a dressing area of a women’s department?
Elise called the store, asked for security, and reported the presence of the man.
“Don’t leave your compartment,” the officer said. “Someone is close by and on the way.”
She hung up and, while waiting, slipped into a wool dress that looked just great on her. A moment later, she heard two odd popping noises and running feet in the corridor outside, then screams.
Someone was shouting at someone else to stop. She opened the door a crack and could see a uniformed security guard in the room just opposite hers. She could also see two women, lying on the floor of another compartment in a pool of blood.
Elise pushed her mother back into their room, leaned on the door, and called Joan Robertson. “Get dressed, Mother,” she said as the phone rang.
“Hello, Elise,” Joan said.
“Stone said we were in the clear, so we went shopping,” Elise said.
“Yes, all is well.”
“No, all is not well! We’re at Bloomingdale’s, in a dressing room at the Ralph Lauren shop upstairs, and two women across the hall from us have just been shot.”
“Stay where you are,” Joan said. “Don’t move.”
“Forget that. We’re getting out of here, and now. Come on, Mother!”
48
Elise and Elena hailed a cab on the Third Avenue side of Bloomingdale’s and got into the rear seat just in time to see a policeman shoot a man on the sidewalk.
“You think that guy was after us?” Elena asked.
“Maybe,” Elise replied, “but if he was, he isn’t anymore.” She gave the driver Stone’s address and prayed for traffic to get out of the way.
Dino was on his way uptown in his car for lunch with Stone when his phone rang. “Bacchetti,” he said.
“Dino, it’s Joan,” she said.
“Hi, Joan.”
“There’s trouble, and Stone isn’t answering his phone.”
“Tell me.”
“This morning, after Jamie’s story about the Thomases ran in the Times, Stone called Elise and gave her the all-clear — thinking they wouldn’t dare go for her now.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“Elise and her mother went to Bloomingdale’s. They were trying on clothes in the Ralph Lauren department when two women were shot in a dressing room opposite theirs. They’re on their way here now.”
“Shot in the middle of Bloomie’s?”
“Exactly. Will you tell Stone about this and also tell him to watch his ass?”
“I’ll do more than that,” Dino said. He hung up and called the Nineteenth Precinct and found they were already on the job, and that a suspect had been shot by a street cop on Third Avenue, outside the store. He asked to be kept apprised of the details and hung up.
Stone was already at their table when Dino arrived and gave him the news.
“I’m flabbergasted,” Stone said. “The Thomases have gone absolutely bonkers, and I’ve made a big mistake thinking they would behave sensibly now, in their own interests.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Dino replied. “We haven’t connected these killings to the Grants yet. At least we took out the assassin, though.”
“Where?”
“On the street outside the store.”
“Who was he?”
As if in answer to his question, Dino’s phone rang, and he walked away from the dining room to answer it. He returned shortly.
“This is very interesting,” Dino said, sitting down. “The killer had a notebook with the Grants’ names in it and the Plaza was mentioned. Do you know if they had breakfast there?”
“No.”