“Here’s the other thing. The guy was carrying an American passport in the name of Jonathan Morgan that, when checked, was valid, until our intelligence unit started running down the name. Turns out, Morgan doesn’t exist, but the shooter entered the country on that passport, and the computer didn’t kick back.”
“What do you take that to mean?” Stone asked.
“It seems to mean that there’s a foreign intelligence aspect to this thing. No street forger could make that passport. It requires a special kind of expert and a real number from the State Department or, abroad, an embassy or consulate. Our people are running prints and our facial recognition program now. We’ll have to wait and see if they get a hit.”
Harod Avaya was still sitting on his park bench when his telephone chimed loudly. That meant a news alert from the New York Times app. He pressed the alert and waited for the story to come up.
Two women were fatally shot twenty minutes ago in the dressing room of a designer shop at Bloomingdale’s. Shortly afterward, the alleged shooter was himself shot on the street outside the department store. No word yet on his identity or that of the victims.
Harod was stunned that Avin could have allowed himself to be chased down in the street and shot by the police. He began thinking ahead. Avin was carrying the passport by the same forger as that of his own. They would be tracking the ID down by now, but he had been assured that the document would hold up under scrutiny. He remembered that the three passports sold to Harod and his two compatriots did not have consecutive numbers; that was a relief.
His phone rang, and he recognized the number as that of a throwaway used by Rance Damien.
“Yes?”
“We have to meet right now,” Damien said.
“Park bench on the East River, near the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge,” he replied.
“Forty minutes,” Damien said, then hung up.
Harod put away his phone and took a stroll, always keeping the bench in sight. Damien turned up on schedule and sat down, putting a briefcase between his legs. Harod went into his phone and deleted the voice mails and texts from Damien. Then, satisfied that the man had not been followed, he approached the bench and sat down. Damien was pretending to read the Times.
“Why didn’t you return my calls?” Damien demanded.
“What calls?” Harod took out his iPhone, checked his e-mail and message pages. “Nothing here,” he said. “Is something wrong?”
Damien put down the newspaper and slid it across the bench to Harod. “Front-page story on us,” he said, “continued at length inside.”
“I got that on my iPhone this morning. It’s nothing to do with me.”
“Did you send a man to Bloomingdale’s to kill the Grants?”
“We located them at a police safe house this morning, and Avin followed them from there to the Plaza, where they had breakfast, and then to Bloomingdale’s. I just got a flash from the Times that two women were shot in Bloomingdale’s and the shooter was killed by police outside. I assume they are talking about the Grants and Avin, though no names have been released yet.”
“Goddammit, I canceled the four contracts!” Damien shouted.
“Keep your voice down, or I will walk away.” Harod looked around the area for threats. “I showed you my phone. I got no messages or texts.”
“Don’t you see what this means?” Damien asked. “As soon as they identify the women, they’ll be coming for us. We may have to leave the country.”
“There’s no need to panic,” Harod said. “They’ll question you, and you were in your office at the time. They can’t connect you to Avin or me. You’re safe. Do you still want to cancel the other three contracts?”
“Yes, for now,” Damien said.
“Then I’ll have the money, as per our agreement.”
“It’s in the briefcase between my feet,” Damien said. “Two hundred thousand dollars, as agreed.”
“Then, when you reactivate the other contracts, there will be no further charge. Now go.”
Damien rose and left, leaving the briefcase under the bench.
Harod’s phone rang, and he checked the caller ID. Avin’s phone; the police had found it. He switched off his iPhone, removed the data card, and ground it under his heel before kicking it into the grass. He then picked up the briefcase and laid it across his knees. It was beautiful, he thought, brand-new. He wanted to see the money. He placed his thumbs on the latches and pressed.
His world exploded in fire.
49
Rasheed Khan, the third member of Harod’s team, sat and stared at his phone. He had called both Harod and Avin, and the calls had gone straight to voice mail. The TV was on, and a story came up about two killings at Bloomingdale’s. Avin had called him earlier and said he was following the Grants there, so the women had to be them. But a man was dead, too, described as the assassin; that had to be Avin. But where was Harod?
Rasheed left the apartment and walked the three blocks to the East River, where Harod liked to go and sit. From a block away, it was clear that something was wrong. There was police tape across the street at the end of the block, and patrol cars and uniforms on foot were everywhere. He turned away and went into a coffee shop, where he ordered tomato soup and tea. Surreptitiously, he removed the data card from his iPhone and replaced it with another, then he dropped the old one into the remains of his soup. Harod and Avin had the new number, and he had their spares. He called them both and got nowhere.
He went back to the apartment, packed his things, and wiped it down. He dropped Harod’s and Avin’s clothes down the incinerator, then left the building. He walked four blocks to the backup safe apartment that was their last line of defense. From there, he would have to make his next move carefully.
Elise and Elena Grant entered Stone’s building through the downstairs office and were greeted by Joan.
“Thank goodness you made it out safely,” Joan said.
“It was a close call,” Elise said, then told her their story.
“You’re safe here,” Joan said. “Would you like to see your new apartment?”
Stone and Dino left the club and rode downtown in Dino’s SUV. They stopped at Bloomingdale’s, where a big police operations van was parked on Third Avenue, partly obstructing traffic. Two EMTs were putting a body, hidden by a sheet, into their wagon.
Dino got out. “I want to see this guy,” he said, hopping into the rear of the wagon and pulling the sheet back.
“Two in the chest, Commissioner,” an EMT said.
Stone, who had no interest in the corpse, waited outside. A moment later Dino joined him. “Just a kid,” he said, “no older than his mid-twenties.” Dino went and conferred with the officer in charge, then he and Stone went back to Dino’s car. “Below the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge,” he said to his driver. “Ashore on the Manhattan side.”
“What’s under the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge?” Stone asked.
“The remains of what used to be a man,” Dino said.
“Any connection to the shooter at Bloomingdale’s?”
“Not yet,” Dino said, “but I’ve got a feeling.”
They drove as close as they could to the scene, then got out of the car. Dino sought out the detective in charge and collected a salute or two.
Stone looked around. A man’s left arm, in a sleeve, lay on the grass, and on the wrist a Rolex was still ticking. Cops in cotton booties were searching every inch of the sidewalk and the lawn next to it.
“Got something!” a cop yelled, holding up a hand to identify himself.
A crime scene tech made his way carefully over to the cop and, as Stone watched, took out a pair of tweezers and picked up something. “Cell phone data card!” he yelled to his supervisor.