“I can’t work unless the space is in order,” Elise said.
“I know the feeling,” Joan replied.
“And what may I do with that?” she asked, pointing at an IBM Selectric typewriter on a stand in a corner of the room.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Joan replied. “Type on it, maybe?”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Elise said. “I’ve never typed a word on anything that needed paper to work. May I put it in the file room?”
“Yes, until I can figure out a way to give it a Christian burial.”
“I’m ready to move out of my apartment today, and my mother is moving out of hers and into mine. Can you recommend a mover?”
“I can,” Joan said. “And since your putative assassins are dead, you should really be in the clear now.”
“I’m still going to be careful, though,” Elise said.
“Always a good idea. I’ve got some health insurance forms for you to fill out. I’ll give you all that stuff later today.”
Joan went back to her office, happy to have Elise as a backstop. Now she was going to have to think of something for her to do.
Damien met that morning with the Thomases.
Hank spoke up. “I understand that you have dispensed with the hired help.”
“It became necessary,” Damien said, surprised that Hank was taking an interest. “Saved us two hundred thousand dollars, too.”
“That’s all very well,” Hank said, “but if we need that sort of help again, what are we to do?”
“Just leave it to me,” Damien said. “It would be helpful if you could tell me now who the subject of the action would be.”
“Someone we’ve kept at arm’s length,” Hank said. “Joe Box.”
Damien’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ve gone to some lengths to see that he does well in the primaries,” he said, “and since he’s done better than anyone expected, why would we want to unload him now? He might even go all the way.”
“That’s the problem,” Hank said. “My private polling now favors him for the nomination, and if he gets that and something happens to Holly Barker, he might go all the way. It is not in my plan to have a buffoon like that in the White House. I have a party to build, and his presence on the scene would not be helpful.”
“If it comes to that,” Damien said, “I would like us to retain the services of the two young operatives who have shaped him into something like a viable candidate.”
“By all means,” Hank said. “Retain them and put them on salary, until I want them. There may be other candidates we might want to help along the way. We might also give some attention to the proper moment for Box to depart the scene — not too early or too late.”
“I will leave the politics of that to you,” Damien said, “but I’d like as much time as possible to arrange Box’s departure. We don’t want to rush something like that.”
“I’ll ponder his progress, then let you know,” Hank said.
Henry Thomas had, uncharacteristically, held his peace, but now he spoke. “What exactly do you intend, Hank?”
“I have not yet given up the notion of moving into the White House next year. It will depend on how we get through the next couple of months. If the acquisition goes through, and the waters become smoother, and Box continues to do well, I think I might hear from the party that they would like me to resume my candidacy.”
“As a Republican?” Henry asked.
“They are as frightened of Joe Box as I,” Hank said, “and if he suddenly departs the scene, they have a paucity of replacements to choose from.”
Henry smiled. “You know, my boy, I may have underestimated your guile.”
“Poppa,” Hank said with a smile, “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Damien was at his desk later in the day when a secretary came in. “Sir,” she said, “there is a person on the phone who insists on speaking to you, but I don’t know him.”
“What is his name?”
“He says his name is Timothy Tigner,” she said. “Oh, and he said to tell you that he is a friend of somebody called Harod, like the department store.”
That news came like a bolt of lightning to Damien. He thought Harod had had only one cohort; now another was raising his head? And, perhaps, at just the right time.
“Thank you,” he said. He waited until she had closed the door behind her before picking up the phone. “Mr. Tigner?”
“Yes, Mr. Damien,” a smooth voice replied. He sounded younger than Harod.
“I understand we have a mutual friend?”
“No longer,” Tigner replied. “He and my other colleague left town yesterday. I thought, perhaps, you might have heard about that.”
“I have heard no such thing,” Damien said. “I had a rendezvous with Harod set for yesterday, but as I approached the scene I saw policemen everywhere, so I retreated.”
“Oh? What was the purpose of your meeting?”
“To confirm the cancellation of some contracts and to pay him the two hundred thousand dollars due. Now, could you tell me what is going on?”
“Have you heard about the shooting of two women at a department store? And the shooting of a man in the street there?”
“Yes, but the women were strangers to me. Was the man Harod?”
“No, he was our colleague, Rasheed. He had just shot the women, thinking they were the subjects of the contract.”
“But I e-mailed and texted Harod about the cancellation. He did not answer his phone.”
“Perhaps because he was already dead at your rendezvous point.”
“If that is the case, I’m very sorry to hear it.”
“Why? You canceled the contracts.”
“Yes, but not permanently. Also, I have other work to be done.”
“Before any work can be done,” Tigner said, “there is the matter of the two hundred thousand dollars.”
“I am certainly willing to pay that, as our agreement requires.”
“Then you will have to pay it before we can discuss other work.”
“How can I contact you?”
“Send an e-mail to the following address,” he said, and then dictated the address. “Then I will call you on this number.”
“No, not this number. I will give you another.” Damien did so.
“Then we will be in touch as soon as the headlines change,” Tigner said, then hung up.
Damien hung up, too, feeling both weak with relief that he had a solution to the Box problem and afraid of this man Tigner.
53
Tim Tigner, as he had begun to think of himself, began to feel very comfortable in his world. He had the amassed funds earned from assassinations by himself and his cohorts, amounting to nearly five hundred thousand dollars, and another two hundred thousand dollars on the way, when he requested it. He let his hair grow and began to shave his face every day; he bought some new, rather fashionable clothes; and to sharpen his English pronunciation, used as models television newspeople, all of whom seemed to be from the same place in the United States.
He attended lectures at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and went to the movies a lot. He was courteous and charming to his neighbors, who gathered at the cocktail hour in a lounge for tenants on the ground floor in his building, and in particular, a dark-haired, curvaceous young woman who seemed anxious to have someone to talk to.
“My name is Karen Landis,” she said when asked.
“I’m Tim Tigner,” he replied.
“Do I detect a slight accent?” she asked.
“I was born in Paris, to an American father and an Algerian mother, so my accent is a bit scrambled.”
She switched to French, and he joined the conversation smoothly, French being one of his native languages.