Assault on the Empress (8 page)

“Certainly, Mr. Babcock. I have an urgent message for you from a Mr. D. Hughes.”

Babcock's blood ran cold and it wasn't the chill of the wind or the slushy pavement around the phone kiosk. “What's the message? Read it to me, please.”

“Yes, sir. ‘Please get in touch immediately. Am staying here. Gone to Mrs. H.'s for late lunch. Hughes.' That's the message, sir. Is there any reply?”

“No—no. I'll contact Mr. Hughes personally. Thank you.” He hung up. “Shit,” Babcock murmured, indulging himself in a rare obscenity….

Thelma Hayes, looking pretty and very domestic, opened the door after just one ring. She wiped her hands on her apron, smiled and said, “Lew. We were all worried about you.”

“Everything's fine, Thelma.” He embraced her briefly and walked past her, slipping out of his coat. At the dining room table, Babcock saw him, a forkful of spaghetti half to his mouth, face lighting in a smile. The eyebrows cocked in his high forehead, so dark-seeming compared to the salt-and-pepper grey of his hair, more salt than the last time. His face was long, only thin-seeming because of its length, his ears large-seeming because of the close-cropped hair. The chin was strong, prominent. The mouth—long and thin—spread and curled upward at the corners in a smile, revealing even, white teeth, seaming the vertical lines in his cheeks even more deeply. “Mr. Hughes.”

“Mr. Babcock. I must say, your friend Mrs. Hayes is an artist with spaghetti. You know it's one of my favorites. I can see why it's so imperative to assist her husband from his predicament. If the poor man is used to this, its unavailability must be unbearable.”

Lewis Babcock looked at Thelma Hayes. Her black eyes were pinpoints of uncertainty. And then Babcock smiled at her. “He's an old friend. And he really is a connoisseur of spaghetti. Could I have a little?” He wasn't really hungry, but Thelma had been a wife and mother since graduating high school and marrying Ernie, and normalcy was what she needed now, he guessed. Her face brightened and he had guessed correctly. “Kids still in school?”

“They'll be playing over at their aunt's house—Ernie's sister Marge. She'll drop them off around six.”

“I'm looking forward to meeting them. If not tonight”—Hughes smiled—“then soon, I hope. You must let me take you and your husband and the children—and Lewis too, of course—out to dinner. Doing even ordinary things with small children can be such an adventure.”

“Sure.” Thelma Hayes left for the kitchen. Lewis Babcock left the arched entrance into the dining room that lead off the hall and approached the table. “Why are you here, Mr. Hughes?”

“Well, lad, I'm here to help. And to get your help.”

“To get my help,” Babcock paraphrased slowly. “Like the last time?”

“No..Not quite like the last time, Lewis,” Hughes said evenly, his diction perfect, despite his background as a Texan, his speech almost faintly British sounding. The well-modulated voice and careful diction Babcock had long before put down to Hughes's childhood hearing problem. Corrected fully—the man could hear as well as anyone and better than most now—it would have necessitated a careful attention to the details of speech to speak so perfectly with part of the developmental years lost to him. The slight British intonation Babcock attributed to Hughes's early World War II experiences working with the British when Hughes had been the youngest man ever chosen for the wartime Office of Strategic Services, or OSS. The hearing problem had reaped one ancillary benefit for Hughes: He was a faultless lip-reader. “I'd had something I needed to discuss with you, then learned through an associate that you were here endeavoring to extricate Officer Hayes from this cocaine thing. I thought I might speak with you and also be of some minor assistance. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

“If anyone could kill two anything with one stone, you could. Where's Cross?”

Hughes smiled. Cross had become something like a son to Hughes in the short time the three of them and Feinberg had worked together. “Abroad the
Empress Britannia
working as a piano player in a lounge. I imagine he's having a wonderful time. He'll be in New York in several days' time and I thought we could speak with him there.”

“We?”

“I'll confess to an ulterior motive, Lewis. In seeing you first, that is,” and Hughes grinned broadly, daubing at his mouth with a napkin, standing as Thelma Hayes entered from the kitchen.

“Sit down, Lew. I was just about to offer Mr. Hughes a glass of wine. Would you like some?”

“If you're having some, yes,” Babcock told her.

“My sentiments, ma'am,” Hughes told her.

“Both of you sit down. This isn't formal. I can tell neither one of you are married, standing up every time a woman comes in with something from the kitchen.”

“I was married, as a matter of fact. I have a daughter your age or a little older,” Hughes told her.

“That's hard to believe—I mean, looking at you.”

“Compliments are always graciously accepted.”

Hughes's wife had died, Babcock knew. But not how. Hughes's son and daughter-in-law were dead as well. He looked at Hughes. There had been little happiness for this man, his daughter-in-law the victim of a terrorist hijacking, his son a suicide, unable to live with it. Babcock wondered if he could have lived with it, either? But Hughes had, in his way.

Tltelma Hayes left the room, presumably to get the wine.

“Mayas well sit down before the lady chastises us,” Hughes said, gesturing toward a chair. Babcock took it. “Your friend Officer Hayes. He is innocent, of course?”

“Of course. And I finally got the evidence to prove it.”

“What did I hear you say?” Thelma Hayes said as she reentered the room, her voice brightening.

Both Hughes and Babcock stood, Hughes helping her with her chair, saying, “Allow me,” and expropriating the wine bottle and the butterfly corkscrew. “These are the best kinds of corkscrews, you know. The others were designed to Attila the Hun's specs, I think.”

“What did you say about my husband?”

“I've got conclusive proof, but it wouldn't hold up in court. Not the way I obtained it.”

“Black-bagging it, were you lad?”

Babcock shook his head violently. “No! It was worse than that. I essentially beat it out of Cleophus Butler.”

“Cleophus Butler? What's a Cleophus Butler?”

Thelma Hayes answered. “An informant. He's on the edge of a lot of stuff, Ernie told me. Ernie thought he might be able to help with some clue or something.”

“He helped a great deal, actually. But not willingly,” Babcock told them. He recounted for them—minus the gorier details in deference to Thelma Hayes—his experiences with Cleophus Butler in the automobile the previous night. “So, we know who took the cocaine, why Ernie was set up—”

“Then why can't we go to the police, Lew? Ernie's got a lot of friends on the force and—”

“Cleophus Butler could deny he ever said it, could tell a lie out of spite that would only further implicate Ernie, or could just clam up. And even if he did testify, his character is dubious and the best we'd have is something the prosecuting attorney could label as hearsay evidence, inadmissable in court. But I set something in motion that should help. I need you, Thelma, to gather up some things and let me drop you at Ernie's sister's place, just in case.”

“But what if Ernie calls?”

“We'll have to risk that. If he calls and you're not here, he'll probably call his sister's house anyway. I think I can predict with a fair degree of certainty what will happen if anything does, but you being here alone with the children could be tempting fate.” He looked at Hughes, Hughes's face impassive. He knew him better than that. Hughes was simply waiting for him to reveal what was necessary to Thelma and reveal the rest later, exactly his intent. “If it goes the way I hope, we'll have all the evidence we need by the time Ernie's pre-trial hearing starts tomorrow. And with Mr. Hughes arriving, that's just more help on our side, Thelma. Trust me on this.”

Hughes filled the three glasses with the red wine. “I propose a toast, if I may be so bold,” Hughes began, raising his glass. “To Officer Hayes's vindication and the reuniting with his lovely wife and family.”

Thelma Hayes forced a smile. Lewis Babcock raised his glass. “Let's drink to that, indeed!”

He downed his wine. Without looking at the label, he could tell it was definitely New York State….

Thomas Alyard stepped out of the shower. After his contact had left, taking the ampule with him, he had fallen asleep on the couch and slept there for several hours, having no idea of what time he had originally nodded off. Hunger had started to gnaw at him and he had investigated the larder before showering. Much as he had anticipated, it was fully stocked. Beer in the refrigerator, wine and an assortment of hard liquor under the counter and enough food for six men for a week. Alyard had no intention of finding five friends, so anticipated he was adequately stocked to ride things out for a few weeks before returning to Rome. By that time, the ampule would be safely out of harm's way and the research necessary to duplicate its contents and therefore negate its potential strategic value would have begun.

He toweled himself dry. There was a good supply of towels and the apartment was even equipped with a washer and dryer and soap for when he ran out.

The man to whom he had given the ampule-he was consciously trying to forget his name even though it was probably anything but his real name—had assured him that despite the fact the KGB and Italian Communist sympathizers would be watching every way out of the country, he had a foolproof way to get it out safely. The man had joked that it wasn't very fast and he didn't relish traveling that way, but “any port in a storm,” then laughed resoundingly.

Alyard tried shrugging off the memories.

He had no robe and never slept in anything but his skin, so he took a dry bath towel and wound it around his waist kilt fashion. He picked up the gun he had been given along with a supply of money and a new set of identity papers, passport and credit cards. He had brought the gun into the bathroom with him just to be on the safe side. It was a Beretta 92F, the new American military pistol. He had used them before and, if the gun were typical, he could hit what he aimed at with it. He had given his contact the Walther PPK Stakowski had given him, wanting the gun ditched in case it could be traced to anything. He had also given his contact the remainder of his identity materials which linked him to the Swiss, Thomas Rheinhold. The thing to do, always, was to think of the loose ends.

Alyard entered the kitchen. Appalonia was a marvelous cook. But, he doubted he would starve, having cooked for himself for many years before she had come along. He began planning. For the first week, he would stay in the apartment. But he wouldn't be a couch potato, despite the ample selection of tapes for the VCR and discs for the CD player. He'd been promising himself to get back in shape and he knew just the right sort of workouts he could employ to tone up, despite the fact there was no equipment. A knowledgable man could utilize chairs, door frames, all of that.

As he started opening cans, he started working out his schedule. Up in the mornings at eight. A good workout, then a shower, then catch up on his reading over breakfast and afterward. Another workout at—There was a knock at the door.

Thomas Alyard snatched up the Beretta and turned toward the sound, his back to the counter. He wasn't about to answer the knock. There was supposed to be no one coming to contact him. He crossed out of the kitchen and halfway across the living room, giving his towel another tuck. He had sucked in his breath so hard when he'd heard the knock at his door that he'd almost lost it.

The knock came again. And now he could faintly hear a voice. He came closer to the door, standing beside it but not in front of it so he could hear. “… Fabrizzi. There is an important message for you, Signore Alyard.” What the hell was the apartment manager doing shouting his real name along the corridor for everyone to hear. “This is Fabrizzi. There is an important message for you, Signore Alyard. The telephone in the apartment, she don't work.”

Alyard licked his lips. He didn't budge.

“Here. I slide it under the door, Signore.” An envelope slipped under the door. “Good-bye, Signore.”

He waited a long time, watching the face of his wristwatch, feeling the sweat start under his armpits, spread to his palms, feeling it like a cold wash on the soles of his bare feet. He gave it a full five minutes before he bent down and reached for the envelope. As he tugged at it, there was a loud hissing sound and a grey-white cloud belched from under the crack toward his face, engulfing him. He staggered back, punching the Beretta toward the door. He felt the towel slipping again and automatically reached for it, and then …

Thomas Alyard's head ached and he was cold. He opened his eyes and realized he was naked and lying on—the dining room table?

Three faces stared down at him. “Mr. Alyard. Don't get up. It'll only make the headache worse. My name is Ephraim Vols. I'm telling you my real name because this is very important. I'm a Major with The Committee for State Security of The Soviet. Are you thinking clearly enough to know what that means?”