Dirty Work (14 page)
Stone got Carpenter into a cab.
“I’m exhausted,” Carpenter said.
“Let the cops and your people do their work,” Stone said. “You can get some sleep at my house.”
“That was a humiliating experience,” Carpenter sighed, as they rode downtown.
“You might have mentioned to Dino earlier the fact that there were no charges against her in Europe.”
“We didn’t want Interpol or the various police agencies to interfere,” she said.
“You just wanted to find her and quietly kill her. Is that it?”
Carpenter didn’t reply.
“If there were no charges against her, how did you gather all this information about her—the people she’s killed, and her methods?”
“From people we’ve . . . interrogated,” Carpenter replied.
“Can’t the testimony of those people be used to file charges against her, so Dino can make an arrest?”
“Those people are . . . no longer available to testify,” Carpenter said.
Stone took a deep breath. “Oh,” he said.
The detective following La Biche’s taxi radioed in. “Tell Bacchetti the cab didn’t go to the hotel. It’s continuing downtown.”
“This is Bacchetti,” Dino said. “Where is the cab now?”
“At Second and Thirty-fourth, stopped at a light,” the detective replied. “Wait a minute. The cab’s light is on and a guy is getting in.”
“Stop the cab,” Dino said. “Arrest her for tampering with evidence. She stole the pistol.”
The detective switched on his flashing light and drove up next to the cab. His partner got out and shone a light into the rear seat, then got back in. “Lieutenant,” he said into the radio, “she’s not in the cab anymore.”
“What?”
“She’s not there. We saw the lawyer get out, but not the woman. We thought she was still inside.”
“Oh, swell,” Dino said. He hung up and called Stone’s house.
“Hello?” Stone said. Carpenter picked up the other bedside extension.
“We’ve lost her,” he said.
“How?” Stone asked.
“My guys saw Kaminsky get out of the cab at Seventy-seventh Street, but not La Biche. Now she’s not in the cab anymore. What’s more, she stole back the pistol and the ice pick, took them right off the table in the interrogation room when I went to the door. Didn’t any of you behind the mirror see that?”
“We were talking to each other,” Stone said.
“It’s not your fault, Dino,” Carpenter said. “It’s ours.”
“Sorry, babe,” Dino said. “I can put an APB out for her for stealing the pistol, if you like.”
“Can you prove she stole it?”
“I can, if I can catch her with it.”
“And what do you think the chances of that are?”
Dino was quiet.
“Good night, Dino.” Carpenter hung up.
So did Stone. “What now?”
Carpenter dialed a number. “Mason,” she said.
Stone picked up the extension.
“Mason,” a man’s voice said.
“Tell me you’re still on her,” Carpenter said “We’re not, I’m afraid,” Mason replied. “There was no way we could get to the precinct before she left.”
“I was afraid of that. The NYPD lost her. They’ve been chasing an empty cab since Seventy-seventh Street.”
“Good God. Why didn’t they hold her?”
“That one is our fault, I’m afraid. We never filed any charges against her, and the NYPD had nothing on her. They found a pistol in the ladies’ room at Elaine’s, but the ballistics didn’t match the slug from the diplomatic killing, and she didn’t use a gun on the others.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it,” Mason said.
“On top of everything else, she stole the pistol back from the police, walked right out of the precinct with it in her handbag.”
“So where we are now sounds very much like square one.”
“Very much.”
“Architect will not be amused.”
“Well, no. Get some sleep, Mason. We’ll speak in the morning.”
“Where are you?”
“At Barrington’s house.”
“I’ll send some people over.”
“Don’t bother. I think we’re safe for tonight.”
“Good night, then.”
“Good night.”
Stone and Carpenter hung up.
“I loved your house in Connecticut,” she said.
Marie-Thérèse let herself into the twenty-four-hour-a-day storage facility, went to her closet, and unlocked the door, closing it behind her. The space was about eight by ten feet, much like a prison cell, she thought. She stripped down to the skin, took a fur coat from a rack of clothes, and spread it on the floor. She found another coat and wrapped herself in it, then lay down on the fur coat.
Now she had used her most valuable, most hoarded resource: her own identity. She would not be able to use it again. Not, she thought, unless they were so stupid as not to enter it into their computers and send it to Interpol.
She fell asleep thinking of the baby she had held in her lap all the way across the Atlantic.
Five men and four women got off a Concorde flight at JFK and got into two waiting vans. The driver of one handed one of the men a cell phone. “Just hold down the number one, sir.”
He held down the number one, then put the phone to his ear.
“Trading Partners,” a woman’s voice said.
“Do you know who this is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re en route. I want a meeting in one hour, with everybody, and I mean
everybody.
”
“I understand, sir. I’ve been holding the conference room.”
“Good.” He snapped the phone shut and handed it back to the driver.
“It’s yours, sir, while you’re here,” the driver said.
Architect put the phone in his pocket and turned his attention to
The New York Times.
The phone rang in Stone’s bedroom. “Hello?” he said sleepily, glancing at the clock.
“Miss Carpenter, please,” a woman’s voice said.
Stone shook Carpenter awake. “Call for you,” he said.
“What time is it?” Carpenter asked, rolling over and picking up the extension.
Stone hung up his phone. “A little after two
P
.
M
. We slept pretty good.”
“Hello?”
“Architect has arrived. There’s a meeting here at three,” the woman said. “Attendance is mandatory.”
“Right,” Carpenter said. She hung up. “I’ve got to get into a shower,” she said to Stone. “My boss is in from London.” She tossed off the covers and ran for the bathroom. “Any chance of some lunch?”
Stone went down to the kitchen and made a couple of ham sandwiches and brought them back upstairs. Carpenter came out of the shower, toweling her hair dry around the edges.
“That looks good,” she said, grabbing a sandwich and taking a huge bite.
“So, what’s this meeting going to be about?” Stone asked.
“I think you can guess.”
“How the hell are you ever going to find her?” he asked.
“We’ll find her, and we’ll deal with her,” Carpenter replied, her mouth full. She went back into the bathroom, taking her sandwich with her.
Stone picked up the phone and called Dino.
“Bacchetti.”
“You had lunch?”
“I missed it,” Dino said.
“Clarke’s in half an hour?”
“You buying?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s make it the Four Seasons.” Dino hung up.
Stone went to his own bathroom and got into the shower. Twenty minutes later, he stood on his doorstep with Carpenter.
“Dinner?” he asked.
“I’ll have to call you,” she replied, kissing him. She ran down the steps and turned toward Third Avenue.
Stone turned toward Park.
The last of the lunch crowd lingered over their espressos in the Grill Room of the Four Seasons. Getting a table was easy, since half the crowd had gone back to their offices. Stone and Dino ordered salads and omelettes and a couple of glasses of wine.
“How’d La Biche come to be in Elaine’s at exactly the time you were?” Stone asked.
“She came in looking for you.”
“What?”
“I kid you not. She came in, took a seat at the bar, ordered dinner, and whipped out that Page Six clipping about you representing Herbie Fisher. Asked the bartender who you were.”
“Did he tell her?”
“I don’t know. I was pretty busy. Elaine called me at home and told me somebody was asking about you, so I disappointed my wife, who was snuggled up to me at the time, and got my ass over there in a hurry. There she was, sipping a brandy.”
Stone thought about this.
“So why’d you want to have lunch? I had the feeling you had something on your mind.”
“Something’s brewing with our British friends,” Stone said.
“Oh, yeah?”
“The big cheese arrived from London and has called a meeting of his people.”
“Why do I care about this?” Dino asked.
“Because I think there’s about to be a rumble on your turf.”
“What kind of rumble?” Dino asked.
“Think about it.”
“What, I have to guess?”
“That’s what
I’m
doing. Anybody call you this afternoon? Any Brits, I mean?”
“Nope. Should I expect to hear from them?”
“I don’t think so,” Stone replied.
“Come on, Stone, what has Carpenter told you?”
“Only that there’s a meeting.”
“And what do you think is going to be the subject of that meeting?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Dino.”
“Okay, I know the subject. What are they going to do?”
“I think they’re going to hunt her down and kill her,” Stone said.
“Right here in New York City?”
“Yes. Of course, they may only want to kidnap and torture her, but I think the chances of taking the lady alive are nil.”
Dino chewed his salad and thought about it. “Okay,” he said finally.
“What do you mean, okay?”
“I mean, it’s okay with me if they hunt her down and kill her, or just kidnap and torture her.”
“Jesus, Dino, you’re a New York City police lieutenant. Are you going to let that happen?”
“Yep,” Dino said, sipping his wine.
“We’re talking about murder, Dino. You’re supposed to take a dim view of that.”
“You’re such a wuss, Stone,” Dino said.
“No, I’m not. I’m just opposed to murder in the streets of my hometown.”
“Well, I’m sure that when the murderers hear about that, there’ll be a dramatic drop in the homicide rate,” Dino replied.
“Dino, you’ve got to do something.”
“What am I going to do?” Dino asked. “These people are not visiting policemen. They’re fucking spies. They do things in secret. You think they’re going to let me in on their plans?”
“Maybe I can find out something.”
“I don’t want to know,” Dino said. “And if you want to keep rolling around in the hay with Miss Felicity Devonshire, you’d better not want to know, either.”
“You want to know why there are no charges against La Biche in Europe?” Stone said.
“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“Because the Brits got their information on her by torturing and killing her friends, so there’s nobody left to give evidence against her.”
“I didn’t want to know that,” Dino said.
“It’s how they work. These people don’t arrest criminals and try them. They put them in cellars while they extract information from them with tools, and when they’re done, their captives are done, too. They’re outside the law. They’re
above
the law.”
“Well then, if I were you, I wouldn’t piss off Carpenter.”
“When you and I were cops together, we had a common view of the law,” Stone said. “We believed in doing it by the book.”
“Well, not always
strictly
by the book,” Dino said.
“All right, we slapped around a few people, frightened a few guys, but we didn’t murder anybody.”
“And I’m not going to start now,” Dino said.
“But you’re going to turn a blind eye to what these people are planning?”
“Stone, in this case, a blind eye is all I got.”
“You don’t
want
to see it.”
“You’re right, because, unlike you, I understand that there are two whole different worlds existing right alongside each other: There’s your world and mine, then there’s their world, where a crazy woman holds a grudge against their people and goes around killing them, plus a few other people along the way. How do we prosecute that? There’s never any evidence. And suppose I could, somehow, stop them from killing La Biche? What would I do with her? Pat her on the head and send her back to Europe to kill a few more people? I don’t have any evidence against her. Jesus,
somebody’s
got to stop her, and it ain’t going to be me.”
“This is depressing,” Stone said.
“It’s not depressing if you don’t think about it,” Dino replied.
Carpenter rushed into the building, went to her temporary office, deposited her coat, and picked up her notes. She made it to the conference room just as Architect took his seat.
His name, as everyone who worked for him knew, was Sir Edward Fieldstone, but when he had chosen a code name, his bent for carpentry and building came to the fore. He had a huge workshop at his country home in Berkshire, and his large estate was dotted with barns, sheds, workmen’s houses, and other structures that he had either built himself or supervised. He had come to the intelligence services by way of the Army and the SAS, and he was known to be partial to officers who had served in that unit, especially in Northern Ireland, where he had commanded it. His reputation from that time was one of being soft-spoken and completely ruthless.
Carpenter sometimes felt at a disadvantage for not having served in the Army. Her credentials in the service were, at the outset, hereditary, since her paternal grandfather and her father had both been intelligence officers—the former, during World War II, when he had been repeatedly parachuted into France to arm and train Resistance fighters, and the latter, who had been a specialist in dealing with Irish terrorists in mainland Britain. Those were considered historic credentials in the service, and Carpenter had worked hard to live up to them.
“Good morning,” Architect said softly, causing an immediate hush to fall on the room. He gazed around the table at the two dozen faces, a third of them women. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said finally.
“The subject—the only subject—of this meeting is one Marie-Thérèse du Bois, known also as La Biche, an aptly assigned sobriquet, if I may say so.” A tiny smile twitched at a corner of his mouth.
“I am sure that you have all read the dossier compiled on this woman, a dossier appalling in its nature and, especially, in its bearing on the members of this service. I need hardly tell you that she must be stopped.”
There was a murmur of assent around the table.
“Carpenter,” he said.
All eyes turned to her, and she felt her ears burning.
“Yes, sir?”
“Give us a little recap of her activities in this city over the past few days.”
Carpenter did not need notes for this. “She has murdered a former officer of this service, a serving officer, an Arab diplomat known to be an intelligence officer, and an innocent female civilian. She has also seriously wounded a serving officer of this firm.”
“And how is Thatcher?” Architect asked.
“He has suffered partial paralysis of both legs as a result of an ice pick wound to his spinal cord, but he is out of danger and is responding to treatment and showing signs of improvement. The prognosis is for a complete or nearly complete recovery.”
“Good, good. Is he being well taken care of?”
“He is, sir.”
“Good. Now, Carpenter, please give me your assessment of the current situation regarding La Biche. I’d especially like to know about her detention and release by the New York City Police Department. How were both these things accomplished?”
“An item appeared in a gossip column in the
New York Post
regarding the attorney who had arranged for an operative to photograph Lawrence Fortescue, formerly of this firm, during a tryst with a woman, who turned out to be La Biche. It was mentioned in the article that the attorney frequented a restaurant called Elaine’s, on the Upper East Side, and La Biche turned up at the restaurant to inquire about the lawyer, whose name was not mentioned in the article. The restaurant’s eponymous owner telephoned a police officer of her acquaintance to report the incident. He immediately organized an arrest, and La Biche was taken to the Nineteenth Precinct and questioned.”
“That covers her arrest. What about her release?” Architect asked.
“La Biche had dumped two weapons in the ladies’ room of the restaurant, after wiping them clean. Although they were recovered, they yielded no fingerprints and could not be connected to her, since, in theory, anyone could have left them there. One weapon, a pistol, underwent a ballistics test, in the hope of connecting it to the murder of the Arab diplomat. The results were negative.” She took a deep breath. “The police were also hampered by the fact that this service has declined to report her activities to any police force or to Interpol, so there were no outstanding charges under which she could be detained.”
The room went very quiet, since everyone knew that the decision not to alert police had been Architect’s.
“Quite,” he said calmly, betraying no annoyance. “Go on.”
“Finally, she presented a valid passport in her true name with a valid entry stamp, or at least a forgery so good that the police were unable to detect it. She was represented by a New York attorney named Sol Kaminsky, who has, in the past, been known to represent Arab terrorists in court. He was prominent in the unsuccessful defense of the men who placed a bomb in the basement car park of the World Trade Center some years ago.”
“I am acquainted with Mr. Kaminsky’s reputation,” Architect said. “Who made the decision to release La Biche?”
“The deputy district attorney of New York County was personally present during her interrogation, and when no probable cause could be found to hold her, or even to photograph and fingerprint her, he ordered her release.”
Architect nodded. “And how would you assess our current situation, Carpenter?”
“We don’t know where she is or who may be helping her. We have no credible evidence against her, so that even if we were able to apprehend her, we could not bring her to trial—and, if we were somehow able to do so, she would be acquitted, in either a British or American court. I should point out that, due to her very average appearance, which changes constantly, and the absence of a fingerprint record, we would find it very difficult even to identify her. In short, we haven’t laid a glove on her, nor are we likely to do so.”
Architect fixed her with a steely gaze. “In your desire to be realistic, you are being too pessimistic, Carpenter. Do you have a plan for proceeding?”
“We know that she has, in the past, frequented lesbian bars, where she has picked up women, murdered them, and used their residences and identities for short periods. I suggest that, since we have a number of women present, we stake out as many such bars as we can, in the hope of spotting her. Every such officer should be wired and under constant electronic surveillance.”
“You will note that I brought four female officers with me,” Architect said. “Any other recommendations?”
“We should tap the telephones of Mr. Kaminsky’s law offices and his home, and keep him under surveillance. He is the only person we know her to have contacted in New York.”
Architect’s voice became even softer. “Is that all? Surely you have a further recommendation.”
Carpenter met his gaze and held it. When the inquiry into this situation came, as it surely would, she wanted to be on record. “I have no further recommendation, sir.” It is bloody well going to have to come from you, you silky bastard, she thought.
“You disappoint me, Carpenter.”
“I’m very sorry, sir.”
“Quite.” Architect looked around the table. “All right, here is how we will proceed: Mason, you will undertake the staking out and electronic surveillance of the lesbian bars. Incidentally, how will we find them?” He looked around the table for an answer.
Carpenter spoke up. “I would suggest that we begin by walking the streets of Greenwich Village and Soho. Once some such establishments have been located, our people can inquire among the customers present about the location of others.”
“Well,” Architect said, permitting himself another hint of a smile, “I feel some small relief in learning that none of my people has any personal acquaintance with such places. See to it, Mason.”
“Yes, sir,” Mason replied.
“Sparks,” Architect said, singling out another male officer, “I will leave the electronic surveillance of Mr. Kaminsky in your hands. See that our presence does not become known to the local authorities.”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied. “Will we seek FBI approval?”
“Not exactly,” Architect replied, “but I am having dinner this evening with the director of that agency, who is in New York, and I will see that he is appropriately apprised of our activities.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sparks replied.
“Well,” Architect said, closing his briefcase, “I believe we’re finished.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Carpenter said. “Do you have an assignment for me?”
Architect gazed at her. “Well, obviously, since La Biche has seen you up close, we can’t send you around to these bars . . . however much you might wish to go. . . .”
Carpenter’s ears got hot again.
“. . . But I believe you are personally acquainted with this lawyer—Barrington? Is that his name?”
Carpenter looked over at Mason, who had assumed a studious attitude with some papers before him.
“Yes, Barrington. Since La Biche apparently has an interest in him, your assignment, Carpenter, will be to see that the twain do not meet. If she keeps killing civilians . . .” He left that thought unfinished.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“And further, Carpenter, you are directed to take whatever measures are necessary to remain alive. You’re no good to me dead.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Mason said.
“Yes, Mason?”
“May we have instructions on what to do about La Biche, once we’ve found her?”
Good for you, Mason, Carpenter thought. Get him on the record.
“You are not—repeat,
not
—to attempt to detain her,” Architect said. “She is far too dangerous, and I don’t want to lose any more people.” Architect closed his briefcase. “Dispose of her,” he said, “by whatever means are available.”
“Sir,” Mason pressed on, “any such opportunities that arise are likely to be in public places.”
“I am aware of that, Mason,” Architect said. “Try to avoid collateral damage.” He picked up his briefcase and walked out of the room.
As the group filed out, Carpenter fell into step with Mason. “Are you prepared to follow that order?” she asked quietly.
“I am unaccustomed,” Mason said, “to not following his orders.”
