Targets of Deception (7 page)

Tafallai then realized that Sandor’s flat was directly above Florence Carter’s. Only scant minutes had elapsed since he heard the bolt turn on the floor below. His instincts told him that Sandor was in the apartment he had selected for his means to enter the building. He picked up the bouquet, left Sandor’s apartment, and moved quietly back down the stairs.

The only sound Jordan heard was the faint creak of floorboards from his apartment above. He was angry at himself for leaving his door open and, for a fleeting moment, considered bolting from Florence’s apartment and making for the street. But that wouldn’t take the girl out of harm’s way. If he took her with him, with such a slight lead, they would become too easy a target, especially if the man upstairs had backup waiting outside.

There was also the option of taking a run upstairs, but Jordan could not be sure where the man was or which of them would get off the first shots. And again, he had the girl to think about.

Then he heard the dull sound of steps heading back down the stairs and knew it was too late now to do anything but stay where he was. Jordan was loath to do nothing while waiting for the police, even it if was the obvious move. It simply was not his style. He would prefer to confront the man, to see if he was one of the shooters from the day before, to learn what he could. He realized that once the sirens came wailing down the street, his opportunity would be lost.

So Jordan stood by the door and waited and listened and struggled to come up with a way to protect Florence and still make a move.

Tafallai crept quietly down the stairs, resuming his crouch, until he was in the middle of the landing. He reached up quickly and, using the flowers to muffle the sound, shattered the small overhead light fixture with a swipe of his Glock 9mm, sending tiny bits of glass to the floor and bathing the landing in a shadowy darkness before he knocked on Florence Carter’s door.

“Miss Carter. I have your flowers.”

There was no response.

“Miss Carter. It’s the man from the flower shop.” He knocked again.

Jordan heard the dull
pop
of the light bulb breaking. A quick look through the peephole revealed nothing but darkness. He was startled at the sudden knock at the door and a man’s voice calling Florence’s name. The accent was foreign, the voice sure and unhurried.

Now he and this man stood face to face, separated only by the door. Who knew how long it would take the police to respond at this time of day? Even with sirens blaring, the traffic would be a mess. It might only be ten minutes, but it might as well be days. Jordan considered turning the bolt and yanking the door open, but the door opened in, not out, which would give the other man the edge if Jordan was going to charge at him. He had no choice, he decided, but to hold his position.

Miss Carter, I cannot just leave the flowers here.” The voice betrayed a growing impatience. “You must sign for them.” Tafallai knocked again, then grabbed the knob and gave it a short, firm twist. The woman who had buzzed him into the building was not answering, which meant he was right—she was not alone in the apartment. She was with Jordan Sandor. Jordan watched as the knob jimmied back and forth. The moment of silence that followed was shattered when Tafallai slammed his heel against the door. He wanted to draw Sandor to the door in front of him to brace it shut. He gave a second hard kick. And a third. Then he fired three shots, the rounds spitting through the silencer and splintering their way into the wooden door.

Jordan dropped to his knees at the sound of the muffled explosions, the crackle of fragmenting wood, the impact of slugs flattening on the fireproof metal insert reinforcing the door. He lunged to the side at the next thrusting kick against the weakened door. He stayed on his knees, his body straining to keep the door secure against another assault.

Tafallai fired two more shots, this time targeting the lock, the bullets caroming so loudly off the brass that Florence uttered a scream from the bathroom, provoking Tafallai to spend his last four shots in the nine-round clip.

The old door held fast.

“
Ibn himar
!”

Sandor adjusted his position, mindful of what might come next. The man might have explosives, or he might change to armor-piercing shells that would rip through the reinforced door. He listened, the momentary silence more frightening than the fusillade that had come before. Tafallai replaced the clip in his automatic and fired another series of shots.

Police sirens could be heard in the distance, and whether or not they were coming for him, he would not take the risk. He cursed loudly, knowing that for now he had failed. He had wasted too much time, performed too haphazardly.

He fired two more shots at the center of the door as he turned away, then ran down the stairs, past the flowers scattered on the landing. He replaced his Glock in its holster and, closing his coat, he strode down the steps and onto the street, disappearing around the corner just before a New York City Police squad car arrived on the scene.

Once Jordan heard the shooter run downstairs, he replaced the Walther in his waistband and let Florence out of her bathroom. He managed to calm her enough to explain that they were now safe. “It’s all over,” he told her. “He’s gone. Help is on the way.” He started to pull away, saying he was going upstairs to check his apartment, but she grabbed his arm.

“Wh—where are you going? Don’t leave!”

“Listen—”

“You can’t leave me here!” The more Sandor tried to get free the more she tightened her grip.

“Listen to me!” For reasons he could not explain to her, Jordan wanted no part of the local authorities, not now. Someone was trying to kill him, and he needed to get out of there before he got tied up in hours of questioning and bureaucratic time wasting. And the longer he waited the less chance he would have to follow his attacker. “The police are coming. They’re here. Just outside,” he said, pointing toward the window. “You can hear them.”

Florence began to loosen her hold on Jordan as the sirens grew louder and more reassuring. He gently but firmly removed his forearm from her grasp and rubbed the marks her fingers had imprinted on his flesh. He sat her on the couch and went to her refrigerator and poured her a glass of wine to calm her nerves.

“It’s all right now. The police are here,” he told her again. He was out of time and had no intention of spending the next twelve hours down at the local precinct answering questions and looking at another ream of mug shots while explaining things he had no interest in explaining.

“Look,” he said, “I have to go.”

Florence was too numb to speak. She remained on the couch, barely managing a nod.

“I’ll be right back,” he assured her. He made a motion to leave and she began to protest, but was too exhausted to offer any resistance. Jordan did his best to give her a comforting smile then headed out, shutting her splintered door behind him.

He raced upstairs to his apartment, pulled on his jacket, grabbed his leather bag, and went to his front door.

The police could be heard coming up the stairs to Florence’s landing. He waited and watched from the shadows as the officers surveyed the evidence of the shooting, drew their weapons, and knocked on the shredded door. The moment they entered her apartment would be Jordan’s only chance to get out of the building, and he took it. Once he heard her door close, he hurried down the three flights of stairs, then slowed to a saunter as he headed outside.

He looked up and down the street, but there was nothing unusual except the double-parked police cruiser. There was no one to follow, no leads to pursue.

He turned for Columbus Avenue, where he hailed a cab and headed south toward Midtown.

TEN

Dan Peters had dozed fitfully in his hospital bed, the discomfort of his wound and the intrusions of doctors and nurses throughout the night making it difficult to sleep. All of this was complicated by the confluence of memories and dreams that kept his mind spinning, awake or asleep. The memories would not go away.

It was daylight now, he noticed, but that made no difference. He was still trying to sleep.

His eyes opened slightly when yet another young doctor came into the room and stood over his bed. He adjusted the intravenous apparatus that fed him a steady flow of glucose solution and antibiotics. Peters closed his eyes again, not seeing the doctor inject a clear substance into the tube that ran from the plastic sack of fluid into his arm.

 “Have a good rest,” the doctor said. Peters was happy to hear the suggestion. Maybe they were finally going to leave him alone for a while.

The doctor walked out of the room, nodding at a nurse who approached as he made his way down the long corridor. She responded with an automatic smile what was gradually replaced with an uncertain look. She slowed and turned to see him reach the end of the hallway and turn the corner.

When two uniformed troopers came out of the elevator, he stopped, made a show of looking at some papers he was holding, then made a gesture with his hand as if he had forgotten something. He turned back, stepping quickly around the corner and through the entrance to the stairway.

One of the troopers followed him until he disappeared around the corner. He took a quick look into Peters’ room, but saw nothing unusual there.

The nurse came out of another patient’s room, and the trooper stopped her. “Hey, who was the doctor who just came out of Peters’ room?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know him,” she said. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“Call for a doctor right away. Have Peters checked out,” the officer said, grabbing his radio and breaking into a trot back for his partner. “All stations. We’ve got some suspicious activity on three,” he reported into the walkie-talkie. “Cover the lobby and check the elevators for an unidentified man, dressed like a doctor. Five ten, Caucasian, brown hair.” The best he could do after a brief glimpse.

The young man they were looking for was already running down the interior staircase, removing his white lab coat as he went, the syringe still in the pocket. He dropped the coat to the floor as he neared the door to the lobby and then removed the wig he was wearing, his blond crewcut in stark contrast to the longer, darker hairpiece. He adjusted the brown sport coat he had worn underneath the white jacket and put on a pair of eyeglasses. As two troopers were responding to the radio alert from upstairs, he stepped calmly into the lobby. He appeared not to notice two officers rushing to the elevators and three others running to the stairwell.

They were too late. Dan Peters’ murderer reached the exit, stepped outside the building, then strode quickly to a waiting car that sped him away.

ELEVEN

Jordan arrived at the Algonquin early for his lunch date with Beth. He made himself comfortable in one of the faded armchairs and settled down to wait. He usually enjoyed the serenity of this old hotel, pleased for the moment to wrap himself in the solace of plush cushions and a stiff drink. He also appreciated the connection between this venerated room and the literary lights of days past, something Bill Sternlich found endlessly amusing.

Sandor was lost in thought, plotting his next move. Then, shaking his head at a bad idea, he heard, “Hello Jordan.”

Her voice startled him. He hadn’t noticed her come up from behind.

You’re out of practice
, he warned himself.

He turned and said, “How long have you been there?”

“Boy, that’s some greeting,” she replied. “I just got here.” She looked down at the table. “Whiskey? Kind of heavy before lunch.”

“Tennessee whiskey,” he corrected her as he stood, then gently kissed her cheek. He caught a hint of perfume, recognizing her fragrance, wondering why he hadn’t noticed it as she came up behind him. The scent evoked a flash of remembrances, the moments of laughter and anger and passion, her soft, warm body next to his, and ultimately the realization again of why it was so difficult to let her go. “It’s early, I know, but it’s already been a rough day. Sit down.”

Beth Sharrow took the chair opposite his, easing herself gracefully into the seat. She was always graceful. “Bourbon.” she said thoughtfully. “I think I’ll go with something a little less potent.”

For a moment he lost himself in the hazel eyes and confident but curious smile he knew so well.

“You look like you’re in a trance,” Beth said. “Not wearing your hero’s laurels very well, are you?”

“My heroics are yesterday’s news, unfortunately. Boys in the office having fun with this?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Come on, Beth.”

He had met her years before on a visit to the New York office of the CIA, where they housed office personnel, communications experts, and a huge retinue of computer geeks. Jordan thought Beth was one of the best analysts in the Agency.

“Al Tamucci started a pool,” she admitted, referring to one of the computer techies he knew.

“For what? For when I’m going to buy it?”

“No. For when you’re coming back to work for the Company.”

“Not likely,” he said.

She nodded. “How’s Dan.”

“He’s a tough old s.o.b. He’ll be all right,” he said, then followed that with a quick shake of his head and a faraway look, as if deciding whether to reveal something he wasn’t ready to share.

Beth recognized the look. “What is it?”

He hesitated, then said, “Someone broke into my apartment.”

“What?”

“I didn’t want to tell you on the phone.”

Beth’s smile had melted into a look of concern. “When?”

“Not sure. Yesterday. Last night. Early this morning. They wrecked the place, whenever they were there.”

An elderly waiter in a dark, red waistcoat came by and asked if the young lady would care for a cocktail.

“Uh, a white wine, please. Chardonnay, if you have that.”

“White wine,” Jordan teased. “Here, at the Algonquin?”

“Please, Jordan, tell me what happened.”

“All right, but Dorothy Parker must be spinning in her grave.”

The waiter was still standing there.