The Assassin (44 page)

The head disappeared.

The second door was open. A blood trail led that way.

I trotted toward it, looked in, using the flashlight.

A figure in black was standing there. He was holding Callie Grafton with his left arm and had a pistol against the side of her head. Even with the flashlight I could see the blood on his leg. And the ghastly white of her face.

“Drop the weapon or I’ll kill her,” he said roughly.

The distance between us was maybe twelve feet. He couldn’t see me, I knew, because the flashlight must be blinding him—that wasn’t a conscious thought, just something I knew. I don’t even remember thumbing off the safety. I lifted the Colt and aimed as best I could and shot him. He went over backward. Callie fell away to his left, my right, pulled down by his grasp.

I walked over, watching his right hand, which still held the pistol.

Blood was pumping out his neck below the black balaclava. He had taken the bullet in the jugular vein and was bleeding to death.

I didn’t wait. I could see the whites of his eyes through the opening in the black cloth when I emptied the pistol into him. When the gun wouldn’t shoot anymore, I reached down and jerked the black hood off his head.

Someone was there beside me. Marisa.

“It’s Khadr,” she said.

I shoved her out of the way and shined the light on Callie. She was conscious, with no bullet wounds. Relief flooded over me. I helped her up. She sat on the bed, didn’t even look at the corpse.

I popped the magazine out of the Colt and replaced it with the one in my pocket, then started out of the room. I met Jake Grafton coming in.

“Check on your wife,” I said, trying to keep my voice under control. “I’m going to see if there’re any more of them.”

In the hallway I met Smith and Winchester. “Who was it?” Winchester asked.

“A man who came to kill you,” I said as I shouldered past.

Robin gave me my shotgun, and I headed for the barn, using every bit of cover there was. The sleet had turned to snow. I hid, ran, hid, and ran again.

Harry Longworth’s feet were visible just inside the entrance to the barn. The howling wind was whipping the big doors open and shut, causing impacts that rocked the building. I dashed between the swinging doors and, after I had swept the flashlight around, briefly examined Harry. He was obviously dead.

I’m going to end up like that one of these days.

Taking my time, I inspected the whole place. I found the two dead men upstairs, and had just finished giving the bad news to Grafton on the radio when I heard the wail of the first police siren.

I sat down beside the dead men in the loft and cried. Maybe I was crying for them or maybe I was crying for me—I couldn’t tell.

chapter TWENTY-THREE

When Abu Qasim heard the moan of the police siren over the wind, he put the car in gear and got it rolling along the road, heading away from Winchester’s estate. The siren told him that Khadr was in trouble; even now he might be running for the highway, trying to make the pickup point. Or he might be trapped, wounded or dead.

In any event, what Khadr wasn’t doing was calling Qasim, and that was telling.

So Abu Qasim left Khadr to his fate, whatever it might be. He felt no remorse, no loyalty or sorrow, nor, he knew, would Khadr feel any if he were here and Qasim were there. Khadr fought for money and Qasim fought for Allah, whose will would be done in the case of both men, regardless.

Qasim had the windshield defrosters and wipers going, and between them, they were staying ahead of the snow. He drove westward carefully, taking every precaution. He didn’t plan on stopping for the night, just driving out of the storm. If it got too bad to drive, he would find a place to sit it out.

As he drove he went over the preparations for the week ahead. In the past month he had won some battles and lost some. He didn’t waste energy savoring the triumphs or rehashing the losses. He had one last great battle before him, and he intended to do everything in his power to win it. Still, the only thing that really mattered was winning the war. That was the only victory that would please Allah.

“You saved my life,” Callie Grafton said in the wee hours of the morning after the ambulance crews had carried out the bodies and the police had departed.

“We were just lucky he didn’t squeeze that trigger when the bullet hit him,” I said. “Pure luck.”

“You saved my life,” she said again. Then she hugged her husband, and together they went up the stairs, holding tightly to each other.

The truth, as I was keenly aware, was that if Khadr had killed her, I would have had to live with it. Not that I had a lot of choice, but still… No one can say that I don’t have my share of shithouse luck.

I got into Winchester’s liquor pretty hard. Four cops stayed behind, sitting in patrol cars in the parking area, just in case. I looked out a window at the cars being covered with snow and thought savagely that Khadr could have killed them all in fifteen seconds.

Blood, murder, butchery. For the greater glory of Allah.

After three drinks I lay down on the couch and went to sleep. When I awoke the power was back on, the sun was somewhere above the overcast, the wind had died, six inches of snow covered the ground and I had a raging headache. I felt as if I had been scalped. The police cars were still in the parking area.

I had a Bloody Mary for breakfast.

Sooner or later, I was going to have to get a real life.

Sooner or later.

Three uneventful days later we flew to New York on a government executive jet. Police escorted us to the airport for the short flight. Since the attack on Winchester’s estate, I had avoided Marisa and she had avoided me, but somehow we ended up side by side on the jet. At one point she murmured, “I’m sorry, Tommy.”

I pretended I didn’t hear.

From outward appearances, Callie had recovered from her ordeal. I knew that getting that close to the abyss at the hands of an assassin or maniac leaves wounds that only time can heal, but I didn’t speak to her about it. I figured she had Jake Grafton, and who better? What could I possibly say other than a few meaningless, trite phrases?

Callie sat with her daughter, Amy, on the plane, and they held hands. Maybe Amy understood.

The Walden Hotel on Fifth Avenue was really hopping when we arrived. Secret Service agents were as thick as fleas on a camel. Everywhere you looked you saw guys and gals with strange bulges in their clothing talking into their lapels.

They took us to rooms on the fifteenth floor. I gave the bellboy a five-spot for putting my bag in the room, then adjusted the Colt on my hip and headed downstairs to check things out. Grafton had already beaten me to the lobby. He gave me a pass on a chain, which I was supposed to dangle around my neck. He already had his on.

“All the cool people are wearing these this year,” he said, which startled me. Grafton doesn’t often try a funny, and when he does it is so unexpected that it jolts you. I managed a smile.

Standing there in the cavernous lobby of the Walden, surrounded by people bustling about, he looked me in the eyes. “You did the right thing in Connecticut,” he said. “Just wanted you to know that I know that.”

“Could have come out differently.”

“It could have come out a dozen different ways, all of them bad and all because Khadr was there to do murder. You used your best judgment, you acted when others might have hesitated, so Khadr’s dead and Callie’s alive. Thanks.” He reached for my hand and pumped it while he gave me one of those Grafton grins.

I was embarrassed—he could see that—so we left it there.

From his hip pocket he produced a program. “This is how this thing is supposed to go. There will be precisely one thousand thirty-nine people in attendance tonight, including you and me. The staff has been vetted; the place will be brimming with law. Everyone will be seated and the doors will be closed when the president and other politicos make their entrance. They’ll go directly to the dais, and Senator Isner will make the welcoming remarks, which will last no more than two minutes.

Then the staff will begin serving the meals. The president is scheduled to speak after dinner.”

“So none of the diners will get a chance to get close to the man?”

“Oh, no. They all will. Sal Molina tells me that the president will mix and mingle during dinner, pressing the flesh. He will visit every table and shake every hand. These people paid ten grand a chair for the right to say hi to the president and be photographed doing it, so he’s going to give them their money’s worth.”

My eyebrows started dancing.

“I know, I know. Everyone on the attendance list is a big political donor, a spouse or kid or friend of a donor. The list was finalized weeks ago, and the FBI and Secret Service have worked their heinies off vetting these people. To get in, everyone has to go through a metal detector and produce a photo ID. Absolutely no one will be admitted who isn’t on the list or whose ID doesn’t match his face.”

“Okay.”

“The feds have gone over this hotel with a fine-tooth comb. They’ve vetted the kitchen staff, there will be agents in the kitchen watching the food prep and the kitchen staff has to sample every dish before it comes out into the dining room. There will be at least twenty agents in the dining hall.”

“What’s on the menu?”

“Chicken Cordon Bleu.”

“That’s chicken with cheese in it, right?”

“I think so.”

“I hate that stuff.”

“When the president finishes speaking, he’ll leave first, escorted out by a squad of agents, go by motorcade to the airport and leave for Washington on Air Force One. The motorcade into and out of the city is in the hands of the NYPD and Secret Service. They tell me it will be tight as a tick. They’ve even had men in the storm drains on the streets the motorcade will use, checking for bombs. The motorcade is out of our hands.”

“If Abu Qasim is going to do it, it’ll be here,” I said. “With Marisa watching.”

“I think so, too,” Grafton murmured. He took a deep breath and continued. “The organizers are filming everything for use in campaign ads. So, yeah, it’ll be here, so afterward the networks will broadcast it and the faithful all over the planet can see the power of al-Qaeda and Allah.”

“Got any ideas how he’ll do it?”

“I was hoping you might have.”

I shrugged. “Gas, bomb or bullet. Or polonium.”

“Geiger counters in the kitchen and at the entrances to the room. Anyone radioactive will get a bum’s rush to an isolation room.”

“Maybe nothing will happen,” I said hopefully.

“Maybe,” Grafton said, but I could see he didn’t believe it. I didn’t, either.

“I want you to escort Marisa. Stick to her like glue.”

“Okay.”

“Use your best judgment.”

I thought about that for a moment before I said, “Okay, boss.”

About that time a Secret Service type walked up, a chiseled hard-body who could have made a nice living on Madison Avenue posing for ads, and spoke to Grafton. “Your call from Russia is waiting in the command center.”

Grafton slapped me on the arm and went off with the agent. I wondered what that was all about. A million possibilities leapt to mind, too many to process.

I went into the dining room—my pass worked like a charm—looked at all the tables and the raised podium where the guests of honor were going to sit, even peeped under the table where the president was going to sit while three Secret Service agents watched. Didn’t see anything, felt like an idiot, so I wandered out and let the pros have it.

Since it was getting on toward lunch, I put my pass in my pocket, left the hotel and went walking. Ended up heading for a pool room I knew on Seventh Avenue, where I had two hot dogs with mustard and sauerkraut, washed it down with beer and played some pool with a guy who tried to hustle me. My heart wasn’t in it. I could feel the minutes ticking away, couldn’t get my mind off Qasim and Marisa. I lost twenty-two dollars, told the guy he was too good for me and left.

I strolled the streets, thoughts tumbling over themselves in no particular order. I still hadn’t figured out Qasim and Marisa’s relationship, and I knew that I was flat running out of time.

Maybe I should go back to the hotel and have a real heart-to-heart with Marisa. But what could I say to break through her defenses and get to that place she really lived?

The possibility that she was the one who was supposed to kill the president kept cropping up. Suppose she was the assassin and all this craziness and murder had been just an elaborate setup?

What if Abu Qasim managed to kill the president? That would be the ultimate terror strike, a blow at America that would have profound, unpredictable, seismic implications. The stakes were enormous, beyond calculation. Qasim knew that… and so did Grafton, and the president, and Sal Molina and Wilkins and Goldman and all the rest.

I hoped Grafton had this figured out, because I certainly didn’t.

I walked and walked, waiting, watching the hands of my watch sweep ever so slowly and relentlessly around the dial, ticking off the minutes toward Armageddon.

Abu Qasim worked carefully on his makeup before the mirror, taking his time, inspecting himself frequently. The goatee was glued firmly in place. He put wads of cotton between his teeth and cheeks to fill them out, altering the appearance of his face.

When he finished, he inspected his handiwork and compared that to the photo on his New York driver’s license. Yes, he was once again Samuel Israel Rothstein.

He put on his tux, dressed carefully, inspected every button and zipper. When he was finished, he scrutinized himself in his full-length mirror. Satisfactory.

He checked his watch. He had plenty of time. The hired car would pick him up in an hour. He had used this car service before, so they knew his address and knew him. He didn’t want to be early, but he also didn’t want to be late. Entering the hotel ballroom with the main stream of people was the best way to minimize the scrutiny he would receive at the security checkpoints.

The enormity of the undertaking before him left him with a clarity of mind he found startling. All the extraneous thoughts, cares and concerns were as if they had never been. He wasn’t hungry, wasn’t thirsty, wasn’t nervous. He was ready.