Timothy's Game (45 page)

He awakes a little after noon, feeling grungy and tasting that onion from the bagel sandwich. So he brushes his teeth, showers, shaves, and pulls on fresh skivvies. Then he pops a beer, lights a cigarette, and eats two Mallomars.

He figures the action he suggested to the FBI man has a reasonable chance of success. It’s got surprise going for it, and if the guys on the roof and the guys on the street can coordinate, it should go like silk. If their timing is off, it could be the biggest foozle of all time.

What it requires, of course, is luck. Cone has seen perfectly plotted combat operations go awry because of accidents, breakdowns of equipment, or acts of God. Other rumbles, planned by wetbrains who didn’t know shit from Shinola about fighting a war, went off without a hitch because they had luck going for them.

He hopes Johnnie Wong has luck, or a lot of good men could get their butts shot off. Still, he reflects, that’s what they’re getting paid for, and if they don’t like the odds, they should get into another line of business—something a frontline grunt in Nam would have found a wee bit difficult.

He resolutely puts memories of that time and that place into the farthest, dimmest corners of his mind, and tries to concentrate on today’s trials and tribulations. He wishes Samantha wasn’t a thousand miles away. Not that he would ever ask her advice or cry on her shoulder, but her physical presence is spice in a world he finds flat and tasteless without her.

He wonders how he ever got diddled by the fickle finger of fate and ended up an investigator, prying into other people’s lives and sticking his nose into financial brannigans. Because, he ruefully admits, his own life is so dull. He’s living vicariously, and if it wasn’t for Cleo, he could go nights without speaking to a living soul—assuming cats have souls. And why not?

It’s that kind of a moony weekend, with a lot of reading, drinking, smoking, and pigging out on food that comes in plastic wrappers. Not a phone call, from Wong or anyone else, and his cabin fever is just about to drive him to a seizure of pub-crawling when his phone rings late Sunday night, and he kisses it for luck before he says, “Yeah?”

“It’s on,” Johnnie Wong says. “And if I sound whacked-out it’s because I haven’t slept for forty-eight hours. I can’t talk about it on the phone. You remember where I parked my car on Saturday?”

“Sure.”

“Can you meet me there at two-thirty?”

“I’ll be there. Anything I can do to help?”

“Pray,” Wong says, and hangs up.

Cone’s got about three hours to kill and figures it’s too risky to take a snooze; he might not wake up in time to witness the fireworks. So he spends a half-hour cleaning his S&W .357 magnum and oiling the ankle holster.

Since it’s going to be a night operation, he debates the wisdom of wearing a black turtleneck sweater and dark gray slacks. But then he realizes he’s just conning himself; he’s going to be a spectator, not a combatant, and his costume is of no importance. So he wears a navy blue T-shirt under the usual corduroy jacket, and stuffs his cap in the pocket.

He spends the last hour reviewing the plan again, trying to spot flaws. He can’t find any; the plot still looks good to him. If everyone does his job, and Lady Luck is smiling, Edward Tung Lee should be sleeping in his Fifth Avenue apartment by dawn.

He exits his building to find a low-hanging cloud bank over the city. If there are moon and stars up there, they can’t be seen—which Cone takes as a promising portent for night action. Also, there’s no wind to speak of, nothing strong enough to bother those cowboys rappeling down from the roof.

He drives the red Escort over to Chatham Square, finds a place to park on the Bowery, and walks back. Johnnie Wong is waiting for him. The FBI man is wearing camouflaged combat fatigues and looks unexpectedly bulky. Cone digs a finger into his ribs and feels the armor beneath the cloth.

“Bulletproof vest?” he asks.

“I hope so,” Wong says, grinning.

“Don’t tell me you’re flying off the roof?”

“Hell, no; I’m no bird. I’m leading the squad up the stairs after we blow the outside doors.”

“Then it’s going down like we said?”

“Pretty much,” Wong says. “With a few minor refinements. The guys going off the roof will be carrying Ingram Mark Tens. Plus stun grenades.”

“What are you carrying?”

“Old Faithful: a Thompson forty-five with drum magazine.”

“How do you blow the doors?”

“Our boffins have come up with a cutie. It’s a high-energy explosive made to look like a credit card, and just as thin. You slide it between the door and jamb, pull the friction snapper, and run like hell because it’s got a five-second fuse—if you’re lucky. Listen, I haven’t got much time so let me give you the scoop. We had to liaise with the NYPD, and in about fifteen minutes they’re going to close off Doyers Street at both ends with barricades and unlighted, unmarked police cars. They’ll position flatbeds at each end loaded with floodlights and searchlights. And portable generators, of course.

“Our combat control is on the roof of the building across the street from the Yubies’ headquarters. You get up there by going through a courtyard and climbing six flights of stairs. We’ve got men posted on every floor to keep tenants inside their apartments. Everyone’s connected by walkie-talkies—and let’s hope they work.”

“What about the guys on the roof of the United Bamboo building—did they get there okay?”

“No sweat. They’ve been up for about a half-hour now, moving around on felt boots so they don’t spook the bandidos downstairs. They report they’ve got their lines securely anchored—one around a chimney and the other two with grappling hooks. Time’s getting short; let’s go.”

Johnnie leads the way to Doyers, and they begin passing men in dark suits, some of them talking quietly into their radios.

“How many guys you call in on this caper?” Cone asks.

“Almost a hundred. The controller flew up from Quantico. He’s run operations like this a dozen times before. He’s got a good score, but he’s a bastard to deal with. It took me a while to persuade him to let you watch the action. After all, it was your idea.”

“I know,” Cone says. “But I’m just a lousy civilian.”

They go across a bleak courtyard, through the back door of a tenement, and climb the stairs to the top floor, where there’s an iron ladder leading through an opened skylight to a tarred roof. There are two brick chimneys and a number of vent pipes protruding from the roof. Cone spots a waist-high wall with a coping of slates facing Doyers Street.

There are five men up there. One has what appears to be a 4X5 Speed Graphic, another has a shoulder-mounted video camera.

“We’re recording all this for posterity,” Wong says dryly. “I’m not going to introduce you to anyone; they’re too tense for politeness.”

“Yeah,” Cone says, “I know the feeling.”

Two of the other FBI men are using their walkie-talkies. The fifth man, apparently the controller, is standing well back from the wall, hands jammed into his pockets. He’s staring up at the dark sky, his mouth half-open. Johnnie goes up to him, speaks a few words, and jerks a thumb in Cone’s direction. The controller turns to look, nods, then says something. Wong comes back to Cone’s side.

“Keep back from the roof edge until the action starts,” he says. “And no lighting matches, no smoking. Okay?”

“Sure,” Cone says. “Listen, I don’t want to put the whammy on this, but have you made plans for casualties?”

“Two ambulances and medical evac teams standing by on Mott Street. And paddy wagons. Only they’re buses. Well, I’ve got to leave now and get on station.”

“Look,” Timothy says, “do me a favor, will you? Remember that White Lotus shareholder list I showed you at my place? Someone copped it from my loft, and I think it was a United Bamboo picklock. When you get up to their offices, and this whole thing is winding down, will you take a look around and see if you can find it? I promised Chin Tung Lee I’d take good care of it. It’s confidential information.”

“Sure,” Johnnie says, “I can do that. See you soon, old buddy.”

“You bet,” Cone says.

Wong leaves, and the Wall Street dick reaches into his pocket for a cigarette, then pulls his hand guiltily away. He notices the five FBI men on the roof are inching closer to the wall overlooking Doyers Street. Cone inches right along with them.

The controller is holding what appears to be a stopwatch, big as an onion. He consults it and says quietly to his talkers, “Coming up to one minute.”

They murmur into their radios.

“One minute … mark,” the controller says in dullish tones.

The talkers repeat.

They all wait in silence.

“Forty-five seconds,” the controller says. His voice is sluggish. “Thirty seconds … twenty … ten … five, four, three, two, one. Go.”

The talkers begin shouting into their walkie-talkies. Everyone moves to the edge of the roof. They grip the wall coping, stare across the street.

Three men drop on lines from the top of United Bamboo headquarters. They rappel swiftly downward. They use leg kicks to keep themselves bouncing off the brick front of the building.

They come to a stop facing the third-floor windows. They smash the glass with their boots. They toss in grenades. The three explosions are almost simultaneous: one titanic
boom!

“Lights,” the controller says in his listless voice.

Searchlights and floods make day of night. The street is frozen in a harsh, greenish glare.

“Go with Unit Two,” the controller says.

Cone figures no one is going to send him to Leavenworth for smoking a Camel now. He lights up, leans over the wall, peers down.

One of the Yubie guards has run out into the street, is staring upward. The other has his back against the iron grille door. He’s fumbling at his belt.

Wong’s squad comes spilling out of tenement doorways. They rush the guards. Grab them. Johnnie works at the iron grille. Motions everyone back, then ducks away. Sheet of flame brighter than the floodlights. Sparks. The grille hangs crazily from one hinge.

Same thing with the inner door. It’s blown completely inward. The attackers cram into the entranceway, Wong leading.

Now the three rappelers have disappeared. They’re inside, through the shattered windows. Gunfire. Single shots. Then short bursts from automatic weapons.

“Unit Three,” the controller says stolidly.

Cone wonders if a reserve has been put on standby. It has. A dozen men come charging down Doyers. These are New York City cops, wearing helmets and flak jackets. Following them is a platoon of uniformed police who set up a cordon around the United Bamboo building.

More gunfire. A lot of it.

“Medics,” the controller mentions. Then: “Let’s go.”

He leaves first, climbing carefully down the iron ladder. Followed by his two assistants. Then the photographers who have been working steadily since the action started.

Cone lights another cigarette and follows them. By the time he hits the street, the small-arms fire is dwindling; just single shots or brief chatters of submachine guns.

An ambulance comes slowly up the street, siren growling. Cone stands in the doorway, watches the stretchers and body bags unloaded. Then an armored bus pulls up.

By this time every building on Doyers Street is lighted. People are leaning out windows; some have gone to their roofs for a better view.

The shooting stops. Cone lights another cigarette and realizes he’s got two going at once. He finishes the butt with quick drags and starts on the other.

Two FBI men come out of the United Bamboo building. They’re gripping Edward Tung Lee by the arms. His knees are buckling, but he can walk. They help him into the ambulance. Then more cops come out, FBI and NYPD. They’re herding a long file of prisoners, some dressed, some in pajamas and robes, some wearing shorts. All have hands clasped atop their heads. They’re stuffed into the bus. It pulls away; another takes its place.

Johnnie Wong comes out, helping to carry a stretcher. The supine body is covered to the chin with a blanket. A medic walks alongside, holding a plastic bag high, the connecting tube disappearing under the blanket.

The ambulance pulls away. A second comes purring up. Wong stands dazedly, looking around. The Thompson dangles from one hand.

Cone crosses the street, goes up to him.

“Johnnie,” he says gently.

The FBI man turns slowly to stare, not recognizing him at first. Cone knows the symptoms: shock, flood of adrenaline, postaction shakes.

“You okay?” he asks Wong.

“What? Oh, yeah, I’m all right. One of my guys caught it.”

“Ah, Jesus,” Cone says. “Bad?”

“I think so. It looked bad. Chiang Ho. He’s been with the Bureau almost ten years. A sweet man. Oh, God, what am I going to tell his wife?”

“Maybe he’ll make it.”

“No,” Wong said, “he won’t.” Then, savagely: “But I got the fucker who chilled him. We grabbed Edward Lee out of there—did you see?”

“I saw. It was a beautiful job, Johnnie.”

“I guess. Yeah, it was. It went real good. We’re taking everyone in. You know, after Chiang went down, I wanted to dissipate all those guys. I never felt like that before in my life. Not a nice feeling.”

“I know. But what the hell, you’ll get an ‘I love you’ letter from the Director for all this.”

“Maybe,” Wong says. “Hey, I found your fucking list. It was right on top of the desk in the office.”

He reaches into his fatigue jacket, pulls out the White Lotus computer printout.

“Thanks,” Cone says. “I owe you a big one, payable on demand.”

“I’ll remember that, old buddy,” the FBI man says. “Keep in touch.”

By all rights, he should zonk out the moment he hits the loft and sleep until late Monday morning. But he is too wired. Granted he has been a sideliner, not an active player in that raid on United Bamboo headquarters. But the tension and suspense have clutched him. He can still hear the controller’s phlegmatic “Go” and then the eruption of gunfire.

It takes a stiff vodka to soothe the jits, and by that time he’s concentrating on the remainder of the puzzle—the reason he was dumped into this mishmash in the first place.