Wild Card

47

Ari Kramer and Annie Lee went to New Hampshire for the primary election and, late in the day, followed Senator Box around, closely enough that they could hear him speaking to people.

Box was all smiles, and the words Ari had written for him spilled from his lips, without hesitation or errors.

Annie spoke up. “Has it occurred to you that you may have created a monster?”

“More than once,” Ari replied, “but I haven’t seen the thing operate up close before.”

“Scary,” Annie said.

“That’s an excellent word for what I think. I’m tired of this. Why don’t we go back to the motel, order a pizza, and watch the returns on TV?”

“Ari,” Annie said, “I think you’re developing a wit.”

“How so?”

“That sometimes means when you make a remark that sounds perfectly ordinary, but it really means something else.”

They went back to the motel and did something else.

At eleven o’clock, their pizza devoured and their other desires met, they switched on the news.

A young woman faced the camera. “Tonight’s big news is that Senator Joseph Box has not only won New Hampshire’s Republican nomination for president but has won by twelve points over his rival. His victory is making national news, and Republicans everywhere are beginning to think they have a new contender for the presidency.

“And, to no one’s surprise, Secretary of State Holly Barker has won the Democratic primary by twenty-two points.”

There followed several clips of comments from as far away as California.

“I guess Mr. Smith is going to be ecstatic,” Annie said.

“William doesn’t seem to get ecstatic,” Ari said. “Nor does he get depressed. He just wants results for his money.”

“And he’s getting that in spades, isn’t he?”

As if on cue, Ari’s Skype alarm rang. He put a shirt on, turned the monitor away from the naked Annie, and logged on.

“Congratulations,” Smith said, in his usual monotone. The bandages were gone from his face, and he looked fairly normal.

“Thank you,” Ari replied. “Given the margin of his victory, we think he might do very well in other states, particularly Texas and Florida.”

“Please see that he does,” Smith replied. “Our group would be very pleased to see that happen. Good night.” He went off the screen.

“There,” Ari said. “That was William being enthusiastic.”

Harod Avaya sat on a park bench at the base of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. During his two years in New York he had begun to think of this as his favorite spot in the city.

Harod had been born thirty years before in Paris, son of Palestinian parents who had spoken Arabic at home and had moved back to the Middle East when he was twelve. They found themselves herded into Gaza, and there Harod had joined a youth group and had risen through its ranks. By the time he was nineteen he had been performing assassinations of Israeli military and intelligence commanders, and his life had become luxurious. He was being very well paid and had secured a new apartment for his parents. Then the commander of his unit was murdered by a man on a motorcycle, and Harod had begun to think that life there was getting too dangerous.

He spoke with two of his compatriots, with whom he had worked on a dozen killings, and he suggested to them that they might lead an even more luxurious life, and a safer one, by becoming independent contractors.

They procured documents from a forger who equipped terrorists of every stripe, and within a couple of months they found themselves in New York removing an Israeli member of a United Nations delegation from the earth. Other assignments came along, then he met Rance Damien through a shadowy contact. Damien had heard of him and believed he could offer them work. At the moment, Harod had four active contracts with Damien.

His phone rang, and he picked it up.

“They’re just leaving the Plaza Hotel, getting into a cab,” his colleague Avin said.

“Follow them and find a way,” Harod said.

“Yes,” Avin said and hung up.

While on the phone Harod checked his messages and found one from Damien, canceling his four contracts. He knew they would be paid anyway, but it disturbed him that four people worthy of assassination had escaped his hand, especially since he had worked so hard to complete the contract. Their first victim, though shot in the head in a thoroughly professional manner, had somehow survived, and now the Grant woman and her mother, whom they had tracked to a police safe house, were suddenly available for elimination. He thought about it, but he did not respond to the cancellation message.

A few minutes later, Avin called again. “They are at Bloomingdale’s,” he said, “and it’s very crowded. I can make it happen here.”

Harod thought for a moment. “Then make it happen,” he said.

Elena sat for a makeover in the cosmetics department, while Elise watched and took mental notes. Then her mother bought two hundred dollars’ worth of cosmetics, and they moved on, up the escalator to the designer shops.

They strolled into the Ralph Lauren department, and both found things they liked. The dressing rooms were all full, so they sat down among other women who were waiting, their arms full of garments to try on. Finally, a compartment became available, and they moved in to try on things. As Elise closed the door, a man walked past, not seeming to notice her. What was a man doing in a dressing area of a women’s department?

Elise called the store, asked for security, and reported the presence of the man.

“Don’t leave your compartment,” the officer said. “Someone is close by and on the way.”

She hung up and, while waiting, slipped into a wool dress that looked just great on her. A moment later, she heard two odd popping noises and running feet in the corridor outside, then screams.

Someone was shouting at someone else to stop. She opened the door a crack and could see a uniformed security guard in the room just opposite hers. She could also see two women, lying on the floor of another compartment in a pool of blood.

Elise pushed her mother back into their room, leaned on the door, and called Joan Robertson. “Get dressed, Mother,” she said as the phone rang.

“Hello, Elise,” Joan said.

“Stone said we were in the clear, so we went shopping,” Elise said.

“Yes, all is well.”

“No, all is not well! We’re at Bloomingdale’s, in a dressing room at the Ralph Lauren shop upstairs, and two women across the hall from us have just been shot.”

“Stay where you are,” Joan said. “Don’t move.”

“Forget that. We’re getting out of here, and now. Come on, Mother!”