Wild Card

51

In his study, Stone and Dino had a good dinner of roast lamb and potatoes au gratin, then Stone’s phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Lance Cabot. I hope you’re well.” Lance was the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and he had had dealings with Stone and Dino on many occasions.

“Hello, Lance, and yes, I am.” He covered the mouthpiece. It’s Lance, he mouthed.

“Why don’t you put me on speaker, so Dino can hear me, too?” Lance asked. “It would save me a phone call.”

Stone pressed the button and set the phone on the table. “You’re on speaker, Lance.”

“Good. I wanted you both to know that we’ve received a photograph, apparently of a suspect, shortly before he was blown to pieces. Your people, Dino, asked for our help in facial identification, since our software is, ah, somewhat better than yours.”

“Thanks, Lance, we appreciate the condescension,” Dino said.

“Not at all,” Lance replied, unruffled. “We have identified your man as one Harod Avaya, born in Paris thirty years ago, last known residence, the Gaza Strip. I expect he was the gentleman who received the elegant briefcase over by the East River.”

“Good guess, Lance,” Dino replied.

“Mr. Avaya was a Palestinian activist from his late teens, and not much later, an assassin. About two years ago, he and a colleague, Avin, dropped out of sight and, apparently, took up assassination as a trade, not to say an art, along with a third youth, one Rasheed Khan. Mr. Avaya and Avin Kayam had American passports issued on the same day in Paris, same year. They both listed the same New York City apartment as their residence. Through a further search, we have determined that Mr. Khan may also have received such a passport — under another name, so far unknown — at the same address.”

“It’s being searched as we speak,” Dino said, getting a little of his own back.

“My people, regrettably, assumed that the address was phony and did not bother to check it out.”

“How very useless of them,” Stone said.

“Quite.”

“And, Lance,” Dino interjected, “it was Mr. Kayam who was shot and killed by one of my officers this afternoon, outside Bloomingdale’s.”

“Ah,” Lance said. “Good to know. Have you made any progress investigating the murders of the two Swearingen sisters?”

“Yes, Kayam shot the wrong two women,” Dino said. “The real targets escaped and are now safe at Stone’s house.”

“That leaves our Mr. Rasheed Khan. What news of him?”

“We didn’t know he existed until you called, Lance,” Dino replied, “but you may rest assured we will turn our attention to him immediately.”

“Ah, good,” Lance said. “Have you anything on the person or persons who hired Mr. Kayam to kill the two women? I leap to the conclusion that it might be the Thomases, since a rather unflattering piece about them was in this morning’s Times.”

“We hold that view, too,” Dino said, “but I’m having trouble convincing the D.A.”

“Would a call from me help?” Lance asked.

“It couldn’t hurt,” Dino replied. “It might be good for the D.A.’s spine, if he learned that others besides the NYPD like the Thomases for the crime. Might it be that you folks have something on them that we don’t?”

“I very much doubt it,” Lance said, “but I’ll ask. I think that pretty much all of what we know of them — apart from what has appeared in the Wall Street Journal over the years — resides in the files that Stone procured from the Bianchi estate. We found those fascinating.”

“Thank you, Lance,” Stone said. “It’s a pleasure to have fascinated you.”

“You’re very welcome. Dino, we would be most grateful if your intelligence division could pass along any other evidence of the last of the Palestinian trio.”

“I promise to keep you informed,” Dino said.

“Then I bid you good evening, gentlemen. Raise a glass for me.” Lance hung up.

Dino was immediately on the phone to report the existence of a third member of the cell. He listened for quite a while, then hung up. “My people are combing through the trio’s apartment right now,” he said, “and they are finding absolutely zip. The place had been wiped down and vacuumed.”

“Then,” Stone said, “that must mean that the third member of the cell, Rasheed Khan, heard of the deaths of his two colleagues and abandoned the apartment.”

“Makes sense, since both incidents were all over the news. Oh, they found fragments of male clothing in the apartment building’s incinerator, all high-end designer stuff that could be bought on Madison Avenue.”

“Then business must have been good,” Stone said. “It might be interesting to ask your people to look into other recent homicides for a connection.”

“Why would it do us any good to know about connections?”

“Perhaps the Thomases have used them in the recent past.”

“Oh, all right,” Dino said, and made the call.

Rasheed Khan, aka Timothy Tigner, let himself into the backup safe house, an apartment in a brownstone in the East 60s, and checked it carefully for any sign of recent attention from anyone except himself and his two dead colleagues. He did not waste time grieving for them — as he hadn’t liked them much anyway — but he did hold a more professional grudge.

He had known that Harod would be meeting soon with Damien to receive the money due them, and he supposed Damien might have been reluctant to pay and, thus, found it more convenient to eliminate the contractees. That annoyed Tigner, down to his socks, and he resolved to do something about it.

It would have to be later, though, since he was exhausted from dealing with the threat of discovery, and he needed sleep. He carefully put away his clothes, took a hot bath, and climbed gratefully into bed.

Tomorrow, he would find a way to deal with the Thomases.

As soon as Stone was in bed, he got a call from Dino.

“What’s up?”

“That cell phone data card we found has yielded some results,” Dino said, “and so has the one from Avin Kayam’s phone.”

“I’m happy to hear it.”

“The three of them were talking to each other during the day.”

“Not a big surprise,” Stone said.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Dino said, then hung up.