Choppy Water

46

Tom Blake was shown to his room and, before showering and changing, made a call. “What is your progress?” he asked.

“The manager at the hotel declined to cooperate until shown a search warrant,” the agent said. “It arrived ten minutes ago, and we are now in the suite.”

“How much time do you need?”

“Fifty minutes,” he said.

“Call the superintendent of the New Jersey state police, describe the two vehicles, and ask him to have his people stop and inspect half a dozen vehicles, among them the suspects’. Tell him this is at the request of the director and the attorney general.”

“Is that a fact, sir?”

“It will be by the time they are stopped. Goodbye.”

Tom called the director, made his case, got his approval, then asked him to call and alert the attorney general. He phoned his agent again. “You are now officially authorized. What is your progress?”

“We need another forty minutes,” the man replied. “Our equipment shows the vehicles twelve minutes out from the Lincoln Tunnel.”

“You’ll make it. You know, of course, that if Sykes twigs to your installation, you’ll be taken out and shot.”

“Of course, sir. If I fail, I’ll look forward to that.”

The group gathered downstairs for dinner in the dining room, prepared by Stone’s cook, Helene, and served by her husband, Fred.

“What news, Tom?” Bill Wright asked.

Tom looked at his watch. “Our suspect vehicles were delayed at the New Jersey end of the Lincoln Tunnel, where a number of cars were stopped and inspected. It cost them twenty minutes of travel time, so they should be arriving at the Lowell just about now.”

Bess was impressed that they were met at curbside by not just a bellman but the hotel manager, who greeted Sykes by name and rank. “We have a very nice suite for you,” he said, “and the young lady is nearby. We need ten minutes for the maids to finish. May I get you some refreshment?”

Bess asked for iced tea, and the colonel, bourbon, and they were steered to a seating area.

“I don’t like the delay,” Sykes said.

“Who does? This happens to me at least half the time when I’m traveling.”

“Well, it doesn’t happen to me,” Sykes said, sourly.

After five minutes the manager returned and walked them to the elevator and all the way to their accommodations.

Bess was put into a small double room next door to Sykes’s suite, with instructions to go there for a drink at seven. They would go out to dinner after that.

As soon as the bellman and the manager left, she began unpacking. There was a light rap on the door. She opened it to find an empty hallway, then she heard the rap again. She closed the door and went to another door, from whence the rapping was coming. She unlocked it, and the door was opened by a tall man in a dark suit.

“Ah, Special Agent Potter,” he said, pulling her into his room and closing the door behind her. “I’m Fisk.”

“Bess Potts, from here on,” she said, shaking his hand. “What preparations have you made?”

“His suite is wired to the gills, and shortly, so will you be.”

“You expect me to wear a wire?”

“No, I expect you to wear a string of pearls,” he said, opening a jewelry box and removing it. “They were your grandmother’s, except one is a microphone and quite undetectable. The antenna is what the pearls are strung on, and the receiver and transmitter are in the clasp.”

“How do I turn it on?” she asked.

He opened another box. “By squeezing an earring,” he said, showing her a pair, “in your right earlobe. Your grandmother’s, too.” He showed her the clasp of the necklace, and she put it on, then the earrings, each a pearl. “Try it.”

She squeezed the right earring and was surprised that it gave to her touch.

“Up and running,” another agent said, consulting his computer.

“How long are they good for?”

“Three to four hours,” he said, turning the gear off for her. “If he leaves you for a few minutes, turn it off and save the juice, but don’t forget to turn it back on.”

“Got it. I’ve got to get dressed.” She went back to her room and locked the door behind her. She heard it lock again from the other room.

She got into the only dress she had, changed her shoes, brushed her hair, and applied makeup lightly, then she put on the pearls and earrings. She turned them on and then presented herself at the door next to hers, using the knocker at seven sharp.

Sykes was wearing a suit when he admitted her. “How lovely you look,” he said. “And pearls!”

“They were my grandmother’s,” she said. “I wear them occasionally.”

One of Sykes’s men, Jimmy, stepped in from another room.

“Okay, Bess,” Sykes said. “Strip off.”

She returned a level gaze. “What did you say to me?”

“I said, take your clothes off. Jimmy’s got to check you for a wire.”

“You first,” she said, firmly. “Jimmy, too.”

Sykes glared at her. “Do as I say.”

“No,” she replied. “I don’t strip on any man’s command.”

“I can use the wand,” Jimmy said.

“All right,” Sykes replied, “use the wand.”

Bess pretended to scratch her ear and squeezed the right earring, turning off the receiver/transmitter. She spread her arms wide and allowed Jimmy to pass the wand over her entire body, including her crotch, then she put her hands down. “You’re done,” she said.

“Just your shoes to go,” he replied.

She held up each shoe for him to check. “Now,” she said, “who do I have to kill to get a drink?” Sykes turned toward the bar tray, and she squeezed the earring again, turning the wire back on. Her blood pressure was up, and she was panting slightly. She sat down and took a few slow, deep breaths, then resumed breathing normally. “So,” she said, “what does the evening hold for us?”

“Not much,” Sykes said. “Just changing American history.”

“Oh, I want to hear all about that,” she said cheerfully.