Dead on Arrival

29

Oliver Lincoln sat on the patio of his Key West home, flipping through a copy of GQ, drinking iced coffee. The soothing burble of a nearby fountain — he liked fountains; he had three on his estate — added to his contentment. A feature on Italian tailors reminded him that he needed to contact Rubinacci and schedule a fitting. Spring was just around the corner, and he needed a few new lightweight suits. The Naples tailor was so busy that if he didn’t visit soon -

‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, Mr Lincoln.’

Lincoln looked up. It was Esperanza, his maid.

‘Mr Harris is on the phone. I know you said you didn’t want to be disturbed …’

‘You did the right thing, dear. I’ll take the call. Thank you.’

Lincoln was always polite to his domestic staff and he paid them well, and they, in turn, took very good care of him. Lincoln was not, however, happy that Harris was calling. Harris was a conduit, a human relay station, and the only reason he could be calling was because the client wanted to speak to Lincoln. And that meant Lincoln would have to leave his comfortable home and his lovely shaded patio with its bubbling fountain.

‘What is it, Harris?’ Lincoln said into the phone. He had no need to be polite to Harris.

‘At eleven-thirty,’ Harris said, ‘Prudential is expected to be at seventy, Amerigas at thirty-two, Johnson and Johnson at fifty-six, Credit Suisse at fifty-eight, and Chubb at ninety-seven.’

Harris worked for a national brokerage firm, and if by some fluke a law enforcement agency happened to note that either the client or Lincoln had called the firm — or was called by the firm — that wouldn’t be considered unusual. And whenever the client or Lincoln called Harris, they didn’t call Harris’s extension directly but went though a number used by the general public. And if someone happened to be tapping Lincoln’s phone, they would have heard Harris give reasonably accurate predictions for five stocks for a particular time of day, but the five stock prices given equaled a ten-digit phone number — 703-256-5897 — assigned to a public booth, and the time given was the time Lincoln was to call the number.

But connecting with the client was annoying. Lincoln would now have to drive to a public phone booth, making sure he didn’t use one he’d used before or one too close to his house. And finding a functioning phone booth was no easy matter. The other thing that irked him was that the client had the audacity to presume that Lincoln would just drop whatever he was doing and make the call at the time specified. Well, considering what he was being paid, Lincoln had to admit that wasn’t completely unreasonable.

He checked his watch. He had an hour and a half before he had to make the call. He took a shower and shaved, then dressed in fawn-colored linen-silk trousers, a whimsical Charvet sport shirt, and Spanish sandals. On his head he wore a white Borsalino straw hat and Persol sunglasses. He looked in the mirror and was delighted by his reflection.

Lincoln had been told before that he looked like a young Orson Welles. He was tall, six-three, and powerfully built. If he didn’t watch his diet he could become quite obese — as Orson had in his later years — but he did watch his diet. He had sleek black hair, a handsome, somewhat arrogant face, and sensuous lips — appropriate, he thought, for a sensuous man.

There had been some rather ferocious two-legged predators who’d made the mistake of thinking that Lincoln, a man with style, was easy prey. The predators no longer walked the planet, but Lincoln did — shod in Spanish sandals.

He left the main house and strolled to the converted carriage house where he stored his cars. Which should he drive: the Porsche, the Jag, or the Mercedes SUV? The Porsche, he decided. It was too lovely a day to drive anything other than a convertible. He drove slowly down the long driveway toward the main entrance to his property, admiring his yard as he drove, and then waited patiently for the gates to open. Oliver Lincoln was a patient man.

He found a phone booth on the beach, one that wouldn’t be too noisy, one where he could watch lovely young women walk by in their swimwear. At precisely eleven-thirty he made the call.

The client began speaking as soon as he answered the phone, before even confirming that it was Lincoln calling. Not only was that rude, it was also rather rash. The odds were high that Lincoln was the caller, but it was also possible someone could have dialed the number by mistake.

‘We may have a problem,’ the client said.

‘Really,’ Lincoln said, but he doubted that was the case. On the other hand, the client was not given to panic.

‘There’s a man,’ the client said. ‘He’s some sort of investigator who works for Congress. I’m not sure who he works for specifically, but he’s not a cop and he’s not very high up the food chain. However, he’s taken an abnormal interest in the … the recent events.’

‘Such as?’ Lincoln said.

‘He’s talked to the DEA twice about that idiot Cray.’

‘So?’ Lincoln said. ‘Cray is dead and the FBI — according to your sources — are happy with the explanation for his fingerprint.’

‘That may be, but I don’t like the fact that he’s asking questions at all.’

‘Is there anything else?’

‘Yes, he was the one who found the Capitol policeman’s body. He apparently went to his home to question him.’

‘But since the policeman’s dead, I still don’t see that we have a problem,’ Lincoln said.

‘He was also in Key West,’ the client said.

‘Oh,’ Lincoln said.

‘Yeah, I thought that might get your attention.’

‘What was he doing here?’ Lincoln said.

‘I don’t know. My source at Homeland Security just said he was down there.’

‘Why was he at Homeland Security?’

‘He was asking about the man from New York.’

The client meant Youseff Khalid, the man who had tried to hijack the shuttle from LaGuardia.

Lincoln didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he asked, ‘Is there something you want me to do, or is this call simply informational?’

‘I want you to do something. I don’t like this man’s … persistence. And there’s something else. I found out he was involved in wrapping up an espionage ring on the West Coast a while ago, but I couldn’t get any details on what his role was. His name was mentioned only once in the press; then it disappeared like he was never there. What I’m saying is, this guy might be some kind of heavy hitter and I can’t take that chance.’

‘But what do you want me to do exactly?’ Lincoln said.

‘Neutralize him in some way. Incapacitate him. I don’t care what you do, but do something to stop his meddling.’

‘I’m not sure that’s wise,’ Lincoln said. ‘You said he works for Congress. If somebody in the House assigned him to investigate, and if something were to happen to him, that could cause complications. All you have so far is a man without a badge asking questions, but he’s not getting any answers other than those we want the public to have.’

‘I don’t want to take the chance, not at this point,’ the client said. ‘Do something.’

Lincoln could refuse, but to refuse would reduce his income. ‘I think it’s going to take about two hundred thousand to do what you want done,’ he said.

‘That’s fine,’ the client said.

That was the one thing Lincoln liked about the client: there was never any quibbling over money.