Dead Silence

1

On a snowy January evening in Manhattan, I was in the Trophy Room of the Explorers Club when I saw, through frosted windows, men abducting a woman as she exited her limousine.

It wouldn’t have made a difference, but I knew the woman. She was Barbara Hayes-Sorrento -Senator Barbara Hayes-Sorrento-a first-term power-house from the west who had won the office once held by her late husband.

Well, not much difference. The senator was my dinner date for the evening. No romantic sparks, but I liked the lady.

It was six p.m., already dark outside. The Trophy Room was a cozy place. Fireplace framed by elephant tusks, maps of the Amazon scattered around, a mug of rum-laced tea within easy reach. I was the guest of an explorer who was also a British spy: Sir James Montbard. Friends called him Hooker because of the steel prosthetic that had replaced his left hand.

Hooker was a secondary reason for visiting New York. The primary reason was the hope of a new assignment from my old boss, a U.S. intelligence chief. Clandestine work sometimes requires a cover story. Friends sometimes provide it.

It was no coincidence that Barbara Hayes-Sorrento was free for dinner, or that my neighbor, Tomlinson, had been in the city until the day before, lecturing on “psychic surveillance” at an international symposium.

I had kept my social calendar high-profile, and I’d stayed busy.

Hooker and I had been planning a trip to Central America. He believed that warrior monks had sailed west in the 1300s, escaping with plunder from the Crusades. He said it explained why, two centuries later, the Maya believed in a blond, blue-eyed god, Quetzalcoatl, and so made a fatal mistake by welcoming the murderous Conquistadors.

I wasn’t convinced. But renewing contacts in Latin America was important now, so I’d agreed to join his expedition. This was our third night at the Explorers Club using its superb library.

When Hooker excused himself to freshen his whiskey, I stood, stretched and strolled to the window because it was snowing-a rare opportunity for a man from the tropics. I had an unobstructed view of the street below. It was 70th Street, a quiet one-way, two blocks from Central Park. It connects Park Avenue and Madison.

I could see Barbara Hayes-Sorrento as she got out of her car. She wore a charcoal coat, stockings and high heels. Her briefcase looked darker for the confetti swirl of snowflakes

The woman was leaning into a limo, saying good-bye to a fellow passenger, when a taxi rear-ended the limo. Not hard.

I knew that the passenger was a teenager she had mentioned earlier on the phone, a kid who’d won an essay contest and an escorted trip around the city. Something to do with the United Nations. Barbara had volunteered to meet him at the airport.

When Barbara jumped back, surprised, a man wearing coveralls and an odd pointed cap stepped to the driver’s door, blocking it. A smaller man grabbed Barbara’s shoulder. Her reaction was a warning glare.

The woman’s expression changed when the man didn’t let go. Barbara swung her briefcase but missed. It tumbled into the slush. Barbara tried kicking. One sensible black shoe went flying.

I was turning toward the stairs as the man began pushing her toward a taxi that had stopped in front of the limo. The woman’s lips formed a cartoon O of shock. Her mouth widened into a scream.

It was a silent scream. The building that houses the Explorers Club is one of the brick-and-marble tall ships from a previous century. Neither car horns nor a lady’s scream could pierce that elegant armor.

The club’s stairs are wooden. They creaked beneath my weight as I charged down the steps.

On the street, the few pedestrians watching probably thought Hollywood was filming a movie. But I’d noted the careful choreography that is the signature of a professional hit.

Taxi A blocks the narrow street. Taxi B rear-ends the limo but gently, sandwiching it. Things appear normal when men in coveralls rush to inspect the damage. But the men are not city employees. They are bagmen. Bag, as in bagging game.

The unfolding scene had registered on a subconscious level that is ever alert-me, the eager student of other professionals. I knew before I knew that a well-planned kidnapping was taking place.

As I charged down the steps, I calculated how many operators it would take to snatch a U.S. senator. Both taxi drivers, of course, plus a support crew. There also might be a shooter stationed atop a nearby building. Possibly atop the Explorers Club-it had six floors. And possibly more than one shooter, if it was a bag-and-tag operation.

Tag, as in coroner’s tag.

So there were at least four men, but maybe eight, presumably all armed.

On the bottom floor of the Explorers Club, near the stairs, is a world globe, museum-sized. On a nearby wall, I’d noticed a climbing ax from some Himalayan expedition. An ice ax, spiked at one end, a blade on the other.

I yelled to the desk attendant, “Where’s Sir James?,” as I pulled the ax from its mount, stumbled and nearly fell over the globe.

The attendant stared at me like I was insane. She pointed toward the rest-room, her lips moving to tell me, “Sir James is… unavailable.”

I told the woman to call 911. A United States senator was being abducted.