Liars & Thieves

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I awoke on Jake Grafton’s couch during the night, with the wind sighing around the eaves of the beach house. I could also hear the occasional car or truck passing on Route 1, which was only a block west. When the wind was from the east you heard surf; from the west, traffic. Looked at my watch. Almost 2:00 A.M. I tossed and turned a while, then gave up and went outside to sit on the stoop.

The evening news, which I had watched on television before crashing on the couch, spent half the show’s airtime on the upcoming political convention at the Javits Convention Center in New York. The drama was over who would be the president’s choice for VP. The president would run the convention, of course, through the head of his reelection campaign, Dell Royston, who would be dug in like a spider in a hole at the New York Hilton.

Sitting on the stoop, I tried to remember what I had seen in my two or three visits to the Hilton, certainly not New York’s newest or flashiest, yet according to rumor one of the largest hotels east of Las Vegas. I had been in the lobby just last year — I think I went in to give the jewelry store a once-over — and could remember the high ceiling and plush carpets. The decor was modern, or rather, modern opulent. The architect must have been given his orders: Make it “with it” and “worth it.” He had done his darndest.

I closed my eyes and enjoyed the wind playing with my hair.

I must have dropped off to sleep, because the next thing I saw was Jake Grafton passing under a streetlight, walking toward me from the beach. He came up to the stoop, stopped and looked me over, then said, “Got room for another bottom on that thing?”

“Sure, Admiral.” I patted the boards beside me. “Park your fanny.”

I glanced at my watch when he turned his back to sit. 2:36 A.M.

“You staying up late or getting an early start?” I asked.

“Goncharov went out for a walk. I followed along just to see that he didn’t get lost. He’s right behind me now.”

Even as he spoke, I saw the Russian stroll into the light of the streetlamp. He walked toward us in no particular hurry, nodded when he saw us, and climbed the stairs. I gave him room. He went inside and we heard his tread on the stair.

“He’s having it rough,” the admiral said. “I heard him pacing the floor, then finally he went out.”

“Think he’ll ever be able to remember anything?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he said. After a bit he added, “Then again, maybe not. His memories won’t be good.”

The image of Sal Pulzelli came to mind. “I know how he feels,” I muttered.

Changing the subject, I asked, “How many guys are out there tonight?”

“Two. They are on twelve-hour shifts. Twelve on, twenty-four off.”

“Aren’t they getting tired of doing nothing?”

“Hell and high water couldn’t pry them off this house. Sarah Houston said that Royston hired a guy. He uses a false name and she isn’t certain, but she thinks he’s Stu Vine. I passed that to them.”

I whistled softly. Stu Vine! This was getting serious. I had never met the man and hoped I never would, but he was reputed to be the best killer on the planet. The CIA used him occasionally to go after agency defectors. Rumor had it that Vine was a sniper by trade, although he had been known to use a pistol, knife, and poison on occasion. Apparently he wasn’t prejudiced.

“I thought he was dead,” I said softly, so softly that Grafton almost missed the comment. I was slightly ashamed the words came out so muted. It was almost as if I were afraid that Stu Vine would hear me.

“Anybody could use that name,” Grafton said dismissively. “Sarah could be wrong. That would be the first time in several years, but it’s bound to happen someday.”

“Didn’t Vine get caught by the Iraqis a few years ago?”

“I’ve heard that,” Grafton said, and waved dismissively. “Vine or anyone else — doesn’t matter. They’re human. Just use your head, take commonsense precautions.” Apparently he thought that advice was all I needed. I hoped to Christ he was right.

He rose, said, “Good night!” and passed through the door. I heard him climbing the stairs to bed.

The nightmares began whenever Mikhail Goncharov dropped off to sleep. The scenes of horror and anxiety that ran through his mind were becoming more severe. Blood, bullets, betrayal, the smiling faces of venal men… He couldn’t sleep for more than a few minutes before he began thrashing and awoke sweating and trembling. He climbed from the bed and sat in the stuffed chair that faced the window.

The walk on the beach hadn’t helped. He was sure it wasn’t this beach that he saw in his memory, the beach he and the woman had walked… so many times. The woman, he had loved her. But who was she?

“Who am I?” He asked the question aloud. Callie Grafton had told him his name, but it meant nothing. “Who am I?”

I was getting jumpy. After the week I’d had, perhaps it was inevitable. As I made coffee I listened to the television news on the small set the Graftons had on the kitchen counter. According to “sources,” the president was going to choose a woman to run as VP for his second term. That wasn’t exactly a scoop. The pundits had been speculating that he might for six months; the announcer was tossing around names when Jake Grafton came downstairs.

He mumbled something polite, then got a coffee cup from the cupboard and poured a dash of milk in it while he waited for the coffee to drip through.

“Have you figured out where you want to go from here?” he asked me.

“Yeah. Any country in the world that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S. I’m thinking of leaving this afternoon, maybe go through Europe so I can have the once-in-a-lifetime thrill of watching Dorsey O’Shea and her boyfriend yacht by the French Riviera. Maybe she’ll wave at me.”

“I doubt it.”

“So do I.”

When we were both sipping coffee he said, “Why don’t you drive up to New York today and check out the New York Hilton? Make sure you’ll have what you need and enough help and backup.”

“Okay.”

We tried out our new cell phones — called each other — and that was about it. I kept waiting for Grafton to give me some insight, but if he had some he wasn’t sharing.

When I had showered and shaved and gotten myself togged out in clean clothes, I came back downstairs for a last cup of coffee. Callie and Goncharov were seated at the kitchen table nattering in Russian. I exchanged remarks with Callie — boy, what a nice lady she is — nodded at Goncharov, who actually noticed me and nodded back, then marched for the door.

I’d like to have a woman sorta like Mrs. Grafton in my life. Cool lady, classy, smart, understanding, loyal, tough, kind, considerate…

A woman like Anna Modin. As I drove toward Lewes and the ferry that would take me to Cape May, I thought about Anna, wondered where she was, what she was doing. I met her last year when she came to the United States to deliver a message for a Russian spymaster. The message consisted of computer disks that showed how terrorism was being financed through Cairo and who was putting up the money, but that’s beside the point. Grafton put me to work as Anna’s bodyguard. Best job I ever had.

Wish I still had it.

After I parked on the ferry, I abandoned the car and went upstairs to the top deck. From a vantage point near the men’s room, I watched the people coming up the stairs. I was looking for a familiar face — I’d seen a few of these killer dudes — or a figure that tripped the alarms. A man, perhaps, who was looking for someone. That someone would be me.

I waited until the ferry got under way and the folks all seemed to be on the upper deck, then I went down the stairs and walked along the car deck looking to see who might be waiting in their car. Didn’t see any men the right age with the hunter’s look about them.

Of course, the most dangerous men were the ones you didn’t see, even after they shot you.

I can’t let myself get paranoid, I thought. Can’t do my job if I’m frightened of everyone I see.

Nervous and unable to sit in the car, I climbed back to the observation deck. Gulls followed the ferry all the way across the mouth of the Delaware Bay to New Jersey. I watched people throw crumbs to the birds while thinking about Anna Modin.

Maybe I should jump a banana boat and permanently disappear. I had joked about it with Grafton that morning, but truthfully, it wasn’t a bad idea. If only I knew how to get in touch with Anna, by God, you could color me gone.

Rolling up the Garden State Parkway, I called Sarah Houston. “Hey, kiddo. This is your favorite fellow.”

That remark drew a long silence — well, two or three seconds, anyway.

“You know,” she said wearily, “that crack is so off the wall I can’t even think of a proper reply.”

“I have that effect on women. It’s a burden I’ve carried all my life. As it happens, I need your help with a project next week.”

“Like what?”

“Are those bad vibes I feel coming my way?”

“Every time I hear your voice my skin starts to crawl. What do you want this time?”

“Much better. Professional, brisk, matter-of-fact. I like that. I need some help with a little project at the Hilton in the Bad Apple.” I explained what I wanted.

She grumped some, but I could tell she was dying to help. You gotta know Sarah Houston pretty well to appreciate that fine, twisted mind. Unfortunately I knew her too well. I once made the mistake of suggesting that she leave her brain to medical science so they could study it after she’s gone.

This morning I managed to exercise a bit more tact, so we were still on speaking terms when I broke the connection.

The humidity made New York a steam bath. My shirt was glued to me by the time I got the car parked in a commercial garage a half mile from the Hilton. I left the Colt 1911 under the seat. I was just going to have to outrun anyone who wanted to take a shot at me. However, should you think I was just another yokel tourist, in my pocket I did have my traveling assortment of lock picks in an expensive leather wallet, just in case. I hung my sports coat over my arm and set forth upon the mean streets toward the Hilton.

The avenues and cross-streets were full of taxis, cars, and trucks, the sidewalks crammed with people; vendors hawked hot dogs, pretzels, and coffee on every corner — all in all, New York was a happening place. I heard snatches of four languages in one block.

I paused on the corner across the Avenue of the Americas from the Hilton and looked it over. Taxis pulled up in front, uniformed valets opened doors and assisted with luggage… and there wasn’t a uniformed policeman in sight. Nor did I see anyone who might be a federal officer.

What I did see were surveillance cameras mounted high on the corners of the buildings, focused downward. There were enough cameras to give complete coverage of the sidewalks all around the building, which took up an entire block on this avenue, and probably extended a hundred yards or so toward the avenue to the west. To the west of the hotel was the associated parking garage, a high-rise structure.

The building was at least forty stories tall, hermetically sealed with a glass and smooth metal exterior and windows that couldn’t be opened. It wasn’t much larger than those that surrounded it, so a listening post across one of the streets equipped with a laser or microwave to read window vibrations was technically possible.

I walked along the south side of the building until I came to the service entrance. It was equipped with an overhead door that was now open. Inside I could see three trucks at a loading dock. Beside the service entrance was the garage entrance, a ramp that led downward. No doubt there were four or five floors of parking under the hotel.

I continued westward along the south side of the building, found I would have to walk to the next avenue to circumnavigate the thing, and did so. On the north side was the employees’ entrance. A uniformed security guard was visible through the door at a guard kiosk. I watched for thirty seconds and saw two people enter. He checked their IDs, then let them pass.

Also on the north side of the building was a secondary entrance to the lobby. I climbed the steps and passed through the circular door.

The ground floor of the hotel reeked of slightly overdone moneyed elegance, which was about as I remembered it. There was the usual piano bar and café off the main floor, a kiosk that sold theater tickets, the main reception desk, a bell stand, a newsstand selling papers and toothpaste, and the pièce de résistance, a jewelry store gaudily displaying large diamonds and other baubles for the dirty rich. I lingered and gazed enviously into the display windows, which were wired to guard against a smash and grab. A surveillance camera inside the store was aimed right at me. By studying the reflections in the windows, I could see other surveillance cameras mounted high up in the corners of the lobby.

The denizens of this zoo were about what you would expect: Arab sheikhs, corporate captains, African dictators, embezzlers from Iowa, rich dowagers, and shapely young women with artificially enhanced chests. Here and there a normal person. And, of course, an occasional lowlife like me.

After an inquiry at the bell desk, I made my way to the employment office. There I met a young Hollywood starlet waiting to be discovered. I thought it unlikely she would be discovered here, passing out employment applications in the bowels of this huge pile of steel and glass, but if I found her others might also.

“I’ve waited for you all my life,” I told her, and gave her my most dazzling smile.

She lifted her head enough to see through her bangs as she handed me the employment application. She asked for my driver’s license. I surrendered it, and she copied it on the machine behind her, giving me an excellent view of her back half.

“We’ve waited for you, too, Mr. Winston,” she said, handing it back. “Unfortunately our corporate offices are all full just now, although in this frenzied age one never knows when there will be an opening. If you’ll take a seat and complete our application, we’ll call you when we need a new vice president.”

I flashed the grin again and took the indicated seat.