Once A Spy Part 7

'Let's save the trouble and pretend I've now asked, Who sent you?' ad nauseam, and endured all your variations of Sent me where?' and Why, n.o.body sent me anywhere, darling,' with you looking at me all the while like I've spent too much time in the wine cellar, shall we?'

'Okay, but I still won't know what you mean.'

'All right, stick with that tack. I'll counter with a threat. But first, so you won't think it's an idle threat, let's broach for the first time the topic of what I do for a living. Alice, what do I do for a living?'

'You hunt for buried pirate treasure.'

'Sometimes I do, yes. But have you ever thought about buried pirate treasure?'

'How should I think about it, Nicky?' She was playing along as though he were a seven-year-old.

He resolved to keep his emotions out of it. 'Say you're a pirate. What sense would it make for you to take your treasure, which likely came at the sacrifice of lives and limbs, and dump it into an unguarded hole in the ground on a remote island you might never be able to find again?'

'What about the treasure of San Isidro?' she asked. His well-publicized search for the legendary pirate h.o.a.rd was into a seventh month.

'Actually, the treasure of San Isidro is the maritime equivalent of an urban legend.'

'How about your gold escudos, then?' He'd supposedly found the cache after weeks of searching along the Argentine coast. News photographs showed him neck deep in a hole on a beach, holding one of the coins aloft, its gleam matching the one in his eyes. A neophyte collector, Sheikh Abdullah bin Zayed al Saqr, bought the lot for six million dollars.

'I suspect you already know this, Alice*or whatever your name really is*but in case the brief you were given glossed over it, the truth is that the authenticity of the coins was questionable at best. Al Saqr knew that and didn't care. Because the coin deal was really a cover for * what, you tell me.'

She looked away to hide her anguish. 'Of course I've heard the rumors.'

He stopped pacing, waited for her to look, then locked eyes with her. 'Ever hear the one about Nick Fielding, illegal arms dealer?'

'Look, if that's the case*' She was embarking, he suspected, on an explanation of how she'd made her peace with it.

'It's the case,' he said. 'Moreover, as a dealer in illegal arms, one has to be ruthless, probably to a psychotic extent, though I'm probably an exception*then again, what psychopath thinks he's a psychopath? In any event, I had a man keelhauled recently. Know what that is?'

'I don't think I want to.' Her eyes pooled with tears.

'Sorry, you've got to. Keelhauled' means dragged under a ship's hull so you drown, if you're lucky. Otherwise you're shredded by barnacles and whatnot. It would've been easier for me to put a bullet through the guy's head, of course; the keelhauling was something of a public relations move.'

Weakly, she asked, 'Are you going to keelhaul me?'

'Are you going to tell me who sent you?'

'Nicky, please, I*' Her voice broke into a sob.

'Then what good would keelhauling you do? You wouldn't be able to tell me who sent you.'

'I wouldn't be able to tell you regardless. I haven't the first clue even why you think someone sent sent me.' me.'

'How about the night on the Malecon, when the Blackbeard look-alike said, What's a matter, puta puta, you too good for us?' First, the script was laughable. And how about the way he delivered the line a second time, just in case I missed it the first time because of the loud waves? Also, my dear honey trap, your hair was, and remains, red*my weakness for which is widely known. Now, before you accuse me of being vain, know I've done some homework. You claimed to be the only child of parents now deceased. You said you had an idyllic upbringing in Chiswick in West London, and you fled a tedious a.s.sistant solicitor's life in Bristol to study marine biology in the Bahamas. And your story held water, as it were. Whoever sent you did a bang-up job on your legend, if that's the right term. Probably you're one of those spooks with the single-mindedness of a mountaintop monk; you can set your real life aside for months at a time. Still, you're human, which means you can't entirely extinguish your feelings for your real life. I'm willing to wager that that will be so in the case of Jane.'

Alice looked at him as though 'Jane' were some strange-sounding word from the language of the indigenous Carib tribe.

She ought to have been curious which Jane he meant, though, for surely she knew several, let alone her de facto G.o.ddaughter.

'Poor play,' he said. 'You're masking your apprehension that I mean the little girl in South Yorkshire with pigtails the color of sunshine, who, on Christmas morning, opened an airmail package sent from this neck of the planet and delighted in its contents, a radio-controlled mermaid.' He was certain this detail would get a rise out of her.

She didn't blink.

Could he be wrong about her?

'Well, then, that brings us to the evening's threat,' he said. 'Note the FedEx pouch over there on my desk. It arrived earlier from the UK, sent by a fellow limey of yours known as the Knife'*trite, sure, but if anyone deserves the moniker, it's him.'

He strolled to his desk, automatically checking his computer screen for new e-mails. Nothing. Then he took up the sealed pouch. 'This contains the pinky finger from Jane's left hand, removed late yesterday afternoon at the Rotherham rail yard, where she was found in what was believed to be a state of shock.' Fielding disliked having had to dispatch the Knife to South Yorkshire yesterday to chloroform and butcher an innocent child, but he believed it was for the greater good. 'As you may know, Jane had been warned repeatedly against playing with the feral dogs there. The dogs are currently viewed as the culprits. Now, unless you tell me who sent you, the dogs' will revisit Jane and tomorrow's pouch will contain*' Fielding stopped himself.

Alice had broken, though without the sobbing one would have expected based upon her maudlin performance to this point. 'Fine,' she said with the nerve of a different person altogether. 'I'll tell you the truth. You're right. I was sent here by MI6.'

'Okay, okay, good,' Fielding said, preoccupied. What had caused him to stop himself mid-threat was the winged envelope icon that popped onto the computer screen, sent by one of his fellow members of Korean Singles Online. 'I just need to take five, Allie. Hector and Alberto will take you up to your room. I've just received some, er, news of the hunt.'

As soon as the two hulking servants led her out, he clicked open his message from Suki835. 'Howdy, Cowboy232,' the text began, then launched into the movies and music she favored.

He scrolled to the important part, her photograph. She had a plump, round face; pleasant eyes; and an effortless smile. She couldn't really weigh just 110, unless five four was the fib.

He moused to her silver left earring and magnified it several hundred times over, until he could read the text on the overlaid digital dot. Decrypted, it was indeed 'news of the hunt,' but not the hunt for the treasure of San Isidro as he had implied: hounds lost rabbit and rabbit, jr., at utica and fillmore in bklyn at 00:35. rabbits driving ny daily news delivery truck north on utica. will unleash addl hounds asap.

Not good news, Fielding thought, but nothing to lose sleep over. How far could a feebleminded old man and a ne'er-do-well gambler get?

3.

Charlie wrung another mile out of the beleaguered Hippo. When it felt like the truck was about to collapse into a pile of spent parts, he pulled into a down-market strip mall. The businesses*a supermarket, a carpet wholesaler, and five or six smaller stores*were all dark, save a few red exit signs and a display counter someone probably had forgotten to switch off. another mile out of the beleaguered Hippo. When it felt like the truck was about to collapse into a pile of spent parts, he pulled into a down-market strip mall. The businesses*a supermarket, a carpet wholesaler, and five or six smaller stores*were all dark, save a few red exit signs and a display counter someone probably had forgotten to switch off.

He nosed the truck behind Sal's Cheesesteak Hut, a trailer painted to look like a giant hoagie. It sat on cinder blocks at the rear of the crumbling lot. Between the broken windows, graffiti, and garbage strewn all around, it appeared Sal had served his last steak years ago.

'I think it's closed,' Drummond said.

'I like it anyway,' Charlie said, 'because it's big enough to hide this monster from the street, and it's just a block from here to the subway.' He pointed to the elevated track, where a subway train was snaking toward the station. After midnight, the trains ran fifteen to twenty minutes apart. 'We should hustle.'

'Why the subway?'

Charlie jumped out of the truck. 'I'm thinking, until we can figure out our next move, we'd do well to hide in Manhattan, where there are ten million people, as opposed to here, where it's pretty much just you and me.'

Drummond remained in his seat. 'Why don't we drive?'

There were too many bullet holes in the truck to count*the light streaming through them and into the cab resembled pickup sticks in mid-toss. Much of what had been the windows lay in fragments on streets between Fillmore and here. The rear tires were ribbons. Hurrying around the hood, Charlie left it at, 'The truck's hot.'

'I meant why don't we get a car,' Drummond said.

'There's about a zero chance of even seeing a taxi around here now.' His patience evaporating, Charlie yanked open Drummond's door.

'Our own car, I mean.'

Charlie took Drummond by the elbow to help him from the truck. Or pull him if need be. 'You really think it would be a good idea to go back to Prospect Place right now and get your Oldsmobile?'

'No, hot-wire a car here.'

Charlie wavered between wonder and skepticism.

Of his own volition, Drummond slid to the pavement. 'There have been weeks I changed cars more often than underwear,' he said.

His delivery was sluggish, his eyes were overcast, and his shoulders were stooped. But if Alzheimer's sufferers retained the finer points of driving a car, Charlie thought, why shouldn't he remember how to steal one?

Light towers, one at each corner of the parking lot, transformed the area into an illuminated stage to pa.s.sing motorists, of whom there were two or three per minute. Charlie weighed this against a mental image of transit cops and token booth clerks in all five boroughs currently scrutinizing his photograph. 'Okay, why not?' he said.

Scattered around the lot were eleven cars and a van. Drummond pressed his face against the driver's window of the first car he came to, a late-model Chrysler sedan. With a dismissive nod, he left it behind. Same with the Kia coupe three spots down.

'Something the matter with them?' Charlie asked.

'I would need the ignition keys.'

This disclosure coincided with the subway train's departure from the station. Charlie's stomach sank the same way it did when a horse he'd bet heavily fell hopelessly behind right out of the gate.

The subway fled his thoughts at the sight of the police cruiser rounding the corner. He heaved himself behind the driver's side of the Cherokee that Drummond had moved on to inspect. Drummond made no move to conceal himself; he remained standing by the driver's door and watched the cruiser. Which was what an innocent man would do, Charlie realized*too late. He was in the process of tackling Drummond.

They became a tangle of limbs on the icy asphalt. At least they were hidden from the cruiser as it zipped past.

'Sorry, I got a little carried away,' Charlie said. 'You okay?'

'I'm fine, thank you,' Drummond said. 'This one's no good either.' He tapped the Cherokee with the newspaper he'd brought with him from the truck, presumably to read during the ride to Manhattan.

'You remember saying you could hot-wire a car, right?'

'Yes, yes, of course. But if the ignition barrel is encased in the dash, as it is on the newer models, it's much more difficult.'

Before Charlie could ask what an ignition barrel was, Drummond was on his way to what had to be a suitable candidate, a boxy gray Buick from the days before anyone knew what 'mpg' stood for.

Trying and failing to open the doors, Drummond dropped out of sight behind the hood. 'An interesting piece of information is that locks with retinal scanners make exponentially fewer errors than iris scanners,' came his voice. 'There's no technology that allows the forgery of a human retina, you see. Also, if you kill a man, you can't use his retina, because it begins to decay immediately.'

Charlie felt like crying. 'So you're saying the lock on this car has a retinal scanner?'

'No, it's just an interesting piece of information, that's all.' Drummond reappeared, having dislodged a softball-sized chunk of cement from the crumbling tire-curb. He flattened his Daily News Daily News over the back window on the Buick's driver's side, and hammered it with the cement chunk. The newsprint protected him from the spray of gla.s.s and blunted the sound*allowing Charlie to hear the yelp of brakes a few blocks away. over the back window on the Buick's driver's side, and hammered it with the cement chunk. The newsprint protected him from the spray of gla.s.s and blunted the sound*allowing Charlie to hear the yelp of brakes a few blocks away.

Had one of the cops thought twice about the unusual shadow movements he'd seen in the mall parking lot?

Sure enough, Charlie heard the garbled chatter of a police radio. Growing louder. It curdled his blood more than the siren would have.

'We have to go,' he said. 'Now!'

'I'm with you,' Drummond said.

Charlie sprang toward the dark delivery alley between the supermarket and the carpet store. A trickle of streetlight at the far end promised a way out.

Hearing only his own footfalls, Charlie spun around. Drummond still stood by the Buick. Reaching into the gap he'd created, he opened the driver's door.

Charlie rushed back, intent on dragging him to the alley. Drummond dove past him, into the Buick, landing p.r.o.ne on the front seat. He flipped onto his back, snapped off the base of the ignition barrel, plucked two reds from the tangle of wires, touched their ends together, and brought the husky engine to life.

Scrambling into the pa.s.senger seat, he said, 'Charles, we have to go, remember?'

Charlie shook off his astonishment*he could do nothing about his fright*and hurried into the driver's seat.

He shot the Buick down the alley, and, at the far end, turned out onto the street just as the police cruiser bounded into the strip mall parking lot. Again, he only heard the cruiser.

Driving away, he said to Drummond, 'I'm impressed that you didn't have to change your underwear every time every time you changed cars.' you changed cars.'

4.

'For now, the flooding appears to be under control*'

Charlie switched off the car radio. A water main break in Canarsie was the night's biggest news. No cabdriver murder story, no mention of the flight of the Clarks, nothing about traffic delays due to police blockades.

Nor was there sign of such blockades. The practically vacant Williamsburg Bridge stood just a block down Driggs Avenue. On the other side blazed Manhattan in all of its immensity and raucousness*a sanctuary, in Charlie's mind. Still his eyes bounced from mirror to mirror. The rest of him was as tense as rigor mortis in antic.i.p.ation of police cars or, worse, a teal car.

Slouched in the pa.s.senger seat, Drummond registered little response to the radio or much else. His eyelids appeared weighted down.

Suddenly he cried out, 'Bridge!' as if warning of an incoming missile. He plunged off the seat and bunched himself up on the rubber mat in the footwell.

It was too late for Charlie to turn back. To brake meant a certain rear-ending. The best he could do was slow the Buick. 'What about it?'

Drummond looked over as if through thick fog. 'They'll see us.'

'Who?'

'I don't *' Drummond's voice fell off.

Charlie studied the steep on-ramp. A Volkswagen Beetle skipped across the threshold. At the ramp's peak, a stripe of light swept over a wrecker as it thumped onto the bridge's main span. Charlie's eyes jumped to the source of the light, the steel box mounted on the gantry above the span. The box contained a camera intended to photograph vehicles that sped or jumped red lights. Traffic cams had been blooming on gantries all over town recently. The photos were processed later*often months later*by the Department of Transportation. In cases of clear infractions, where both the license plate and the driver's face were captured, summonses were issued by mail.

'Please don't tell me that they*whoever they are*can tap into traffic cams,' traffic cams,' Charlie said. Charlie said.

'Maybe you should wear this.' Drummond offered up the soiled New York Yankees cap that had been wedged into a pocket on the pa.s.senger door.

Charlie pulled on the cap. The bill draped his face in shadows. The cap itself compressed his pile of hair. A devout Mets fan, he'd always maintained he wouldn't be caught dead in anything with a Yankees logo. He never imagined he actually would have to make the choice.

The drive across the bridge and into lower Manhattan was uneventful*as far, Charlie reflected, as he knew. From Houston Street, he turned the Buick onto quiet Ludlow, intent on the quaint Italianate brownstone halfway down the block.