Part 26 (1/2)

Pitman rolled his eyes.

Charlie dialed the number of a second-rate bookmaking service in Vegas, listened to the menu, then hit 0 to speak with a live operator. As usual, Muzak kicked in. The first-rate places were staffed with operators who answered straightaway. Charlie clung to the hope that he could sway Pitman without having to say another word*if the Cavalry were to learn Charlie's location, his plan was dead. Him too, in all likelihood.

Pitman sat against the desk, blase as ever. Obviously the spook had let it get to this point because he saw the bluff.

Charlie decided: Better to cede the round and hang up before it was too late.

'Fine, fine,' grumbled Pitman. 'Fine.' He rubbed his jaw.

With manufactured nonchalance, Charlie dropped the handset into its cradle.

'They took your father for a debrief,' Pitman said.

'Is that a euphemism?'

'No. They do intend to neutralize him, but they need information first. They're worried that in the time since he figured out what was going on, he secretly spread out a security blanket. They're jetting an ace interrogator up from the Caribbean.'

'What do you mean by a security blanket'?'

'Like, a timed drop.'

'And what do you mean by a timed drop'?'

'A dead drop that will be cleared after a set time period unless he's around to put a stop to it. Then the contents go to, say, the Was.h.i.+ngton Post.' Was.h.i.+ngton Post.'

While such a measure was practical, Charlie suspected that Drummond's patriotism would have precluded it. 'Where did they take him?' he asked.

'I heard Cuba,' Pitman said, rubbing his jaw again.

'Not the island?'

'No, it's someplace around here. That's all I can tell you.'

'How can I get more information?'

'Call four one one,' Pitman said. His hand shot from his jaw to Charlie's stomach.

It caught Charlie off guard and felt like a blow from a heavyweight. Pitman sprang up, tackling him hard about the rib cage. Charlie tumbled backward. His right wrist smacked into the thick steel trunk of the gumball machine lamp, costing him his hold on the Colt. It fell onto the desktop and slid to within inches of Pitman.

Snaring it, Pitman said, 'On second thought, you may want to call nine one one.' He curled a finger around the trigger and aimed the gun at Charlie.

The odds were that a professional like Pitman would reclaim the Colt. Charlie had bet on that beforehand. And been right. Accordingly it was with gusto that he yanked the lamp's power cord, plunging the room into total darkness. Then he whisked Pitman's silenced SIG Sauer P228 from the back of his own waistband, leveled it, and pulled the trigger. The gun nearly kicked out of his hand. The plume of flame lit the office, showing Pitman lifted by the shoulder and thrust into the wall. He slid to the floor and lay still, apparently unconscious again, blood darkening his s.h.i.+rtfront.

Another time, Charlie would be in shock. Now, all he thought about was getting to Drummond. He recognized it was a long shot. Which buoyed him: For once he had relevant experience.

Part Three

The Triggerman

1.

Pitman was lying on the office floor, still breathing but unconscious, when he began to intermittently glow green. It was the reflection, Charlie realized, of the neon sign sputtering on across the street at the Mykonos Diner. The lying on the office floor, still breathing but unconscious, when he began to intermittently glow green. It was the reflection, Charlie realized, of the neon sign sputtering on across the street at the Mykonos Diner. The Sea Dog Sea Dog was a go. was a go.

Sitting at the desk, Charlie tried to devise an alternative plan. His approach was no different than if he were playing the horses, which begins with an evaluation of the past*the speed, the endurance, and the style demonstrated by the horses during their previous trips. The next step is to create a mental picture of them competing in the forthcoming race. To Charlie's surprise, his thinking wasn't just clear but electric. Adrenaline strengthened his focus and quickened his acuity, which had the effect of slowing the pace of the rest of the world, allowing him to weigh options he otherwise might have overlooked. Like nuclear fission.

He recalled a story Drummond used to tell in which the scientists arrived for work at the secret headquarters of the Manhattan Project. A lot of the early atomic bomb research was conducted at Columbia University, on Manhattan's Morningside Heights, in a subterranean complex built solidly enough that vibrations from the adjacent IRT subway line wouldn't disturb the hypersensitive instruments.

The entrance was in the campus grocery store in the bas.e.m.e.nt of Furnald Hall, an undergraduate dormitory. All day long students and professors bought coffee and snacks. The students had no idea that the cas.h.i.+ers from whom they finagled six-packs were really employees of the U.S. Army. No one suspected that Gibby, the dim stockroom guy, held the key*literally*to the Allied nuclear effort. When Gibby was sure no one was looking, he admitted certain 'professors' to the employee washroom. Within the far toilet stall was the entryway to a tunnel leading to a secret warren of offices and laboratories. When the war ended, the complex was sealed off to prevent radioactive leakage. Or so everyone was told.

When Drummond used to talk about the Manhattan Project, it was with the same patriotic pride he reserved for D-day and the lunar landing. Tonight it seemed significant to Charlie that, unlike the Normandy beaches and the moon, the Manhattan Project facility was two blocks from Drummond's office. Also, dropping letters from Columbia Columbia netted netted Cuba Cuba.

Charlie imagined a subterranean complex of sparkling modern laboratories, teeming with scientists in gleaming lab coats, corridors patrolled in lockstep by guards in crisp unitards. Then he applied what he'd learned the last two days: Odds were, to avoid drawing attention, the Cavalry would keep personnel to the absolute minimum, and their security force would more closely resemble the small Manhattan Project unit in the grocery store. Which meant they would be susceptible to attack.

All at once, Charlie had an idea of how to carry it out.

'I hope you're okay,' he said to Pitman. 'We have a lot of work to do.'

2.

Alice heard a baby crying in the next room. She knew that Iraqi interrogators, believing no sound induced greater psychological stress, were fond of piping recordings of wailing infants into the cells of their subjects. It certainly would explain the twinkle in Dr. Cranch's eye when he'd left the room a few minutes ago. a baby crying in the next room. She knew that Iraqi interrogators, believing no sound induced greater psychological stress, were fond of piping recordings of wailing infants into the cells of their subjects. It certainly would explain the twinkle in Dr. Cranch's eye when he'd left the room a few minutes ago.

'I'd estimate you've told me ninety percent of what I want to know,' the interrogator had said. 'Most likely the omissions are the result of fatigue and the shock of your having been discovered. So let's table our discussion until you've had a chance to get some proper rest.'

Since the Dark Ages, sleep deprivation had been recognized as an effective means of coercion. In most modern civilized countries, it was an illegal form of torture. Alice knew from experience that after seventy hours, her electrolyte balance would go haywire. She would lose her ability to think rationally. She would say things she shouldn't. Thankfully, she'd learned this during a training exercise. If the same were to happen here, people would die. And she'd be number one.

As Hector peeked through the transom, a far better scenario presented itself. The nominal butler stood on the other side of the door, a Beretta tucked into the waistband of his too-tight white linen uniform trousers. He'd been peeking through the transom more often than the position of watchman warranted. That he was on duty tonight, rather than the more resolute Alberto, was a stroke of luck.

Twenty-five or so, Hector was tall and dark and built like a Greek statue, with chocolate-brown eyes, waves of glossy black hair, and sparkling teeth. But these cla.s.sically handsome parts went together poorly, like stripes and checks. He was unaware of it, or at least he didn't let it impede his efforts as a lothario. Not only was he a chronic flirt but he often called Alice 'baby.' Who calls the boss's girlfriend 'baby'?

Still, under the current circ.u.mstances, seducing him wouldn't be easy.

The door opened and he entered to clear her dinner. His eyes took their usual extended tour of her sleeveless dress.

'Hey, baby, how was the grub?' he asked.

She tried but couldn't think of a single come-on that hadn't been uttered or performed a zillion times in a zillion cheesy singles bars. Also the crying infant from the next room, evidently a looped recording, was hardly Barry White.

'My compliments to the sous chef,' she said finally.

G.o.d, what a flirt, she thought.

Yet he lingered, tensing his arm muscles more than was necessary to lift an empty plastic bowl. In doing nothing, she realized, she was doing all that was required.

'Hector, I'm bored,' she said.