Threat Level Black - Страница 47

Fisher had never quite gotten the point of bowling. Maybe it made sense as a metaphysical exercise, the round sphere of the life force laying low the solid pins of orthodoxy, but the people who played it regularly didn’t seem to be the metaphysical type. Most of them seemed to be in some sort of pain: They unleashed the ball, stared as it rolled down the alley, then cringed as it toppled its targets. A few did odd dances, as if calling on the gods of thunder to be merciful, and even those who emerged from the process with smiles on their faces set off immediately to handle the paperwork.

Not much sense in it that he could see.

Fisher walked through the alley, turned past the shoe rental register — another activity he didn’t understand — and through the double doors that led to the lounge. He went to the bar and pulled open his coat, removing his Magnum to the wide-eyed stare of two rather large men standing a few feet away.

“There’s six bullets in that, and I’m counting them when I leave,” he said, placing the long-barreled gun down. He walked over to the table where Sammy the Seal was sitting with a few of his bodyguards.

Sammy was only thirty-three, but Fisher’s sources on the local organized-crime task force had him pegged as an old-line mob type too dull to make the transition to semi-legal activities like the movies or stock market. He relied on muscle and wits to keep afloat, which meant he’d be a prime candidate for the federal Witness Security Program in a few months. Fisher appreciated this, actually: There was something admirable about a man too dumb to be successfully dishonest.

Fisher sat down and tossed the thin wallet with his Bureau credentials on the table.

“FBI,” he told Sammy. He glanced up at the two bodyguards clutching their chests behind him. “Don’t have heart attacks, guys. I’m here to talk. And not about auto parts, prostitution, or the movies. Though I might mention that the coffee you serve in your pizza parlors is class A heartburn material, a plus in my book.”

“Who the hell are you?” said Sammy.

“Andy Fisher. I picked up a couple of your people earlier today. They should’ve called by now.”

“I don’t have people.”

“Well, I didn’t bother to run DNA tests on them,” said Fisher, taking out a cigarette, “but they looked human. Walked and talked.”

Sammy looked at his cigarette.

“Mind if I smoke?” Fisher asked.

“I do mind, yeah. It’s against the law in this county.”

Fisher lit up anyway. “Maybe you can use the charge for a plea bargain.”

“Why are you here?”

“Somebody hired you to freeze William Howe. Problem is, they didn’t tell you Howe was a national hero.”

“He’s no hero,” said Sammy, making a face.

“You look at his résumé?”

Belatedly realizing he had said far too much, Sammy shut up.

Fisher leaned forward. “All I want to know is who hired you? Between you and me.”

“You think I’d screw a client like that?”

“I hope so,” said Fisher.

Sammy laughed. “Get out before I throw you out.”

“Flip on the news,” said Fisher. “Put on CNN. See what kind of shit you’re in.”

A dim light began to shine somewhere in Sammy’s brain. He called over to the bartender and told him to turn on the television.

“And bring a round of drinks. What are you having?”

“Coffee,” said Fisher.

“Coffee’s old.”

“Can’t be any worse than the crap they have over at police headquarters.”

Sammy frowned. The station came back from a commercial. A picture of Howe flashed on the screen. Sammy stared at the television, doing a rather convincing impression of Paul on the road to Damascus. If his jaw hadn’t been attached, it would have been part of the rug.

“Guy told us what hotel he was in, had a name, that was it. We didn’t know, I swear to God,” said Sammy. “I swear. Off the record. ’Cause you ain’t read me my rights or anything, and you can’t use this.”

“Oh, yeah, way off the record,” said Fisher. “So, who hired you?”

“A Chink,” said Sammy. “Guy named Sin Ru Chow. We do some deals sometimes. He’s who you want to talk to.”

“That’s the best you can do?” Fisher.

Sammy was too distracted to answer, absorbed in the television broadcast. Every one of his limited brain cells was now devoted to trying to figure out how to extricate himself from this very serious mess.

“If you happen to think of something,” said Fisher, pushing a card to the middle of the table, “call that number.”

He picked up his credentials and took his gun from the bar. Outside, the SWAT team was just getting into place for the raid.

“Short guy with the dumbstruck look on his face in the lounge,” Fisher told the commander. “You can’t miss him.”

Chapter 22

“Howe.”

“Colonel, stand by for Dr. Blitz.”

Howe held the cell phone away from his body. He was sitting at the side of a desk in a large room that filled most of the second story of the Circleville police station, going over the incident with one of the detectives for the third time.

“I have to take this, and it’s kind of private,” he told the man.

“My part is wrapped up just about anyway,” said the detective amiably. “I’m going to go get a Coke. When you’re off the phone, we’ll go talk to my boss, okay? Back in room two downstairs?”

“Yeah, okay,” said Howe as the detective got up.

“Colonel, I hope you’re okay,” said Blitz over the cell phone.

“I’m fine,” said Howe.

“I understand the FBI caught some of the people involved.”

“Yes.”

“I have some other news.” The national security advisor paused for a moment; Howe could hear him murmuring something to one of his assistants before coming back on the line. “Your clearance has been restored. The CIA people made a mistake.”

“Okay.”

“I’m wondering if you could come over to my office and look at some photos we have. We want to confirm they’re the UAVs you saw in Korea.”

“All right. It may take a while. I’m at the police station, making a statement,” said Howe.

“Understood. But the sooner the better.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter 23

Sin Ru Chow, whose status as lowlife was attested to by all and sundry, had vanished, and not even the experts on lowlifes at the Washington, D.C., Police Department could locate him. Fisher told the detective he talked to there that they could remove the underworld thug’s photo from their rogue’s gallery; it was a good bet that the next time he was seen, it would be on a mortuary slab.

With the safety pins holding his pants together beginning to chafe, Fisher returned to his apartment for a fresh suit. The phone rang as he was coming through the door; he answered it, hoping it was someone trying to sell him vinyl siding.

“Andy, where are you?” asked Cindy Malone, Jack Hunter’s secretary. “Jack’s been trying to get ahold of you all day.”

“Shouldn’t cost more than a few thousand to repair,” Fisher.

“A few thousand for what?”

“Which?”

“Don’t be smart, Andy.”

“That’s what they pay me for, isn’t it?”

“What did you break this time?”

“I’m not telling you until the bill comes in,” said Fisher. He’d been thinking of the warehouse roof; the repair bill for the bullet holes in the helicopter would undoubtedly hit five figures if not six.

“Jack is having a press conference first thing in the morning and he wants you there,” said Malone. “Since you rescued Howe.”

“No, thanks. I have to get up to New York. Listen, if you want my advice, tell him not to hold a press conference.”

“Why not?”

“We haven’t broken the case yet.”

“But Howe’s okay. The press wants a hero.”

“Or a goat,” said Fisher. “Tell Hunter to hold off.”

“But, Andrew, please.”

He hated it when she said please.

“I’m telling you, Cindy, we haven’t figured it all out yet.” He glanced at his watch. “What are you still doing in the office? It’s after eight. You’re missing your Wheel of Fortune reruns.”

“I had to stay until I got you.”

“Well, now you can go.”

“Please. The press conference is already scheduled. It’ll make Jack very happy. And problems with your expenses are much easier to smooth over when he’s happy,” she said. “Tell you what: You do this, and I’ll get him to sign some blank vouchers right when he’s smiling for pictures. How’s that?”

“I have more important things to do than press conferences,” Fisher told her.

“Like what?”

“Like putting on my pants,” he said, hanging up.

Part Five. Grasping at Straws

Chapter 1

Fisher stood at the window of the Scramdale-on-Hudson train station, gazing out at the parking lot as it filled with morning commuters. There were more luxury SUVs per square inch in Scramdale-on-Hudson than anywhere in the universe. This was no doubt a function of the difficult terrain, where investment bankers and entertainment lawyers daily negotiated such dangers as overfertilized lawns and exotic clematis.

The parade of Mercedes and BMWs up to the station was broken every so often by a Volvo wagon, undoubtedly driven by renegade hippies struggling to get by on trust fund money. It was a good bet their nannies lugged D. H. Lawrence in their diaper bags rather than the de rigueur Shakespeare to read aloud at naptime.