Such an undertaking as that of my international earth shipments, carried out with a maximum of secrecy, would be far from trivial in any time, including this modern era in which I write. Take my word for it that in the late fifteenth century, with the multitude of political and economic uncertainties obtaining then, the problems were truly formidable.
Yet I persevered, and refused to be hurried. Many military campaigns had taught me the importance of proper preparation. Despite my unabated lust for vengeance, and the risk of having my adversaries escape, I would not move until I was ready. Decades had passed since the traitors cut me down, and the last years of the century were at hand before I felt ready and able to proceed.
Chapter 8
Joe had departed Uncle Matthew's apartment around Twelve-thirty. For the two breathing people inside the apartment the next forty-five minutes or so passed uneventfully, tempting them to hope that the siege was really over. Then the phone rang, distracting Angie from another episode of the fantastic tale on the tape. There was no extension in the guest bedroom. Shutting off one machine, she ran toward the kitchen to answer the other.
John had reached the instrument before she did, and once again she could see the relief on his face at the first sounds he heard from the receiver.
"It's Joe," he told her in a quick aside.
Angie hurried on into the living room and picked up the extension there, slumping into a chair to listen.
"—the line might be tapped" were the first words she heard Joe Keogh pronounce. He sounded tired and worn.
"The phone line here?" John's voice asked in puzzlement.
"Yes. This one we're using. Today I got a good look at other parts of that building you're in. Up on the ninety-eighth floor, and elsewhere."
John sounded bewildered. "How'd that happen?"
"I don't want to go into a lot of detail on exactly what I did, because the phone might be tapped, as I say. But I did have some trouble getting away from the building." Joe paused to let them consider that. "I'm okay now, and I'll get back to you, don't worry. I promise you help is on the way, but I can't promise when it's going to get there.
"One thing you have to know. Elizabeth, the woman who was in there with you, is dead."
His listeners started incoherent questions. He brushed them aside. "We can talk it over later. The point is, you're in real serious trouble there. Deadly trouble. Stay inside the apartment, no matter who or what comes to the door. Don't try to leave. Don't even think about opening the doors, or talking to visitors except on the intercom. Have you had any more visitors, by the way?"
"No. We won't stick our noses out if you say we shouldn't."
"You definitely shouldn't."
"Joe?" This was Angie. "How did she die?"
"It wasn't of old age, but never mind that now. Just do what I'm telling you. I won't ask how your host there is doing, and be careful what you say about him over the phone."
"All right." John sounded subdued to the point of collapse.
Angie, on an impulse, hung up her phone, got to her feet, and walked softly into the master bedroom. The man who lay there opened his eyes as she entered, and—pleasant surprise!—focused them on her. For a moment his gaze was a hard, probing stare, then recognition came, and he smiled faintly. His lips moved as if he were trying to speak, but no sound came. He shook his head slowly and smiled once more before his eyelids closed again.
"Uncle Matthew?" She advanced quickly to the bed and touched him on the arm, but there was no response.
Still, she had a strong impression that progress was being made.
Hurrying back to the living room, Angie picked up the phone again and heard Joe Keogh still talking. "—what I'm going to do is, try to arrange a meeting between myself and these people. You and Angie won't be involved directly, and it won't take place in that building. I'll try to meet one of them, preferably their boss, alone. Broad daylight, very public place."
John was doubtful. "Joe, isn't that…"
"I know what I'm doing. I think maybe they understand now that I do, after some things that happened this morning. So maybe I can talk to them. What we still don't know is what they're really after, and why."
Angie considered, decided to take a chance, and cut into the conversation. "Joe? I just checked on that problem that was mentioned earlier. I'd say that there's a definite improvement."
There was a pause. Then: "Good," said Joe. "I'd like to hear details, but don't give me any on the phone. Not now, anyway, okay?"
"Okay."
There wasn't much more to say on either side. Joe soon concluded his phone call. Angie fought down an impulse to warn him to be careful. If she couldn't think of anything constructive to say at this point, she was going to keep quiet.
Hardly had she put down the receiver, and started toward the kitchen to meet John, when there sounded a kind of wooden pounding from the old man's room.
She hurried that way, encountering John in the hall, and they rushed into the bedroom together. Uncle Matthew had dragged himself out of bed and was lying on the floor naked, except for the sheet in which his body was half entangled. He had somehow managed to pull a dresser partially away from the wall, and was thumping with his open hand on the wooden panel that formed its back.
He quieted when John and Angie rushed in, and allowed them to try to help. In a few moments they had their host propped up in a sitting position on the floor, his back against the bed—he refused to cooperate in being put back in bed, and he was too heavy and too strong to be simply handled against his will. He was grunting now, moaning, pointing urgently at the panel he had been beating on.
"What does he want? What is it, Uncle Matthew?"
John began to feel around the panel. "There must be something there—does it open? Is it a door?"
He moved the dresser out farther from the wall, and Angie went to help. Eventually they located the catch, and the panel proved to be a door indeed. Inside was a secret compartment, broad and high though only a few inches deep. The cavity contained some small jars of dark glass, tightly capped, and a few pounds of earth packed snugly in plastic bags.
Uncle Matthew was grunting in satisfaction, pointing at the bags. Angie opened one, and then stared blankly at the dry, crumbled soil that leaked out on the carpet. "What on earth—?"
"Earth of his homeland," John explained tersely. "I suppose he still needs it, from time to time at least."
The old man growled at them, impatient and inarticulate. He made swift gestures. It took them a few moments to understand that he wanted them to open the bags of earth, pour out the dirt and scatter it over him, spread it on the carpet so he could roll his body in the stuff.
They did this, and it seemed to bring him genuine relief.
Not knowing what else to do, Angie reached into the hidden place for one of the little jars, brought it out, and examined it. Both the jar and its pressed-on metal cap had the slightly irregular look of handmade things. The glass was too dark to let her see what was inside, but the jar was too heavy to be empty. "And what's this?"
"I have no idea." John shook his head.
The old man saw what she was doing, smiled faintly, shook his head, and made a pushing motion with his hand. Carefully she set the jar back on its shelf.
Joe Keogh hung up the receiver of the public phone and stepped out of the downtown booth. He hadn't called from home, nor was he anywhere near Uncle Matthew's condo. Joe Keogh's first effort on completing his morning getaway had been to complete the process already begun of getting Kate and the kids as much out of the way of this horrible situation as possible, into a position of such safety as could be managed under the circumstances.