"You've justified, if not advocated, terrorist violence."
"There's a huge difference between trying to liberate an occupied nation and taking money to put a bullet in someone's head."
"Right, and bombing a high street and killing twenty innocent pedestrians, that's a blow for freedom? Terrorism is terrorism, Bridgett. At least what Drama does, she's honest about. She's not a monster, and it's a mistake to try and reduce her to that."
"What she does is monstrous," Bridgett argued. "By definition, she is a monster. And murder is murder, no matter if you're paid to do it or not."
"I'm not saying I approve of what she does. I simply respect her ability to do it."
"Well, I can't separate the two as easily as you can. It's sick. It's evil. It's seriously fucked-up."
"I think you're being a hypocrite. You'll allow for killing for a cause. Well, being paid to kill someone is a cause. May not be a good one, but it is a cause."
"I'm a hypocrite? You're the bodyguard who's defending the assassin, but I'm the hypocrite?" She got out of bed and began tugging on her jeans. "Fuck you."
"Bridgett…"
"No, seriously, fuck you." She finished buttoning her fly and pulled her belt tight, yanking it angrily. "You don't say that and then get to take it back. That you would even defend her behavior is reprehensible."
"I'm not defending her," I said softly.
"Liar."
I didn't say anything and she stuffed the tail of her T-shirt back into her pants, then went out the door. She didn't slam it. I heard Dale in the kitchen ask if there was a problem, and I didn't hear Bridgett's reply. I stared at the ceiling, tense and growing all the more angry.
It didn't bother me that she couldn't see what I saw. Few people could or would admit that they could. Moore, certainly, and Natalie, but even Corry and Dale would most likely balk at admitting to respect for Drama. But that wasn't the problem.
The problem was that Bridgett was so willing to equate that respect with approval. That she would so quickly take the moral high road and accuse me of taking the low.
That pissed me off, and when the anger finally ebbed, I was left with the feeling I'd had when I'd called her in Philadelphia six nights ago, the same sense of dull but rising disaster. I had tried everything I could, had tried for a long time now, and nonetheless I could see the new gap opening between us, as steep and dark and treacherous as the old.
Natalie woke me at a quarter of five.
The phone rang at three minutes past six.
Chapter 13
"Starbucks on Third Avenue, two blocks from your apartment," Drama said. "Southernmost bathroom, seat-cover dispenser, instructions inside. It is now oh-six-oh-four hours. You have until oh-six-oh-nine."
She hung up.
"It's a run," I said, and started to relay the instructions. As I spoke, I removed my T-shirt, holding it while Corry began snapping one of the freshly charged radios onto my belt, running the leads to my ear and palm. Natalie was holding my Kevlar vest as if dressing me for a date, and Moore was rolling up my right pants leg, strapping the ankle holster with my Smith Wesson in place.
"She's putting you on foot?" Bridgett asked.
"To start, yes. More instructions to follow."
"We'll get the vehicles. Three cars. You're wearing the tracer?"
"I've got a bug up my ass," I confirmed.
"He finally admits it," Natalie said, and helped me into the vest. While she fastened the Velcro on my left side, Corry pulled it tight on the right. When they were finished, I put my shirt back on and Bridgett handed me my coat. As soon as I had it on, Dale handed me my HK. I chambered the round, settled it in the holster on my waist, then checked my watch.
"Three minutes. I'll keep you posted."
Bridgett blocked my passage, fatigue and strain in her face.
"Sorry about last night," she said. "Stress."
"You and me both."
She moved her head, almost bobbing it, preparing to say more and then discarding the words for lack of time. Corry nudged me.
"Go," he urged. "We'll be with you the whole way."
"You better be," I said, and then I was out the door, taking the stairs as fast as I could.
The day quickly made it plain that I was wearing too much for the weather it had in mind. The humidity was rising, and I could feel the sweat on my skin as I ran east toward Third Avenue. The early August sky was thick with high clouds the color of cigarette ash, and several pedestrians were carrying umbrellas. Aside from my jeans, T-shirt, and jacket, I had my HK P7 at my waist, the Smith Wesson 442 on my ankle, my switchblade, my radio, my wallet, and my cell phone. I felt like I was clanking with each step, though I knew everything on my body was secure.
At the corner of Third I checked my watch again, saw that I had ninety seconds, and crossed against the light, dodging traffic and nearly ending the run then and there when a taxi tried to run me down. There was no way to know if Drama was watching or not, either in person or through agents or surveillance of another means, and that meant I had to keep to her schedule. Risking death-by-cab seemed like nothing in the face of what the rest of the day might hold.
The facade of the Starbucks was being renovated, green-black scaffolding all along the front and around the southern corner of the building. Bills were posted on the wood all around, advertising either expensive jeans or an anorexic, party-all-night lifestyle, and upcoming concerts at the Garden and Meadowlands by bands I'd never heard of – yet another sign that I was getting old. There were two entrances to the coffee shop, and I went in the nearest, stopping just long enough to try to locate the bathrooms while noting the four patrons at various tables. I'd never actually been in the place before; much as I like coffee, I don't like Starbucks. They scare me.
There were two bathrooms located in an alcove on the northeast wall of the building, both marked unisex. A sign above each door said to get the key from the cashier, but I tried the knob on the southernmost one anyway. Locked. I turned and ran back to the cashier, a white kid who was rather obviously flaunting the fact that he had the latest issue of Playboy open in front of him.
"Bathroom key," I said.
"You going to get a drink?"
"I've got to pee, you think I need a diuretic? Can I have the key?"
I shouldn't have said "diuretic." It confused him.
"Give me a large of whatever is most like coffee and the key, please. Key first."
He nodded, checked the centerfold, who was not a natural blonde, and then retrieved the key. I took it and headed back to the bathroom, ignoring his shout for me to pay for the coffee first.
The bathroom was empty and the lights were on, and it was surprisingly spacious inside, almost ten by ten. The seat-cover dispenser was on the wall behind the toilet, and I reached through the opening and felt around until my fingertips hit the edge of something hard and cool. It took another two seconds to get a grip and pull it free, and I found that I was holding a box of Glory cigarettes.
Inside was a folded sheet of white paper. I glanced at my watch before reading it, saw that I had five seconds to spare.
The note, which looked like it had come from a laser printer somewhere, read:
You can have her back.
You must follow my instructions without deviation.
You must keep to the schedule.
You will proceed on foot north to 34th Street and turn west. At 7th Ave. you will turn north to West 35th. On the south side of the block between 7th and 8th you will find a 1999 model Lincoln Continental, navy blue, NY license H8X ND4, keyless entry code 443674. Further instructions are beneath the driver's seat.
It is now oh-six-ten hours.
You will be at the car at oh-six-thirty-six hours.
Make me happy.
I folded the note and shoved it into my pocket, dumping the pack of cigarettes in the trash. I returned the key to the cashier, ignored the cup of coffee that was waiting for me, and headed out to the street.