“God, that’s a relief,” Carpenter said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait her out in the presidential suite?”
“I want to be here. You sleep well, and we’ll talk in the morning.” Stone hung up. “Carpenter’s staying in the presidential suite of the Waldorf Towers, with the director.”
Dino laughed.
“She says there’s a lock on her door.”
Carpenter called Mason.
“Hello,” he panted, on the fourth ring.
“You sound a little winded,” she said.
“What is it, Carpenter? I’m busy.”
“The director wants a meeting tomorrow morning at eight. Think you can manage that?”
“I expect so. Can I go now?”
“I should have talked with the home secretary by then.”
“How nice for you. Good night.” He hung up and returned to his FBI agent.
The following morning at eight o’clock, Carpenter took her seat at the suite’s dining room table. Mason had been on time, though he looked a little worse for the wear, and he was wearing the same suit and shirt as the day before.
“All right, let’s get started,” the director said.
Carpenter’s phone rang. “Excuse me, sir.” She stepped away from the table and opened the phone. “Yes?”
“It’s Stone.”
“What happened?”
“She didn’t come home last night.”
“Oh. I’ll report that and call you later.” She closed the phone and sat down.
“Anything?” the director asked her.
“I’m afraid there’s bad news, sir. As I mentioned earlier, the NYPD had her located in a suite in the Carlyle hotel. They staked it out, but she didn’t come home last night.”
“Shit,” the director said. “I thought we had her.”
“So did I, sir.”
“I wonder where she is at this moment,” he mused.
56
At that moment, Marie-Thérèse was looking at the top of the head of a member of the U.S. delegation to the UN. He performed with enthusiasm and considerable skill, she thought, and she told him so.
They were interrupted by the doorbell. Purdue grabbed a robe and signed for breakfast, then wheeled the cart into the bedroom.
“Sorry for the interruption,” Purdue said.
“You should have told him you’d already eaten.”
He laughed and handed her a plate of sausage and eggs. “How much longer are you in New York?” he asked.
“Why?”
“Since my wife isn’t along on this trip, I thought we might see more of each other.”
“It’s hard to know how we could see more of each other than we already have,” she said, laughing.
“You have a point,” he agreed. “Stick around for a while? I’m here through next week.”
“And then, back to the wife.”
“It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.”
“Tough?”
“Being married to a rich woman is a hard way to make a living,” he said.
“So, get a divorce.”
“I’ve learned to like my lifestyle, but I can’t afford it on a State Department salary.”
“So, if you want the lifestyle but not the wife, get somebody to kill her.”
He laughed. “You Texans,” he said. “I don’t want to end up the subject of some TV movie-of-the-week.”
It occurred to her that Washington might make a nice change of scene, at the moment. She could rent a car and drive down. “Oh, it can be done quite discreetly,” she said. “I can arrange it.”
“What?”
“You’d be at a Security Council session, or someplace with a lot of witnesses. She’d be the victim of a burglary gone wrong, or something like that. No one would ever be able to connect you to it.”
“You can arrange it?”
“I’m a resourceful person. I was thinking of traveling to Washington, anyway. It would be my pleasure.”
“That sounded as if you wanted to do it yourself.”
“I have some experience at these things.”
“What sort of experience are you talking about?”
“I lied to you, Jeff. I’m not a Texas matron, I’m a professional assassin.”
Purdue laughed heartily. “I’m not sure I can afford you,” he said.
“I’ll work cheap. Tell you what: Allow me the use of your suite through the weekend, and she’ll be dead by the middle of next week.”
“You sound serious,” he said.
“And you sound interested.”
He stopped eating. “All right, I’m interested,” he said warily. “Tell me why we wouldn’t get caught.”
“Because you and I have no history together that could be discovered later, and because I have no motive to kill your wife. Also, when I leave New York for Washington, I’ll no longer be Darlene King, but someone else, who will disappear the moment she’s dead.”
He set down his plate. “Ah, the stuff that dreams are made of,” he said wistfully.
“I imagine you’d be a very eligible man as a widower—handsome, well connected, and, finally, rich.”
“That’s perfectly true. But, if you’re what you say you are, why are you confiding in me? I could walk down the hall, rap on the door of the presidential suite, and tell the director about you. I’ll bet he would be interested.”
“Oh, you couldn’t do that, Jeff: You’d have too much to explain. You’d end up having to explain it to your wife, and she might react badly. You might find yourself living on your State Department salary. No, I’m perfectly safe confiding in you.”
“Convince me you’re what you say you are,” he said.
Marie-Thérèse set her plate on the room-service cart and got out of bed. She walked over to where her purse rested on a chair, dug out her little silenced pistol, walked back to the bed, and pointed it at Purdue’s head.
Purdue’s face froze.
“Oh, relax,” she said, “I’m not going to shoot you.”
“What kind of gun is that?” he asked, fascinated.
“An assassin’s weapon. It was made by your very own CIA,” she said.
“And how did you come into possession of it?”
“By means too convoluted to explain.”
“If you shot my wife with that, could the gun be connected to other murders?”
“No, it could not. You’ll have to trust me on that.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.
“You think it over,” she replied. “I’m going to have a shower.” She walked into the bathroom, taking her purse and the pistol with her.
Carpenter closed her phone. “The NYPD has given up on La Biche’s returning to the Carlyle suite, so they’re going to concentrate on our local headquarters,” she said to the meeting, “in the belief that she might watch the place again. They’re stationing snipers on the rooftops nearby.”
“I don’t see what else can be done,” the director said. “My people are watching the airports, train and bus stations. We’ve circulated her description to the car rental agencies, too. What identity was she using at the Carlyle?”
“Mrs. Darlene King, of Dallas, Texas,” Carpenter replied. “She’s apparently stayed there before under that name.”
“I don’t suppose she’d be so foolish as to use it again,” he said.
“I doubt it. She’s abandoned the suite at the Carlyle, and I expect she has abandoned that identity for another.”
Mason leaned over. “Look, if you don’t need me anymore, I want to go back to the office and pick up some fresh clothes.”
“Go ahead, but watch yourself,” Carpenter said.
Marie-Thérèse checked herself out in the mirror. She looked very good in Mrs. Purdue’s Armani pantsuit, she thought, and she felt clean and fresh in her underwear, too. She walked back to the bathroom, where Purdue was shaving.