The man looked him over with an appraising glance. “Who're you?”
“Carey Fersten; my daughter lives here. There're four police cars outside. Why?”
“Don't know anything about your daughter.” The man showed no emotion. Even his voice was a monotone without intensity or force, the audible expression of the principle: This is only a job. When my eight hours are over, I go home. I plan to live until retirement.
“Four black-and-whites?” Carey persisted.
“We answered a burglar alarm and a fire alarm. I was assigned to keep the office secure when the building was evacuated. Most everyone headed out back. The rest of them went down the basement 'cuz someone here saw two men running that way.”
Carey felt ludicrously like a reporter. “No one's seen a couple of young girls?” Lucy had decided to keep Carrie company that day. A special treat for her birthday.
“Sorry, can't help you.” And he looked at his watch.
Carey's pulse was still racing, but he turned away with a casual nod. Passing the officer, he sprinted toward the basement stairs. At least, he thought, the police were there. Even if Rifat's men had come… he paused with sudden alarm. They could have been here, snatched Carrie, and left already.
As though a computer had short-circuited in his brain, fragmented mental impressions raced through his mind: What the hell was that aide's name? Damn Egon and his drug habit; damn Sylvie for ever walking into his life. Could he shoot the Turks with the police around? Maybe Carrie was safe with Lucy, playing the video games at the Savoy Hotel down the street, maybe Kiray, that was his name, was only at the press conference as a precaution, keeping track of him to keep track of Egon. That was it. Right, God? Jesus, he was losing it. But he'd only just found his daughter, and she was more precious to him than he'd ever imagined possible.
How many years had he tossed off the casual disclaimer to the familiar question about children? How many times had he said: “The world will survive just fine without any more Ferstens.” And all he wanted to do right now was find Carrie, wrap his arms around her, and weep with relief.
But in the next pulsebeat, he wanted to track down Rifat and “neutralize” him, as the intelligence agencies so euphemistically put it. Was that a normal paternal instinct? Or perhaps an overprotective response nurtured by too many special assignments with Mac and Ant and Luger during the winding down of the Vietnam Era, as the Defense Department referred to the fiasco that would otherwise have to be acknowledged as a lost war. But for the first time since arriving back home, Carey appreciated the lethal skills he'd acquired with Mac, Ant, and Luger. He intended to use them on Rifat.
The basement was typical of turn-of-the-century buildings. Heavy, rough-cut stone served as foundation, and the musty accumulation of nearly a century worth of dirt, dust, and darkness struck him halfway down the stairs. The silence at the bottom of the steps unnerved him, as if the vast rabbit warren of dark corridors and walled sections had swallowed up four cars of policemen. And it reminded him of the tunnels in Vietnam.
He moved slowly down the narrow passageway, weighing risk against survival. His was the kind of caution developed in deserted VC camps where a booby-trapped map if picked up would blow you away, or a dead buddy would be detonated to go off when you lifted his dog tags. His Beretta was out front as he checked each room he passed.
A faint sound reached him; had he heard a child's voice-or was he fantasizing? Straining his ears, he waited to hear the high-pitched tone again. There.
Then men's voices, low and muted, joined the child's, the undecipherable masculine resonance turning into an occasional audible word-and then many. Hurt, he heard, and then gun… Yes, yes, yes, a child's voice, and the thunder of his heart intensified. He ran without caution, racing toward the human voices, no longer weighing the risks.
A door stood ajar at the end of the corridor, emitting a cool white fluorescent light in a neat geometric pattern on the floor and wall. Sure that his daughter was behind the door, he charged through it.
Across the room, a policeman squatted before a small, dark-haired girl dressed in yellow shorts and a DisneyWorld T-shirt, surrounded by several other uniformed men. His eyes quickly scanned the men. Seven police; there were seven policemen and Lucy. But no Carrie!
He couldn't catch his breath. A sudden chill struck him like an arctic gale, and he stopped dead as though he'd come up against an invisible wall. He was too late. Rifat had her.
“Drop it, mister,” a gruff voice said. The statement was harsh, without room for discussion. When Carey refocused on the group near Lucy, he saw seven handguns aimed at his head.
Ignoring the guns, absorbed totally with the loss of his daughter, he said, “Lucy, what happened to Carrie?”
“Fucking drop it, asshole, or you're going to lose it.”
I already lost it, asshole, he wanted to say, you're too late. And he blamed himself a thousand ways for not anticipating Rifat's treachery. She was in his hands. He couldn't breathe when he thought of his daughter at Rifat's mercy. A man without mercy. He was sick with guilt and despair.
“Daddy!” He heard her first, and his head swiveled toward the sound at laser speed. A small blond head appeared from behind a burly policeman's leg, and then a slender tanned shoulder. Followed by the whole beautiful sight of her looking like a summer rose in a pale flowered sundress.
Quickly setting down his Beretta, Carey dashed toward her. Scooping her into his arms he hugged her, gratitude and gladness rushing through him like the answered prayers of childhood. For long moments he simply crushed her to him, breathless and deliriously happy. Something moved on his cheek, and he reached up to brush away the wetness, thinking somewhere in the disconnected emotions of hope and fear and joy crashing through his mind, that he'd never cried in sheer happiness before. And he learned in those few moments of deliverance that his happiness was bound forever with this small child and her mother. It was not entirely news. After all, it had been the source of much of his former misery.
A polite cough returned him to the circle of policemen in the starkly lit room… and Carrie's breathy, high rush of words which tumbled out the moment he transferred her to a perch on his left arm. He wasn't about to set her down. He held her as if her security were guaranteed only in his arms.
“There were bad guys, like in your movies… these bad guys pushed in the front door,” she excitedly disclosed, “but Lucy and I ran as soon as they started banging through the door.”
“We took the backstairs,” Lucy interjected, tugging on Carey's sleeve.
“And ran for Theresa's office,” Carrie finished.
“But one of the scary guys came out of the elevator before we got there.” Lucy's eyes were huge as she recalled their flight.
“So we changed our minds and ran for the basement.” They couldn't talk fast enough, each finishing the other's sentences.
“Carrie pushed the burglar alarm at the top of the stairs… and the fire alarm down the basement.”
“Then I headed for the old coal cellar Mom and I found last year. It's so dark back there, no one could ever see us. Not even the monster from Friday the 13th.”
“And they didn't,” Lucy breathlessly added. “But they sure were looking.”
“They didn't talk English,” Carrie offered. “Who are they?” she asked, confident that Carey would know.