EIGHTEEN
Kennedy International Airport.
The Pan Am 747 from Paris arrived on time at 12:25. Among the four hundred and fifty passengers, six men – who'd sat separately in business class – were careful to leave the jet at intervals, and with equal care took different taxis into New York. They were all well-built, in their thirties. Each wore a nondescript suit and carried a briefcase as well as an under seat bag. None had checked luggage. Their features were common, ordinary, average.
Their only other shared characteristic was that while they'd been pleasant to the flight attendants, their polite remarks had seemed to require effort as if each man had urgent business that preoccupied him. Their eyes communicated the gravity of their concerns: distant, pensive, cold.
In Manhattan, at diverse locations, each man got out of his taxi, walked several blocks, took a subway at random, got off a few stops later, hired another taxi, and arrived several minutes apart on avenues west of the Museum of Natural History. After assessing the traffic, parked cars, and pedestrians in the neighborhood, each approached a brownstone on West Eighty-Fifth Street and rang the doorbell.
A matronly woman opened the door, blocking the narrow entrance. 'I don't believe we've met.'
'May the Lord be with you.'
'And with your spirit.'
'Deo gratias.'
'Indeed.' The woman waited. 'However, a sign is required.'
'Absolutely. I'd feel threatened if you didn't ask.'
The last man to arrive reached into his suitcoat pocket and showed her a ring. The ring had a gleaming ruby. The impressive stone was embossed with the golden insignia of an intersecting cross and sword.
'Deo gratias,' the woman repeated.
Only then did the woman open the door all the way, stepping backward, bowing her head, respectfully allowing the visitor to enter.
In an alcove to the left of the door, a grim, intense man in a Kevlar bullet-resistant vest lowered an Uzi submachine gun equipped with a silencer.
The woman closed the door. 'Did you have a good flight?'
'It didn't crash.'
'The others arrived not long ago.'
The visitor merely nodded, then followed the woman up narrow stairs to the second floor. He entered a bedroom, where the five other members of his team had already changed into unobtrusive clothes and now were taking apart and reassembling pistols laid out on the bed.
The weapons, Austrian Clock-17 9 mm semiautomatics, were made of sturdy polymer plastic, their only metal the steel of the barrel and the firing mechanism. Lightweight, dependable, their main advantage was that metal detectors often failed to register them, and when disassembled, the pistols frequently weren't noticed on airport X-ray machines.
'Your street clothes are in the bureau,' the woman said.
'Thank you, sister.'
'Your flight was long. You must be tired.'
'Not at all.'
'Hungry?'
'Hardly. My purpose gives me energy.'
'I'll be downstairs if you need anything. You will have to hurry, however. The schedule has been increased. You have tickets for a three o'clock flight to Washington National Airport. The bait is in motion.'
'I'm pleased to hear that, sister. And the enemy? Have the vermin taken the bait?'
'Not yet.'
'They will, however.' His voice became an ominous whisper. 'I have no doubt. Thank you.' He guided her from the bedroom. 'Thank you, sister. Thank you.' He shut the door.
The matronly woman gripped the banister, proceeded hesitantly down the stairs, then paused before the guard at the entrance. 'They make me shiver.'
'Yes,' the haggard man with the Uzi said. 'Once before, I worked with enforcers. For a day afterward, my marrow still felt frozen.'
NINETEEN
Tess waited, squirming impatiently on a chair at Professor Harding's kitchen table. The spacious room, in back of the Victorian house, was clean and uncluttered, painted blue. A large window provided a magnificent panorama of the thousands of glorious, many-colored lilies, but she was too preoccupied to pay attention to them. Some time ago – too long – Professor Harding had left her here while he'd gone upstairs to wake his wife.
Tess kept glancing nervously toward her watch. It was five after one. She fidgeted. Unable to control her anxiety, she stood and paced, locked the back door, abruptly sat down again, and continued fidgeting.
Hurry! Craig's plane would be in the air by now! He expected her at the Marriott hotel near Washington National Airport in less than ninety minutes!
I won't be able to stay here much longer!
But I can't just leave.
I've got to know!
At once she exhaled, hearing muffled footsteps on a staircase at the front of the house.
The next thing, she heard murmured voices. The footsteps shuffled along a corridor, approaching the kitchen.
Tess bolted to her feet as Professor Harding escorted his wife into view.
But at the sight of the woman, Tess felt her stomach turn cold.
No!
So much time! I've wasted so much…!
Priscilla Harding looked even more infirm than her husband. She was tiny, thin, and stoop-shouldered. Her wispy white hair was mussed from her nap, her face wrinkled, pale, and slack. Like her husband, she needed a cane. They clung to each other.
'Professor,' Tess said, trying not to insult their dignity by revealing her alarm. 'If only you'd told me. I'd have been more than happy to go upstairs with you and help bring your wife downstairs.'
'No need.' The old man smiled. 'Priscilla and I have managed to get along without help for several years. You wouldn't want to spoil us, would you? However, I appreciate your consideration.'
'Here, let me…' Tess hurried around the table, gently gripped Priscilla Harding, and helped her to sit.
'Good,' the professor said, breathing with difficulty. 'Our little exercise is over. How do you feel, Priscilla?'
The woman didn't answer.
Tess was alarmed by the lack of vitality in her eyes.
My God, she isn't alert enough to…
She can't possibly answer my questions!
Professor Harding seemed to read Tess's mind. 'Don't worry. My wife's merely groggy from her nap. It takes Priscilla a while to regain her energy. But she'll be fine as soon as…'
The old man opened the refrigerator's gleaming door and took out a syringe. After swabbing his wife's arm with rubbing alcohol, he injected her with what Tess assumed was insulin, given the professor's earlier remarks about his wife's diabetes.
'There,' the professor said.
He returned to the refrigerator and removed a plate of fruit, cheese, and meat that was covered with plastic-wrap.
'I hope you're hungry, my dear.' He set the plate on the table, took off the plastic-wrap, then shifted unsteadily toward a counter to slice some French bread. 'I suggest you start with those sections of orange. You need to maintain your-'
'Blood sugar?' Priscilla Harding's voice was thick-tongued, surprisingly deep. 'I'm sick of…'
'Yes. That's right. You're sick. But in a few moments, after you've had something to eat, you'll feel much better. By the way, that navel orange is excellent. I recommend you try it.'
With a weary glance toward her husband, Priscilla Harding obeyed, her arthritis-gnarled fingers raising a slice of the orange to her mouth. As she chewed methodically, she shifted her gaze, puzzled now, toward Tess.
Again Professor Harding seemed to read thoughts. 'Forgive my rudeness, dear. This attractive young woman is a former student of mine, but of course her beauty can never compare to yours.'