He took the stairs to the second floor, then took the elevator to the eleventh floor. Back to the stairs, he climbed up to the penthouse fire door.
He was surprised to find the door unlocked.
Conn was instantly wary of a trap. Yet there were no guards in the hallway beyond. A quick examination revealed no alarm system hooked up to the door.
Maybe reputation alone kept Norman Felton protected. In a strange way-with his connection to Don Viaselli-Felton might enjoy some of the same safety afforded the village of Sinanju by the reputation of its Master.
Still, Conn was determined not to go the way of the seven dead and missing government agents who had preceded him. He walked with care down the short corridor to the main twin doors of the penthouse.
These doors were locked. Using a set of burglary tools he pulled from his pocket, as well as the curving tip of his hook, Conn quickly picked the lock. He slipped inside.
The decor was tasteful and opulent. Smith had supplied him with a floor plan of the apartment. MacCleary steered a direct course to the back of the suite.
Pale morning sunlight filtered through the gauzy drapes of Felton's study. MacCleary hurried to the desk. Sitting in the well-oiled leather chair, he used his hook to pop the metal lock face off the top drawer. It sprang free with a soft click, dropping almost silently to the plush carpet.
Conn searched the desk quickly and methodically. There was nothing of interest. Apparently, Felton had a daughter attending Briarcliff College. There were some personal letters from her secured in ribbon. MacCleary hadn't seen anything about a daughter in Smith's dossier.
"You're slipping up in your old age, Smitty," Conn muttered under his breath.
Other than the letters, there were a few legal documents and some uncashed dividend checks secured with a paper clip. There was also some payroll information on a Jersey City auto junkyard. If there was a connection to Maxwell in the pile of innocuous papers, Conn MacCleary couldn't see it.
"Maxwell, where the hell are you?" Conn grumbled.
There were no file cabinets in the room. Rows of tidy bookshelves were loaded with unread books. A few pictures hung on the mahogany walls. Otherwise the room was empty.
Conn did a rapid sweep between the books and behind the pictures for a hidden safe. There wasn't one.
This room was a bust. MacCleary had stepped halfway back into the living room before he knew he was in trouble.
"Find what you were after?" a flat voice asked. Conn froze. He hadn't heard anyone come in. They had been careful not to make a sound. Careful because they knew he was coming, knew he was already inside. It was a setup.
Norman Felton sat in the wing chair. With him was Jimmy the butler and a third man. MacCleary recognized him as Timothy O'Hara, one of Felton's lieutenants.
They weren't alone. Over in the doorway stood three more men. They lacked the culture of Felton or the comfort of Felton' s two men. These were imports of some sort, not used to their surroundings. They seemed to have equal contempt for both Felton and Conrad MacCleary.
"You have picked an unfortunate time for your visit," Felton said to MacCleary. "These men are employed by an associate of mine. They're here on business." He waved a hand to the trio at the door. "Oh, and before you ask, the answer is yes, we did see you sitting out in the parking lot for the past three days. Do you think we're blind?"
"I suppose it wouldn't work if I told you I worked for building maintenance," MacCleary said. He kept his voice perfectly even. No quick moves. Not yet.
To his right a breeze off the open veranda blew the thin ceiling-to-floor drapes into the room like billowing cobwebs. In the wind the curtains enveloped one side of Conn's body before slipping back to the floor.
"Possibly," Felton said. "But since I own the building, I know all my employees. Now, I have a little problem maybe you can help me with. My friends in business and I are being harassed. It's been going on for quite some time, and we'd like it to stop. Unfortunately, so far the agents I've encountered haven't been forthcoming about who they work for.
Under persuasion some have tried to tell us but-and here's the amazing thing-they just don't seem to know. I've got a good feeling about you, though. I think you're going to tell me exactly who our enemy is."
Conn was doing rapid calculations in his head. The odds were definitely not in his favor. All at once, his shoulders slumped. The fight seemed to drain from him.
"Okay," MacCleary exhaled wearily. "What the hell. Bastards don't care if I live or die anyway. Anything you want to know. But we should talk in private."
In his mind Conn had already decided his course of action. His revolver was in his pocket. He had six shots. One for each man in the room.
The three at the door were holding their ground. Felton and the others were nearer, so they'd be first. Conn was confident he could take out the near three. The others would be harder, but not impossible.
Rapidly calculating his odds, Conn figured they weren't great. Still there was a chance.
The next time the drapes blew up around him, he was already slipping his hand into his pocket. The move was so smooth and practiced it remained unseen. His fingertips were brushing the butt of his gun when a new voice cut sharply across the charged air of the room.
"Do all of you Americans rely on weapons to do the work of your hands?"
The voice couldn't belong to any of the men Conn had seen. It was too close. Even Felton seemed surprised by it. The Mob enforcer's head snapped around.
When he found the source of the voice, his eyes grew dark. "You," Felton snarled contemptuously. MacCleary followed Felton's gaze. He was shocked to find that there were now two more men in the room. Conn couldn't have missed them. They seemed to appear from out of the walls themselves. Secret panels. Had to be.
One was an Oriental, probably somewhere in his thirties. Conn quickly realized the other man wasn't a man at all.
It was just a kid. Pale as a ghost, with a mop of yellow-blond hair. Though his face was dead, his blue eyes as he peered over at MacCleary seemed to sparkle with a weird electricity. The kid had a confident grace that somehow sent a chill up Conrad MacCleary's battle-tested spine.
Conn was rapidly rethinking his game plan. There was now an extra man to take out. And the presence of the creepy kid complicated things. As the drapes fell away from his stocky form, he slipped his empty hand from his pocket.
The Oriental wasn't even looking Conn's way.
"I assume this is yet another spy sent to harass our mutual employer," the Oriental said to Norman Felton.
When he turned his attention to Conn, the Oriental's eyes were blandly contemptuous. But then something strange happened. As he studied the intruder near the open balcony doors, the scorn that was as comfortable a part of his wardrobe as his black business suit melted to quiet interest.
The Oriental noted the lightness of the CURE agent's stance-the way the man with the hook seemed to balance on the balls of his feet. A little too relaxed for a beef-eating Westerner. Of course Mr. Winch was aware of the weapon even before MacCleary was reaching for it. The gun wasn't the problem. It was the stance. The pose the big man struck seemed ...familiar.
Across the room Felton didn't seem to notice the change of expression on Winch's flat face.
"This one's mine," Felton said coldly.
"He was about to kill you," the Oriental said. There was icy certainty in his voice. His hooded eyes turned not to Felton, but remained locked on Conrad MacCleary.