A Cool Breeze on the Underground (28 page)

“Then what?”

Christ, Neal, don’t encourage him!

“I’ll charge our friend here with an assortment of major crimes against the Crown, and perhaps win a pat on the back from my grateful superiors.”

Neal looked at Hatcher. “Enjoy,” he said, and started out of his chair. He took it slow, and it still hurt.

“Hold on,” Colin said. “Let’s not be hasty.” He gave Hatcher his most engaging hustler’s smile. “How would you like to be a superstar?”

Neal eased himself down on the bed in Ferguson’s guest room, The doctor had insisted he rest, and Neal supposed it made sense. It would take a while for things to work out, anyway.

His chest throbbed. When the charge had first hit him, he’d thought he was dead. He was sure now that his heart had stopped for a second or so, either through pain, or shock, or fear, and the sheer force of the blow that had taken him off his feet had driven the air out of his lungs. He remembered hitting the floor, and that was about it before he’d passed out.

He’d come to when the collie started licking his face and sniffing him, and he saw Hardin leaning over him. The tough old shepherd got him to his feet and cleaned up the raw, rasping wound. He sterilized his knife with the flame of a match and used it to pick out the rock salt that was still imbedded in the flesh. Then he asked Neal some hard questions.

When he heard the story, Hardin left Neal in the cottage and returned an hour later in an old Bedford lorry. First they went to the village, where they each had a whiskey and Neal placed his call to London. Ferguson had already heard from “Mr. Smythe,” and had recalled Neal’s name. He reasoned that Neal, for some bizarre reason, had betrayed his host by stealing his most valuable possession, and Ferguson was considering ringing the police. He agreed to wait until Neal could tell him the story in person, and then run him in if he wished.

The long ride to London was a torment in the bumpy old truck, and every jolt sent a burning stab through Neal’s chest. When they arrived at Ferguson’s in the small hours of the morning, Neal was in bad shape.

“Good God, man,” Ferguson said as he helped Hardin carry Neal in. “What on earth has happened to you?”

They took Neal into the examining room and laid him out on the table. Ferguson went to work with real instruments, but not without remarking that Hardin had done a solid, if primitive, job, and then he asked Hardin about the nasty bump on his head. Hardin insisted it could wait. The doctor worked on Neal with tweezers, tongs, scalpel, and sutures, covered the whole bloody mess with sulfate ointment, and stuck a variety of needles into Neal, shooting him up with antibiotics and a tetanus vaccination for good measure. He tried to give Neal some sleeping pills, but he refused them. He desperately needed to tell the doctor about Allie.

Ferguson listened to Neal’s tale with some skepticism. He was all for calling the police, even after he’d accepted Neal’s version of the events. It took all Neal’s remaining energy to convince him that it would be the end of Alison Chase. Finally, they had compromised. Neal put a call in to the Piccadilly Hotel, and a few minutes later Hatcher rang back. He arrived at Ferguson’s shortly thereafter.

Over whiskey in the doctor’s study, it all seemed very civilized, almost like a game. Neal struggled to stay awake as they laid the plans for an ambush, a trap that—if it worked—would set Allie free.

“He won’t have her with him,” Neal said.

Ferguson agreed. “No, he’s too wily for that.”

“Well then, gentlemen,” said Hatcher, “the only thing to do then is to get his nuts under the boot … and step on them.”

He had said goodbye to Hardin at the door and thanked him.

Hardin shook his hand and said, “You brought some excitement to the dog and me. We don’t much care for excitement.”

“Sorry.”

“I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing you or the lady again.” “I don’t suppose you will.”

“I’m glad I had the gun loaded for crow, young man.” “So am I.”

Hardin fumbled for a minute, then said, “That’s a good young lady.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Hope you get her back safe.”

“I will.”

It was nine in the morning before Neal had laid down to try to sleep. Tired as he was, he couldn’t drop off. He was thinking about Allie. The same thing happened this afternoon as he tried to rest. There was too much going on. Ferguson had made a few phone calls to the right people and arranged for twenty thousand pounds in cash. A very nervous young accountant arrived with the briefcase a couple of hours later.

“Rather irregular, this,” he observed to Ferguson.

Colin stared longingly at the stacks of bills.

“It’s a great shame, Neal,” he moaned. “A bloody great shame.”

“Get moving,” Neal answered, “before I change my mind.”

“Right, rugger.”

Colin had left, followed at some distance by Hatcher. An hour later, the call came through.

“Hello, Neal,” Colin said. “Four o’clock, Piccadilly Circus. They’ll bring her. They’re expecting me, though.”

“Colin!
How is she?”

There was a long silence. “Well, sport, you know junkies.”

Dickie didn’t believe it, but there it was, twenty thousand pounds, neatly laid out in a briefcase, Colin’s insipid face grinning at him behind it.

“I hope this is good stuff you’re selling me, Dickie.”

“Don’t push your luck, Colin.”

“Right you are.”

The waiter brought over two small glasses of fiery Chinese wine. “All good deals begin with a toast,” Dickie said. “Here’s to our new relationship.
Gan bei,
bottoms up.”

“Bottoms up,” he said. “Let’s go fetch my smack.” Bottoms up, indeed, where you’re headed, you fat fart.

Vanessa had a bit of trouble getting Allie out of bed, and she finally had to hold out the promise of a fix if she’d be a big girl and come along. They walked down into the tube station and got her on the train with no more difficulty. They emerged at the Piccadilly station with Allie gentle as a lamb.

“She’s a walking zombie,” Crisp noted.

“That’s Colin’s problem,” Vanessa said. She hoped there’d be no trouble getting their share of the money from Colin. She wanted to get Crisp well away from him.

The Dilly was crowded and noisy. Sirens blasted the afternoon air, and it seemed like every cop in London was pouring down into Soho. It made Vanessa edgy, anxious to find Colin, shake him, and quit this scene.

Except Colin wasn’t there. Neal was.

The Circus was crowded with tourists and zoned-out kids. They didn’t stand out or draw any attention.

“Where’s Colin?” Vanessa asked. Crisp stood behind her. He didn’t trust Neal a bit.

Neal made a point of listening to the sirens, figuring that Colin, with his twenty grand of Kitteredge money in nicely marked bills, must have made out all right. “In jail, probably.”

Vanessa just nodded. Losing had become a way of life.

Allie stared at Neal. This dream was one of the best she’d had, and she was running on low. “Neal?” she asked. “That you?”

“In the flesh.”

She took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes, real close. “Neal, I’m very glad to see you but I’m very fucked up.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s like we’re floating around the city, you know … all over … everything is going
whoosh, whoosh
like? Are you fucked up, too?”

“I think so.”

She hugged him tight. “Oh good. Didn’t want to be the only one. Didn’t want to be alone. You don’t think I remember stuff, but I remember. They sent you to get me. Good old Mom and Pop did, that’s what you said. You gonna make me go home now? To good old Mom and Pop? You’re not, huh, Neal?”

“I’m not.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Good, good good.” Her face turned serious. “Can we go now?”

“Right now.”

“Love you, Neal.”

“Love you, Allie.”

Neal started walking her to Oxford Street to hail a taxi. He wanted Ferguson to see her as soon as possible. He hadn’t gone a block before he made them. Footsteps behind him—two pairs … not pros. He picked up the pace and listened. They were coming faster, Could he afford to pause, even if there was a cab handy? Would it be a knife, a sap, or another gun, maybe? The thought of the gun got to him and he fought off the fear. He slowed down a little but tightened his grasp around Allie’s waist. The steps pulled closer, then alongside: Crisp on one side, Vanessa on the other.

Neal kept moving as they talked. “You want something?”

“We’re in a bit of trouble,” Vanessa said.

“I’m not in the mood.”

Crisp grabbed him by the elbow. “Listen, mate—”

Neal straightened his elbow and grabbed Crisp by his belt. He lifted his arm as he moved. The motion hurt like crazy but it kept Crisp off balance and vulnerable. “I’m not your mate and if you give me any shit—any shit at all—I’ll kill you right here.”

Neal didn’t think he would or could kill Crisp, but it sounded good.

“As I was saying. We’re in a bit of trouble. What with Colin in the lockup and all.”

“Your friends are your problem, not mine.”

Vanessa was half-running to keep up with him. “That’s not really true, you know.”

She shoved something into his stomach. It was a magazine. “Have a look at this.”

It was a
Newsweek,
opened to a page. On the page were the smiling faces of John Chase, wife Liz, and daughter Allie.

Neal tried to bluff. “So?”

Vanessa was much tougher, much smarter, than he ever gave her credit for. “Come off it,” she said.

Neal dropped his head. He was so damn tired. He looked up again.

“What do you want?”

“Out of here.”

He thought about it for a few seconds. It was doable. “And then how do I know I can trust you?”

“You’re a fine one to be talking about trust.”

True enough.

“Okay, I’ll think about it. Go back to the old flat. I’ll ring you tonight.”

She let go of his arm. “Midnight, Neal. Or I see if
Newsweek
wants to print my pictures of Allie.”

Crisp tossed him a decent imitation of a confident smirk and the pair walked away. Neal flagged a taxi and gave the driver Ferguson’s address.

“Where we going?” Allie asked.

“Someplace to get some sleep.”

She narrowed her eyes like a bad actress doing suspicion. “You’re not taking me home, Neal.”

“No.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Assured of that much, she fell asleep in the cab and was no problem putting to bed.

35

Lombardi handed ed Levine the phone.

“It’s for you.”

Ed was grateful for a break from the sullen atmosphere of the hotel room, where John Chase sat in a near-catatonic state of anger.

“Levine,” he said into the phone. He had made a habit of answering phones this way. It was professional, efficient, cool.

“So, Ed,” said the mocking voice on the phone, “where do you want her? Providence … New York … Newport?”

“Carey, you son of a bitch bastard. Where are you?”

“I’m with Allie Chase.”

“You got her.”

That got their attention in the room: heads lifted, ears perked.

“Of course I ’got her,’ what did you think? They don’t call me the best for nothing.”

Levine held the mouthpiece to his chest. “He’s got her,” he said to Chase and Lombardi.

“What kind of shape is she in?” Lombardi asked quickly.

“What kind of shape is she in?”

“She’ll take a nice picture. I don’t think you’ll want her to do
60 Minutes,
though.”

Chase smiled. Lombardi went to pour himself a healthy G&T.

“You and me have a lot to talk about, Neal,” Ed muttered.

“Oh, yeah, you bet your fat ass we do.”

“Your mother—”

“Ed, you get a pencil, write this down. It’s tricky. British Air, Flight One seventy-seven. Arrives Kennedy two P.M.—tomorrow. That’s August first, by the way. Be there or be square.”

“If you’re screwing us around …”

Neal had hung up.

Neal put down the phone and looked in on Allie. She was out cold. He reflected for a moment on the subject of betrayal. Graham had been right as usual, he thought as he looked down at the sleeping girl. Betrayal is the basic stuff of the undercover. It’s in his bones. Then he Went back to the phone.

As a rule, Joe Graham liked other people’s phone conversations better than his own. He was sitting in his apartment, four cans into a six-pack and seven innings into a ball game, when the phone rang three times and then stopped. By the time Hoyt had come out of his stretch and let loose a slow sinker, the phone jangled again. This time Graham picked it up.

“Dad!” came the cheerfully mocking voice on the other end of the line.

“Son, it’s been a long time.”

“Meet me.”

Neal thought it over again and then dialed Colin’s old number. Vanessa answered. “Yeah?”

“What are the names on your passports?”

He made her spell them out twice, gave her instructions about where and when to meet him, and then hung up. Ten minutes later, Miss Vanessa Brownlow and Mister Harold Griffin had two reservations on British Air from Heathrow to Boston. Then Neal phoned Hatcher.

Heathrow airport on a sunday morning is the eighth circle of hell. Three-quarters of the world’s population either are greeting or seeing off the remaining fourth, jamming old, cranky Terminal Three in a sweaty mass of emotional humanity. Give Mother Teresa a couple of hours in Terminal Three on a Sunday, she’ll be shopping for a machete.

Neal Carey was delighted to see the place. Allie firmly in tow, holding his hand and a small dose of Thorazine, Neal edged to the BA sales counter, paid for his and Allie’s tickets with plastic, and Crisp and Vanessa’s by cash. Blackmail payments are not tax-deductible. He avoided the crowd at the escalator and took the back stairs up to the Departure floor.

Hatcher was pretty good, Neal noted. He stayed about fifty or sixty feet back and eased his bulk through the crowd without pushing or shoving. Neal recalled a Grahamism: A civilian sees the crowd; a street man sees his way through the crowd. Neal led Allie into the bookshop, picked up some magazines she seemed to like and a paperback copy of Peebles’s
A Short History of Scotland
for himself. Hatcher peeled off at this point and checked out the mobbed coffee shop. He came back a few minutes later and nodded to Neal.

Crisp and Vanessa were in the coffee shop, and they were alone. For once, they hadn’t screwed up. Neal hadn’t really thought that even this dynamic duo would be dumb enough to try to snatch Allie back in the middle of Heathrow Airport, especially not during a terrorist campaign when about half the white males in the building were plainclothes cops. But he wasn’t taking the chance.

They had somehow commandeered a booth, and seemed oblivious to the hostility of the sullen waitress and the stares of the various Pakistanis, Indians, and Africans who found them bizarre, Neal slipped into the booth across from them. Allie followed.

He slid the ticket packet across the table to Vanessa. She looked it over and asked, “Why Boston?”

“You think I want to see you in New York?”

“You don’t trust us?”

“Maybe I don’t want to get off the plane and be greeted by a photographer from
Newsweek.
This will make it just a little tougher for you to double-cross me.”

Vanessa didn’t like it. “How am I supposed to get to New York then?”

“I don’t care. You see the big guy over there at the counter? Tea, toast, and sausage? He’s a cop.” Neal cut Crisp’s protest off. “I just want to make sure this all goes smoothly. Have you ever taken an international flight before? Okay, you go back downstairs with your ticket and passports and check in. They’ll take your bags there. Then you go through security. Passports and tickets again. Now, just to be sure everything is hunky-dory, meet me again in the coffee shop inside the security area. I’ll give you your money there.”

“You’re a cautious bastard,” Crisp said.

“I wonder why.”

He let hatcher trail them down to check-in, finished off his own coffee, and said to Allie, “We’re going to get on the plane now.” “Where are we going?”

“I told you. L.A.”

“Disneyland. I want to ride that elephant thing.”

“Dumbo?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah, I like Dumbo.”

I seen a horsefly, I seen a deerfly, I ain’t never seen an elephant fly.

“You gonna get me clean in L.A.?”

The question took him aback. “If that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Then we’ll do it. C’mon.”

The lady at the British Air counter was like all ladies at the British Air counter, cool and polite.

“I have an aisle and a window for you, Mr. Carey.”

“Terrific.”

“Enjoy your flight.”

The line at security was long and slow. Nobody was taking any chances. Neal didn’t mind. He had left plenty of time to catch the plane, and he’d just as soon the plane he was on didn’t blow up in midair, not after all this. When it came their turn, he let Allie go first, and turned to nod his goodbye to Hatcher. The cop should be having a good day. His drug bust had made the morning editions and they had all spelled his name right. He gave Neal the thumbs-up sign: Crisp and Vanessa were through security.

He found them right at the coffee shop.

He said to Vanessa, “Allie should go to the loo now.”

“I’ll take her.”

“I’ll have your money. You want pounds or dollars?”

“Aren’t you the considerate one? Dollars, please.”

Vanessa took Allie by the hand and walked off. Neal looked at Crisp and smiled. “How about you, champ, you want to hit the WC?”

“Turning poofter on us, Neal?”

“Let’s do it.”

The security lounge was far less crowded. Only people with tickets were in there, so they made it to the gents’ loo with ease. They walked to the last stall, the handicapped one with lots of room, took a quick glance, and locked themselves inside.

“You got everything through okay?”

“I’m not in bracelets, am I?”

“Vanessa, too?”

Crisp nodded. “You worry too much.”

Crisp pulled the stuff out of a makeshift pocket sewn inside his jeans.

The alcohol felt nice and cool on Neal’s skin. The needle stung like a bastard.

Neal picked a good spot to sit and watch them board their flight. He wanted to make damn good and sure they got on. He thought about Lombardi. Call this book
Trust Level Zero.

They strolled through the gate as if they’d been doing this all their lives.

Now it was his turn. Why do I feel so jumpy? he wondered. This is the easy part. He gathered Allie up and they hit the line. Ten minutes later, they were at the last checkpoint, and Neal eyed the attendant nervously. Can he tell? he thought nervously. Can he tell? Neal handed him the ticket and passport. Was the man looking at him more closely than he had the others? Can he tell? Is it the guilt in my eyes? Smile, now. Just a little, not too much. He can tell. I’m screwed.

“Enjoy your flight, sir,” the agent said with just the trace of a smirk. He passed Allie right through. The plane took off right on time.

Levine hung the phone up. “They’re on board.”

“How do you know?” Lombardi asked.

“I have a source at British at Kennedy. He checked the computer. I’ll call the Senator.”

“Tell him I want to come along to meet them.”

“You and me both.”

“This better be good, Lombardi,” Chase said over the phone. “You hauled me out of a meeting with half the crackers in Dixie.”

“They’re headed in.”

“Have the car meet me. Have you called Mrs. Chase yet?”

“I work for
you,
Senator.”

“Call her. She can get a helicopter down and still make it.”

“How’s it going there?”

“We have a good shot at it. Do you think you can get born again?”

“I feel like a new man already, Senator.”

Allie liked the movie. She didn’t have the headset on, but she made up her own dialogue, which wasn’t too bad, Neal thought. She ate both their lunches and only had to go to the lay once for a refresher course in sedation. She was in a pretty good mood for a young lady as sick as she was. When she wasn’t putting words into De Niro’s mouth, she talked about life after getting straight, and California sunshine, and getting them a little house around Malibu somewhere. She bet she could pry some cash out of the old trust fund, Dad or no Dad.

Neal nodded and made listening noises and drank heavily. The first-place Yankees had a twilight doubleheader against the Sox and he could just make the second game if he hustled. He was sick of himself, and sick of his lies, and it would be real nice to get involved in a game where they had some rules.