Martin saw Pytor stand up and turn his back to Matthew. A shot rang out. Martin was paralyzed with fear; he knew Matthew, and, now that he was gone, he was terrified. The two men walked over to the body and looked at it, saying something in Russian. Martin forced his legs to carry him to a spot behind the hedges. He saw a light turn on upstairs, then another. The front door opened, and both men came out. As the cars pulled away, he heard a scream from inside.
Martin ran as fast as he could.
CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE
Crowds had gathered. Over a dozen police cars were out front of the Flatiron Building, and traffic was being diverted. The last couple of hours had been chaotic. The police chief was talking to the captain who was staring at Mike. Calls had been made to DC, and, though the CIA denied any knowledge of an ongoing operation, they were sending a team by helicopter. A limousine pulled up. There was a momentary lull in the noise. The mayor stepped out, and the press started to shout questions.
The captain broke free of his ass-chewing and headed straight for Mike. “Your buddy Henry has stepped in it this time. I’m going to need you to explain to me why he isn’t in custody again. Take me upstairs and lets go through it from the top.”
Mike was taller than the captain but looked small when being dressed down in front everyone. “This way, captain.”
They walked past the team of people working on the bodies. The captain and two of his aides followed Mike up the stairs. Nobody said a word as they walked down the hallway. Mike took a heavy breath, “Captain, I was called by Henry and asked to come over.”
“Did he say why?”
“He told me there were some CIA agents coming to see him. He thinks they have done something with Celine and are tracking some Russian spies. Since I feared there might be a kidnapping case…”
“A kidnapping case and Russian spies? Are you kidding me, detective? Because I ain’t in a joking mood. Did you hear the chief? He is looking to throw someone to the lions, and it ain’t going to be me detective. You understand?!”
Mike looked at the floor, and Buttons rubbed up against his leg. The soft purring couldn’t be heard over the yelling. “Yes, sir, I understand. I was just telling you what Henry told me over the phone.” Mike paused. The captain just glared at him.
“Go on, detective, explain why you don’t have any idea where Henry is right now.”
Mike wasn’t sure if he should try to answer the question or continue to lay out the time line. “Myself and the two officers arrived and found the bodies. They had been shot at close range, and Henry was by the steps.”
“So he was fleeing the scene?”
“No, not exactly, sir. He was just standing there. I asked him what happened, and he said that he didn’t know.”
“Of course he did.”
Mike continued, “We called it in and I checked the bodies for their IDs and that is how I found out they were with the CIA. Then we came up here.”
“Why did you leave the scene?” The captain sniped.
“Sir, Henry said he had seen three men crossing the street together. I asked him to take me to the window and show me where they had come from. Henry said that one of them had arrived in a car and met the other two. I wanted to see if the car was still there to verify his story.”
This seemed to appease the captain for a moment. Mike continued, “After I got his statement, I returned to the crime scene and that is when you arrived.”
“Why did you leave our suspect…”
Mike had had enough abuse, “You know Henry didn’t kill anyone. He isn’t a suspect; he is a witness!”
The captain didn’t like his tone. “I don’t give a damn if he is your friend or not. Heck, I like Henry, too, but right now we have two dead CIA agents after he made some wild-ass claim they had taken his secretary. Until we get this sorted out, he's at the top of our list. And you lost him!”
Mike knew this was how it would go, so he let the captain continue to rail against him. He trusted Henry, and, if Celine really were taken, her only chance would be for Henry to find her.
When he had gotten done yelling, the captain went to look out the window. Mike showed him where Henry had said the car parked. The two aides took notes about everything. Buttons had stopped trying to make Mike feel better and had crawled behind the plant.
Henry’s office did a good job of keeping out the noise from the street below but the windows suddenly began to rattle. The captain, looking out the window, asked, “What the hell is that?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
The crowd scattered as the Bell XV-3, painted black, waited for space to land. Neither Mike or the captain had any idea what it was, but they both knew it came from Langley. The CIA had arrived, and things were about to get much worse.
CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR
Lawrence had been tough to track down. Henry had called his mother’s place, and she said he was out. He was finally found at the bar near the plant, but it still took close to an hour for him to make it to the Flatiron Building. The crowd was pretty thick, and everyone seemed to be talking about some strange helicopter air plane that had landed before he arrived.
He wormed his way through the crowd and got up to the ropes. A man with a camera was changing flash bulbs. “What is going on here?”
“A couple of cops got shot, and some weird thing just landed.” The guy with the camera pointed off to the left.
“What is it?”
“No idea, but I’ve been taking pictures as fast as I can. My editor is going to love this.”
A man on a blow horn was trying to persuade people to go home. The added volume was drawing people from blocks away, and all the local news crews were setting up. Lawrence saw Mike come out of the building. Two men in suits came out after him and stood with their backs to the crowd. Lawrence couldn’t tell what they were saying, but he could tell from Mike’s expression that he wasn’t enjoying the conversation.
Lawrence spent the next couple of minutes looking through the crowd. Henry told him to look for anyone who might be out of place, a stranger. They were all strangers except Mike and his new friend with the camera.
“Who do you work for?”
The flash bulb popped again. “I'm with the Daily Mirror. You a reader?”
“Heck, yes, I love it.” Lawrence lied; he wasn’t much of a reader. “You think this will make the front cover?”
“I don’t know, but it's sure a strange looking plane…or helicopter.”
“No, I meant the guys over there.” Lawrence pointed to the men talking to Mike. “Are they the ones who got out of the plane?”
“Yep, I guess so.”
“Pretty strange, huh? I mean, they must be government spooks or something if they have one of those to fly around in. They didn’t even use the airport, just landed right in the street. You think it's some sort of cover-up?”
The Daily Mirror photographer lost interest in the plane-helicopter as soon as he heard the word “cover-up.” He pulled some more bulbs from a vest pocket and took shots of Mike and the men.
The steady pop and flash of the bulbs made Mike look past his two inquisitors. He saw Lawrence give him a nod. When the men in the suits had gone back into the building, Mike eased towards the crowd. Lawrence sort of looked him off, and Mike pretended to do some crowd control. He asked people to move back, working his way around the edge of the crowd. When he got to the photographer, he said, “Hey, buddy, you got enough photos. Why don’t you beat it?”
“I got every right to be here.” He shot back defiantly.
Mike took one step into the crowd, his chest right at the photographer’s chin, and, looking down, said, “Don’t make trouble because I’m not in the mood.”
Lawrence stepped between them. “Hey, officer, he didn’t mean nothing by it.” The photographer backed into the crowd, and Lawrence passed a note onto Mike.
The crowd started to yell at Mike for harassing the photographer. The captain yelled louder for him to leave the crowd control to the patrolmen and to get back inside. Mike slipped the note into his pocket and returned to the crime scene.
Lawrence didn’t bother to say good-bye to the photographer. He made his way out of the crowd and saw Bobby standing across the street and down the block. Lawrence was feeling pretty good about how he had passed the note to Mike and wanted to tell Bobby all about it. “Hey, did you see me?”
Bobby just said, “Follow me.”
It wasn’t hard for Lawrence to keep up as Bobby had much shorter legs. “Did you see how I used the photographer to get Mike’s attention and then slip him the note?”
“No, I’m too short.”
Lawrence thought about this for a moment as they hurried along and realized there wasn’t any way Bobby could have seen him. It was okay, though, because he really wanted to tell the story. “Well, it was pretty slick…”
“We need to turn here. No talking; we don’t want to draw attention.”
Lawrence just shrugged and said, “Okay.” He could tell the story later.
They went into a building and down some halls. Bobby found a door which led to the basement. Soon they were in the boiler room and making their way to another door. Bobby opened it, looked around, and said, “In there.”
“You want me to get in the closet?”
“Sssh…just get in. Hurry.”
Lawrence walked in and Bobby followed behind. Bobby opened a panel at the back, and they went down another staircase. Lawrence tried to talk, but Bobby kept shushing him. The walls were brick; the air, damp and vacant. The first few hallways were poorly lit, but they went through another door, and it changed. The floors were clean, the walls were cob web free, and the lights were bright. Lawrence thought it was weird when they went into the closet, but when they started walking through the strange underground maze and he found it seemed ‘lived in,’ he was speechless.
They passed under an archway and turned a corner where Bobby opened a heavy door. “We are here. Now you can tell us your story.”
Lawrence saw Henry sitting on the couch writing on a yellow pad. “Hey, Henry, what is this place?”
“Lawrence, it’s good to see you. Did you get the message to Mike?”
That was all he needed. Lawrence sat across from Henry and told his story while Henry took notes. It wasn’t as fun as Lawrence had thought it would be because Henry had such a worried look on his face. Just as he finished telling it, the phone rang.
CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE
Oleg had been watching her in silence since Jack left. The door to the bedroom was open and Celine lay tied to a single bed. She looked at peace. A small table lamp with a weak bulb cast her face with a warm glow. When she started to stir and felt the restraints, the peace vanished. Fear shot from her eyes for a moment until she saw him at the table. The fear was gone, replaced with rage. The gag prevented her from screaming, though he got the message. Such passion in this one, he thought.
He didn’t say anything. The room she was in was relatively dark with the curtains drawn shut. Only the table lamp and a small desk lamp sitting on the kitchen table were on. Oleg let her yell through the gag. When he was tired of the muted anger, he tilted the desk lamp towards his right hand and picked up the gun. The glint of light off the barrel brought Celine’s muted tirade to a halt. Oleg slowly pointed the gun at her.
He stood up and walked towards her. The sound of his deliberate steps on the hard wood floor was almost as bad as the sight of the gun. Celine’s heart was pounding almost as loudly as the slow hollow steps entering the room. At the side of the bed he touched the gun to her bare arm. It was cold and made her flinch. She lay there staring up at him. A tear rolled from her eye and down her cheek. Oleg caught it with the tip of the barrel and traced the path of fear back up her face. He drew the gun slowly back behind her ear and pressed it against her. Celine closed her eyes.
He pulled the gun away and stood waiting. Thirty seconds passed before she looked up at him. When she did, he placed the gun in his pocket and put his finger to his mouth. “Sssshhhh,” he said softly. She understood. He reached down and removed her gag.
Celine coughed. She looked at him again and almost spoke. He started speaking to her in a calm tone but in Russian. Celine tugged a little on her restraints until he nodded his head back and forth while putting his hand into the pocket with the gun. She stopped.
Celine started to shiver, so Oleg put a light blanket over her. She asked, “Who are you?”
Oleg started to sing a Russian lullaby, which his grandmother had sung to him. He was a professional, and, though he was not cruel, he was too smart to let himself start talking to this woman. Oleg started to make an omelet, confident that she was under control. Even the condemned deserved a last meal.
CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX
She rubbed her eyes and stretched. The phone rang again. Pulling herself out of bed, Amy walked out of her bedroom and down the hall and flicked on the bathroom light. The phone on the credenza in the hallway was still aggressively trying to get her to pick it up. Light from the bathroom let her find the phone. She picked it up. “Hello, this is Amy. What time is it?”