"This is too much!" Sal was saying. "Just too freakin' much!"
Jack had to smile as he watched the destruction of last night's party play out on the thirteen-inch screen. It was too much.
Holiday quiet outside the office. Except for the guard dogs padding around behind the fences, he and Sal had the junkyard to themselves.
"Now here comes the best part," Sal said, pointing at the screen. "I musta watched this a hundred times."
Jack watched Dragovic shove a pretty young woman out from under a table, then watched that table collapse under the impact of a tottering overweight party guest. Jack laughed. Beautiful.
Sal was almost falling out of his seat. "Can you imagine when that hits the airwaves? "This guy ain't gonna be able to show his face in Burger King, let alone Studio 54!"
Jack started to tell him that Studio 54 was passe now but let it go. He knew what Sal meant, and he was right on the money.
"A fate worse than death," Jack said.
Sal hit the stop button and turned to Jack. "I don't know about a fate worse than death. Not that all this ain't good an' all, but good as it is—"
"Yeah, I know… Somehow it's not enough."
Sal smiled. "Yeah. Am I a broken record or what. But it's just… not. If you know what I'm sayin'."
"I do. But this has only been phase one. These first two hits are what you might call 'baking the cake.' In phase two we ice it."
"And when's phase two?"
"Tonight. This whole gig ends at tonight's party."
Jack was glad of that. After tonight, no more hard guys hanging around outside Gia's. He hoped.
"Tonight? Ain't no party tonight—least not according to my contact."
"Yeah, there is. Got it straight from Dragovic. Special party tonight, but your caterer friend won't be hired for this one."
"Well, we did tires and crankcase gunk," Sal said. "What next?"
"Something very special. You just make sure you and your camera are on that dune tonight. Be ready to shoot as soon as it's good and dark. This one will be the best yet."
"Yeah?" Sal wiggled his eyebrows. "Whatcha plannin'?"
"I'm planning to make a phone call."
"That's it? A call? To who?"
Jack wagged his finger at Sal. "If you knew that, you wouldn't need to pay me, would you. Just make sure you don't miss this party. And have the rest of my money ready. After tonight I don't think you'll be saying, 'it ain't enough.'"
4
"I thought we were going to see a parade," Vicky said.
"I did too, Vicks."
Jack stood on the curb between Gia and Vicky and gazed up and down Fifth Avenue. Saks and Gucci and Bergdorf Goodman lined the sidewalks but no marchers. Blue skies and mild weather, a perfect day for a parade. So where was everybody? Not even a single one of those pale blue wooden horses the police use to block streets to hint that a parade was expected or had already been by.
Jack did a full three-sixty scan, his eye out for more than marching bands. He'd done a careful reconnoiter of Gia's neighborhood before heading out to Sal's this morning, and then again a little while ago, and neither time had he found any signs of surveillance. Pretty much what he'd expected, but it didn't take him off alert. Jack had always found it more comforting to know where the bad guys were than where they weren't.
Since no one was watching them, and since he couldn't get hold of Nadia, he'd decided to take Vicky to a Memorial Day parade. But so far, no luck.
"God, it's good to be out," Gia said. "How much longer are we going to be under house arrest?"
To make the house look empty, Jack had advised Gia to stay inside and out of sight for the long weekend.
"We should be able to loosen up tomorrow."
She looked at him. "That means things come to a head tonight, I take it?"
"If all goes according to plan."
"Hey, look!" Vicky said, pointing. "More sailors."
Sure enough, a trio of young men of various shades—they looked like teenagers, and maybe they were—dressed in bell-bottomed whites and Dixie cup caps strolled their way from the direction of St. Pat's. As usual, the fleet was in for Memorial Day Weekend and white uniforms abounded.
"They're cute," Gia said. "But how do they get their whites so white?"
"Why don't you ask them?" Jack said.
Vicky put a hand on her out-thrust hip as they passed and said, "Hi-ya, sailor!"
The guys all but fell off the curb laughing, and Jack bit the insides of both cheeks to keep from doing the same. Gia turned scarlet and found something interesting atop the Saks building.
"What?" Vicky said, looking at her mother as the still-chortling sailors moved on.
"Where on earth did you hear that?"
"I saw it on MTV."
"There you go," Jack said, finally trusting himself to speak. "The root of the decline of Western civilization, such as it is."
"Well, young lady," Gia said, taking her by the hand and leading her across the street, "I think we're going to monitor your TV habits a little more closely from now on." She glanced back at Jack. "By the way, where are we going?"
"Let's try Broadway. Maybe they've got a parade there."
"You know," Gia said, taking his arm as they walked along, "I love the city on holiday weekends."
"You mean half-empty?"
She nodded. "It's like we've got the place almost to ourselves." She stretched out her arms and did a quick turn. "Look at that. I didn't hit anybody." She took his arm again. "I feel sorry for all these sailors. Of all times to get a leave in New York—one of the two big weekends a year when almost all the girls have left town for the beaches."
"I saw them checking you out pretty well as they passed."
"Don't be silly. I could be their mother."
"They weren't just looking—ogling is more like it. And I can't say as I blame them, what with those long stems sticking so far out of those shorts."
"Oh, pshaw."
"Pshaw? Did you actually say, 'Pshaw'?"
"Pshaw, and piffle," Gia said.
But Jack could see she was pleased she'd been ogled, and even more pleased that he'd noticed. But then he was always on watch around the two women in his life.
They came to Broadway. The deco front of the Brill Building gleamed in the sun across the street from them, but no parade flowed between.
Sharing a couple of oversize pretzels from a pushcart, the three of them wandered farther west. Jack slowed as they passed a defunct dance club in the midst of renovation. A sign on the double-doored entry proclaimed it THE FUTURE HOME OF NEW YORK CITY'S MOST EXCLUSIVE NIGHTCLUB—BELGRAVY.
Dragovic's place. Jack understood that Dragovic had begun running his operation from a back office here—when he wasn't in the Hamptons.
One more move against Dragovic tonight and that chapter would be closed—he hoped. And as long as he'd be out on Long Island, he'd look in on the rakosh, just to make sure it was still fading away.
Jack was about to turn everyone around and head back when he saw an older man in a khaki Eisenhower jacket, blue twill pants, and a defiantly angled overseas cap limping toward them. Jack gave him a friendly wave as he came abreast.
"Hi. Isn't there supposed to be a Memorial Day parade?"
The man frowned. "There damn sure should have been. I hear there's a little one on Upper Broadway somewhere. Probably nobody watching it, though. We just had a ceremony on the Intrepid with hardly anybody there."
Jack took in all the medals on the right breast of the old soldier's bulging waist-length jacket. He saw a star that looked bronze and recognized a Purple Heart.
"You were in the Big One?"
"Yeah." He looked at Jack. "How about you?"
Jack had to smile. "Me? In the army? No. Not my thing."
"Wasn't my thing either," the guy said, his voice rising. "None of us wanted to be there. I hated every minute. But there was a job to be done and we did it. And we died doing it. My whole platoon, eve
ry one of my buddies, was wiped out at Anzio—everyone but me, and I just barely made it. But I did get back, and as long as I'm alive, I'll show up to remember those guys. Someone should, don't you think? But nobody gives a damn."
"I do," Jack said softly, surrendering to an impulse from out of the blue. He thrust out his hand. "Thank you."
The man blinked, then took Jack's hand and squeezed. His eyes puddled up and his lower jaw trembled as he tried to speak. Finally he managed a weak, "You're welcome." Then he limped away.
Jack turned to find Gia staring at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Jack, that was…"
He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable.
"No, really," she said. "Don't shrug it off. That was nice. Sweet, even. Especially since I know how you feel about armies and governments."
"He isn't a government or an army. He's a guy. No matter what you think of any particular war, you've got to feel something for some poor guy ripped out of his life and handed a gun and sent somewhere to kill other guys who've been ripped out of their lives and sent to do the same thing, and while they're both shivering in their foxholes, scared they're not going to see another sunrise, all the fat cats, all the generals and politicos and priests and mullahs and tribal elders who started the whole damn thing, sit way to the rear, moving their chess pieces around." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder as he took a breath. "He got handed the dirty end of a dirty stick but he handled it. You've got to respect that."
"So it's another guy thing, huh?" Gia said, punching him lightly on the shoulder, guy style.
He glanced at her and saw the rueful twist of her smile. "To da moon, Alice!"
She laughed and turned to watch the receding Eisenhower jacket. She sighed. "Old soldiers…"
But Jack was back to looking out for some young soldiers, Serb vets. He knew that if and when they met again, they wouldn't fade away, and there sure as hell would be no handshakes.
5
The third key Luc tried worked. He opened the door, stepped inside, and quickly closed it behind him. The shades were down but enough sunlight filtered through to illuminate the waiting area of the diabetes clinic.
Now he could relax—a little. No one would be in for the rest of the day, especially Nadia, who was still with the police, giving statements and filling out forms. Luc had given a brief statement, then begged off, claiming a prior engagement. His involvement had been peripheral, after all.
At least to all appearances. But his brain burned with the need to silence Nadia and to learn why Prather had deviated from his instructions regarding Gleason.
Prather, however, had been infuriatingly vague when Luc finally had reached him by phone.
"Some unforeseen circumstances came up," was all he'd say.
When Luc had inquired—discreetly, of course—about "the remains," Prather had laughed and said, "Don't give that a second thought, Doctor! I've found an absolutely foolproof means of disposal!"
He'd sounded oddly excited.
The brief exchange had left Luc feeling frustrated and helpless. Taking a deep breath, he thrust Prather from his thoughts and looked around the front area of the clinic. He'd been here once during Nadia's brief recruitment phase, stopping by more out of nostalgia than the need to see her in action. He'd worked a clinic like this down in the Village during his residency. Lord, how long ago was that? Seemed like another epoch.
Maybe he could go back to something like this in France. Put some of his training to use again with people instead of molecules.
He shook off the distracting trains of thought. He was getting ahead of himself, and off track. If he didn't take care of Nadia, he could forget planning anything in France.
As he pulled on a pair of latex examination gloves, Luc noticed that his palms were sweaty. Tension coiled at the back of his neck. He kept imagining someone coming in and catching him here.
Let's get this over with, he thought as he moved toward the rear of the clinic.
No windows in the rear office, so he had to fumble for a light switch. As the overhead fluorescents flickered to life, he immediately spotted what he was looking for. Next to the empty Mr. Coffee sat a big black mug with NADJ printed in thick white block capitals across the front. He'd remembered it from his brief visit. He'd even remarked laughingly that no one could ever say they'd used her cup by mistake.
And there will be no mistake today, he thought grimly as he pulled a vial from his pocket.
He held it up to the light: Loki in its liquid form was odorless and tasteless, with only a hint of blue. He un-stoppered the vial and poured about a tablespoon's worth into Nadia's mug. He rolled the thick liquid around, coating the inner surface halfway up the sides.
The concentrate was drying already. In minutes it would be unnoticeable.
He'd estimated Nadia's weight at about one-twenty or so. A tablespoon of the concentrate was a hefty dose, and the effect would last a good four to six hours. He added a few extra drops for good measure.
He watched the sequence play out before his mind's eye…
Nadia had few aggressive or violent tendencies, but within half an hour or so of finishing her coffee, whatever ones she possessed would be magnified ten-, twen-tyfold, turning her into a raging wild woman. She'd become uncontrollable, a jungle cat, raging about, smashing things, perhaps trying to smash people as well. Inevitably she'd be arrested for disorderly conduct and suspicion of drag use, but only suspicion, because the police labs had yet to figure out how to test for Loki.
But suspicion wouldn't be enough.
He stoppered the vial, returned it to his pocket, and came up with a small glassine envelope. He then stepped to Nadia's desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and stuffed the envelope in a rear corner.
In act two, a police search turns up the envelope and the four Berzerk tablets within. Suspicion then becomes fact: Nadia is tagged with a record of drag abuse. Her credibility is destroyed and whatever suspicions she might raise about Gleason's disappearance or about GEM's connection to street drags will be tainted… the ramblings of a brain-fried druggie.
The strength began to seep from Luc's legs and he dropped into Nadia's chair.
How can I do this to her?
Not only will her credibility go down the tubes, but her medical career as well. She might be able to retain her medical license after going through rehab, but her reputation as a reliable physician will be ruined.
Have I really sunk so low?
Luc gathered his strength and rose. He returned to the Mr. Coffee and picked up Nadia's mug. There was a sink in the washroom. He'd rinse it out, remove the pills from her drawer, and leave everything just as he'd found it. And then he'd look for another way to deal with this.
He started toward the door, then stopped.
What other way?
How else to keep her from accusing GEM other than placing another call to Prather? That would be what Kent and Brad would want. As Kent had said, once you've ordered one death, ordering a second is easier. Ordering a third—Nadia's—would be a Cakewalk for those two. But he had enough blood on his hands.
He stared into Nadia's mug. The concentrate was almost completely dry now. In a way, the Loki was by far the lesser evil. It might damage her future, but at least she'd be alive. And she'd have at least some sort of career.
In a way, he was saving Nadia's life.
Clutching that thought like a drowning man, Luc replaced the mug on the coffee shelf, turned out the light, and hurried for the door.
He had packing to do.
6
Milos strolled around the pool, acting like a host, but listening… straining his ears for the rhythmic pulse of a helicopter approaching through the night sky.
"Smile," he said to a trio of dapper Hispanics in bright-colored guayaberas. He'd brought them in from one of his Harlem brothels. "Look like you're having a good time. Make believe it's Friday night, before anything happened."
They smiled and nodded and dutifully lifted their glasses of ginger a
le to him in salute. There would be plenty of time for the real thing after this was finished.
Everyone from Friday night's fiasco was here. Milos had invited them all back and promised them a chance to get even with the shit who had dropped garbage on them. To a man they had accepted—enthusiastically.
Milos noted with approval the bulges under their shirts. He patted their shoulders and moved on.
Milos's men had spent the bulk of the day doing what they could to clean up the grounds. The air still reeked of oil. He raged inwardly at how the filthy stuff had stained the decking and walkways. The entire area would have to be power-washed. But repairs would come later. He did not need the place to look perfect for what he had planned tonight.
In addition to Friday's guests he had brought in extra men and had them stationed in the oversize shrubbery with shotguns and rifles, all ready and eager for payback.
He rubbed his hands anxiously, wondering what those crazies would try to throw at him tonight. No matter. He was ready for them—ready to strike first and stop them dead in their tracks.
To that end, Milos had the lights low and the music off so he could hear the helicopter as early as possible. His instructions were simple: do not fire until you see the helicopter, but when you do, let loose with everything you have.
The voice on the phone had asked him if he'd been thinking of "calling in the authorities." Me, Milos Dragovic, call in police like some ordinary citizen who cannot handle his own problems? Never. No. You attack Dragovic, Dragovic attacks back, but ten times worse.
Of course, after tonight the authorities would be very much involved—no avoiding that after a barrage of gunfire and a downed helicopter—but he had top lawyers. A citizen was allowed to use deadly force in defense of his life, and that was what he'd be doing tonight: standing on his own property defending himself.
"I hear something!" one of the men on the beach shouted.
Everyone stopped talking at once. Silence abrupt and complete, like a power failure in a sound system. Only the sound of the surf… and then something else. No mistaking the thrum of helicopter blades beating the night air.