The suit was buried under the produce locker when I ran through the door, slamming it behind me and pinning the bat in the handle. It held. I bent down, struggling to catch my breath. The pain in my head and my hand was a little less severe. I saw a pair of legs at the top of the stairs. Someone was waiting there. Where was Nissim when I needed him?
He was standing on the steps leading down to the storeroom, facing into the restaurant, making sure his friends weren't taken by surprise. The noise from the restaurant covered the noise I made as I moved toward him in the darkness. From a step below him, I reached out silently and cautiously, grabbed the cuffs of his pants and pulled as hard as I could. He fell, his butt hitting one step and his head another. I could tell it was a very bad spill. Too good a fall might have paralyzed him or broken his skull. I stood above him, my hand pressed to his throat.
Gadi Crane, the scientific attaché, had never looked worse. "Dirt bag," he muttered. "I told you to get lost."
"What about Kate?" I asked, pressing down on his throat.
"We don't have her, and the stuff you took has to go back to the Americans. You still don't get it, degenerate," he rasped, and I loosened my grip. "It was there for the Americans to find and take back." I grabbed his shirt and slowly pulled him toward me until he was sitting on the step. The way he moved his head back and forth I knew he hadn't been seriously hurt.
"Next time you want to get something out of me, use professionals, remember?" I said pleasantly.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I raced out of Motti Pizza. "John Jay College," I flung at the first driver who stopped as I sank into the back seat. A light snow was falling again, the flakes melting as they hit the windshield.
"You want something for your face?" the driver asked tactfully, offering me a wet wipe he used to wipe the steam from the windows. I took it gratefully and cleaned off the blood. I asked for a Band-Aid. Wordlessly, he handed me a roll of insulation tape. I straightened my left pinkie, straining to stifle the scream of pain, and taped it to the next finger over. That should do the trick for now. The driver had just turned into 10th St., heading for Eighth Ave., when we found that we were blocked.
Just in front of us, a black van with dark windows crossed Sixth Ave., braked, and then reversed toward us. The cabby swore and slammed on the brakes. A massive Ford pulled up close behind us. I leapt from the cab straight into two men blocking my path. Both had crew cuts and wore identical cheap blazers.
"You better come with us," one of them said with a Southern lilt, and I remembered the two men who had apprehended Kate without bothering to identify themselves.
"I'm not going anywhere. Show me some ID." Two more men were approaching from the direction of the van. I recognized one of them: the slouched gait, the watery eyes, and there it was…the engineer's head twitched nervously. The one from the Boston consulate waiting room. He ought to do something about that twitching.
"Hey, Sergei," I said. He wasn't in a friendly mood. Instead, he pulled from his jacket a leather wallet, opened it and showed a plastic card. The words "United States Government, Department of Defense" were inscribed above his picture. So I was right, at least in part: the Defense Department was still trying to recover its lost property. He blinked the snowflakes out of his eyes. "You better come quietly."
"I'm not going anywhere!" I shouted. "You have no jurisdiction here! I have my rights!" I might have a point because they backed away for a second. I grabbed the handle of the cab door, holding on with all my strength. By now we were attracting the attention of the people in the street, crowding around bazaar booths set up along the pavement. We were in front of the local church. The cars stuck behind us were honking insistently.
"Oh, yes, you are. You're coming with us," the engineer spat at me. He'd lost the Russian accent. Apparently, he only needed it for the consulate. He opened his jacket slightly to reveal the butt of a short-barreled Smith & Wesson. Spectators were starting to gather. We were rapidly becoming the happening of the moment. Things were looking up for me.
"Don't shoot, don't shoot! Please don't shoot!" I shrieked. Disconcerted, he quickly hid his gun.
"Where're the papers?" one of the crew-cuts barked at me.
"What papers?" He nodded to one of the other thugs and I readied myself for an attack, but his colleague just walked over to the black van and got something out of the back. He returned with a document of the type that had spilled from the briefcase in the warehouse, waving it in my face.
"Papers like this," the crew cut said. "This is the only one that was left in the warehouse, and we need the rest. If you're smart, you'll come with us right now. We'd also like to know what you were doing at John Jay College."
"Where's Kate?" I asked.
"Who's Kate?"
"The woman who disappeared in Boston. Ask your friend here."
"You're nuts. Don't get smart with me." He tried to drag me away from the cab. The crowd was getting hostile.
"Help!"I screamed. "Help!" and again, "Don't shoot, don't shoot!" The Village onlookers seemed to find the proceedings much more riveting than I had expected. A uniformed cop strode over. My two tormentors eased up for a moment and turned their attention to him.
I flew to the sidewalk like a shot out of cannon, and then raced into the church. I sped through the chapel and down a flight of stairs where I found a back door opening onto 11th St. I ran for three blocks before stopping and looking over my shoulder. There was no one chasing me. I sat down on a staircase to rest for a minute. My broken finger was agonizing again.
I called up the image of the card Sergei had shown me. If it was genuine, I was wanted by two different government agencies: the Cape Cod Police and the Department of Defense. Where would they look next?
Fay! I leapt to my feet. She couldn't have anything to do with the Department of Defense. Or could she? The cops? Maybe, but I was still positive she hadn't ratted on me. If I was right, they might have gotten to her already, or she might be in serious danger. It was nine-forty. The library at John Jay College would close in twenty minutes and then the briefcase would be donated to charity. I wondered who would open it. What would they do with the papers? Would they sell them by weight? Not with the US emblem and the "Top Secret" markings. They had so many law enforcement students that the documents would go right away to the DOD, where they belonged. But then I’d lose my only chip in the game, trying to find Kate. I jumped in a cab and flew to John Jay.
I ran past the guard at the door - a new guy I hadn't seen before.
"Hey," he shouted. "We close in five minutes."
"Just for a second," I threw back over my shoulder. I wasn't up to another confrontation with the gentlemen responsible for our security. I stormed into the reading room. Fay wasn't there. She wasn't in any of the other three reading rooms in the building either. I went back to the librarian who stared at me disapprovingly. The shelves of checked bags were ranged behind her. The briefcase was gone. I did the mental calculations again: I'd checked the bag last night. No, it hadn't been twenty-four hours yet. I looked at the librarian questioningly. She remembered Fay and me.
"The guard took your bag this morning for a random security check. He asked me about you and the girl you were with. I didn't tell him anything. Fay is a friend of mine. I didn't want to get her in trouble. He hasn't brought it back yet, which is odd."
I found the piece of paper with Fay's telephone number folded up in the back pocket of my jeans. It rang for a long time before someone picked up.
"Hello?"
It was a man. He called her to the phone.
Fay sounded a little drunk and in very high spirits."Hello, hello, and who might this be?" It was very sweet how she tried to keep her voice steady.
"David, remember?"
"Of course I do. David the stud, the man in distress. What can I do for you this time?"
"You're not alone."
"We're having a little party. My brother's here with a couple of his friends. Want to come over?"
"Do you still have the envelope? Are you okay?"
There was no response.
"Fay?"
Suddenly she sounded very sober. "Things have happened since then, David. I can't talk. Where are you?"
I hesitated. It was risky, but I needed someone I could trust. "Near John Jay," I finally answered.
"Can you get here?"
"Sounds crowded there."
"They just came in for a minute and stayed to share a bottle - actually two. But they've been on their way out for the past half hour. Give it ten minutes." She gave me directions.
It was a dreary four-story brick building. Fire escapes adorned the facade. Fay's apartment was on the third floor. As I got closer, I saw it was all lit up, and the clamor of music mixed with good-byes reached down to the street. I planted myself on a bench across the way, next to a homeless guy patiently arranging a bed for himself from bags and rags he took from a shopping cart that substituted for his home. He glared at me with conspicuous hostility.
The last of Fay's guests took their leave and the building fell quiet. I waited another fifteen minutes. I didn't see any more activity in the apartment or the street.
Fay looked entrancing in a white jumpsuit and heels. Her make-up emphasized her high cheekbones, and her eyes glittered with sparkle.
"David!" she exclaimed with obvious pleasure, and I realized how happy I was to see her. I leaned down and kissed her cheek.
"I'm glad to see you're alright."
Despite her dark skin, I could tell she was blushing.
"Oh, handsome, you're not getting sentimental on me, are you?" My injuries didn't shock her. "Sit down," she went on. "Have something to eat while I make some coffee. Do you feel okay?"
I took a peanut from a candy dish, but I couldn't swallow it. My throat was too dry.
"Where's the envelope?" I asked.
"Gone."
I knew I ought to be mad at her, but in truth, I was just happy to see that she hadn't been hurt. And anyway, that briefcase had become more trouble than it was worth. All sorts of rats had come out the woodwork to get it back to its rightful owners, but none of them were in the mood for talking or negotiating. Sadly, I examined my broken finger. The Israelis were trying to get it back for the Americans - maybe part of their effort to contain the damage. They'd obviously kept a copy of all the documents, but if the Americans couldn't find out exactly what had been leaked, they'd go wild, and Gadi certainly didn't want that to happen. The pompous bastard was still trying to bury the whole thing before it blew up in his face, just like Kate had said. I wondered how many people in Israel knew the whole story. I remembered one of the lessons in my security training course: "Always make sure a field office doesn't decide to operate independently, without informing central headquarters."
"What about the papers?" I asked, without much hope.
"I destroyed them."
The peanut fell from my fingers. I stared at her in awe.
"Look, I grew up in the Bronx. There's nothing you can teach me about rats and informers, methods of persuasion, or even contracts. As soon as you left, I took all the papers out of the briefcase and put it back where it was. The librarian always appreciates it when I watch the desk for her so she can take a break. Just so you know, this morning the briefcase was gone."
"And the papers?"
"I'm not going to get mixed up with government documents. You can't even tell the good guys from the bad guys, can you? So I had no choice. I had to make the decision for both of us."
I just stared at her, my mouth hanging open.
"I took them to a paper plant in the Bronx. They've got a vat of acid there where they dissolve recycled paper."
"And when you got there..." I was amazed.
She wiped her mouth with a napkin and answered the question I hadn't asked. "That's right. In a day or two they'll be part of a napkin like this one. I made sure they gave me a receipt. Did you know it was as good as notarized? It's part of the procedure for destroying official papers. We learned that in the course on governmental procedures."
She walked over to a bureau, poked around in the top drawer, and then held out a piece of paper to me. "Here."
It was a laconic form, stating that thirty pounds of Defense Department documents had been destroyed. My name appeared in the box labeled: "Delivered by:…"
"Hey!" I cried in amazement. "How did you pull that off?"
"Don't forget I'm from the Bronx," she laughed. "And I have a John Jay ID. They work with the college on recycling used exercise materials." She took a card bearing the "John Jay College" words from her wallet. There was my name, under her picture.
"A girl named David?" I asked, still finding it hard to believe.
"Americans believe anything on an official document. Try it, and you'll see."
"Fay," I said, "you've helped me more than you can imagine. Now I have to get going. I don't know if I'll ever be able to thank you properly."
I was embarrassed.
"You look like a good catch," she laughed. "And even one of the good guys. You ever decide to forget your missing girlfriend - we might have a chance."
She fell silent, lost in thought, and then added, "Where do you go from here? It seems the friends you've still got left are getting fewer by the minute."
I thought about that for a moment. Finally, I said, "One last request: tomorrow, first thing in the morning, could you deliver a copy of that form in a sealed envelope to the Israeli Consulate here, to Gadi Crane? If I'm right about what's going on, this will keep him off my back for a while - and maybe even the thugs from the Department of Defense too. As for tonight, I can't go back to Motti Pizza, that's for sure."
"You can stay here," she said in delight.
"No...no. I've imposed on you too much already."
"You're not imposing on me. It's my job to help people, remember?"
"Thanks, but I know a couple of places where I can spend the night." I was picturing the Claremont Hotel, and the bench across the street. Her offer was tempting, even without considering the alternatives. I knew, however, that if I stayed with Fay it wouldn't be a casual one-night stand. It would mean giving up Kate - and just the thought of that made me sick to my stomach. Getting rid of the briefcase might have gotten a few nasty characters off my back, but it had also brought me nowhere nearer Kate.
"Don't go yet," Fay insisted. "We can still just talk, can't we?"
We sat down on the sofa and she put on a Beethoven symphony. "You need a shower," she said, examining my finger. "And more traditional treatment for that break wouldn't hurt either." She laid her hand on my brow. "You've got a fever, too."
She went into the kitchen and came back with a mug of tea laced with cognac. I sipped it, feeling my whole body relax.
"It's okay," I muttered. "I'll be out of here right away. Just another minute or two."
*
I woke up on a strange sofa. It took me a minute to remember I was in Fay's living room. My head was resting on a flowery pillow and my body was covered by a thick soft quilt. I got up and stretched. It was four in the afternoon. The house was empty. I stifled a huge yawn and went into the kitchen. There was a note on the table, written in a round, decisive hand:
To Broken-hearted Rambo!
There are four chicken sandwiches in the refrigerator. Make yourself coffee and then take a shower!
Don't worry; I didn't rob you of your innocence, although I was very tempted. You look like an angel when you're sleeping.
I'm going out to do your bidding. Don't forget to come back when it all works out, or doesn't.
Fay
I stood under the hot water in her tiny shower for a long time before I devoured the sandwiches, washed down with two cups of coffee. Then I stood in the living room, watching the snow melting outside. I stretched and wiggled my fingers and toes.
I felt almost like new.
When I got outside I saw the snow had almost melted and decided to walk to Motti
Pizza after all. It would give me another half hour to make some sense out of things and plan my next move.
There was a good chance, I thought, that when Gadi got the 'Receipt for Documents Destroyed' he would leave me alone - at least for a while - even if he didn't forego the option of settling accounts with me some time in the future. But Gadi wasn't my only problem on the Israeli side. And if I had Israelis coming at me from all directions, my situation in respect to the Americans was none too healthy either.
I remembered my conversation with Rikki a week ago. She was right. I didn't know what I was talking about. Now I knew better. New York was the best place for me. I didn't have to answer to anyone but myself here. Master of my own fate.
Nobody seemed to care when I walked into Motti Pizza. The indifference with which Nissim regarded my latest absence seemed strange, but I knew if I started to suspect everyone around me I wouldn't get very far. Rikki was in the kitchen rhythmically slicing pepperoni. Reddish mounds of sausage were piled up in front of her. I walked in.
"Rikki," I said, "I've made up my mind. I'm going to stay in New York."
She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel.
"Come with me," she said, taking me off guard. "Let's get out of here. Sometimes it gets too crowded in here."
We strode westward, past New York University, without a word passing between us. The ground trembled as a subway train rolled by underneath.
"Spare a dime?" A long-haired guy with a dirty face was sprawled on the sidewalk, talking to himself. Trucks sped by along Astor Place, their wheels bouncing on the large potholes in the road. The noise was almost unbearable. A gang of skinhead girls tumbled out of Ray's Liquor Store, sucking on something in a brown paper bag. A long line of homeboys stood shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the wall and waiting for something to happen. Garbage trucks were bouncing over the potholes, scattering rotten oranges and eggshells on the street and the sidewalk. The smell of decay in the air got stronger.