Stuart Woods: Dirty Work

"Wire transfer room," Marjorie Harris said.

"Yesterday I gave instructions for a transfer to Saint George's Bank in the Caymans," Marie-Therese said. She gave the woman the account number.

"Oh, yes," Marjorie replied, checking the number on her computer. "That went out first thing this morning. It should be in your account now."

"Thank you," Marie-Therese said, then hung up, feeling better. She finished her breakfast, then drew a bath and got in. Where would she go? she asked herself. The world was her oyster now. Even the countries where she had been a fugitive were now open to her, as long as she had a good European Union passport, and she could manage that in a day. She thought about England: perhaps a nice, little Queen Anne house in the country, not too far from Heathrow. The Cotswold Hills were appealing, and she liked the irony of living in Sir Edward's own country. The thought made her laugh. Some shopping before leaving New York would be in order.

Marie-Therese was trying on a dress in the Armani shop a little after two, when her phone rang again. Finally. "Yes?"

"It's Dr. von Enzberg. I've had notification from Saint George's Bank that no funds were received into your account from Manhattan Trust."

"They're certain?"

"I asked for confirmation and received it. What are your instructions?"

"None," Marie-Therese replied. "I will handle this myself." She closed the phone. "I'll take this dress and the tweed jacket," she said to the saleslady.

"They'll both be wonderful for traveling," the woman said.

"Oh, I'm not traveling just yet," Marie-Therese replied. "I have a few things to do in New York over the weekend, before I leave." Clearly, the phone number for Manhattan Trust was manned by someone from British Intelligence. They would not fool her again.

Just at closing time, a cleaning woman came into the wire transfer department of St. George's Bank and made ready to mop the floor. "You going to be long?" she asked the young woman still seated at her desk.

"I'll be out of your way in a moment," Hattie replied.

The cleaning woman took hold of the cart that held the fax machine and rolled it away from the wall. A single sheet of paper lay on the floor where the cart had been. She picked it up and handed it to the woman at the desk. "This yours?"

Hattie examined the document. "Oh, yes," she said. "Where did you find it?"

"It was under the fax machine."

"I was waiting for it all morning," Hattie said, laughing. She checked her watch: after closing time in Switzerland. She typed a message confirming receipt of 750,000 euros from Manhattan Trust and clicked on the send button. It was Friday night in Switzerland. They would receive the e-mail when they opened on Monday morning.

Marie-Therese yawned. It was boring, this sort of surveillance, but at the moment, it was her only way to keep track of these people. She had been waiting for nearly two hours in that most anonymous of vehicles in New York City, a black Lincoln Town Car.

"How much longer?" the driver asked. He had been provided by her friend at the embassy.

"As long as it takes," she replied. "Read your paper."

"I've read it."

"Then do the crossword."

"I can never do those things in English."

"Then shut up."

He was silent.

They were parked in a legal spot on Third Avenue, near the anonymous building that housed the people she wanted. She had a good view of the front door, and her eyes rarely left it. Then, finally, something happened. Three large, black SUVs with darkened windows passed her car and turned left into the street. They drew up to the front door of the building, and immediately, four men came out the front door and began looking up and down the street.

"Now," she said aloud. "Wait until the three black vehicles move, then start the car."

"Right," her driver replied.

A man and a woman emerged from the building and quickly got into the middle SUV, and the three cars began moving.

"Let's get going," she said. "Stay as far behind them as you can without losing them."

The driver did as instructed, and the trip was short. The three cars drove to Park Avenue, turned, then turned again into Fifty-second Street and stopped at an awning protruding from the lower level of the Seagram Building. Four men emerged from the first and third vehicles, had a good look around, then, at a signal from one of them, the rear doors of the middle SUV opened, and three men and a woman got out and went inside. The three SUVs drove off, no doubt to find a convenient parking spot.

Marie-Therese, whose car was waiting on Park Avenue, spoke. "Drop me at the awning, then drive around the block and park where you can see the doors. If the police hassle you, show them your diplomatic passport, but don't move from the spot until I appear."

The car stopped before the awning, and Marie-Therese got out, smoothing her little black dress and pulling on a pair of short, black kid gloves. Her hair was long and dark for the occasion. She went inside and started up the broad staircase. Her quarry was only yards ahead, and as she emerged on the second floor, his group, along with two bodyguards, were disappearing down a hallway toward the pool room of the Four Seasons.

This was not good. There was no way in or out of that room except by a hallway, perhaps ten feet in width, except maybe a kitchen door that she didn't have access to. She took a seat at the corner of the large, square bar, facing east, with the hallway on her left. One of the bodyguards returned after a couple of minutes, presumably having completed his scan of the large dining room, while his companion had stationed himself there. The man took up a station across the bar from Marie-Therese, facing west, so that he could watch the hallway from his seat. He ordered a mineral water and sipped it slowly.

He was not British, she thought. His suit was wrong, and his hair cut too short. He looked like a very boring young businessman.

Marie-Therese put a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and glanced at her watch. "I'm early," she said to the bartender. "A very dry Tanqueray martini, straight up, please."

"Yes, ma'am," the bartender replied, then went to work.

How long would this take? Her man was in his mid-sixties, so probably not all that long. Before the main course was served, was her guess.

The young man sitting across the bar from her picked up his drink, walked around the bar, and sat down next to her, facing south. Now his back was to the hallway he was supposed to be watching. "Good evening," he said. Yes, American.

"Good evening," Marie-Therese replied coolly.

"I hope I'm not intruding," the man said, "but I find you very attractive. May I buy you a drink?"

"Thank you, I already have a drink. And my date will be arriving in a few minutes."

"May we talk until then?"

"All right."

"My name is Burt Pence," he said, offering his hand. "And yours?"

"Elvira Moore," she replied, shaking his hand.

He moved the fifty away from the bartender, toward her purse. "Please put this away," he said. "This is on me."

Marie-Therese picked up the fifty and stuck it into her large handbag, which rested on the stool next to her. "Thank you, Burt. Tell me, what sort of work do you do?"

"I'm an FBI agent," Burt replied.

"Oh, sure. I've heard that one before."

Burt reached into an inside pocket, produced a wallet, opened it, and laid it on the bar.

"Oh, my, you're telling the truth," she said, picking up the wallet and examining it. "What on earth are you doing at the Four Seasons? I hope you're on an expense account."

"Actually, I'm not dining this evening," Burt replied. "I'm on duty."

"Really?" She tried to look very interested. "What sort of duty?"