Стюарт Вудс - Wild Card

“Why would it do us any good to know about connections?”

“Perhaps the Thomases have used them in the recent past.”

“Oh, all right,” Dino said, and made the call.

Rasheed Khan, aka Timothy Tigner, let himself into the backup safe house, an apartment in a brownstone in the East 60s, and checked it carefully for any sign of recent attention from anyone except himself and his two dead colleagues. He did not waste time grieving for them — as he hadn’t liked them much anyway — but he did hold a more professional grudge.

He had known that Harod would be meeting soon with Damien to receive the money due them, and he supposed Damien might have been reluctant to pay and, thus, found it more convenient to eliminate the contractees. That annoyed Tigner, down to his socks, and he resolved to do something about it.

It would have to be later, though, since he was exhausted from dealing with the threat of discovery, and he needed sleep. He carefully put away his clothes, took a hot bath, and climbed gratefully into bed.

Tomorrow, he would find a way to deal with the Thomases.

As soon as Stone was in bed, he got a call from Dino.

“What’s up?”

“That cell phone data card we found has yielded some results,” Dino said, “and so has the one from Avin Kayam’s phone.”

“I’m happy to hear it.”

“The three of them were talking to each other during the day.”

“Not a big surprise,” Stone said.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Dino said, then hung up.

Joan arrived in her office at eight AM sharp on Monday morning and heard noises from the adjoining office. She opened the door to find Elise Grant at her desk and the room spic-and-span, with everything in its place. “Good morning,” Elise said brightly.

“And to you,” Joan said. “This is the first time anyone has ever beaten me to the office.”

“I can’t work unless the space is in order,” Elise said.

“I know the feeling,” Joan replied.

“And what may I do with that ?” she asked, pointing at an IBM Selectric typewriter on a stand in a corner of the room.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Joan replied. “Type on it, maybe?”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Elise said. “I’ve never typed a word on anything that needed paper to work. May I put it in the file room?”

“Yes, until I can figure out a way to give it a Christian burial.”

“I’m ready to move out of my apartment today, and my mother is moving out of hers and into mine. Can you recommend a mover?”

“I can,” Joan said. “And since your putative assassins are dead, you should really be in the clear now.”

“I’m still going to be careful, though,” Elise said.

“Always a good idea. I’ve got some health insurance forms for you to fill out. I’ll give you all that stuff later today.”

Joan went back to her office, happy to have Elise as a backstop. Now she was going to have to think of something for her to do.

Damien met that morning with the Thomases.

Hank spoke up. “I understand that you have dispensed with the hired help.”

“It became necessary,” Damien said, surprised that Hank was taking an interest. “Saved us two hundred thousand dollars, too.”

“That’s all very well,” Hank said, “but if we need that sort of help again, what are we to do?”

“Just leave it to me,” Damien said. “It would be helpful if you could tell me now who the subject of the action would be.”

“Someone we’ve kept at arm’s length,” Hank said. “Joe Box.”

Damien’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ve gone to some lengths to see that he does well in the primaries,” he said, “and since he’s done better than anyone expected, why would we want to unload him now? He might even go all the way.”

“That’s the problem,” Hank said. “My private polling now favors him for the nomination, and if he gets that and something happens to Holly Barker, he might go all the way. It is not in my plan to have a buffoon like that in the White House. I have a party to build, and his presence on the scene would not be helpful.”

“If it comes to that,” Damien said, “I would like us to retain the services of the two young operatives who have shaped him into something like a viable candidate.”

“By all means,” Hank said. “Retain them and put them on salary, until I want them. There may be other candidates we might want to help along the way. We might also give some attention to the proper moment for Box to depart the scene — not too early or too late.”

“I will leave the politics of that to you,” Damien said, “but I’d like as much time as possible to arrange Box’s departure. We don’t want to rush something like that.”

“I’ll ponder his progress, then let you know,” Hank said.

Henry Thomas had, uncharacteristically, held his peace, but now he spoke. “What exactly do you intend, Hank?”

“I have not yet given up the notion of moving into the White House next year. It will depend on how we get through the next couple of months. If the acquisition goes through, and the waters become smoother, and Box continues to do well, I think I might hear from the party that they would like me to resume my candidacy.”

“As a Republican?” Henry asked.

“They are as frightened of Joe Box as I,” Hank said, “and if he suddenly departs the scene, they have a paucity of replacements to choose from.”

Henry smiled. “You know, my boy, I may have underestimated your guile.”

“Poppa,” Hank said with a smile, “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Damien was at his desk later in the day when a secretary came in. “Sir,” she said, “there is a person on the phone who insists on speaking to you, but I don’t know him.”

“What is his name?”

“He says his name is Timothy Tigner,” she said. “Oh, and he said to tell you that he is a friend of somebody called Harod, like the department store.”

That news came like a bolt of lightning to Damien. He thought Harod had had only one cohort; now another was raising his head? And, perhaps, at just the right time.

“Thank you,” he said. He waited until she had closed the door behind her before picking up the phone. “Mr. Tigner?”

“Yes, Mr. Damien,” a smooth voice replied. He sounded younger than Harod.

“I understand we have a mutual friend?”

“No longer,” Tigner replied. “He and my other colleague left town yesterday. I thought, perhaps, you might have heard about that.”

“I have heard no such thing,” Damien said. “I had a rendezvous with Harod set for yesterday, but as I approached the scene I saw policemen everywhere, so I retreated.”

“Oh? What was the purpose of your meeting?”

“To confirm the cancellation of some contracts and to pay him the two hundred thousand dollars due. Now, could you tell me what is going on?”

“Have you heard about the shooting of two women at a department store? And the shooting of a man in the street there?”

“Yes, but the women were strangers to me. Was the man Harod?”

“No, he was our colleague, Rasheed. He had just shot the women, thinking they were the subjects of the contract.”

“But I e-mailed and texted Harod about the cancellation. He did not answer his phone.”

“Perhaps because he was already dead at your rendezvous point.”

“If that is the case, I’m very sorry to hear it.”

“Why? You canceled the contracts.”

“Yes, but not permanently. Also, I have other work to be done.”

“Before any work can be done,” Tigner said, “there is the matter of the two hundred thousand dollars.”