John Abbott - Scimitar

“Special Agent Michael Grant, yes, sir,” the woman said, subtly correcting his error; in the FBI, all agents were special agents.

Grant came on the line thirty seconds later. Hogan introduced himself, told him what he was working, told him he’d found some kind of little green books with foreign writing in them, and wondered if Santorini had discussed these when he called.

“If this is the Green Book,” Grant said, “then we...”

“Three of them. Three green books,” Hogan said.

“Collectively, I mean,” Grant said.

“Uh-huh.”

“If this is what I think it is, then yes, we discussed it. In connection with the scimitar tattoos. Apparently he had some victims with scimitar tattoos...”

“Yeah, the green swords.”

“Yes. And he wanted to know if I knew anything about an Iranian terrorist group that called itself Scimitar.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I told him our current thinking was that they’d been inactive since the JFK bombing...”

“Uh-huh.”

“... back in 1989. So we sort of eliminated them as...”

“He was considering them as possibles, huh?”

“Well, I think he was looking for a place to hang his hat.”

“Uh-huh. So where’d you go from there?”

“We talked about Libya a little. Because the tattoos were green, you know...”

“Uh-huh.”

“... kicking around the idea that this might be something Libyan, those crazy bastards. He wears women’s dresses and makeup, you know...”

“Who?”

“Quaddafi. And goes to sleep with a teddy bear.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. Totally weird. Sends his people out to buy new bedsheets whenever he checks into a hotel room. Nuts.”

“Uh-huh. So what’d you tell him?”

“Your guy? I said I didn’t have anything new on Libyan intelligence, the whole thing sort of died down after the big scare six years ago, when everybody thought Reagan was on a hit list.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I told him he’d do better contacting the CIA. They’d be the ones with any current stuff. He said he might do that.”

“I don’t see any indication he did,” Hogan said.

“Well,” Grant said.

They were both thinking he’d been murdered before he’d got around to it.

“Have you got a number for them?” Hogan asked.

“Sure, hold a sec.”

Hogan waited.

When Grant came back on the line, he gave him the number of the New York Field Office of the CIA, and told him the man he usually dealt with there was a man named Conrad Templeton. Hogan thanked him for his time, hung up, and checked through Santorini’s files again, to see if he’d missed anything about a call to the CIA. There was nothing. He dialed 755-0027, got a woman’s voice saying, “Central Intelligence,” and asked for Agent Templeton.

“One moment, please,” the woman said.

Hogan waited, wondering how a nice Irish kid from Staten Island had grown up to be a man phoning secret agents all over the fuckin’ city. He was hoping this really was some kind of crazy green spy shit from Libya; you could always unite New Yorkers by telling them some lunatic foreigner was running around hurting innocent people. Though, tell you the truth, most people in this city thought cops deserved to get stabbed in the eye. He kept waiting. He was just about to light a cigar, when a man came on the line.

“Alex Nichols,” the man said.

“This is Detective-Lieutenant Peter Hogan,” Hogan said. “Homicide North.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I was trying to reach Agent Templeton...”

“In the field just now. I’m his superior, maybe I can help you.”

“I hope so,” Hogan said. “One of my people was killed during a double-homicide investigation. The victims were tattooed with green scimitars, and I just now found three little green books that the Feds tell me...”

“Where are you?” Nichols asked at once.

She sat at the desk just to the left of the windows facing the beach, thumbing through her mother’s telephone directory, sorting out city people from beach people. The next beach name she recognized was McNulty, James and Amanda. She dialed the number and waited.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice said.

“Mrs. McNulty?”

“No, this is Helga,” the woman said. “Who’s calling, please?”

“Elita Randall.”

“Hold on, please.”

“Tell her it’s Caro...”

But she was gone.

Another woman came onto the line.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. McNulty?”

“Yes?”

“This is Elita Randall, Carolyn Fremont’s daughter?”

“Hello, Elita, how are you?”

“Fine, thanks, Mrs. McNulty. I’m sorry to bother you...”

“No bother at all.”

“But I’m trying to locate my moth...”

“Helga! What is that dog doing ? Excuse me, darling. Helga!”

Elita waited. In the background, she could hear voices and barking. At last Mrs. McNulty came back onto the line.

“I’m sorry, darling,” she said, “we’re getting ready for a Fourth of July party, and the caterers are here, and the dog decides at this very moment... well, never mind, it’s been taken care of. You were saying?”

“I’m trying to get in touch with my mother, would you happen to know where I can reach her?”

“Well, I’m sure she’s out here, have you called the house?”

“I’m at the house now, Mrs. McNulty. I came out when...”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry, darling, I’m sure she’s all right.”

“It’s just...”

“Helga! Will you please get that damn dog...? Excuse me, darling,” she said. “Helga! How many times do...?”

Her voice faded. There was more barking. More yelling. Elita waited a moment longer, and then hung up and began leafing through her mother’s directory again.

Except for the bag containing her head, all of the black plastic bags were bulky and awkward to handle. He loaded all five of them in the trunk of the car, and then went back into the house for his suitcase.

The suitcase was packed much as it had been yesterday, when he’d checked into the Plaza. In addition to some casual clothes he planned to wear tomorrow, there was the same blue suit and muted tie, a fresh white button-down shirt, clean underwear and socks, the same polished black shoes. The sealed plastic bottle of sarin was inside a shoe again, a fresh strip of transparent tape holding its nozzle in the OFF position. He got nervous each time he handled it. He was nervous now as he placed the suitcase on the floor behind the passenger seat. He went back into the house for a last-minute check, making sure all the lights were out and the faucets turned off, and then he locked the front door, and got into the car.

In the house next door, Elita didn’t hear the car starting because she was on the phone with a woman named Sally Hemmings who’d just told her she’d seen her mother at a cocktail party this past Monday night.

“Actually,” Elita said, “I spoke to her after that. On Tuesday. But I haven’t been able to reach her since, and I’m beginning...”

“Well, I’m not surprised,” Sally said.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s probably in San Diego.”

“San Diego? Why would she...?”

“That’s where the young man lives,” Sally said.

“What young man?”

“The one she was with Monday night.”

“Do you know his name?” Elita asked.

“Scott Hamilton.”

“And you say he lives in San Diego?”

“Owns a cable television station out there.”

“Then... what’s he doing in Westhampton?”

“I assumed he was visiting your mother.”

“Visiting my...”

“ Staying with her. That’s the impression I got.”