Стюарт Вудс - Shakeup

Eddie walked carefully to the door to the dining room, which also acted as his study. He opened the swinging door a couple of inches and listened. Nothing.

He entered the dining room, which gave him a wide view of his living room, and checked for any differences — cameras, microphones, things moved. Still nothing. He checked both bedrooms and baths and could find nothing that indicated visitors, except for the maid, then he hung his wet coat in the hall closet and stuck the umbrella in a stand by the front door.

Finally, he went into his study, opened the bottom drawer of the little chest next to his reclining chair and removed a throwaway cell phone. He cut away the packaging with scissors and found it forty percent charged. Then he called Shelley’s apartment.

“Yes?”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Come be alone with me. It’s raining like hell, so take an umbrella and use it to shield your face from the two guys watching the building. Don’t walk, get a cab.”

“See you as soon as I can get a cab,” she said.

He hung up, and the housephone rang. “Yes?”

“Welcome home, sir,” the doorman said. “Just checking to be sure you were the one in the elevator.”

“I was, Terry,” he said. “But I’m expecting company. She’ll be in a cab, so greet her with your umbrella, and make it tough on our two visitors outside.”

“Will do, sir.”

Eddie hung up, poured himself a Scotch, sat down in his recliner, plugged in the throwaway to recharge and switched on the TV. The weatherman said it was raining and would continue to do so throughout the day.

The King Air had to fly an instrument approach, something that always set Debby’s teeth on edge, but the runway appeared in the aircraft’s windshield right where it was supposed to, and they landed safely.

Her usual driver was waiting on the tarmac with an umbrella and helped them into the car, then put away their luggage. He dropped them at the Lowell, where Debby went to her suite and Rocco went to his usual single, reserved for the help.

Less than a block away, Eddie received a dripping Shelley and her bags and gave her a kiss. “Did they spot you?”

“Sure, but they couldn’t see my face — or anything else, come to that, what with the rain and the umbrellas.”

She got settled, then poured herself a drink and sat in his lap.

“Home again,” she said. “Are we prisoners here?”

“We can come and go, but by a circuitous route. I’ll show you the way.”

Debby called her FBI mole on his throwaway. “Yes?”

“I’m here; where is the guy?”

“We haven’t seen him. The old girlfriend left her apartment in the cab, but our people lost her. It’s rotten outside.”

“All I want is fifteen minutes alone with him.”

“You’ll get it when we find him. I can’t do any better than that.”

“I pay you too much,” she said, then hung up.

Stone was dozing in bed when Maren’s phone rang and she answered it. “What a coincidence!” she said, then hung up.

“What’s a coincidence?” Stone muttered.

“Both Eddie Craft and Little Debby are in the same city — this one.”

“Where?”

“She’s at the Lowell, he’s in the wind. My people had a chat with a former girlfriend of his but had no indication that they are in touch.”

“Hang on to her,” Stone said. “She’s all you’ve got.”

“We haven’t got,” Maren replied. “She left her building in a cab, in this pouring rain, and they lost her.”

“If she doesn’t come home tonight, she’s with Eddie,” Stone said. “Probably in a hotel.”

“We’re already checking the hotels,” she said.

“It will be a very good one, because Eddie is now rich.”

“According to customs, he was carrying twelve thousand dollars when he landed in Miami,” she said, “and he declared it. Where’s the rest of it?”

“Where’s his new Mercedes?”

“I don’t know. You think the money is in the trunk?”

“Not unless he’s a bigger fool than I think he is,” Stone said. “I think he’s found a banker.”

“In London?”

“Scotland Yard would probably know about it. Switzerland, maybe. Or Malta, that’s more secure.”

“You make everything seem so complicated,” Maren said.

“Life is complicated. If it were simple, we wouldn’t need an FBI.”

Rocco Turko left Debby’s suite with his instructions. It would be a dry run, but he would do it properly and go as far as he could.

He removed a zippered case from his luggage and surveyed his choices: two moustaches, one Vandyke, and one full beard. He chose the beard and glued it firmly into place, using the bathroom mirror.

He dressed in gray trousers, a white shirt, and a blue blazer. Then he put on his reversible raincoat with the tan side out and chose a foldable Trilby hat, with a plaid tweed cap for backup, tucked into a pocket with his glasses. He put on thin leather gloves, then picked up the silenced .22, disassembled it, wiped the gun, the magazine, and the cartridges very clean. Then he reassembled it all and tucked it into an inside-the-belt holster, with the barrel and silencer protruding but covered by his trousers.

A quick look of approval in the mirror, and he left the room, went downstairs, and exited the hotel via the service door. He opened his umbrella and used it to partially conceal himself from the view of the waiting FBI men down the block. He passed the wrought-iron gate to the alley and noted that it had no keyhole; which meant electric operation. Then, as he approached the apartment building, he got lucky. A black town car turned onto East Sixty-third Street and pulled up before the building’s awning. Rocco brushed past one of the FBI agents, whose gaze was fixed on the arriving car. The doorman came outside with a big umbrella and began assisting an elderly woman and her luggage from the vehicle.

Rocco turned right behind the assemblage and walked into the building’s lobby. He stopped at the doorman’s desk and looked at his list of occupants. An Edward Craft was there, in 14D. A sign hung on a hook over the desk, reading TERRY ON DUTY. The service elevator, he remembered, was through one door and down a short hallway. The car stood there, its door open. He boarded it and pressed fourteen.

The door opened into the service hallway; he looked to his left and saw a door marked C, then to his right and saw another, marked D. He readied himself, unholstered the weapon, pulled down his hat brim a bit, and rang the bell.

A moment later a man’s voice said, “Who is it?”

“It’s Terry, Mr. Craft,” Rocco replied. “From downstairs.”

He heard the lock slide and saw the door open an inch. He put his shoulder into it and knocked Eddie Craft backward onto the marble floor. Craft managed to get to his hands and knees, and Rocco struck him firmly with the weapon on the back of the neck. Craft collapsed into a heap. He would be out, Rocco reckoned, for at least twenty minutes, perhaps half an hour.

He walked across the kitchen and through an open door into a dining room, apparently also used as a study. There was a large reclining chair before a window. Rocco stepped up onto the chair, unfastened the lock, raised the window and stuck his head out far enough to see the ground. The alley below was empty.

Rocco went back to the kitchen, hauled the still-unconscious Craft to his feet, and slung him over his shoulder. He walked into the dining room, perched Craft on the back of the recliner, then took him by the ankles and tipped him backward and out the window. A couple of seconds, and Rocco heard the thud from below. He had another look out the window, and found the alley still empty, except for the bleeding heap that was Eddie Craft. He put the pistol back into its holster and moved back toward the kitchen door, then he stopped in his tracks. A sleepy-looking woman in a nightgown was standing in the living room near what Rocco assumed was a door leading to the bedroom.