Robin Cook - Vector

Jack locked his bike to a “No Parking” sign just west of the Corinthian Rug Company office. He walked to the store’s front window and gazed at the rugs and hides on display. There were only a handful, and all were bleached from sunlight and covered with a fine layer of dust, suggesting they’d not been moved in years. Jack was certain they’d not come from the new shipment.

Cupping his hands around his face, Jack peered into the office. It was sparsely furnished. There were two desks. One was functional as a desk with the usual accoutrements; the other supported a copy machine and a fax. There were several upright file cabinets. In the rear were two interior doors. Both were closed.

Jack walked to the door. The gold stenciling glittered against the darkened interior. Jack tried the door. It was locked, as he expected.

The stamp shop was just west of the rug shop, and Jack went there directly. The bells on the entrance door surprised him with their harsh jangle and made him realize he was tense. A customer was seated, poring over a collection of stamps in glassine envelopes.

A man whom Jack took to be the proprietor stood behind the counter. As soon as he looked up, Jack introduced himself.

“Ah, Dr. Stapleton,” Hyman said softly, as if the spoken word were somehow irreverent in the philatelic peacefulness. He motioned for Jack to step to the side.

“It’s a terrible tragedy what happened to Mr. Papparis,” Hyman whispered. He handed Jack a set of keys on a ring. “Do you think there is any reason for me to be alarmed?”

“No,” Jack whispered. “Unless Mr. Papparis made it a habit to show you his merchandise.” Hyman shook his head.

“Did Mr. Papparis ever bring any of his rugs and hides to his office? I mean, other than the ones in his window.”

“Not lately,” Hyman said. “He used to bring in samples years ago when he’d go out on the road. But he didn’t have to do that anymore.”

Jack held up the keys. “Thanks for your help. I’ll have these back to you in short order.”

“Take your time,” Hyman said. “I’m glad you’re checking things out.”

Jack went back out to his bike and got his supplies out of his basket.

He then went to the door of the rug office and unlocked it. Before he opened it he put on the gown, the hood, the gloves, and the mask. A few of the passersby altered their pace ever so slightly when they caught a glimpse of Jack’s preparations. Jack considered their indifference a tribute to the equanimity of New Yorkers.

Jack pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold. He felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise. There was something unnervingly sinister about the possibility that some of the motes dancing in the ray of light spilling in from the street could be lethal. For a second he considered backing out and leaving the job to others. Then he chided himself for what he called medieval superstition. He was, after all, reasonably protected.

The office was as spartan as it had appeared through the window. The only decoration was a series of travel posters of the Greek Islands put out by Olympic Airlines. A large wall calendar also had scenes of Greece. Although the hides and rugs in the window were dusty, the rest of the office was spotless and smelled slightly of cleanser. At Jack’s feet were a few letters and magazines that had evidently been shoved through the mail slot. Jack picked them up and moved over to the desk.

The surface of the desk had a blotter, a metal in-and-out basket, and several small imitation ancient Greek vases. The office was neat and devoid of clutter. Jack dutifully put the mail in the “in” basket.

Jack turned on the overhead lights. He took out his collection of culture tubes and swabbed various surfaces. As he swabbed the desk he noticed something glittering in the center of the blotter. Bending down he could see that it was a tiny, cerulean blue, iridescent star. It seemed strangely out of place in the austere environment.

Jack peered into the wastebasket. It was empty. He walked back to the closed doors. One led to a lavatory, where he swabbed the sink and the back of the toilet. The other door led to a corridor that communicated with the central stairhall of the building. Except for the few in the window, there were no other rugs or hides.

When Jack finished with the culture tubes, he took them into the bathroom and washed their exteriors before putting them back into the bag he’d brought them in. Finally, he approached the file cabinets. Now he wanted to find out all he could about the last incoming shipment of rugs and hides and whether any had been sent out.

Monday, October 18

3:45 p.m.

Yuri looked up into the face of the smug businessman as he carefully counted out single greenbacks into Yuri’s waiting palm. Yuri had brought the individual all the way from La Guardia Airport to a posh East Side manse. During the entire trip, Yuri had had to endure yet another long lecture on America’s virtues and its inevitable Cold War victory. This time the emphasis was on Ronald Reagan, and how he had singlehandedly vanquished the “Evil Empire.” The man had correctly guessed Yuri’s ethnic origins from a glance at Yuri’s name on his taxi license. This had provoked his monologue on U.S. superiority on all fronts: moral, economic, political.

Yuri had not said a word throughout the interminable harangue although he’d been sorely tempted at several junctures. Some of the fare’s statements had made his blood boil, particularly when he condescendingly voiced pity for the Russian people whom he thought were burdened with feelings of insecurity from having to endure continual inept leadership.

“And here’s a couple of extra dollars for your trouble,” the man said. with a wink as he added to the pile in Yuri’s hand. Yuri was holding twenty-nine ragged, single dollar bills. The fare on the meter plus the Triboro Bridge toll was twenty-seven dollars and fifty cents.

“Is that supposed to be the tip?” Yuri asked with obvious disdain.

“Is something the matter with it?” the man asked. He straightened up. His eyebrows arched indignantly. He slipped his briefcase out from under his arm and held it as if he might be tempted to use it defensively.

Yuri took his right hand off the steering wheel and lifted the final two bills from the pile. He then let them go so that they wafted in short, intersecting arcs toward the pavement.

The man’s expression changed from one of indignation to one of anger. His cheeks empurpled.

“That’s a donation to the American economy,” Yuri said. He then pressed on the accelerator and sped away. In his rearview mirror he saw the businessman bending down and retrieving the money from the gutter. The image gave Yuri a modicum of satisfaction. It was heartening to see the man stoop for such a paltry sum. He couldn’t believe how cheap some Americans were despite their ostentatious wealth.

Yuri’s day had improved dramatically following the vain attempt to see Curt Rogers and Steve Henderson at the firehouse on Duane Street. As a treat and mini-celebration of his imminent return to rodina , he’d gone to a small Russian restaurant for a sit-down lunch with hot borscht and a glass of vodka. A conversation in Russian with the owner added to the experience even though speaking in his native tongue also made him feel a touch melancholy.

After lunch the fares had been okay and steady. They’d generally kept to themselves except for the last guy on the run in from La Guardia Airport.

Yuri stopped at a light on Park Avenue. He was intending to head over to Fifth in hopes of getting some of the upscale hotel work. Instead, an older woman in a babushka stepped between parked cars and raised her hand. When the light changed Yuri pulled alongside and the woman climbed in.