The Da Vinci Deception (25 page)

“Yes. I picked up the tickets this morning.”

“You paid in cash?”

“As you instructed.”

“Put them by the phone on Mr. Kalem's desk. I'll pick them up in forty-five minutes. I'll need money. Three thousand in tens and twenties.”

“It will be in the same envelope.”

“Any calls?”

“Not this morning.”

“If there are, the message is the same. I haven't been seen for six months.”

“I understand.” Edna Braymore paused, then asked solicitously, “Are you in any danger?” The voice was soft, the coldly efficient tone gone.

“Not at all, Miss Braymore. They'll tire of chasing and it will all smooth over. Remember, it's our secret and I'm relying on your help.”

On the street he hailed a taxi and instructed the driver to take him to the intersection of Fifty-fourth and Third Avenue. He paid the fare and handed the driver an extra hundred dollars.

“Circle the block and pull up in front of 284. If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, you made an easy hundred. If I am, you've been tipped for a fast ride to LaGuardia.”

The surprised driver folded the bills and slipped them into a shirt pocket. “You're on, mister. Remember my number: 5603.”

Tony crossed to the north side of Fifty-fourth Street and mingled with the sweating office workers hurrying to or from an air-conditioned haven. His attention was focused on the parked cars lining both curbs, his eyes searching inside the cars for a stake-out crew. He saw the black sedan just as a man opened a back door and got inside. He did not quicken his pace, but fell in with all the others who were returning from lunch. He waited his turn, then pushed through the revolving doors and into the lobby.

Deats opened the envelope and drew out two photographs. The enlargements were heavily grained but sufficiently detailed to reveal a scar running across the back of the right hand. The second enlargement was
less clear; a shadow obscured half the face. “Do you remember the face?” Deats asked.

“Not too well,” Bascom replied. “I was in a hell of a hurry.”

“I think I see a mustache.”

“Yeah, I think so,” Bascom acknowledged.

Deats turned his gaze from the photographs to the building entrance. The sidewalks were crowded. A man carrying a tan suitcase turned into the building and disappeared through the revolving door. Deats stared at the spinning panels of glass and steel.

Tony walked to the bank of elevators marked “39–55.” He pressed 39. The thirty-ninth floor was immediately above the two-story-high office Jonas had created for himself. He turned into a hallway off which were the floor's utility rooms. At the end was a single steel door marked NO ADMITTANCE. He took a key from his wallet, unlocked the door, and stepped into the blackness.

He felt along the wall for a light switch and flipped it on. He was in a narrow corridor. Twenty feet along the wall he pushed open a small door and stepped onto the balcony by which he had left the office several days earlier. He descended the library ladder and stepped quickly to the desk. The envelope was by the phone. He checked the contents and slipped it into his pocket. He opened the bottom drawer to the desk and withdrew a Walther PPKS revolver; his second indulgence. Then he went to the center area of the room and pulled open a drawer in the oversized table. He picked out a folder. Twelve of Giorgio Burri's drawings were as he had left them. He opened his suitcase and slipped the folder under several layers of shirts. He returned up the ladder, through the corridor, and back to the thirty-ninth floor.

Deats got out onto the sidewalk and peered over the top of the police car toward the entrance and the twirling door. Then he leaped back into the car. “The suitcase! The one carrying it is Waters.”

“Describe him,” Bascom asked.

“Look for a tan suitcase with a wide handle and brass fittings. Whoever's carrying it has a mustache. Bet on it.”

“Lieutenant, you stay here and get your radio working.” Deats started for the entrance, then returned. “Is there another entrance to that building?”

“Through the shops and the bank. I've got the Seventeenth Precinct on the phone. They're three blocks south on Fifty-first.”

“Tell them what you know and ask for help.”

Tony reached the lobby and paused. His taxi was double-parked in front of the entrance. The black sedan was beyond on the other side of the street. One of the men got out of the car and started to cross the street. Tony edged toward the revolving doors, then damned himself for not planning to leave through the bank offices and out to Lexington Avenue. His taxi was no use to him now; he would have to find one on Lexington Avenue and travel south before turning uptown toward LaGuardia.
Don't take any risks.

He went into the bank.

Deats walked toward the building, through the revolving doors, and into the lobby just as a man carrying a tan suitcase went into the bank. Deats could see into the bank through smoked gray windows that caused the lights inside to give off a muted iridescence. He was sure it was Waters. He ran into the bank and saw the man and the suitcase exiting onto Lexington Avenue.

Tony pushed through the crowds and waved to a taxi that had pulled to the corner across the street to discharge a passenger. He turned to see Deats running from the bank. Tony shouted at the driver but was ignored; everyone shouts at New York cabbies. Tony yanked open the door and fell onto the seat. “LaGuardia. And fast!”

“Look, buddy, my off-duty sign is on. I ain't about to go to LaGuardia in the middle of the day and sit on my dump in this heat.”

“A hundred bloody dollars says you can go someplace and get cool.”

The driver pushed down the flag.

Tony saw Deats running toward the cab. “Go, damn it!” he yelled.

Deats reached for the door handle, his eyes glaring, his screams unheard in the traffic's roar. His fingers gripped the door handle as the taxi moved forward. The door was locked and he reached with his other hand to pull up on the lock. Tony had pulled out the Walther and smashed the butt end of the gun on Deats's hand. The intense pain forced Deats to fall against the door, and as the cab gained speed he ricocheted to the street in front of a trailing delivery van. The driver veered left, braking simultaneously. Deats's head had crashed against the street and he lay limp in the heat-softened asphalt.

“Did you hear that idiot?” the driver yelled over his shoulder. “He near kills himself trying to get a ride. You see all kinds.”

“Keep going, he's all right. Might teach him a lesson.” Tony turned to see a crowd gather around the fallen superintendent. “How quickly can you get to LaGuardia?”

“This time of day... no traffic . . . thirty minutes if we don't boil over.”

Deats had seen him clearly. Tony checked the time. It was 1:10. The next shuttle to Boston was at two. Deats would identify him, he was certain of that. New York and federal police would be alerted. They would cover Kennedy or Newark Airport where overseas flights departed. But he was leaving from Boston. How did Jonas Kalem know to arrange that?
Minimize risks.
His Boston-to-Paris ticket was TWA Flight 810 leaving at 6:40. The shuttle would put him in Logan International at 2:45, and he could be in a room at the airport motel by three. Four hours to kill. He would change clothes. He looked at the expensive Loewe valise and knew he must get a less conspicuous piece of luggage. He stroked his mustache and put the thought out of his head.

“Thirty minutes? See if you can do it in twenty-eight.”