The Da Vinci Deception (26 page)

“I saw him run right into the car. He was screaming like a lunatic.” A bystander who had seen Deats dash toward the taxi was trying to get the attention of anyone who would listen. Lieutenant Culp saw the commotion and was the first to kneel over the fallen superintendent. A patrol officer arrived, then another. Culp showed his badge to the first. “Radio for an ambulance. This is a police officer.”

The officer responded. “Four-twelve to headquarters. Need ambulance
at five-four and Lex. Repeat, ambulance to five-four and Lex. Police officer injured.”

Deats's head lay in a pool of blood; three fingers on his right hand were ripped and bleeding. His eyes twitched open, then closed.

“Get these people away,” the lieutenant ordered. The police, now joined by others called from the Seventeenth Precinct, pushed back the throng. The incessant sound of a siren could be heard; then another. A white-coated medic cut through the ring of onlookers as Deats was regaining consciousness. The superintendent tried to rise up but a firm hand urged him back. “Stay put,” the medic said sternly, “let's see what we've got here.”

Deats lay stretched on his back. His body was going into shock, acting as a massive dose of novocaine to dull the pain that would soon grow in his head and broken hand. Deft fingers felt for further damage. A stretcher was set beside him, then almost magically he was levitated onto it. He was carried to the ambulance and, despite the heat, covered with a blanket. He lay still, his eyes searching the eyes of strangers peering down at him. “Lieutenant Culp, is Lieutenant Culp here?”

The medic applied a thick gauze pad to the bleeding scalp. Another hand touched his shoulder.

“I'm here,” the voice answered reassuringly.

“That was Waters,” Deats said hesitantly. “He was in that taxi, I let him slip—”

“No, you tried.”

“He'll get away—airport . . . London . . .”

The officer tapped Deats's shoulder reassuringly, then returned to the sedan and raised Alexander Tobias on the phone.

“A hundred damned bucks and the toll's on me,” the driver laughed and pulled in front of the Air Shuttle Terminal at LaGuardia. “Thirty-four minutes was the best I could do.”

Tony was out of the door before the taxi came to a stop and placed five twenty-dollar bills in an outstretched hand. “Get yourself a cold beer and stay off these bloody hot streets.”

There were no police in sight, only two shirt-sleeved skycaps. He stopped inside the terminal and surveyed the ticket counters and the gangways leading to the departure gates. The two o'clock would depart from
Gate 3. The line of passengers moved slowly past an agent. He started for the line as a red-faced police guard entered the terminal from a door marked NO EXIT. He was speaking into a portable phone. Tony spun, slipped the gun into the suitcase, returned to the front of the terminal, and handed it to one of the sky caps. “That goes on the two o'clock to Boston.”

“You can take that right on with you, sir.”

“I'd prefer checking it,” Tony replied, plucking several bills from his wallet. He waited until the suitcase was on the conveyor belt and traveled out of sight.

Back in the terminal he looked for the red-faced guard. He was standing behind the agent at Gate 2, the phone against his ear. A newsstand was between Tony and the gate. He stopped and bought a magazine and immediately opened it. Then, head lowered, he began reading it as if fully engrossed. A digital clock over the door read 1:54. Tony edged toward the agent.

“Goddamn it, I don't care when the first flight leaves for London. Put a net over every airline that flies there. We can't get him coming into the airports but surer than hell we can stop him from flying out of it!” Alexander Tobias paced behind his desk. “No, we don't have the cab's number! Superintendent Deats nearly lost a hand trying to stop it.” He gave a description based on the little he picked up from Deats and Bascom. Culp thought Waters had been wearing a dark suit and added what he knew about the expensive suitcase with the brass fittings. The detective punched a button on the telephone console. “Get Elliot Heston at Scotland Yard.”

“It's seven o'clock over there, Chief,” a female voice replied. “He's probably left for—”

“Get him at home if you have to.” Tobias slammed down the phone. He stared at the squares of plastic, waiting for a light to flash signifying his line was active. He thought of Kennedy Airport, the huge sprawl, the number of airlines connecting New York with Heathrow and Gatwick: Continental, British Air, Virgin, United . . . even Air India. Newark wasn't as big, but from there a dozen lines flew to Europe.

“Did an alert go to LaGuardia? Why for Christ's sake not? Do it!” He slipped the phone onto its cradle, his exasperation heightened by the trickles of perspiration sliding down his back.

Tony showed his ticket and walked past the redfaced guard holding the phone tight to his ear.

The whirring of the jet engines crescendoed and the DC-9 rolled away from the terminal onto the taxi strip leading to Runway 1331. At 2:07 clearance for takeoff was radioed.

“Elliot, sorry to get to you so late but we've got an alert on Anthony Waters at our airports. Deats nearly had him but he slipped off.” Tobias swiveled his chair and rose. “He's pretty banged up. He grabbed hold of the door to the taxi Waters was in and got his right hand badly smashed. His head got a good whack, but X-rays are negative.”

“Thank God he's alive,” Heston said. “Should I come over?”

“It's not critical, Elliot. Let's wait for tomorrow's report.”

“You believe Waters is returning to London?”

“We all think so.”

“You don't know what we've turned up. Jonas Kalem was traced to Milan last Friday.”

“Are you suggesting that Waters may be headed—”

“I'm not suggesting anything straightaway, but it's just as likely he's headed for Milan as London.”

The Boston shuttle taxied to a stop and the passengers began filing off the plane. Tony reached the ramp, where he stood to the side and scanned the corridor leading into the terminal. There were no uniforms in sight and he proceeded into the terminal and to the baggage-claim area. He stood to the side until the bags began appearing on the carousel. Eventually his Loewe bag tumbled off the conveyor. In it were the drawings and the revolver. He concluded that there was little chance he could tell if the area was under surveillance or not. He gambled and went to his bag, showed his claim check, then went quickly to the airport motel.

“Superintendent? Mr. Deats? It's Larry.” The lieutenant stood at the side of the bed. “I've got good news. You're a hundred percent except for a couple of fingers and they'll be okay. How about that?”

Walter Deats had no sensation in his right hand; a local anesthetic had deadened the nerves. But there was an ache in his back and his head throbbed. His eyes opened but all was a blur. He turned toward the voice.

“Lieutenant, the American version of one hundred percent differs vastly from the British. I'm in exquisite pain and I can barely see you.”

“You're just coming around. They gave you a double jigger of Seconal.”

“Where's Waters? Did you get him?”

“Not yet. There's no way he can slip through security at the airports.”

Deats's vision cleared slightly and the lieutenant came into focus. “Does Tobias know—”

“The chief is on top of the whole operation. He phoned London. Your friends know what happened and that you're all right. I've been told to tell you that Jonas Kalem was traced to Milan on an Alitalia flight last Friday. The chief wants to know if that information suggests where Waters may be headed.”

Deats blinked and turned his head but was quickly jolted by a piercing pain at the back of his head. “Kalem in Milan? No, he won't be there. He's . . . damn, I don't know. I can't think.” He looked plaintively at Culp. “Understand?”