The Gun Runner's Daughter (35 page)

Now. She sat back in the chair at the little carrel desk, and, for perhaps fifteen minutes, her mind was not her own. When she returned to herself, as if following directions dictated elsewhere,
she tore a blank page from her diary and wrote a note to Dee. This she folded carefully into an envelope, also from her backpack, then addressed the envelope to David Dennis in the Federal
Building, Part 4.

Outside she walked down Thompson Street, all the way to its intersection with the corner of Canal and Sixth, where a small group of bicycle messengers were gathered on the sidewalk, waiting for
their dispatcher to assign runs. The messengers shifted to make a path for her, one taking the liberty of saying softly, “
Hola, chiquita, que rica que estás hoy
.” To this
one, she gave the envelope and a twenty-dollar bill. When she turned east, the sun had shifted, and now lit the sidewalk with what seemed to her a blush of warmth. Suddenly confident, she headed
down Canal, hurrying through the crowds toward court.

Dee glanced at her briefly, expressionless, as he seated himself. Then he resolutely ignored her. Her note arrived at about 10:30, and she watched him open it, read it, and
lean over to speak to his female colleague, who in turn spoke to the male one. That scared her suddenly. And her fright remained with her as he took up the day’s business with Levi, a
step-by-step chronology of her father’s work in Chile. Now she felt reassured: they’d done their homework since last night after court.

At lunch, she walked into Chinatown, and from a pagoda telephone booth called, first, information for the number of the
New York Observer
, then asked the switchboard there for Martha. She
told the assistant who answered who was calling, and Martha picked up the phone after a short pause.

“Alley. You okay?”

“I’m fine. You?”

“Good. Why aren’t you in court?”

“Lunchtime. Listen, Marty, I need something.”

Pause. Then: “Sure.”

“Send a photographer down to the Shark Bar. You know it? Mulberry Street. At five-thirty tonight.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask why.”

A silence. Then, Martha: “Look, doll. What are you asking me to do?”

“Just your job, Marty. I promise you, you’ll get a Pulitzer out of it.”

Hanging up on her friend’s unasked questions, she suddenly doubted that Dee would be there.

But at five-thirty, just as her note had asked, he entered the Shark Bar on Mulberry Street.

She watched him approach, through the dirty window, from a back table, where she sat alone; then she kept watching the street as he approached through the smoky room, moving briskly, and sat.
They talked briefly and intensely, Dee launching the conversation.

“I have five minutes. We’re working all evening.”

“Okay.”

“What the fuck is going on?”

“That guy from the
NAR.
I’m learning a lot from him.”

“Shit.” That this meant she had to occupy herself with the reporter, Dee did not need explained. “Can’t we do it without him?”

“No. It’ll be quicker this way. I miss you bad.”

“I miss you.”

“You’re acing this trial.”

He looked at her resolutely. “You sure you want me to do it this way?”

She nodded once. “Yes.” Now she lowered her voice. “Now listen, Dee. I might not see you for a few days.

When you finish, with Levi, talking about my father’s trip to Chile, you want to ask about Gerald Bull.”

“Gerald Bull?”

“Yeah. Remember the supergun story?”

“No.”

“Okay, read up on it tonight. Bull had invented a gun that could shoot a weapon hundreds of miles, even into orbit. Not a new idea, but Bull’s design looked like it could deliver
chemical, biological, or atomic payloads. He’d been turned down here, Canada, South Africa, Israel. No one wanted him. Hussein bought.”

Listening carefully, Dee nodded. “Okay. I remember now.”

“He was assassinated in 1990, in Brussels, at his home. You ask Levi who did that.”

“I asked him once already.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ll get in the news.”

“What do I want to know?”

“Why Israel killed him, and who else was on their hit lists. You can ask the first directly, but not the second.”

“What’s the basis of inquiry on the first?”

“The newspaper. Public record. You run a Nexis, I’ll bet you a thousand dollars you’ll find someone who speculated that the Israelis killed Bull to keep Iraq from getting
supergun technology. More good proof of Israeli determination to oppose the Iraqi tilt.”

“Will I find the hit list referred to?”

“I doubt it. Dymitryck tells me there was one, though.”

In the pause that followed this lie—she had seen the hit list in Borough Park—she looked across Mulberry Street to see a black-jeaned man lowering a camera as Dee shook his head.

“It’s unbelievable.” His voice brought her view back inside the bar.

“No it’s not. Goddamn it, Dee. Stop thinking like
them
. I keep telling you. Iran-contra wasn’t some big scandal. It was just a window that showed a little bit of how
these things are done. This stuff is all just business as usual.”

Dee shook his head, as if to clear it. Then he stood. “I’ve got to go.”

“Go.”

“Listen to me. I got a firm offer from Andy Speigel. The state attorney in San Francisco. Marin County.”

She nodded, suddenly dry-mouthed.

“You don’t want that job.”

“Yes I do. If you’ll come with me.”

“What about a government appointment?”

“Fuck that. None of this”—he motioned with his arm, in a downtown direction—“has any meaning unless you come.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“Yes or no?” She was surprised at the sudden tension in his voice, and answered quickly.

“Yes. Yes.”

Then he was gone. She sat for a time, weakened. Then, at a phone booth in the back room, she called Martha again.

“Marty?”

Her friend was worried. “What’s this all about, Alley?”

“I’ll tell you later. Listen now: you hold those photos and I’ll give you a story to go with them. But you have to wait.”

Noncommittal. “I haven’t seen the pictures.”

“They’re good. But the story is huge. National.”

“How long do I have to wait?”

“Couple weeks. I promise you it’s worth it.”

Pause. Then: “You sure you know what you’re doing, Alley?”

“Sure.”

Suddenly exhausted, Alley hung up and left the bar. The sun was down, and the chill wind seemed to whip right into her bones. Wrapping her overcoat around herself with her hands in the pockets,
she walked quickly up the street. She still had to get Nicky’s things from his hotel before going home.

Even then, she did not suspect how very long this very long day was still to last.

6.

Nicky woke toward evening, stretching in Alley’s bed with a feeling as luxuriant as any he had ever known. Naked, he padded around the apartment for a time, feeling the
heat of the steam radiators, warm and familiar, against his skin. Finally he showered and dressed in his jeans and a T-shirt of Alley’s and sat down to call Jay.

“Boy, what the fuck you up to? I called four times today.”

“Sorry, Jay.”

“I’m
worried
, Nicky. I want you
out
of there.”

“Take it easy. Nothing’s happened.”

“Of course it hasn’t. You’d be dead if it had. That doesn’t mean it’s not going to.”

“Jay. I’m almost done here.”

“What are you doing? You seen the Rosenthal girl?”

He hesitated. Then: “Yes. Jay?”

“Yeah.”

“Look. Don’t ask me any questions right now, okay? Let me speak to you when I get back.”

This would never have worked in person, but the distance between them rendered Jay powerless. Not for the first time, Nicky thought to himself that the real reason he traveled so much was
probably that it was the only way to get away from his crazy boss. Smiling, he hung up the phone and stepped to the window, smoking.

Later, he would remember what ensued as one long moment, a single, inexplicably complex and impeccably choreographed action.

Standing by the window, smoking, he first noticed a man sitting in a small parked car looking up. One rear window was open.

Instinctively, he stepped back, just as a lower corner pane of the window shattered.

For a moment he did not understand. He felt the cold wind through the broken pane, he saw the man in the car say something to someone behind him. Only then did he manage to shout, and drop to
the floor.

A second bullet buried itself in the bedroom wall, drilling a little crater into the plaster.

Then there was silence.

Nicky crouched on the floor next to the window, feeling suddenly like a child playing a game of hide-and-seek. A second passed, a second in which panic came and passed clean
through him.

Then he forced himself to crawl across the living room floor to the front door, his body as slow and clumsy as if caught in thick syrup. He checked the bolts and pushed closed the police lock
that Alley had left open. He crossed back and, sitting on the floor, pulled the telephone off the desk by its cord.

He called the Sherry-Netherland and told the desk that there was a woman either in his room or coming to his room. They must find her and tell her to call home. It was an emergency. Then he hung
up and considered.

Of course. Alley had been under surveillance. They’d recognized him when she brought him upstairs the night before. They’d have been waiting all night and all day for a clean shot at
him. And by the purest of chance, they’d missed.

But what now? His heart pounding, he tried to think it through. He doubted that they’d risk breaking into the apartment—not, in any case, while the bar was open: there were too many
people around. Later, it would be another question. Of course, he could call the police, or the FBI, and receive immediate protection. But then, how would he find out what Alley had in mind? And
whatever it was, wouldn’t police involvement ruin it? A car started outside, and he moved to peer, kneeling, out the bottom of the window. But then he retreated again, finding he didn’t
dare. Dimly, he realized that he was scared, more scared than he could ever remember. That was strange: danger usually made his mind clear. Dimly, he realized that it was because Alley was now in
danger too.

Then the phone rang: Alley, calling from the hotel. He explained to her what had happened, and she whistled softly.

“Jesus God, Nicky.”

“Should I call the police?”

“No. For God’s sake, no.” A pause while she thought. Then: “Sit tight, I’m coming.”

“Alley, they won’t let you in.”

“They won’t see me. I’ll come through the bar. They won’t dare come in. I’ll be there in a half hour.”

The phone went dead, then to a dial tone, then to a loud, angry beeping. But Nicky kept holding it, sitting on the floor, as if it were his lifeline to her.

October 25 and 26, 1994.
Manhattan and Borough Park.

1.

For the first time, Allison could not see how to make a virtue out of what had happened. This was nothing, nothing but an impediment, and her heart faltered as she considered
it.

Should she have foreseen it? In the taxi, heading downtown from the Sherry-Netherland with Nicky’s bags, she berated herself angrily: she should have, she should have. She had been spoiled
by the degree to which chance had conspired with her. Of course her father still had her guarded, probably by the exact people who had been after Nicky on the island, the exact people who later
caught up with him at Boston’s Logan Airport. Of course they recognized him when he showed up. Possibly they had known—through diplomatic connections, through Eastbrook
himself—that Nicky’s death was a fiction, and had been simply waiting for him to show.

The taxi stopped on Eighth Avenue, a few short steps from the bar’s entrance. Were the two men who had shot at Nicky watching the bar? She went in without looking up, as if ignoring them
would protect her. Then she went through the little interior door to the staircase while Bobby went out to get Nicky’s things from the taxi. Upstairs, Nicky let her in and, crouching, led her
by the hand to the couch, the single spot in the living room that could not be seen through a window.

Still holding hands they regarded each other in silence. Was he angry? Fleetingly, she thought: it’s too early to see this man angry. And then, to her surprise, he smiled his strange,
wide-mouthed, slightly sardonic smile.

“I came here to blackmail you. Instead you have to save my life.”

She returned the smile, suddenly and without intending to. There was, she thought, something slightly evil in his expression, something that made her think that, after all, there was hope. And
if there was hope, then she had to think. Now, for the first time, she turned her mind toward a practical solution.

They had to leave this apartment. They had to get rid of the two men outside. Nicky had to get back to Los Angeles, where he could hide, and finish the recuperation he had so jeopardized to see
her. And before he went, she had to make a deal with him. Those were the problems, and when the solution came to her it was fluidly, without thought. It was, she thought, just like everything else
she had done. The solution had always been there, always. She had just forgotten she had it.