After the End Page 3
“I know that, but—”
“And I’d also like to remind you that back home in New Hampshire, I’m now on law enforcement’s radar for a little lake accident that happened last night. Do you think me stepping out on a revenge mission is the right thing to do?”
Marilyn comes back in, wiping her hands on two pieces of tissue now. “Ray always spoke highly of you, Owen. Always. And now…you see what they did to him. And not a thing has happened to this Jack Zach. Hell, I wouldn’t have even known about all this if someone hadn’t anonymously dropped off that DVD in my mailbox. Are you just going to let this go?”
I make sure she and Allison are looking me square in the eyes. “That was then, this is now. You both think I’m going to ride out on this personal mission of vengeance…this revenge? Is that what you think? Is that who you think I am?”
Another moan from the room, but Marilyn and Allison don’t move, don’t respond.
I give them both a reassuring smile.
“You’re both right,” I say. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Chapter 9
Another day, another transition.
Instead of the frozen Lake Marie in New Hampshire or the pleasant warmth of Barnes, Georgia, I’m in the urban wilderness of Manhattan.
But at least I’m not alone.
I’m sitting in a bland dark-blue GMC Yukon, with Allison sitting in the driver’s seat. Earlier, I had made a motion to drive, but she’d given me a “Nice try, bud” look and slid right in. We had spent the previous night at a faceless airport hotel outside of the Atlanta-Hartsfield Airport, and when we had landed at JFK, Allison led me through a series of walkways and blank corridors, until we came upon a fenced-in parking area where a quick flash of a slim leather wallet to the lot’s attendant gave us access to a Yukon.
“Quite the big vehicle for such a slim lady,” I pointed out.
She said, “Had to make sure we had enough room for your ass and ego. Get the hell in.”
Now we’re illegally parked along Fifth Avenue, a block north of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, near Rockefeller Plaza, and waiting. A light mist is falling and a low cloud cover obscures the upper floors of the surrounding buildings. I check the dashboard clock. Not quite time. I’m wearing a suit that sixty-three minutes earlier had been hanging off a rack. My SIG Sauer pistol is in its holster, underneath the front seat. I’m hoping I’m not going to need it in the next hour or so.
Allison looks reasonably calm, letting the lines of honking traffic and fast-moving pedestrians flow around us, but I’m jittery. Too many cars, too many people, too much movement.
I find my eyes go from the windshield to the side windows to the side-view mirror and back again. For the third time this morning, an NYPD police cruiser pulls up behind us, lights flashing.
And for the third time, Allison ignores it.
She says, “You sure you want to do it this way?”
I’m still looking at the police car. The cop on the passenger’s side is speaking into a radio microphone, no doubt running our license plate. “Sometimes the direct approach works best. Surprises people, knocks them off balance.”
“Sometimes the direct approach is suicidal,” she says. “Back in the day, tribal warriors would directly charge the British in South Africa. Very direct, very brave, except when they ran up against the Brits’ Maxim machine guns. Not a happy outcome for the warriors.”
“If I see any Redcoats, I’ll come right back.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“And then you can comfort me about how close I came to my demise.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
The NYPD cruiser switches off its lights, backs up, and slips into traffic. I check the clock one more time. Six more minutes.
We sit in silence.
I say, “Lousy day.”
Allison leans, peers out the side window. “I love this kind of weather.”
“Why?”
She sits back. “Cloud cover like this means airliners can’t run into skyscrapers.” She taps her fingers and then says, “Okay. Time.”
I reach for the door and then stop. Allison’s hand is on my wrist.
This is the first time she’s ever touched me in a way that doesn’t involve threatening me or tossing me on my ass during a training exercise.
“Owen.”
“Still here.”
“Please…about your last op, with Emily and the others. Can you tell me—”
I reach over and gently—oh so gently—remove her hand from my wrist. “You know I can’t say a word.”
Allison says, “So it’s just the official story, then?”
I give her hand a gentle squeeze, place it down on her lap. “Always the official story, you know that.”
Chapter 10
It’s just past noon, which means it’s lunchtime, and the building’s lobby is busy, with people coming out and in. I stride through the masses confidently, as if I belong, as if I know exactly where I’m going.
There are waist-high security kiosks where employees or vendors flash their ID cards at the automatic reader, and, moving briskly, I “tailgate” a fast-moving guy carrying a cardboard coffee caddy with four containers.
There’s a momentary beep, but within seconds, I’m in an elevator car, heading up.
I’m in the elevator for just over a minute, and it’s comforting to be in this crowded car, with men and women who are white, Asian, Hispanic, African American, and who knows what else, all riding together in peace.
It’s a nice microcosm of what isn’t working in the world anymore.
The elevator stops at the twenty-ninth floor, the door slides open, and out I go.
The carpeted lobby area is wide and luxurious, with bright shining letters on the far wall over the receptionist area that read: INTERNATIONAL NEWS NETWORK. Three large televisions hang from the ceiling, all showing the current news footage from INN, and there are seven poster-sized photos of INN correspondents along the curved walls, three showing Jack Zach out in the field, with his thick white beard and seemingly merry blue eyes.
I’m thinking those eyes would look mighty fine swollen and blackened.
The desk is curved, and an attractive blond woman is sitting behind it, wearing a headset. I walk up and she smiles up at me with cool efficiency and says, “May I help you?”
I smile right back. She’s just a foot soldier, a grunt, a flak catcher, and I’m going to do my best not to harm her in any way. She has on a bright-red dress and has a little yellow sunflower tattooed on the back of her right wrist.
“Yes,” I say.
I don’t go on, and she looks just slightly puzzled. “And…how can I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to see Jack Zach.”
“Oh.” Her fingers tap on a computer keyboard and she says, “Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“I…well…”
I step closer, still smiling. “You see, I met Jack overseas. When I was serving. In some pretty nasty situations.”
“Oh.”
I nod. “And things were getting pretty hairy, and when it was done, Jack said, ‘Bud, anytime you get to the city, look me up.’”
I make a point of surveying the lobby area. “What a place. Hell of a lot better than desert and mountains. So can I see him, please?”
“Can I have your name?”
“Thanks,” I say without answering her, and I walk away and take a seat on a comfortable couch. The young receptionist turns and I see her lips moving as she talks to someone. There are two heavy glass doors on either side of her desk, and INN employees coming in use a keycard to get access to the floor.
I don’t have a keycard.
No worries.
I pick up a copy of today’s New York Times and pretend to read.
A few minutes pass and the young woman says, “Sir?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m afraid Jack Zach’s not here.”
“I’m afraid not,” she says, giving me a sympathetic look, though I can also tell that she hopes I’ll get up and leave.
Sorry, I think.
“Gee, that’s all right,” I say, returning to the Times. “I’ll wait until he comes back.”
“I don’t know if he’s going to be here today.”
“That’s okay. I’ll wait.”
“But…you’ll have to leave, then.”
“Thanks for your concern,” I say. “But I like it here. You know why?”
She shakes her head.
“No goddamn sand fleas.” I pause. “Ma’am.”
Time slides by and as people come in and out, I say to every one of them, “Excuse me, will you tell Jack I’m here? Will you tell him I’m waiting? Please?”
Some of the INN workers ignore me, others just give a nod or a smile, and several others raise an eyebrow to the receptionist. Finally, it happens.
The door to the left opens with a heavy buzz and two large men come out, dressed in black shoes, dark-blue slacks, white shirts with black ties, and dark-blue blazers. Both of them have an earpiece and both are just a year or two younger than me.
No red coats, which I guess is a good thing.
I gently fold the newspaper and replace it on the coffee table.
I stand up.
“Gosh, neither one of you looks like Jack Zach,” I say.
“Yeah, we get that often,” the one on the left says. “You going to make this easy?”
“Define easy.”
“You turn around and walk out.”
I smile at the receptionist, and she gives me a weak smile in response.
“Never liked it easy,” I say. “So why start now?”
Chapter 11
But then I decide to make it simple for the fellows, since there are eyewitnesses around. I step away from the couch, so each can flank me and seize an arm.
They fold my arms behind me and start walking. I go right along with them, even though, if I was in the mood, I could have thrown both of them on the floor and given them three broken bones apiece.
Lucky for them I wasn’t in the mood.
The receptionist buzzes the left door open for the two guys, and I’m pushed through. We go down a carpeted hallway, and make a sharp left through an unmarked metal door. The hallway is no longer carpeted, but bare concrete.
We move right along, past supply rooms, a break area, and a small kitchen, and end up in front of what looks to be a service elevator. Their hands are still firmly on my wrists, and with a push of a button, the door grumbles open. I’m pushed inside.
Dumb.
With only a few seconds’ work, both of these men could have been bundled in the elevator ahead of me with bleeding noses.
But I was being Mister Cooperative in front of INN employees, so I go in the elevator and the door slides closed.
“You know where Jack Zach is?”
They both keep quiet.
There are no buttons in the elevator. It’s probably a straight shot right to the ground floor.
“You sure?”
One of the guys says, “Why do you want to see Jack Zach?”
I say, “He owes me five bucks.”
I can see them in the mirrored inside of the elevator. One of them smirks and the other one—with a very finely trimmed mustache and tiny closed-in ears—pulls my right arm up with a sharp tug and says, “This is a professional operation, okay? You get out of here, and you don’t come back. Just go the hell away.”
“But Jack invited me to come visit.”
He twists my arm again and I think he’s disappointed that I don’t cry out. He says, “You don’t have fine legs, long hair, or nice boobs, so forget it.”
“Maybe you’ll change your mind if you get to know me.”
The elevator shudders to a stop, the door opens, and we emerge out onto a loading dock with bare concrete and overhead fluorescent light. We go through an open bay with a rolling, metal garage door and into a narrow alleyway with trash bins. Then I’m shoved and I make a big scene of falling down.
The guy on my left says, “Seth, you didn’t have to do that.”
Seth says, “He was pissing me off. I wanted to show him I meant business.”
I get up, brush off my hands, and smile. “Hey, I understand. You guys have an important job to do, you’re on the front line of protecting Jack Zach and other employees.”
“You got that right,” the second guard says.
I smile widely, walk over to him, and extend a hand. The light mist is still falling and I can make out the sounds of Midtown traffic roaring by. “No hard feelings, okay?”
He smiles back at me and thinking he’s won, and being gracious, I suppose, he accepts my handshake.
At least his third mistake of the day.
I grab his hand, twist it, pull him forward and off balance, and with my free hand, slam it hard against his nose. He cries out and I whip him around, and then slam him into the concrete side of the building, kick out his legs from underneath him, and push him to the ground, tugging his suit coat down so he can’t move his arms.
His partner’s eyes are wide and he’s scrambling to get something from under his coat, and I spin out and kick his legs out from under him, and he falls on his back. I stand over him and gently put my foot on his throat. His eyes are bulging.
“I like you, so I’ll make it quick,” I say, pressing down some with each word. “Do you know where Jack Zach is?”
He closes his eyes, like he doesn’t want to remember seeing me. I can’t say I blame him. “Please, bud, how the hell should I know? I just work security.”
I press down harder. “But there are rumors. Words get passed around. Am I right?”
His face reddens. “Man…do you think a shithead like him talks to guys like me? Please…”
I’m about to assert more force on his throat when there’s a shout of “Freeze!” behind me, and I turn.
It’s Allison, holding a Beretta 9mm in her hands, pointing right at me, and for the briefest of moments, I think, yep, this has been one long ruse to get me here and eliminate a problem.…
She lowers the pistol. I take a good breath. I should know better. Allison…she’s done a lot of things, she’ll do a lot of things, but she’d never bring Ray and Marilyn Winston into her dealings.
She pulls out a pair of handcuffs and secures my hands behind my back.
“Move,” she says to me. To the guards on the ground she says, “Sorry, guys. We’ll be around later to get your statements.”
We slip out of the alleyway.
Back in the Yukon, after she’s uncuffed my arms, she starts driving. “How did you know they’d dump you out there?”
“Corporations want to keep things quiet,” I say, rubbing my wrists. “So no front lobby exit for troublemakers.” We come to a stop at an intersection, and a bicycle courier zips through without stopping. “So why the pistol and handcuffs?”
The light changes to green and Allison surges ahead, passing white delivery trucks and yellow taxis. “I wanted the guards to see someone take you in. They’ll think the cops are taking care of things.”
I say, “Gee, aren’t we working well together.”
“Don’t push it,” she says. “Why did you want to make a scene back there?”
She’s driving so fast now that my right hand is clutching the overhead bar. “I want Jack Zach to know we’re coming after him. If he thinks it’s funny, he’ll underestimate us. If he’s concerned, he might move, and if he moves, we’ve got him.”
A flick of her wrist and we pass down a middle lane, barely scraping by two cabs. Horns blare. “And when we get him?”
“One thing at a time, one thing at a time,” I say. “Right now, think of Ernest Hemingway.”
“Why? Being with you right now is fulfilling my macho man quotient.”
“Gosh, that’s sweet,” I say. “And don’t tease
me when it comes to the great Papa. Even he had a support staff, someone fetching him whiskey and typewriter ribbons. Let’s find Jack’s.”
Chapter 12
After forty-nine minutes, which Allison has spent on the phone, talking and researching, we’re in New Rochelle, New York. It’s home to Walt Cooper, a nine-year veteran cameraman for Jack Zach. He lives in a wide two-story house made of brick and white clapboard, and as we exit the Yukon, Allison says, “I’ll take the lead.”
“Why?”
“Because on our ride out here, I found the info. Finders interrogators.”
“All right,” I say. “But if things get too tense, feel free to hold my hand.”
“Only if I feel like snapping a finger or two.”
The yard is well-kept, and there are two pink children’s bicycles tangled up near the hedges.
Allison rings the front doorbell, and a woman in her early thirties answers. This is Walt’s wife, Rachel. She’s what people call pleasingly plump and has ginger hair and a friendly look. She’s wearing a checked flannel shirt and jeans. Allison says that we once worked with Walt, and with a smile that no one can turn down, asks to be invited in.
We sit in a cozy living room with framed photos of twin girls—the latest shows them at about ten years of age—and of cameraman Walt Cooper out in the field, a few with the famed Jack Zach. After we sit down, Rachel politely interrupts Allison.
“You think that in one of his overseas assignments, Walt may have filmed a terrorist leader? By accident?”
Allison says, “That’s correct. I always thought that Walt was one of the good guys. Since Jack Zach’s been exposed in a negative light lately, some of his cameramen are sharing evidence to support those assumptions.”
“And you think Walt has this evidence…from where?”
“In Beirut, late last year. After a car bomb went off, Walt filmed the aftermath. Most of what he taped didn’t make it on air. That’s the footage we’re interested in examining, recordings of the crowds gathered around the crater and debris. If you can tell us where he is now, we’ll talk to him directly.”