The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone 13)

Unfortunate for him was our government’s newfound ability to listen in on international calls.

“Thank goodness Oliver is still negotiable,” I said.

Valdez chuckled. “More like out of options. I seem to be all he has to work with on matters like this.”

“Give him the coin, Malone,” Coleen said. “I don’t want to change the world. I don’t want to rewrite history. I just want to know what my father did to earn a 1933 Double Eagle.”

I caught sight of our server approaching from the far side of the second floor, toting an oval tray loaded with our lunch. She swung around and stopped to my right, flicking open a wooden stand upon which she gently balanced the tray. She was just about to start doling out the entrées when I pivoted off my chair, securing the coin within my clenched left fist, sweeping my right hand under the tray. I brought it up and over, depositing an assortment of hot Cuban food right onto Valdez.

He reeled back from my assault.

Coleen just sat there.

I slipped the coin into my pocket and grabbed the table with both hands, upending and sending it Valdez’s way, too, which shoved him and his chair down to the floor.

The server stood in shock.

“This guy has a gun,” I yelled. “Everyone run.”

I then stuck my head out over the second-floor railing and screamed, “There’s a guy up here with a gun. Get of here. Now. Hurry. Go.”

People both on the second floor and below contemplated my warning for a millisecond, then began to spring from their chairs and rush toward the exits. I was hoping the confusion would be enough to allow us to avoid the two men with guns below.

“We have to leave,” I said to Coleen.

“I’m staying.”

“We have to go. I’ll get you answers, but not here.”

Valdez was beginning to rouse from his predicament.

“You’re not getting this coin from me,” I made clear to her.

And she seemed to realize that would place her in dire jeopardy if she stayed.

She rose from the chair and we headed for the stairs.

Other patrons from the upper floor came with us, no one dawdling, everyone wanting nothing more than to flee the building.

At ground level it was chaos.

People rushed for the outside.

The two men with guns were nowhere to be seen.

I avoided the three main exits and turned right toward the kitchen door I’d noticed from above. The ground-floor dining room was nearly vacant. I glanced up to see Valdez still struggling to raise the heavy table off himself, the server helping. We passed through the swinging door and into the kitchen, where the panic had not quite taken hold. I decided to toss a little gasoline on the fire.

“There’s a guy out there with a gun,” I yelled.

The cooks and a few of the servers did not have to be told twice. They all headed for a door at the far side that, I hoped, led to daylight.

And it did.

We came out to the back of the building and a small parking lot. More of the old town’s narrow streets bordered the open space along with rows of clapboard houses. If we hurried we could disappear before Valdez, or his two men, realized where we’d gone.

We both saw the trolley at the same time.

One of those long, open-aired vehicles, orange and green and fashioned like a choo-choo train, it was intended for visitors who wanted to be driven around to the city sights. Its tail end had just passed the restaurant parking lot, heading away, down the street. We rushed ahead and leaped onto the last car, taking a seat. The driver fifty feet away was droning on about the historic sights we were passing. I glanced back and saw Valdez, standing in the street, his clothes stained by the food shower.

“Senora Perry,” he called out. “I never was able to say that your father sends his regards. I’ll be seeing him shortly.”

Valdez raised one of his fingers, as if to add some accusing emphasis to a seemingly casual remark. Coleen heard the words and I saw the concern in her eyes. We both got it. Valdez had Benjamin Foster. Which changed everything. I knew what she wanted us to do.

Go back.

“We can’t,” I said, motioning to the backpack. “If Oliver gets those files, they’ll never see the light of day.”

I’ve always been amazed how easily I made that decision considering what was at stake. In the years that followed I would make a zillion similar tough calls, some that even cost people their lives. Each one would be agonizing, but none would ever measure up to that first one.

“I get that,” she said. “I got it back in the restaurant. You go. Find out what you can. Keep the files and the coin. I’ll take my chances that these files are more important than I am. Oliver will surely want to deal.” She handed over the backpack and fished Nate’s cell phone from her pocket. “Hold on to this. You may need it.”

Then she hopped off the moving tram to the street.

I turned back to see her waiting on Valdez, who was marching toward her.

The trolley turned a corner.

Should I jump off, too? Go back and help her? No. The mission came first. All I could hope was that she was right and Valdez and Oliver would do nothing until they could obtain the files and the coin.

The tram kept moving, picking up speed.

I left it a few minutes later at a crowded intersection, slipping off to the sidewalk while the driver waited for the red light to change. I was back near the main plaza and I could see a litany of emergency vehicles, their lights flashing in the bright sun, still busy at the scene where Veddern had been shot.

I needed some privacy to assess my options.

I noticed a large Spanish Revival–style building not far away, identified as the Lightner Museum. Originally one of Henry Flagler’s flagship hotels, it once contained the world’s largest indoor pool. Now it was a massive antiquities museum housing an eclectic collection of 19th-century art and décor. Some people called it Florida’s Smithsonian.

I recalled what else was inside.

So I hustled around the building to its west side and followed the walkway to a side entrance. Through a dim, cool corridor I stepped into what was once the hotel’s indoor pool. Now it housed the Café Alcazar, which Pam and I had visited. White-clothed tables dotted the gray, weathered cement. Three stories of railed balconies rose above from where guests had once leaped down into the cold water. Now those floors were part of the museum. Only a few of the tables were occupied. A pianist played, the soft, tinny music echoing through the cavernous space. What made the spot appealing was that it was entirely inside, with no windows. I needed a few minutes in relative safety to catch my breath.

And to think.

Coleen had told me to keep going. That meant finding the person named on Bruce Lael’s pad.

I sat at one of the tables.

A server approached and, to buy time, I ordered a glass of iced tea.

I couldn’t call Stephanie Nelle. She probably wasn’t all that happy with me at the moment. This had escalated into something way beyond anything I’d ever imagined. My thoughts traced back over the last day and a half, which seemed like a lifetime. A man had just bee

n shot. Another man had been blown up. Now Coleen and her father were in jeopardy.

Everything seemed to depend on me.

I sat for a few minutes and tried to connect the dots, but my thoughts spun uselessly. Much later in my career I would learn to embrace the constant fear, unceasing tension, and unrelenting insecurity. That unsettling combination of nerves, alertness, and weariness. At this moment, though, I was only just becoming acquainted with their presence. What I knew for sure, even then, was that I could not afford any rebellion inside myself.

Nothing that might trap me in a dilemma.

Had these men conspired to kill Martin Luther King Jr.? Were the conspiratorialists right? Did the wrongdoing stretch all the way up to the director of the FBI? A new sense of vibrancy, mixed with unease and dread, swept through me.

I had to keep going forward.

But I needed transportation.

I could call Pam. Our house was less than an hour away. But I wondered what she’d think if she knew I’d been traveling across the state with a woman. Would she think me as weak as I’d once been? Would she take out her fears on me with caustic and damning comments? More hateful words? I was beginning to believe that relationships never lasted. Pam and I had been together ever since I joined the Navy. Neither one of us had dated many others. We chose each other. I’d resolved never to repeat my mistake. I’d learned something during my dalliance into adultery. I hadn’t liked anything about it, which probably explained how I was caught. I’d realized the mistake almost immediately, knowing that I loved my wife. So I’d ended things fast, but not before Pam learned what had happened. The old cliché was true. The spouse always knew.

No.

Pam was not an option here.

The server returned with my tea.

I sipped the cold liquid and tried to calm down. A wince of shame swept through me. I should have gone with Coleen. Maybe I should just turn this all over to Stephanie Nelle. Her resources far exceeded mine. But this was my operation. My chance to show that I could make things happen. I recall vividly how, on that day, my driving ambition seemed cloudy in its outlines, but precise in its parts. Was I being selfish? Probably. But what rookie wasn’t a little bit self-centered?