Dirty Work (Stone Barrington 9)

She looked at her watch. “I have a little over an hour. I’ll reconnoiter and phone you with a location.”

He wrote a number on a piece of paper and showed it to her. “Memorize it,” he said.

She did so, then put the weapon into her handbag and stood up. “If there’s nothing else?”

He took an envelope from his desk and handed it to her. “Some walking-around money, as the Americans say.”

“I assume that, since the ballistics will identify the bullet as CIA, you will not need me to dump the weapon where it can be found?”

“Please keep it, with my compliments,” he replied, standing up.

They shook hands, in spite of the latex gloves, and she left.

Downstairs, she walked to Park Avenue, then uptown. Four blocks along, she found a recessed, wrought-iron gate leading to a narrow alleyway beside a large apartment building. She stood in the recess and looked up and down Park. This would do nicely. She used her cell phone to call the number.

“Yes?”

She gave him the address of the building she stood next to. “Please have the vehicle follow your friend from a little distance. When the driver sees him fall, he is to pull up near the body. I will hop on, and he can drop me a few blocks away.”

“It will be done.”

“I won’t shoot unless I see the motorcycle there. If the driver tries to go past me, I’ll shoot him, so please instruct him carefully.”

“I understand.”

“Goodbye.”

“You may call this number if you ever need assistance. I am called Ali.”

“Thank you.” She punched off. She walked over to Madison Avenue and window-shopped for half an hour, then walked back to her chosen spot. She stood in the little recess, leaning against the building, and looked downtown, from whence her quarry would be coming. Ten minutes passed before she saw him, a block away. She did not see the motorcycle.

“Right on time,” she said aloud to herself. “Let’s hope my transportation arrives as promptly.” She watched the man approach, now half a block away, waiting to cross the street. As he stepped off the curb, she saw the motorcycle. She knelt beside her handbag and checked the weapon, then she stood up and slung the bag over her shoulder and put her hand inside. She turned to look uptown, then down again. He was walking quickly, and the nearest pedestrian was half a block from him. The motorcycle stopped at the corner, idling.

She pressed her back against the downtown side of the recess, so that he couldn’t see her. Then he appeared. She stepped out of the alcove with a last look around, took the

weapon from the bag, and fired once at the back of his head from a distance of six feet. He fell like a butchered animal. She stepped closer and fired two more rounds into his head, then returned the pistol to her bag.

The motorcycle came to a stop a few feet away. She hopped onto the pillion seat, sidesaddle. “Drive to Seventy-second Street and turn left,” she said.

The driver followed instructions.

“Now, straight ahead, and into the park.”

He drove into the park.

“Stop here,” she said, “and thank you.”

He stopped, she hopped off, and he drove away without a word. From his size, and in spite of the helmet, she thought he was Ali, the man who had given her the pistol.

She strolled south in Central Park, found a bench, and waited, her hand in her bag, on the pistol, to see if anyone pursued her. No one did.

28

Stone left the interstate north of Danbury and turned onto narrower country roads.

“It’s beautiful up here,” Carpenter said as they crossed a bridge over a long lake. “Like England, but with a great many more trees.”

“It’s not called New England for nothing,” Stone said.