“She is very, very smart, believe me, and I can pull off this meeting and stop this killing, if you’ll go along with me.”
“Sure, sure, I’ll go along. It’ll make a nice change. I haven’t done anything this crazy in years.”
“All right,” Stone said, “this is how we’re going to do it.”
Dino listened, rapt. When Stone had finished, he burst out laughing.
“Jesus, I love it. And what are you going to do if World War Three breaks out in this public place?”
“Trust me, Dino, this is going to work.”
“I hope to God you’re right,” Dino said, “because if you’re not, it’s going to be my ass.”
“And mine.”
“Never mind yours,” Dino said.
44
Sir Edward Fieldstone stood in the middle of Rockefeller Center and tried to watch the skaters. He did not like being in the midst of all these . . . people . . . these foreigners, these colonials, these Americans with what he assumed were Brooklyn accents. His idea of New York accents had been formed by watching a great many World War II movies, American ones, mostly. His idea of a New Yorker was William Bendix.
He had stood there, increasingly annoyed, for twelve minutes before the cell phone in his hand vibrated. He opened it and put it to an ear. “Yes?”
“Good afternoon, Sir Edward,” Marie-Thérèse said.
“If you say so.”
“Now, now, mustn’t be unpleasant.”
His annoyance, and the thick body armor he wore under his jacket, caused him to begin to perspire. “May we get on with this, please?”
“Of course. You are to walk west on West Fiftieth Street, to your right. When you come to Sixth Avenue, cross and turn left.”
“What . . .” But the connection had been broken.
“I’m to walk west on Fiftieth Street, cross Sixth Avenue, and turn left,” he said, lowering his head and hoping the microphone pinned to the back of his lapel was working.
“The van won’t be able to follow you,” Carpenter replied, “because the traffic on Sixth Avenue moves uptown, and you’ll be walking downtown, and I don’t think we can take the risk of backup on the ground. But the chopper will keep you in view.”
Sir Edward looked up.
“Don’t look up,” Carpenter said, “and don’t lower your head when you speak. The microphone can pick up your voice. Speak as little as possible, and when you do, try not to move your lips.”
What was he, a ventriloquist? He hated that he had allowed Carpenter to talk him into this nonsense, but he had to agree that it was their only chance to get at La Biche. He began walking. At Sixth Avenue, he crossed and walked downtown at a leisurely pace. He didn’t like Sixth Avenue; it was full of taxicabs and grubby people and those awful street vendors with their kebobs and foreign food stinking up the atmosphere. His cell phone vibrated. “Yes?”
“At the next corner, cross the street, then continue downtown.”
He followed her instructions, resisting the urge to look behind him. There was no one there anyway, unless La Biche had accomplices.
Stone’s cell phone went off. “Hello?”
“It’s Cantor. The Brit is crossing Sixth and heading downtown. None of my guys
have been able to spot a tail yet. He may be clean.”
“Good,” Stone said, then closed his phone.
Sir Edward had walked for nearly eight blocks with no further word. He did not enjoy walking, especially in New York; he preferred his car and driver. His cell phone vibrated. “Yes?”