A stiletto blade rested against his throat.
Before Max could react, a giant biceps wrapped itself around his forehead. The arm gripped his skull and pressed it against a chest as solid as asphalt. Max could not move. George adjusted the blade. The sharp point now touched down on the voice box, nearly piercing the skin.
“Hello, boys!” George said. “How’s it going?”
21
DR. Eric Blake looked up at the clock.
It was time.
Something nestled in Eric’s throat, but he managed to swallow it away. He straightened the papers on his desk, lined up the pencils neatly, and stood. He checked his appearance in the mirror, tightened the Windsor knot in his tie, and gently patted his hair with both hands. Then he studied his face for a long time. Something about it was different today. It was as if his thoughts had surfaced, altering his appearance.
Everything I have worked for, everything I wanted to achieve . . .
Could it all be gone?
He took out a neatly folded handkerchief, dabbed his forehead, and then headed for the lab.
“Good morning, Dr. Blake.”
“Good morning.”
Eric tried to remember the nurse’s name but could not. He recalled that she was the youngest and least experienced member of the staff. Her access to patients was strictly limited to the most recent arrivals, and her chores were usually the most mundane. Only one nurse had had access to all the patients and all the floors.
Janice Matley.
As quickly as the name had formed in his mind, Eric pushed it away. No use thinking about that now. Dead was dead. No comeback. No reprieve.
Nothing.
Eric entered the elevator and pushed the button. His eyes swerved about, trying to find something that might distract him. He settled on the signature of the elevator inspector. He tried to make out the name but the penmanship was too sloppy—looked more like an EKG reading than an actual signature. The inspector, Eric decided, should have been a doctor.
A minute later he arrived at the lab door. Part of him wanted to stall now that the moment had arrived, but the rest of his body propelled him into the room and over toward his file cabinet. He took out his key, unlocked the drawers, opened one, and reached back. His hand gripped the item. He took a deep breath, pulled it out and looked.
Silence.
Eric’s face registered no emotion. He returned the glass dish to the back of the drawer and carefully closed it. He locked the cabinet, picked up the telephone and dialed a number in Bethesda, Maryland. After three rings, the phone on the other end was picked up.
Eric cleared his throat. “Dr. Raymond Markey, please.”
I fucked up. Me. George Camron . . .
He could not believe it and yet he was holding the evidence against his chest. They had found Silverman. Shit, they had found him. Not even George’s employer knew where he had hidden Silverman.
George held the point of the blade in place. When the man swallowed, George felt the stiletto vibrate in his hand. His mind raced for answers, but none came to him. He had fucked up. Badly. But how? When?
Get control of yourself, George. Show you’re still in control.
Listening to the voice in his head, George forced himself to smile. It gave the appearance, he was sure, of being in complete control.
“So, gentlemen,” he began, both his grip and grin strong and steady, “how are we today? Lovely weather, don’t you think?”
Max managed a shrug. “Tad warm for my taste, George.”
The man knew his name!
“Sorry about that,” George replied. He wrestled with his tone in order to keep out any hint of panic. A droplet of sweat trickled down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. “Mind identifying yourself before I slice your goddamn head off?”
“Lieutenant Max Bernstein. NYPD. You are under arrest for the—”
“Spare me, Lieutenant.” A cop! He looked like some goddamn college kid. George could not believe it. They had sent a snot-nosed kid after George Camron. Incredible.
“I have to read you your rights,” Max continued.
“Try to move, and you’re dead.” With the point of the blade still against Max’s throat, George released his powerful grip and reached into his pocket. He took out something resembling a small television remote. He held it in front of Max’s face.
“Do you know what this is?” George asked.
Max looked at the device. “Are we going to watch TV?”
“You’re very funny, Lieutenant,” George said, but he did not like Bernstein’s attitude. Here he was, holding a knife against the kid’s throat, and this asshole was making jokes.
He knows something, George. You missed something else . . .
“This button right here”—George placed his thumb on it for emphasis—“sets off that little explosive up there. Very noisy stuff, I’m afraid. Ka-boom.”
That seemed to shake up the cop. He suddenly looked pale. “Explosive?”
George gestured with the remote. “Right up there, my friend.”
Max’s eyes followed the gesture. “Jesus.”
George was feeling better now. Not so confident now, are you, kid? “Yes. Powerful stuff. Bits and pieces of us will end up in Singapore. If I see even a hint of trouble, it’s ka-boom time.”
Max’s eyes darted in every direction as if searching for a quick exit. “Forget it, Camron,” the young cop said, but his tone no longer held the same bluster as before. “It’s over. The place is surrounded.”
“Guess I have no choice,” George said with fake regret. “Looks like I’ll have to blow the place up.”
“You’d kill yourself too.”
“No big deal.”
“Wait!” Max shouted. When he did, the point of the blade broke the skin. A small cut opened up. Blood began to trickle down Max’s neck.
“What?” George asked.
Max closed his eyes. He did not like bloodletting, especially his own. “I have an idea,” he said.
“Oh?”
“An exchange, actually.”
“What kind of exchange?”
Max thought a moment. “Information for freedom. I’ll have the charges dropped in exchange for your testimony against the guy who hired you.”
Panic again seized George. He knew almost nothing about his employer—no name, no address, nothing. Damn it! He knew he should have investigated this new employer more thoroughly. Why had he failed to follow his standard background check? Stupid! And another goddamn mistake.
What the hell was wrong with him?