York. He had just been biding his time before leaking to certain friends in the media that the archbishop and other church officials had been protecting rapists, child molesters, and even murderers. It would make the sex scandals that had rocked the Boston archdiocese pale in comparison.
Then Karp had fucked it up-him and that bitch wife, Marlene Ciampi, and their disgusting mongrel horde of family and friends. Should have killed Ciampi when I had her last fall, he thought. She’s the hardest to predict. Then he smiled, remembering what he’d told Detective Fulton before Samira shot him in the knees. There’s that stupid movie thing again. Kill them quickly when you can, or it will just come back to bite you in the butt.
The thought crossed his mind that he should now kill Karp and the others as soon as possible. But what fun would that be? No, he wanted to make them suffer and to be afraid…
He had to admit that the plot was a bit complex, like a chess game, and, as in chess, there were many plays and counterplays. The plan had taken more than just al Qaeda’s eager acceptance; it had required certain other parties in the United States and Russia to cooperate, each according to their own schemes.
Then when he was ready, he’d made his first move. The Escape. The authorities had reacted as he expected and launched a massive manhunt. Shooting Fulton had ensured that Karp would take it all personally. The next move had been to have Fey located and strangled. The man was a weak-spined traitor. Also, Kane wanted to keep Karp’s attention and build toward the feeling that his own doom was approaching.
Each step took him closer to his goal. The plastic surgery. The capture. And now reduction of Agent Hodges.
“Take him away,” Kane said to the guards. “But I want him watched 24/7. He better not escape or manage to kill himself. And Agent Hodges, just so you know, if you choose either route, I will make sure your wife and child pay for it.”
When the guards and their prisoner left the room, Kane turned to Dr. Buchwald. “Have you ever practiced martial arts, Dr. B?”
The man smiled nervously, wondering where this bit of insanity was going. “Uh, no, no, never had the time or inclination,” he said and laughed as heartily as he could under the circumstances. “Medical school and all that- there’s not much time for anything else.”
“Too bad,” Kane said. “I could have used the practice against someone with some skill. But you’ll have to do. Samira, would you loan your knife to the good doctor, please.”
“What do you mean?” the doctor cried, his voice cracking into a squeak like a nail being pulled from a board. “I’d rather not.” He attempted to wave off Samira who offered her blade. “Uh, no thanks…sit this one out.”
“I’m afraid you have no choice,” Kane said. “I can’t let you live; you might have a couple of belts down at the Hotel Jerome and start blabbing. Next thing you know, the FBI’s all over the place. Loose lips, sink ships, you know.”
“I wouldn’t, no, doctor-client privilege,” Buchwald cried. “I can keep secrets.”
“Take the knife, Doctor,” Kane urged. “I’ve never killed anyone with a knife so this is as good a time as any. Besides, you might get lucky and stick me a good one. If that happens, Samira, let the good doctor go free, would you?”
“Whatever you say,” she replied in a manner that told Buchwald he was never leaving the house alive. Still, he had no choice but to take the knife and thought, Maybe I can fight my way out of here.
“Good, good,” Kane said assuming the on-guard thrust position unique to
The two men circled each other, the doctor holding his knife out in front of him while he blubbered and wiped at his nose with the sleeve of his other arm. Prince Bandar started to protest. “Gentlemen, there is no need for this,” he said in a calm and reasonable voice. “I’m sure Dr. Buchwald can be trusted to keep a secret.”
“Shut up, Bandar, or take Dr. B’s place,” Kane said.
Bandar ceased his complaints immediately. He sank with a sigh into one of the overstuffed chairs to watch the duel.
As he circled, Kane lectured the doctor on the art of
“By constantly keeping the blade and point toward the opponent, the strategic positioning of the knife’s edge is never lost even when”-he sliced the doctor again, this time above his right eyebrow-“reversing from a backward to forward cut.”
Blood flowed into Buchwald’s eye. He wiped at it with his free hand, then made a desperate lunge at what had appeared to be Kane’s exposed chest. But his opponent dodged sideways and parried the thrust with his own knife.
Kane slashed down, opening a deep cut on the doctor’s wrist. The blow caused Buchwald to drop his knife and cry out in terror and pain. “Pick it up,” Kane insisted.
“No, no, no…please, stop this. Don’t kill me,” the doctor begged. “I’ll do anything.”
“Pick it up or I’m going to let one of the guards gut you like a pig and then let the dog pull your intestines out while you watch,” Kane snarled.
Buchwald had seen the dog Kane spoke of-a snarling, piebald pit bull that he was quite sure would be happy to eat him alive. Hardly able to see through the blood and tears, the doctor leaned over and picked up the knife. He felt light-headed and nearly passed out.
“It might interest you to know that what I’m doing here is known as the
Buchwald swung his knife wildly at his tormentor’s face. But Kane dropped to a knee beneath the blow, the same move he’d tried on Samira, and slashed open the muscle of the doctor’s thigh. The man howled in pain.
As he staggered around to continue facing Kane, Buchwald recognized the proximity of death. But as men and beasts will sometimes do when cornered, he found a small reservoir of courage. He stopped crying and his face grew grim. He gripped the bloody handle of the knife and charged, stabbing for Kane’s chest.
This time Kane stepped to the side and parried the knife. But instead of slashing down at the exposed arm again, his blade continued its circular path until Buchwald’s neck was open to his thrust. The blade sunk into the man’s throat and continued up, piercing the skull and into the brain.
Kane gave the knife a violent twist and then withdrew the blade, stepping back from the falling body. The air was filled with the sweet coppery smell of blood.
Bandar moaned from his chair. “My rug, my beautiful rug,” he complained and pointed at the growing pool of blood beneath the twitching body of Dr. Buchwald. “That is a five-hundred-year-old Persian original. Now it’s ruined.”
Kane looked at the prince and shrugged. “I guess you shouldn’t have had it on the floor if you didn’t want people to walk or bleed on it.” He started laughing at his joke, and then laughed louder when the prince got up and rushed from the room in a huff.
Kane turned to look at Samira, who was standing over by the chessboard. “So how’d I do?” he asked.
“You talk too much and take stupid chances,” she said. “If you’re going to kill a man, kill him…don’t give him the motivation or time to kill you first. That’s why I don’t like this game you want to play. It is not a necessary part of the plan.”
Kane formed his face into a pout. “Darn, I’d hoped I’d made you proud,” he said. “But it is important to me, and that means, it’s important to you…or your chance at martyrdom won’t be granted, at least not in the grand way you anticipate…. And by the way, have we made another move?”
“Bishop to black knight?” she said.
“Perfect,” Kane said, clapping with delight.
Fifteen hundred miles away in a segregation cell at the Rikers Island prison, former NYPD detective Michael Flanagan looked up from his steel-framed bed when the guard opened the door to take him to the chapel to
