It took Kane a moment to realize the man had made a joke. “You know, I’ve never asked,” he said and did his best to chuckle.
“And where will you be, Senore Hodges?”
Kane smiled. “Why, right next to you. Just in case the unthinkable happens, we will be able to coordinate our response.”
Kane returned the man’s small bow and watched him walk off. Thanks to Grolsch’s candidness, he was aware that the four men in the cathedral proper carried SIG P-210 pistols beneath their suit coats, and the two men out of sight behind the altar were also armed with Heckler amp; Koch submachine guns.
Not that it will matter, Kane thought, suppressing a giggle behind his hand. His plan was marching forward swimmingly with its twin purposes coming together at the appointed hour-soon the Pope, as well as Karp, his bitch wife, Marlene…and dear Lucy…would be in his grasp. He’d been told the twin boys wouldn’t be attending, which was a small disappointment-he’d hoped to kill them in front of their parents. But no matter. He’d make sure the parents understood that they were dead before the evening’s festivities were over.
He was so happy, in fact, with the way his plan had worked, he wished he could give himself a hug. The plan had been a masterful work of art, and he’d tinkered with it throughout. Even the death of the terrorist Akhmed Kadyrov during his escape had worked to his advantage when he had the number to the Iranian ambassador-who everyone knew was a tool of the Russians-placed in his pocket. Even the attempt on the old Russian gangster and his son, both known to be sympathetic to the Chechen nationalists, was meant as much for distraction as retribution.
Fey died for his treason, but also because it had been the former archbishop who’d told him the secret last fall that the Pope intended to visit New York to counter the bad publicity of the sexual offenses by priests. If Fey had been questioned about what Kane was up to, he might have given it away. And Flanagan could have recalled hearing the news from him as well.
There’d been a moment of rage and fear when Ellis told him about the king and queen chess pieces arriving at the Karp residence. Who was the traitor? Who was trying to warn Karp? Could Bandar have staggered the arrival of the pieces before his death? Was it the Russian, Malovo? He didn’t trust her-the Russians were always full of intrigue and playing one party against another for their own ends. How about Ellis? Was the cooperation of the two just a lie to get what they wanted while preparing to sacrifice him? But no, he’d made sure that they understood that if something went wrong due to betrayal, he’d salted away plenty of evidence to take them down with him.
Who then? he wondered as he watched the guests enter and take their seats. Behind his smile, he was sneering at their excited faces and small talk as they soaked up being among the chosen. Once they’d shown him those same smiles, talked the small talk, when they arrived at his dinner parties, flattering him with their empty compliments and contributions to his campaign when they thought that he was going to be the next mayor of their precious city. They’d disappeared after his arrest, quickly distancing themselves before he’d even been tried and convicted. Now, he could hardly wait to see their faces when he revealed himself and they realized that their lives were in his hands.
Samira was the most logical choice for the traitor. But that didn’t make sense either. When he last saw her with Malovo-both of them dressed as nuns and mixing in with the choir, who’d been told they were there for the Pope’s protection-her eyes glittered like black diamonds with the knowledge that at last she would become a martyr, striking a blow for Islam that would never be forgotten. He couldn’t imagine her risking the operation… unless her purpose was to ruin the personal aspects of his plan.
But then, Kane thought, what if it really is Samira playing a little game as a way of getting back at him? His fear, after Ellis informed him of the king and queen, was that Karp and Ciampi, along with Lucy, would remain home or locked away in some safe house. It wouldn’t have ruined the larger focus of the plan, but it would have taken a good chunk of the fun out of it. Just what Samira might enjoy.
Wouldn’t have mattered in the long run, Kane thought as he took out his cell phone. I would have killed them someday in some other manner. And as it turned out, they were going to attend despite the threat, or warning, or whatever it was.
Kane was honest enough with himself to recognize that he feared Karp and Ciampi, as well as their odd assortment of friends. It was like some book from his childhood where a group of unlikely heroes comes together to battle the forces of darkness.
From the first moment he’d seen Karp, he’d recognized the man as the proverbial nemesis. He was the leader, the moral center around which the others gathered and found strength.
Marlene Ciampi was dangerous because she was so unpredictable, and as fully capable of using violence as he was without worrying about the niceties when doing what needed to be done. She was like the repentent gunslinger in Western movies who had given up the life until forced into one last showdown to save the townspeople from the bad men.
Superstitious and aware that there were forces at play he didn’t understand, Kane wondered how such a fellowship of Goody Two-shoeses had ever come together. Take the Indian. He’d never met the man but recognized that he drew strength through his spirituality and was as fully cognizant of the play between light and dark as he was. The Indian’s death had been a great relief.
And what about the cowboy? A seemingly insignificant hick from the sticks, and yet weren’t cowboys the American equivalent of the knights-errant? It troubled him that the boy had survived the attack and saved Lucy from falling into his clutches sooner, causing him to slightly revamp his plan for the evening. Doesn’t matter, the cowboy’s ride is over tonight as well, he thought.
After this, though, I want to get the hell out of Dodge. Some unknown presence stalked him in Manhattan. His spies quavered when they talked about a shadow, or shadows, that watched and sometimes did more than watch, slitting throats and carting bodies off into the dark places. The two men assigned to follow the Karp brats had disappeared. Others left the apartment complex across from Baker Field to purchase a pack of cigarettes or scout the neighborhood to watch for the presence of federal agents or the NYPD and never returned. Even Samira, who didn’t seem to fear anyone, was uneasy. But the scouts who did return had shrugged and said they’d seen nothing on the streets and in the park near the apartment except university students, harmless residents, and the usual assortment of homeless bums, including an obnoxious drunk Indian who had been hanging around, rummaging in the building’s Dumpster, and begging for handouts.
There was one person who frightened him more than Karp, or Ciampi, their friends, or even nameless shadows. The most unlikely source of fear: Lucy Karp. He was both fascinated by her and afraid of her because she seemed to sense that he was something other than what he portrayed. He imagined that she could see beneath his skin and knew what squirmed there in the dark recesses of his mind. He was sure she’d seen through him in Aspen and almost waited for the feds to pull their guns and arrest him, laughing at how he’d been done in by a twenty-one-year-old girl. That was why she now figured so prominently in his plans.
He’d seen her when she and her cowboy entered the cathedral. In fact, he’d turned around and found her looking directly at him from thirty feet away. His first inclination had been to turn and run. But he’d managed to smile and nod. Instead of returning the greeting, she’d leaned toward her boyfriend and whispered something, then they’d headed for their seats in the sixth row of pews.
The sooner this is over and I’m back to living the life to which I am accustomed, the better, Kane thought as he punched in the number for another cell phone and stepped into a corner of the cathedral where he could talk privately.
“Emil,” he said when it was answered. “Is everything ready?”
Five blocks away at his bank on Fifth Avenue, Emil Stavros sat in the international wire room on the twenty- fifth floor with Dante Coletta. The bank was, of course, closed on Saturday, but the guard at the desk downstairs had hardly bothered to make Stavros and his chauffeur sign in.
Stavros was sweating bullets. The monitoring device set up in his home would have already sent a signal to the cops when the electronic bracelet he wore moved out of the prescribed range. However, that wasn’t what had his stomach all tied up in knots.
After all, there was a plan in place to clear him. After he’d done what he was supposed to do, Coletta would
