wall of agony that started somewhere down around her toes and ended just past her hairline. She knew then that something was terribly wrong with her, that either the blast itself or her landing on the hard, frozen ground had damaged her beyond any repair, but none of that mattered anymore. All that mattered was Arthur.
Ignoring the pain, she forced herself onto her hands and knees and began crawling back toward the crumpled wreck.
Arthur was there. His seat belt had kept him from being thrown from the Jeep, but it hadn’t done him any favors. As she got closer she could see that the steering column had been driven backward into his chest. He was pinned against his seat, and he was not moving.
“Arthur,” she said, her voice somewhere between a cry and a prayer. “Arthur…”
She made it to his side, crawling through the open doorway and curling up against his motionless body. She knew he was dead. He wasn’t breathing, his wounds had stopped pumping blood, and she knew there was no hope for either of them.
“Oh, Arthur,” she said. Reaching out, she closed his eyes gently and then, fighting the pain that threatened to overwhelm her, she leaned forward and kissed him gently on the lips. “Sleep well, my darling,” she whispered, and let her head fall against his shoulder one last time.
Gregor approached the broken American Jeep slowly, his Beretta in his hand. He was sure there was no one still alive within it, or at least no one who could be a serious threat, but still it paid to be cautious — especially since it was so difficult to see through the starred and bloody glass remaining in the windshield.
Coming around the side, he looked through the passenger door and took in the scene before him. The man was dead, that much was obvious. The woman, though. She’d been thrown from the Jeep, and had made her way back. She could still be alive.
He raised his Beretta, but before he could fire she turned her head, slowly, obviously in great pain, and looked him in the eye.
“Why?” she said, her voice shattered as badly as the Jeep. “We’re here to help, not to harm. Why kill us?”
Gregor shrugged. “Orders,” he said, in English. And then he fired. The bullet caught her high up in the forehead, snapping her head back against her husband’s shoulder. She slumped forward, falling away from the man she obviously loved so much.
Gregor paused for a moment, then reached out and pushed her back into position, laying her head gently against her husband’s shoulder. Then he turned, got back into his BTR-40, and headed for the American compound.
FORTY-ONE
As he walked up to the desk sergeant at one Police Plaza, Roger Gordian was on edge, uncomfortable.
Part of it, he knew, was the tour of Times Square he’d just taken. The site of the bombing was haunting, filled with reminders of the tragic cost it had exacted. As awful as it had looked on CNN, nothing had prepared him for the emotional impact of being there and seeing it in person.
It wasn’t really the scope of the destruction that caught him off guard. It was the small details that brought the tragedy down to a personal level. A bloodied teddy bear with a bedraggled pink ribbon, much the worse for a month’s exposure to New York’s dirt and weather, had been trapped beneath the wreckage of a sign. He could only hope that the bear’s owner was alive somewhere, free enough of pain and worry to be able to mourn the loss of her toy.
Yes, Times Square had shaken him. And he’d already made plans to help rebuild it. But that wasn’t, he knew, the only reason he felt uneasy. He was all too aware of the risks he was about to take, and the explosive nature of what he was carrying in the pocket of his overcoat.
He walked up to the desk sergeant.
“Commissioner Harrison, please. I have an appointment.”
When his secretary buzzed to tell him Gordian had arrived, Bill Harrison put down the pile of reports he’d been combing for details, pulled off his reading glasses, and rubbed his eyes.
“Give me a minute, then bring him in,” he told her.
He hadn’t slept well since his wife’s death. The department shrink had told him that it was to be expected, but knowing that his emotions were predictable didn’t make them any less painful. Nor did it help him deal with the nightmares. Or the loneliness.
He’d given up sleeping in his bed. The memories of Rosie were overpowering there. He was unable to function when he walked into their room. All her clothes, the smell of her perfume — he’d just grabbed what he needed and put it in the guest room. But even that didn’t help much. Every time he closed his eyes to sleep, he’d dream. In those dreams, he’d replay that night over and over again. And wake up screaming in terror.
Worst of all were the dreams where he saved her, where he got them all out, only to wake up and have to face that terrible truth all over again.
Rosie was gone.
He’d taken to sleeping in an easy chair in the living room. It was so uncomfortable that he never really went completely under. It helped with the dreams, but it wasn’t doing his concentration any good.
And he needed every scrap of concentration he could muster if he planned to solve this thing.
He ran his hands over his face, across his hair, and straightened his tie. Distraction, he told himself. That’s the key to surviving this. Think about something else.
He wondered what the big man wanted with him.
It was a long way from the mean streets of Manhattan to California. Especially the California somebody like Gordian lived in.
Hell, his co-op apartment would probably fit in Gordian’s garage with room left over to park an RV.
So why had Gordian’s secretary called and arranged a private meeting? Police business? It seemed unlikely.
Well, he’d find out soon enough. His curiosity — that endless nosiness that had driven him into police work in the first place — was the only emotion he had that was unaffected by the tragedy.
As the door opened and a man he’d seen on countless magazines and news broadcasts walked in, Harrison stood to greet him. If the grim look on Gordian’s face was anything to go by, this wasn’t a rich man’s idle whim. Gordian walked in quietly and set his coat on the couch, then turned to the police commissioner.
The two men shook hands and introduced themselves.
Formalities completed, the men sat down facing each other and exchanged small talk. Bars of morning light slanted in through the minimalist venetian blinds, giving a strange cast to a stranger meeting. Gordian was no more at ease than he was. Apparently they both felt the awkwardness — Harrison finally decided to cut through the chitchat and go straight to the heart of the matter.
“You flew six hours to see a man you’ve never met. Me. Your secretary tells me that you’re planning to fly back to San Francisco tonight. I think we can assume you didn’t come here to discuss the weather. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
The moment of truth. Harrison could see it in Gordian’s face.
“It is,” Gordian said, “a very long story.” He paused. “And it may not have a happy ending.” He pulled a thick, rather lumpy envelope from the pocket of his overcoat, which he’d chosen to bring in with him rather than give to the secretary to hang in the coat closet. Odd behavior for a man like Gordian, Harrison had thought. Gordian probably had servants underfoot around the clock at his home. Gordian balanced the envelope in his hands and looked down at it as if he expected it to explode. Then he seemed to recall where he was, and looked up at Harrison. Harrison sat quietly, ready to listen.
“I don’t know if you are aware of this,” Gordian said, “but I spent time as a prisoner of war. I was shot down over ’Nam, and became a guest of the Hanoi Hilton.”
“It’s common knowledge,” Harrison confirmed, totally at a loss to guess where this was leading. What in the
