But how?
He checked once more to make sure he was not being followed. All his enemy spies were gone now. That was good. That was a nice bit of relief. He hailed a yellow taxi and jumped into the backseat.
“Where to?”
Bruce thought for a moment, mulling over every thriller he had ever read. Where would George Smiley go, or better still, Travis McGee or Spenser? “The Plaza, please.”
The taxi pulled away. Bruce watched out the back window. No cars seemed to be following as the taxi began its journey down the Van Wyck Expressway toward Manhattan. Bruce settled back, letting his head rest against the seat. He tried to breathe deeply and relax, but he still found himself trembling in fear.
First, he needed a new alias. His eyes moved left and right, finally resting on the taxi driver’s name on the displayed license. Benjamin Johnson. Bruce turned the name around. John Benson. That would be his name until tomorrow. John Benson. Just until tomorrow. Now, if he could just stay alive until then…
He dared not think that far ahead.
Everyone at the clinic thought he was still on vacation in Cancun, Mexico. No one — absolutely no one — knew the whole vacation idea was merely a diversion. Bruce had played the role of happy traveler to the utmost. He had bought beachwear, flown down to Cancun last Friday, checked into the Cancun Oasis Hotel, prepaid for the week, and told the concierge that he would be renting a boat and could not be reached. Then he shaved his beard, cut and bleached his hair, and put on bluetinted contact lenses. Even Bruce had trouble recognizing the image in the mirror. He returned to the airport, left Mexico, checked in at his true destination under the name Rex Veneto, and began to investigate his horrible suspicions.
The truth, however, appeared to be more shocking than he had imagined.
The taxi slowed now in front of the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue. The lights of Central Park twinkled from across the street and to the north. Bruce paid the driver, tipping him no more or less than the proper amount, and strolled into the lush lobby of the hotel. Despite his designer suit, he felt conspicuously sloppy. His jacket was heavily creased, his pants completely wrinkled. He looked like something left in the bottom of a laundry hamper for a week — hardly what his mother would have called presentable.
He began to walk toward the reception desk when something he barely spotted out of the corner of his eye made him stop.
Bruce felt his pulse quicken. He spun around, but the big guy in the Armani suit was nowhere in sight. Had he really seen the same man? Probably not, but there was no reason to take chances. He left the hotel by the back entrance and walked toward the subway. He purchased a token, took the 1 train down to Fourteenth Street, switched to the A train to Forty-second Street, cut cross town on the 7 train, jumping off the car seconds before the doors closed at Third Avenue. He changed trains haphazardly for another half an hour, jumping on or off at the last possible second each time, before ending up on Fifty-sixth Street and Eighth Avenue. Then “John Benson” walked a few blocks and checked into the Days Inn, a hotel where Dr. Bruce Grey had never stayed.
When he got up to his room on the eleventh floor, he locked the door and slid the chain into place.
Now what?
A phone call was risky, but Bruce decided to take the chance. He would speak to Harvey for only a few moments, then hang up. He picked up the phone and dialed his partner’s home phone. Harvey answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Harvey, it’s me.”
“Bruce?” Harvey sounded surprised. “How’s everything in Cancun?”
Bruce ignored the question. “I need to speak to you.”
“Christ, you sound awful. What’s wrong?”
Bruce closed his eyes. “Not over the phone.”
“What are you talking about?” Harvey asked. “Are you still—?”
“Not over the phone,” he repeated. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? What the hell is going—?”
“Don’t ask me any more questions. I’ll meet you tomorrow morning at six thirty.”
“Where?”
“At the clinic.”
“Jesus, are you in danger? Is this about the murders?”
“I can’t talk anymo—”
Bruce froze. There was a noise at his door.
“Bruce?” Harvey cried. “What is it? What’s going on?”
Bruce’s heart began to race. His eyes never left the door. “Tomorrow,” he whispered. “I’ll explain everything then.”
“But—”
He gently replaced the receiver, cutting Harvey off.
There was no other sound, and for a brief moment Bruce wondered if his overactive brain cells had indeed imagined the whole thing. Maybe there had been no sound at all. And if there had been a noise, what was so strange about that? He was staying in a New York hotel, for chrissake, not a soundproof studio. Maybe it was just a maid. Maybe it was just a bellhop.
Bruce crept toward the door. The right leg slid forward; then the left tagged along. He had never been much of an athlete, had never been the most coordinated guy in the world. Right now, it looked like he was doing some kind of spastic fox-trot.
His heart slammed into his throat. His legs went weak. There was no mistaking where the sound had come from this time.
His door.
He stood frozen. His breathing reverberated in his ears so damn loudly that he was sure everyone on the floor could hear it.
A short, quick click. Not a fumbling sound, but a very precise click.
But where? He was in a small room on the eleventh floor of a hotel. Where the hell was he supposed to run and hide? He took another step toward the door.
“Towels,” a man’s voice said.
Bruce moved closer to the door.
Pause. “Okay. Good night, sir.”
He could hear Mr. Towel’s footsteps move away from his door. Bruce pressed his back against the wall and continued to make his way to the door. His whole body shook. Despite the room’s powerful air-conditioning, sweat drenched his clothing and matted his hair down against his forehead.
Now what?
Bruce obeyed the voice within his head. He slowly turned and put his eye against the peephole. Nothing. Nada, as the Mexicans say. There was no one there, not a damn thing. He tried to look to his left and then his
