“Yes, Mr. Thompson.”
George hung up the phone and relaxed on the king-sized bed. He was a long way from his humble beginnings in Wyoming, a long way from his military days in Vietnam, a long way from Thailand, the country he now called home. A wide variety of elegant hotel rooms was George’s home now. The Somerset Maugham suite at the Oriental in Bangkok. The harbor penthouse at the Peninsula in Hong Kong. The corner suite at the Crillon in Paris. The presidential suite at the Hassler in Rome.
George checked his watch, turned on the television with the remote control, and switched to Channel 2. In a few minutes
The phone rang. George picked it up. “Hello.”
“This is—”
“I know who it is,” George interrupted.
“Did you get the last payment?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” the voice replied.
The voice sounded nervous. George was not sure he liked that. Nervous people had a tendency to make mistakes. “Is there something else I can do for you?” he inquired.
“As a matter of fact…”
Another job. Excellent. George had no idea who his employer was, nor did he care. He did not even know if the voice on the other end of the phone was calling the shots or merely a go-between. It did not matter. This was a job where you asked no questions. George did his work, collected his pay, and moved on. Questions were irrelevant.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“The last job I gave you… it went smoothly? There were no problems?”
“You read the papers. What do you think?”
“Yes, well, I just wanted to make sure. You have Dr. Grey’s files?”
“Right here,” George said. “When do you want to arrange a pickup?”
“Soon. Have you been wearing the gloves and a mask like I told you?”
“Yes.”
“And nothing else happened?”
George wondered for a moment if he should tell his employer about the package Bruce Grey had mailed at the airport. But no, it was none of George’s concern. He had been hired to kill the man; make it look like a suicide; grab any files or papers he had on him; cut a page out of his passport; and leave all money, personal effects, and identification untouched. Period. Nothing about mailed packages.
Except, of course, it
“Nothing else,” George said.
“You sure?”
George cleared his throat. Dr. Bruce Grey had made the job painfully easy. His checking into a high-rise hotel had been a blessing for George; it gave him the license to use whatever means he wished to elicit pain and solicit the suicide note. Any physical trauma inflicted on Dr. Grey would be hidden in the splattered mess on the pavement.
“I’m sure,” George said. “And in the future, don’t make me repeat myself. It’s a waste of time.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You said something about another job?”
“Yes,” the voice said. “I want you to eliminate another… person.”
“I’m listening.”
“Is someone else with you?”
“No.”
“I hear voices.”
“It’s the television,” George explained. “
The voice on the phone sounded startled. “Why… why did you say that?”
“Oh, right.” The voice tried to steady itself, but the strain was unmistakable. “I want you to eliminate someone else.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“This is very short notice. It will cost you.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“Fine,” George said. “Where?”
“At Dr. John Lowell’s house. He’s having a large charity formal tonight.”
George almost laughed out loud. His eyes swerved back toward the television. Dr. Lowell. Former surgeon general. Sara Lowell’s father. That explained the bizarre reaction. He wondered if Sara would be at the party.
“The same method as the first two?” George asked.
“Yes.”
George took his stiletto out of his pocket, snapped it open, and examined the long, sleek blade. It would be messy, no question about that. He considered his wardrobe and settled on the green Ralph Lauren polo shirt he had picked up in Chicago. It was a little too tight around the shoulders anyway.
2
“Five seconds.”
The announcement tightened Sara’s stomach. For a fleeting moment she almost started singing again. She forced her mouth to close, adjusted her spectacles, and waited.
“Four, three, two…” The hand pointed toward the two people sitting at the desk.
“Good evening, I’m Donald Parker.”
Dr. John Lowell’s estate in the Hamptons was enormous. The Tudor mansion sat majestically atop ten handsomely landscaped acres. There was a grass tennis court as well as indoor and outdoor swimming pools, three Jacuzzis, two hot tubs, a spacious cabana, a helicopter landing pad, and more rooms than Lowell knew what to do with. The house had been his grandfather’s, a capitalist who had, according to liberal textbooks, raped and pillaged the land and its people for profits. John’s father, however, chose to bypass the family business and become a surgeon. John had followed suit. He made a good living, though practicing medicine was not nearly as profitable as raping and pillaging.
In a few hours, the east wing would be packed to capacity with some of the wealthiest people in the world, all of whom had donated thousands to the Erin Lowell Cancer Center for the right to attend. John would have to smile a lot and be solicitous. He hated doing that. During his controversial tenure as surgeon general in the early eighties, John Lowell had never learned much about diplomacy or political subtlety. He crusaded zealously to crush cancer, bulldozing whatever and whomever stood in his way. He declared war on cigarette smokers, claiming in an angry remark on national television,
