as he leaned forward, ready to pounce, Bailey raised her other hand, motioning for him to stay right where he was. He’d have to wait a little while longer.
Peter edged back into his seat and grinned. Oh, how cruel! She was just perfect, wasn’t she? Bailey was like the master who trains the dog to sit with a treat perched on its nose. The longer he couldn’t have her, the more he absolutely had to. And that was the whole point of her little show now, wasn’t it?
Clever girl,
thought Peter.
And one very lucky dog, he had to admit.
Chapter 23
A MERE TWENTY BLOCKS south of Greenwich Village, the Magician, Gerard Devoux, stood at the wet bar in his SoHo penthouse loft pouring two knuckles of 1964 Glenlivet. The rare single malt, which sold for over $2,000—assuming you could find a bottle for sale—was a gift from a former client. A very satisfied client.
Just as all the others had been.
Glass in hand, Devoux strolled over to a built-in bookcase along an interior wall that separated the living room from his bedroom. On every shelf was a signed first-edition novel. In total, the collection numbered over three hundred and included Joseph Heller’s
Catch-22
and Steinbeck’s
The Grapes of Wrath.
There was also a leather-bound
For Whom the Bell Tolls,
although the signature on it suggested that Papa Hemingway had indulged in a fair share of good scotch himself before picking up the pen to inscribe the book.
But as valuable as these first editions were, what was behind them was even more so. With his right hand, Devoux reached for the spine of E. M. Forster’s
A Room with a View.
Instead of pulling it out, though, he gave the valuable book a push—all the way back, until it seemed to disappear into the wall behind it.
Like magic.
Patiently Devoux waited for the sound, that soft hydraulic hiss of the pressure seal being released. Then, slowly, the bookcase slid four feet to the left. As in a James Bond film, perhaps, but this was very real.
His office was now open for business.
The room itself was only ten by ten, but it was spaghetti-wired with enough sophisticated computer and surveillance equipment to tap into almost any cell phone conversation, hack almost any secure website, or jam trading on the New York, NASDAQ, Nikkei, and Hong Kong stock exchanges.
All in a day’s work for a highly disgruntled former CIA man, an “asset” who had once been at the top of his craft.
Tonight, however, there was only one thing on the agenda: to chart the progress of a certain sailboat out at sea.
How was your first day, my dysfunctional family and friends? Anything interesting happen? Perhaps a ruptured cooling hose?
Devoux made a few keystrokes, chuckling as he pictured poor Uncle Jake going to the rescue.
There’s no way you turned back to shore for repairs—not you, sailor boy. Not your style. You cut a piece from the fuel line to fix it, didn’t you? Of course you did.
After a few more keystrokes, Devoux’s monitor glowed brightly with the exact coordinates of
The Family Dunne.
The homing beacon he’d planted on the boat the night before was working nicely.
Like magic.
Part Two
Mayday
Chapter 24
RICARDO SANZ alias Hector Ensuego alias any number of false or stolen identities sat alone watching a Spanish-dubbed rerun of
Friends
on the huge plasma TV in the presidential suite of the Bellagio hotel in Las Vegas. The sun had just set. He hadn’t slept for two days and was working on the third.
That’s what you get for sampling your own product.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door.
Sanz reached for his gun. He wasn’t expecting anybody. Even if he had been, he’d still be reaching for his gun.
Occupational hazard.
“Who is it?” he called out, rising quickly from the couch. He was dressed in the official outfit of drug traffickers, made famous by Alfred Molina in the movie
Boogie Nights
—skintight skivvies, an open robe, lots of jangling gold.
“Housekeeping,” came the faint voice of a woman
Peter edged back into his seat and grinned. Oh, how cruel! She was just perfect, wasn’t she? Bailey was like the master who trains the dog to sit with a treat perched on its nose. The longer he couldn’t have her, the more he absolutely had to. And that was the whole point of her little show now, wasn’t it?
Clever girl,
thought Peter.
And one very lucky dog, he had to admit.
Chapter 23
A MERE TWENTY BLOCKS south of Greenwich Village, the Magician, Gerard Devoux, stood at the wet bar in his SoHo penthouse loft pouring two knuckles of 1964 Glenlivet. The rare single malt, which sold for over $2,000—assuming you could find a bottle for sale—was a gift from a former client. A very satisfied client.
Just as all the others had been.
Glass in hand, Devoux strolled over to a built-in bookcase along an interior wall that separated the living room from his bedroom. On every shelf was a signed first-edition novel. In total, the collection numbered over three hundred and included Joseph Heller’s
Catch-22
and Steinbeck’s
The Grapes of Wrath.
There was also a leather-bound
For Whom the Bell Tolls,
although the signature on it suggested that Papa Hemingway had indulged in a fair share of good scotch himself before picking up the pen to inscribe the book.
But as valuable as these first editions were, what was behind them was even more so. With his right hand, Devoux reached for the spine of E. M. Forster’s
A Room with a View.
Instead of pulling it out, though, he gave the valuable book a push—all the way back, until it seemed to disappear into the wall behind it.
Like magic.
Patiently Devoux waited for the sound, that soft hydraulic hiss of the pressure seal being released. Then, slowly, the bookcase slid four feet to the left. As in a James Bond film, perhaps, but this was very real.
His office was now open for business.
The room itself was only ten by ten, but it was spaghetti-wired with enough sophisticated computer and surveillance equipment to tap into almost any cell phone conversation, hack almost any secure website, or jam trading on the New York, NASDAQ, Nikkei, and Hong Kong stock exchanges.
All in a day’s work for a highly disgruntled former CIA man, an “asset” who had once been at the top of his craft.
Tonight, however, there was only one thing on the agenda: to chart the progress of a certain sailboat out at sea.
How was your first day, my dysfunctional family and friends? Anything interesting happen? Perhaps a ruptured cooling hose?
Devoux made a few keystrokes, chuckling as he pictured poor Uncle Jake going to the rescue.
There’s no way you turned back to shore for repairs—not you, sailor boy. Not your style. You cut a piece from the fuel line to fix it, didn’t you? Of course you did.
After a few more keystrokes, Devoux’s monitor glowed brightly with the exact coordinates of
The Family Dunne.
The homing beacon he’d planted on the boat the night before was working nicely.
Like magic.
Part Two
Mayday
Chapter 24
RICARDO SANZ alias Hector Ensuego alias any number of false or stolen identities sat alone watching a Spanish-dubbed rerun of
Friends
on the huge plasma TV in the presidential suite of the Bellagio hotel in Las Vegas. The sun had just set. He hadn’t slept for two days and was working on the third.
That’s what you get for sampling your own product.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door.
Sanz reached for his gun. He wasn’t expecting anybody. Even if he had been, he’d still be reaching for his gun.
Occupational hazard.
“Who is it?” he called out, rising quickly from the couch. He was dressed in the official outfit of drug traffickers, made famous by Alfred Molina in the movie
Boogie Nights
—skintight skivvies, an open robe, lots of jangling gold.
“Housekeeping,” came the faint voice of a woman
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