Shadow of a Broken Man (20 page)

"It begins again," Lippitt said bitterly.

"The hunt?" Something in my voice—probably disgust— caused Lippitt to look at me sharply. There was a brief glint of pain in his eyes, and then it was gone.

"I have no choice, Frederickson," Lippitt said quietly. "It
is
a hunt. The others will be after him, and you should hope that I find him before they do."

As far as I was concerned, he had a point. I knew where
Lippitt
was, because I was with him. But there were still the Russians, the British, the French with their mysterious agent, and God only knew how many others, all beating the bushes for Rafferty. I had no way of knowing how close
they
were.

"Let him alone!" Mike Foster said, emotion twisting his voice and features. "For God's sake, haven't you done enough to the man? He's shown that he means no harm to anyone!"

"Has he?" Lippitt said. "He's proved nothing of the kind, and I'm not waiting for a nuclear attack to find out whether our defense network has been penetrated; neither will any other country that knows about him."

"What about Mr. and Mrs. Foster?" I asked. "You plan to lock them away someplace?"

Lippitt looked at Mrs. Foster. "They should come with me for their own protection."

Elizabeth Foster shook her head and moved even closer to her husband. "Go to hell, Lippitt," Mike Foster said evenly.

"The Fosters will be taken care of," Tal said. "And you too, Mongo. There are a lot of people, I'm sure, who will want to ask you questions."

"Thanks, Tal. I'll look after myself."

Mike Foster gently pulled his wife to her feet and supported her as they moved into an adjoining bedroom; he closed the door quietly behind them.

There was a sharp, prolonged buzzing sound from Lippitt's direction. The agent took a small beeper out of his pocket and shut it off. He looked vaguely surprised. "I have to go," he said.

"If it's a telephone you need, you're welcome to use the one here," Tal said.

Lippitt ignored the offer, jerked his head in the direction of the Fosters' bedroom. "You've taken on a big responsibility, Tal."

Tal met the other man's cold gaze. "Then perhaps you should keep silent. If you do, there's no reason why anyone outside this room should know where the Fosters are."

"I have other responsibilities."

"Then you'll just have to weigh them against the safety of the Fosters, won't you? Mrs. Foster has told you all she knows; the Americans have no more need of her. Unless
you
risk a leak, no one else will have access to her. Think about that when you report to your superiors."

Lippitt walked to the elevator. He paused at the door as if he wanted to add something, but said nothing. In a few moments he was gone. I wondered what his message could be, where he was going.

Tal put his hand on my shoulder. "You should accept my offer, Mongo. I don't think Lippitt will kill you, but he might not be able to stop one of his colleagues from doing so if the order came down. They will want to make sure you don't share the information you have."

"Sorry. I don't feel like being a prisoner any more than Rafferty did. I'll take my chances on the street."

"I understand."

"It's over, I suppose." There was a flat, metallic taste in my mouth. "You found out what you wanted to know."

Tal looked surprised. "You want to quit now?"

"Rafferty's alive, and everybody and his brother is looking for him. Even if he has been working your turf, he's finished there now. He's blown and he knows it; he's going to be on the run. What's the point of our continuing to look for him?"

"Because we have something the others don't," Tal said firmly. "We have the list of people who participated in that seminar, and that gives us an edge."

"That doesn't answer my question.
Why
should we look for him now?"

He smiled. "Aren't you curious?"

"Rafferty's got enough people looking for him."

"Yes," Tal said seriously. "But you and I are the only ones who might want to help him."

    21

Dawn was an hour old, growing into a mean, humid, overcast day. Somewhere out in that gathering light was a man many considered the most powerful and dangerous man who had ever lived, a man from whom no one could keep a secret, a man who could move objects with his mind. A man who could kill with a thought. It was the same man who had rescued me from the farmhouse; I was sure of that now.

I pointed to the papers on Tal's desk. "You want to check out every one of those people who attended the conference?"

"If necessary," Tal said, leaning forward and drumming his fingers on the desk top. "Imagine what a man with Rafferty's capabilities could do for us."

"By 'us,' I assume you mean the Secretary General and yourself?"

"Yes. He'd be able to provide us with vital information. He'd know that we'd use his skills properly."

"It looks as if he already has a job. Maybe he doesn't want to change, or can't."

Suddenly there was a knock on the door behind us. I jumped; I'd thought the door led to a closet. Tal spun around in his chair, a look of astonishment on his face.

"Are you expecting someone?"

Tal shook his head. "Even if I were, he wouldn't be coming through there. That's a second private elevator with a combination warning system-lock on the door leading to it. The only person besides me who knows the entry code is the Secretary General, and he's in the hospital."

There was another knock. I felt the hair prickle on the back of my neck. "Well, aren't you going to see who it is?"

Tal rose from his chair, walked quickly across the room, and yanked the door open. I immediately recognized the man who stood in the elevator portal: It was Yuri Malakov, the Soviet Ambassador to the United Nations. He was trying to look dignified and not succeeding; his rotund face was flushed with excitement, and even beneath his beard I could see the muscles in his jaw working.

"What the hell—?" Tal said.

Malakov drew himself up. "I am here at the request of Victor Rafferty," he announced formally, in good English. "I received a telephone call a half hour ago asking me to come here, by this route. Rafferty said it would prove to you that he is who he says he is."

Tal dazedly stepped back, and the Ambassador entered the suite.

"It means he's been close to me all this time," Tal said distantly.
"Who?"

Tal's desk intercom buzzed. He pressed the flashing button with some annoyance and spoke sharply into the speaker. "Marge, I thought I told you I wasn't to be disturbed!"

A woman's voice with a Midwestern accent came over the line. "I know, sir; I'm sorry. It's a Mr. Elliot Thomas. He insists on talking to you. He says it's very important. He's ... calling on the green line."

My chest constricted, making it hard for me to breathe. My heart was pounding as I leaned forward and gripped the edge of Tal's desk.

Tal's brow furrowed. "Elliot Thomas? Who's he, and how did he get the green-line number?"

"I don't know, sir," the woman answered. "He will only say that it's very urgent and concerns a man by the name of Victor Rafferty."

"All right, Marge," Tal said tightly. "Put him through." There was a click. Tal picked up the telephone. "Yes, Mr. Thomas?" he said, excitement making his voice sound thin. "What do you know about Victor Rafferty?"

I couldn't distinguish what the voice at the other end of the line was saying, but Tal listened for a few moments, then gasped in astonishment. He grabbed a pencil and held it poised over a pad.

"How,
Mr. Thomas? Give me some kind of proof!"

There was more unintelligible mumbling on the other end. Tal scribbled something on the pad, then shoved it across the desk to me. I looked at the paper and felt my mouth go dry despite the fact that I was certain what Tal had written.

There was one word:
Raffertyl

There was a pause. Then Tal said: "All right, Thomas. The Ambassador's here, but the Secretary General is ill and in the hospital. Will you deal with me? ... Okay. Hang on where you are. Just don't turn yourself in to Lippitt; if you do, no one will ever see you again. . . . We'll be there as soon as possible."

Tal gently replaced the receiver in its cradle, then clenched and unclenched his fists. He was staring straight ahead.

"That was Rafferty?" My voice cracked. I attempted to swallow, but there was no moisture left in my mouth.

"He's been right here at the U.N. all along," Tal said in a tone of disbelief.

"I know."

Tal raised his eyebrows. "
You
know?
How
do you know?"

I looked back at Malakov, who was standing a few feet away. He looked overcome by it all; his eyes were wide, and he was holding one pudgy hand to his mouth as if he had a toothache. "Thomas' name is on the list of delegates to the seminar. I talked to him before I came to see you. He's an engineer working for UNESCO."

"It's perfect," Tal said distantly. "Or it was. An engineer; with his knowledge of buildings and how they function, he had no difficulty getting the job. First he fooled Lippitt into thinking he was dead; that got him and his wife off the hook. Then he went someplace for plastic surgery, probably Rio de Janeiro. Finally, there would be the problem of a new identity, but money would take care of that."

"But where'd he
get
the money? Lippitt said he had no funds."

Tal thought for a few moments. "I think I can guess. Gambling: horse races, card games, the stock market—you name it. He'd have every advantage, because he was constantly picking the brains of the experts and his opponents. He got together the money he needed for the traveling, surgery, and a whole new set of identity papers. Then he came back here and got a job at the U.N. It was a good, hardheaded decision. He didn't want to always be looking over his shoulder. If a question ever arose about his supposed death, this would be the best place to pick up on it."

"It worked," I said, "until he left a drawing where he shouldn't have."

The Ambassador stepped up behind us. "Wh ... where is Rafferty now?" he asked breathlessly.

"In an abandoned boathouse in the Rockaways," Tal said softly.

"What's
happening
?" Malakov demanded. "Tell me what is happening!"

"He's found a way to end it," Tal said thoughtfully. "I suppose you could call it the Goldfish Bowl Solution."

"What are you talking about?" Malakov snarled. "And where is the Secretary General?"

"The Secretary General is indisposed, Mr. Ambassador. The important thing is that Rafferty is tired of hiding; he knows it can't work anymore, and he wants to come in. He's made arrangements for all of us, Mr. Ambassador—you for the Russians, Lippitt for the Americans, and me—to be together when he turns himself in to me, representing the Secretary General. He's also notified the media, so there'll be plenty of coverage. No more secrets, Mr. Ambassador; it's all going to come out. He intends to place himself under the protection of this office; he'll remain at the U.N. for all to see. The whole world will know about him, so there'll no longer be any reason to kill him. He's willing to use his talents in any country's behalf, provided it's for a peaceful purpose. The Secretary General will screen all requests."

"God," I said. "He'll be like an animal in the zoo."

Tal grunted. "But no longer an endangered species."

Malakov looked grieved. I imagined Lippitt had looked the same way when he'd received the news. "Lippitt must already know," I said. "That was his message. He has a head start on us."

"You're right," Tal said curtly. "We'll have to hurry."

"Just one second," I said, grabbing the telephone. "Can you get me an open line?"

Tal punched a button and I heard a dial tone. I dialed Garth's precinct. Garth was out. I did a lot of screaming about a death in the family and they patched me through to his car.

"Mongo!" he shouted over the line. "What the hell—?
Where
the hell are you? I've been looking all over the goddamn city! Man, have I got some questions for
you\"

"I'll meet you at"—I looked at the address Tal had written on the pad—"1386 Rockaway Boulevard."

"What's on Rockaway Boulevard?"

"Answers."

"Don't be cryptic! I can't just drive out to the Rock aways!"

"You will if you want to be in on the wrap-up of the Rafferty thing. Make a lot of noise on the way, and bring along as much blue as you can!"

"We go now," Tal said, heading for the elevator as I hung up.

    22

 The tires of Tal's car squealed as we gathered speed in the underground garage. He was doing close to thirty by the time we hit the street. As we sped down Second Avenue, I hung on and listened to the sirens in the distance ahead of us. Garth was on his way, with company.

"I think this could be a trick," Malakov said. The Ambassador's face was ashen, and he was hanging on to a leather passenger loop with both hands. "The American agent will get there before we do."

The Ambassador had a point. Lippitt had a good half- hour start, and there was no way Tal could drive fast enough to make up the difference. It bothered me.

"Lippitt's not going to like our showing up," I said to Tal. "We could both end up in the slammer for the next two hundred years."

"Well, we'll just have to worry about that when the time comes," Tal said. He came up on a lumbering soda truck and veered effortlessly around it while I fought off the impulse to grab the wheel. Malakov gasped. "The important thing is that Rafferty's proposal is reasonable," Tal continued easily. "He'll be highly visible at all times. Whatever he wants to do, he'll be
seen
doing it, and that's the all-important thing. If anyone wishes to talk with him, fine; people with secrets will know enough to stay away."

"There'll be emotional problems for the Fosters," I said.

"They'll be all right. Certainly, Rafferty will make no demands on her." After a pause he added, "He may have loved her much more than Mrs. Foster realizes."

"Uh-huh. And he was legally dead as far as the law is concerned when the Fosters were married."

In twenty minutes we reached Rockaway Boulevard. Tal turned left and we sped down the broad highway. I thought I could hear the deadly rattle of automatic-weapons fire ahead. Tal heard it too, jammed the accelerator to the floor, cursed softly and systematically. The Ambassador leaned forward anxiously. We were speeding along a section of the highway bounded by rocky cliffs on one side and, on the other, dirty, rock-strewn stretches of muddied sand sloping down to the sea. The air smelled of rotting fish.

Tal went into a power slide, straightened out, and fish- tailed fifty yards down the rutted remains of a road leading toward a collection of police cars and men. He stopped behind a patrol car with a siren that was just dying. We quickly got out and made our way around a television camera crew that was just setting up. A police cordon had been erected a few yards farther down the road. Garth was standing off to one side, staring intently down a hundred-yard stretch of sand to where three rotting boathouses jutted out over the water. I ran up to him and grabbed his arm.

"Garth!"

Garth turned and grinned when he saw me. He poked and prodded for a few seconds, presumably to see if I was all in one piece. When he was satisfied that I was, his grin faded.

"What the hell's going on here, Mongo? I've got my neck stuck out a mile."

"It's for a good cause. Garth, this is Ronald Tal and Ambassador Malakov. Gentlemen, my brother."

Garth nodded to the Ambassador and gave Tal a long, cold stare. "I talked to you on the phone," he said, perfunctorily shaking Tal's hand before turning back to me. "You didn't tell me the Feds would be here."

"Which boathouse is Rafferty in?"

"That's
Rafferty
in there with the machine gun?"

"It is. Where is he?"

"The one on the left," he said, jerking his thumb in that direction.

"Garth," I said, "Tal and I have to get down there."

"I will go too," the Ambassador said anxiously. "I go where you go."

"You'll get your heads blown off," Garth said. "It's quiet now. You should have been here five minutes ago."

"He won't shoot when he sees who it is," Tal said.

Garth snorted. "That's what
you
say."

It was suddenly very still. Somewhere in the distance the raucous whine of a powerboat carried clearly over the water; there was something disquieting, ominous about the sound.

"Garth," I said, "at least get us to Lippitt."

Garth took me by the elbow, led me around the barricade, and pointed twenty yards farther down the beach to where Lippitt and two other men were squatting down behind another barricade made up of the old, rotting husks of row- boats. All three had automatic pistols.

Lippitt!" I yelled. "Let us come down!"

Lippitt's bald head snapped around; the pale eyes found and focused on me. He hesitated a moment, then signaled to Garth, who was still holding me. His hand left my arm. Tal, Malakov, and I hurried across the sand. The two agents with Lippitt gave us a cursory glance as we dropped down behind the rowboats, then turned their attention—and their guns—back to the boathouse.

"What the hell are you trying to do?" I said, grabbing Lippitt's arm. "Didn't Rafferty explain his plan?"

"He didn't explain anything.
He
was the one who started shooting." He paused. "What's Malakov doing here?"

"Rafferty wants to negotiate," I said. "Malakov got a call too."

"Negotiate
what
, for Christ's sake? He's five years too late! Besides, we've tried to talk to him. He won't answer, and he won't let any of us come down. He may have gone crazy."

"He's
not
crazy! He's been buying time until we could get here. He called Tal, and I've spoken to him before. Maybe he'll talk to one of us now."

Lippitt rested one knee on the sand and looked at me. "When did you talk to him?"

"A few days ago, but I didn't know he was Victor Rafferty. He's been using the name Elliot Thomas. He's been working as an engineer at the U.N. The sketch of the Nately Museum was his. The paper must have dropped out of his pocket, or he just forgot and left it on the table. He's ready to give himself up ... under the auspices of the U.N."

Speaking in a low monotone, Tal outlined Rafferty's plan to Lippitt. Lippitt's face was totally impassive as he listened. The sound of the powerboat was much louder now, coming closer. Far out in the water I could see sunlight glinting off its metal hull.

Tal finished as Lippitt absently began drawing figures in the sand with his finger.

"What do you think?" I said to the agent.

"I don't know," Lippitt said without looking up. "You're suggesting that the United States give up—"

"You can't have him, Lippitt," Tal broke in impatiently. "Your only alternative is to kill him, and I don't think you want to do that. He won't let anyone use him; he gave up everything to make that point, and he's not going to change his mind now. What he suggests is the only way."

"I can't authorize something like that on my own, Tal," Lippitt said quietly.

"I know. But what do you
think
of the idea?"

Lippitt erased the drawings in the sand, glanced up, and said in the same soft tone: "It could work. What's your reaction, Malakov?"

The portly Russian slowly nodded his head. "I too must have authorization, but what Rafferty suggests does... seem to be a viable alternative."

I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath until it came out of me in a long sigh. My stomach hurt.

Tal stood up. "I'm going down there. I'll tell him what the two of you just said, and I'll see what he has to say. In the meantime, you can contact your superiors."

Lippitt shook his head. "It's going to take a lot longer than a few minutes to make this kind of decision."

"How
much
longer?"

"At least a couple of days. I'll go to Washington myself."

"Let him come with me in the meantime," Tal said quickly. "The important thing is to get him out of that boat house, right?"

"What if our government says it's no deal?" I asked Lippitt.

"I don't know," Lippitt said evenly. "No promises."

"Do not take us for fools," Malakov said tightly. "One of my men must accompany Rafferty at all times until a decision is made."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Ambassador," Lippitt said coldly. "One of my men will be along too."

"Let's see what Rafferty has to say," Tal said as he stepped out from behind the rowboats, in full view of the boathouse. He cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled: "Rafferty! It's Tal! Don't shoot! I'm coming down!"

There was no answer, no sound at all from the direction of the water except the steadily increasing roar of the speedboat. The craft was close now, no more than three or four hundred yards offshore, and it was making me nervous.

Malakov grabbed Lippitt's elbow. "How do you know he's still in there? He may have slipped away from you again!"

"He's surrounded," Lippitt said, jerking his arm free. "I've got men with rifles on the roofs of the other boathouses; there's no way Rafferty can get out of there without being shot. Rafferty may be a lot of things, but he's not invisible."

"Okay," Tal said softly, "I'm going down."

"Hold it!" I yelled as I stood and pointed toward the water. "What's that boat out there doing?!"

Lippitt tore the binoculars from the neck of the agent squatting next to him and raised them to his eyes. I watched the muscles in his jaw and neck begin to quiver. He threw the binoculars to one side, then turned to the crowd of police and agents behind him. "Shoot that boat out of the water!" he yelled. "Goddamn it,
blow it away!"

Immediately the air was filled with the din of automatic- weapons fire. Two agents sprinted out onto the sand and began firing down at the water, their guns braced against their hips.

"There's no one in the boat!" Lippitt shouted. I could barely hear him above the clatter of the weapons. "It's a drone, radio-controlled! Somebody wants to blow Rafferty up!"

The pilotless boat zigzagged as the rain of bullets fell into the water around it; there were dozens of hits, but the boat kept coming. It wasn't going to stop until it hit the boat house.

"He's got to see it coming," Tal said through clenched teeth. "Why doesn't he get out of there?" He again cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled. "Thomas! Rafferty! Get out of there!
Run!"

A bearded figure immediately recognizable as Elliot Thomas suddenly appeared in the doorway of the crumbling boathouse. He was carrying an automatic assault rifle. He seemed to be groggy as he staggered out onto the sand, fell back against the side of the house, and began firing up the beach in our direction. Bullets whined in the air, chewed up the sand, thwacked into the wooden barricades.

Lippitt yelled, "Hold your fire!"

I caught a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. It was Garth sprinting toward the boathouse, his arms pumping. Tal's reflexes were faster than mine. He tackled Garth at the knees and both men went down. Garth took a swing at Tal's head, missed, then tried to struggle to his feet again as Tal hung on to his legs. I tried not to think of the bullets singing around my head as I ran forward, jumped on Garth's back, wrapped my arms around his neck.

"You can't just let that man die down there without making an effort to get him out!" Garth shouted, clawing at my arms.

"It's too late," Tal said quietly.

The boat hit the rotting wood structure and exploded. It was something a lot more powerful than dynamite, probably
plastique.
The force of the blast shook the ground around us. The entire boathouse quivered for a moment, lifted off the ground, then disintegrated into bits and pieces of wood and metal. Instantly flames shot up into the temporary vacuum, burning with the white-hot glow of phosphorus or napalm.

Someone had wanted to make certain the job was done right.