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“A Heineken-drinking president who wouldn’t eat good American green peppers on his pizza? I doubt it. They’d barbecue me at a tailgate party, or something.”
“Poor baby,” she said, patting his knee again.
“And another thing: why can’t I just let Teddy Fay run amok? He’s doing a better job of killing America’s enemies than a certain intelligence agency I could name. Why do I have to sic the law on him?”
“Tell you what,” she said. “You give me a written authorization to kill America’s enemies, regardless of their diplomatic status or location, and I’ll run amok for you. I’d like nothing better than machine-gunning fake diplomats in sidewalk cafes in Paris or planting bombs in the cars of the terrorists’ Swiss bankers.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?” Will laughed. “You’d be out there shooting them yourself, wouldn’t you?”
“Damn straight, I would!”
“Would you settle for heating up this pizza? It’s getting pretty clammy.”
Kate got to her feet and grabbed the box. “Oh, all right. I guess heating pizza will have to do,” she said as she disappeared into the kitchen.
The commercials ended, and Will went back to watching “The West Wing.” He resolved to try to be more like Jed Bartlet.
THIRTY-NINE
TEDDY FAY TACKED THE PHOTOGRAPHS of five men and one woman on his bulletin board and sat back to read each of their files. For some reason-it may have been the man’s face-he strongly wanted to go after one Hadji Asaam who, under another name, was listed as a chauffeur at the Iranian embassy. Asaam was an assassin, pure and simple, and he had already been in the country for eight days. How long before he would be instructed to ply his real trade? Of course, there would be Agency or FBI surveillance on him, but he would find a way to lose them when he wanted to work. In the meantime, he was driving an attache around New York, probably learning the streets.
His decision made, Teddy went to a newsstand and bought several newspapers. Back in his shop, he went carefully through the classifieds, until he found something that suited him in the Village Voice:
Vespa 180, only 1200 mi, pristine, $3K for quick sale.
He called the number. “I’m interested in your Vespa,” he said. “If it’s as described in the paper, I’ll buy it for cash today.”
“It’s exactly as I described it,” the young man said. “You’ll love it.”
“You have the registration and the insurance card?”
?
?Yep.”
“You have the title? It doesn’t have a loan on it, does it?”
“Nope, I have the title.”
“Can you meet me at the Twenty-third Street Lexington subway stop at two o’clock? We can do the deal right there; I’ll bring cash.”
“Sure, I’ll be there. What’s your name?”
“Jeff Snyder. Yours?”
“Bernie Taylor.”
“See you at two, Bernie.” Teddy hung up.
He went through his makeup kit and selected a prominent nose and a large mustache. Half an hour later he was somebody else. At one-thirty, he walked down the street to the subway stop at 63rd and Lex, and took the train downtown. At street level, Bernie was sitting on the scooter, waiting.
“Let’s go for a ride,” Teddy said, indicating that Bernie should take the passenger seat. Teddy hadn’t driven a Vespa for years, but how much could have changed? He drove quickly around the block; the engine ran as it should, and the gears shifted smoothly. Teddy stopped.
“You’ll throw in the helmet for three grand?”
“Sure,” Bernie said.
Teddy handed him an envelope containing thirty one-hundred-dollar bills. He waited while Bernie counted the money carefully without actually salivating.
