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I look inside the stall, spot a hypodermic and small plastic cap, and a cotton ball.
“Just a junkie,” I say. “Just a goddamn junkie.”
The bathroom is then crowded with armed men, and Jeremy repeats again and again, “He was here, our guy was here, damn it…we had good intel!”
Before Inspector Collins can object, I go to the end of the sinks, where’s there a paper-towel dispenser and an open trash can.
I peer into the bin.
Spot something.
Gingerly pull it out.
“Hey,” I say.
I pick up the bloodstained gauze. The small metal object inside it is about the size of a fat rice kernel, with a millimeter or two of wire sticking out.
“Rashad was here,” I say. “And he left his calling card.”
“He’s gone,” Jeremy whispers, looking at my hand.
I say, “Gone—and with no way of tracking him.”
Chapter65
TOM CORNWALLis in his home office, digging through the top drawer of his desk once again, automatically looking for a particular business card, but also recalling the oh-so-brief conversation he had earlier with Amy.
Ticonderoga.
Time to pack for the trip to Ticonderoga.
Years back, when Denise was just a toddler and Amy’s career in intelligence was beginning, over glasses of a fine Australian merlot one night in front of the fireplace at their old home in Virginia, Amy had said, “Just to be clear, you’re not to ask me anything for any story you’re working on. Not a damn thing.”
“Agreed,” Tom had said, but Amy had taken it one step further.
“But…” She had hesitated briefly, then plunged ahead: “But if I ever come across something that I think will mean immediate danger to you and Denise, I’ll warn you somehow. A word, a phrase.”
“Like ‘Alas, Babylon,’ from that old World War Three novel?” he had asked.
“No,” Amy had said. “Too many people know that one. No…if the time comes that I think you and Denise need to head for the hills, I’ll tell you to plan for a trip to Fort Ticonderoga. How does that sound?”
The wine had made him feel fuzzy and agreeable, so Tom had said, “Sure.”
But Amy wasn’t going for a snap answer. “Tom, this is what you’re agreeing to, all right? If you hear me saying ‘Ticonderoga,’ then there’s no arguing, no debate—just agreement.”
“Sure,” he had said, and later that night they had sealed the deal with a wonderful bout of lovemaking that their infant Denise had slept through.
Now Tom finds what he’s looking for: a ConEd business card with the nameJOHN CORNWALLon the front and, on the back, a local number. His Uncle John, a ConEd retiree, now living at the southern end of Staten Island—a place Denise loved to visit because of Uncle John’s boating and fishing expertise.
A slight electronicdingdisturbs him, and his iMessage chat icon is flashing on his MacBook screen.
He puts the card down, double-clicks, and sees it’s his Russian associate, Yuri.
TOM:Working late, are we?
YURI:Or early, depending on my time zone.
TOM:Oh, and where’s that?
