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He could fake it, of course. Stall. Make up a name. Lie. But George was realistic. There was no way the Thais were going to let him walk—not after an incident like this. The Thais were not like the Americans. They did not work that way.
“No dice,” George answered slowly. Like a well trained surgeon, George scraped at Max’s wound with the point of the blade. More blood flowed. A plan—a brilliant, surefire plan—began to take shape in his mind. His smile returned, radiant. “But I have another idea,” George ventured.
“Yes.”
“I am going to walk out of here. In exchange, I guarantee that no one will get hurt.”
Max shook his head. “The place is surrounded—”
“Don’t worry about that,” George interjected. “I have a way out. You are going to wait five minutes. If you leave this room before then, I’ll detonate the bomb. After five minutes you are free to go.”
“Max,” Michael interrupted. It was the first time he had spoken since George had entered the room. “Don’t listen to him. He’s lying.”
Max nodded, but he seemed unsure. “How can we trust you?”
“You have my word,” George said.
“Max—”
“Then it’s a deal,” Max said, “under one condition.”
“Max, listen to me. You can’t—”
“You have a better idea, Michael? He’s got a blade on my throat.”
Michael just stared at him. “You can’t trust him.”
“What choice do we have? Huh?”
George liked what he was hearing. “We are wasting time. What is your condition?”
“You give us some information before you leave.”
“No.”
“Then no deal,” Max said.
“I am the one holding the stiletto and the detonator—”
“No deal unless you talk. I just want information, George. I’m not interested in capturing you.”
George considered his options. His employer had, after all, screwed things totally. George no longer owed him any loyalty. Why not talk? The cop would be less likely to try anything if he had information he thought was useful.
Besides, Lieutenant Max Bernstein was not going to live long. Neither was Michael Silverman.
“Ask your question.”
“Who hired you?”
“I don’t know. I got anonymous calls.”
“What was the purpose of the murders?”
“Purpose?”
“Why did you target people at an AIDS clinic?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“Come on, George, you’re going to have to do better than that.”
“I kill for hire,” George explained. “The less I know, the better.”
“You must have heard something.”
“Nothing.”
“Then why did you make the murders look like the work of a serial killer?”
“Those were my instructions,” George said. “I was told to slash them all up in an unmistakably similar fashion—make it as bloody as possible.”
“Why did you dump Bradley Jenkins behind a gay bar?”
George shrugged. “I just did what I was told.” As George spoke, his plan crystallized. As soon as he hit the street, he would set off the explosives, killing Silverman and the cop while providing him with the ideal diversion for his escape. “That’s what I get paid for, Lieutenant—even if the payments did come a little late. I thought I was being stiffed until yesterday—”
“Did you kill Dr. Bruce Grey and make it look like a suicide?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Orders.”
“Were all the other victims mutilated?” Max asked.
“Yes.”
“Stabbed repeatedly?”
“Yes.”
“None killed any other way?”
George sighed impatiently. “All were stabbed except Dr. Grey.”
“And Riccardo Martino?”
“Never heard of him.”
For the first time since the questioning began, Max paused. Then: “Why was Michael kidnapped?”
George rolled his eyes. “How the hell am I supposed to know? I got a call in the morning telling me to nab Michael Silverman before the day was over. That’s what I did. I paid off a friend in customs, loaded him on a cargo jet, and we flew over here. I do not like to repeat myself, Lieutenant, so I will say this for the last time—I do not know, nor do I care, why my employer ordered any of these jobs.”
“What were your last orders?”
“Blow up a building and let Michael go.”
“What building?”
“A storage house.”
It was Michael who spoke. “The clinic’s storage house,” he said. “All Harv’s lab work would have been destroyed.”
“I am leaving now,” George said, “but before I do, let me remind you that I have my thumb resting on a detonator. If you try any heroics, I’ll push the button. If you plan on having a sniper take me out, he better make sure I die instantly. Otherwise my thumb presses down. Do you understand?”
Max nodded.
“Good. I’m going to let you go now. Don’t move for five minutes.”
George shoved Max across the room. Max stumbled and fell. He turned around, still on his knees.
“One last question,” Max said.
“No more questions, Lieutenant. Good-bye. And remember”—he held up the detonator—“ka-boom.”
“Just one more.”
George stepped toward the door. “Good-bye.”
Max reached into his boot and took out his gun. It was the first time he had ever done that in the line of duty and he was surprised at how smooth his movements had been. “Would you please put your hands up?”
George looked amused. “Are you joking, Lieutenant?”
“Put your hands above your head now.”
George laughed. “Go ahead. Fire. I’ll blow this whole fucking block to kingdom come.”
“No, you won’t.”
“And why not?”
Max smiled. “Because you fucked up, George. Again.”
George’s smile disappeared. “What are you talking about?”
“I disconnected the explosives before you got here.”
George’s mouth dropped open.
“You do terribly crude work, George. No trip wire, no nothing. Any idiot could have disengaged it in two seconds. Very sloppy work.”
