P.S. Dickie, the above copy is for your eyes only. To prevent those packets from going out, call the number below before five today, which is when Federal Express is due to pick them up, It’s a cellular phone, so don’t try to trace its location.

Before Hickock was halfway through this bulletin, his bowels were turning to water. He finished reading it in his private john, and when he read the postscript, his relief was palpable. He finished up in the john, locked the door to his office, and called the number.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hickock,” a pleasant voice said.

“Who else did you send this to?” Hickock demanded.

“Just you, just this once, if you follow instructions. Got a pencil?”

“Yes.”

“Write this down very carefully,” the voice said, “because it would not react to your benefit if you made a mistake.”

“Go ahead.”

“Before the close of business today you are to wire-transfer the sum of two million dollars from the Window Seat Zurich account to the Bank of Europe in Luxembourg, account number 353-67-6381. Got that?”

Hickock repeated the information.

“You’ve got just this one chance to get it right,” the voice said. “If you don’t make a mistake, the funds will be in Luxembourg tomorrow morning. If you do make a mistake, those packets of information will be at their destinations by three P.M. tomorrow, and you will spend the rest of your life either in prison or running.”

“Look, I’m not sure I can raise that much today.”

“You’re not listening, Mr. Hickock. And by the way, if you make any attempt to find us, or any attempt to bring pressure to bear on the Luxembourg Bank to find out who we are, it will be over for you instantly. We can still make a very nice buck by hawking the story, but we’d rather keep it clean and simple. Since this is the last time we’ll ever speak, Mr. Hickock, is there anything else you’d like to say?”

“Yes. I know who you are, Mr. Bruce, you and your brother, and I have your photographs.”

“Big mistake, Mr. Hickock; that little outburst cost you one million dollars. So that’s three million dollars to the Luxembourg account by the close of business. And if either of us should ever meet with an unfortunate accident, you may be sure that the packets will automatically be sent by our designated representatives. Good-bye, Mr. Hickock. I hope you make the right decision.” The connection was broken.

Hickock sat at his desk for half an hour, his face in his hands, sweat dripping onto the desktop. His mind raced like that of a cornered rat looking for escape. But there was no escape. Finally he turned to the computer on his desk and opened a fax file to his Zurich bank. He typed in the instructions for the wire transfer to Luxembourg, followed by the code known only to him and his banker. With a sob, he pressed the send key, then he sat back in his chair and wept. Less than a minute later, he sat bolt upright. Enrico Bianchi’s people were out looking for those two men now, he remembered, and if they found them…

“Oh, my God,” he said aloud. He picked up the telephone and dialed a number. The phone rang twice and an electronic voice said, “Leave… your… message… at… the… tone,” followed by a short beep.

“Message for Mr. Crown,” he said into the phone. “Contact Mr. Gold at the earliest possible moment, utmost urgency.”

“Thank… you,” the voice said.

Hickock hoped to God Bianchi was wearing his beeper. He sat back to wait for the call. A moment later, his pocket phone rang. “Yes?” he said.

“Dick, it’s Amanda. I’ve been doing some thinking and believe that before this business goes any further, you and I should sit down and talk about a new contract.”

“Amanda, we’ve just signed a contract,” he said, astonished. Then he began to see.

“Yes, but I think the circumstances call for something much more substantial, don’t you? After all, you and I have become something like partners, haven’t we?”

“Tomorrow,” he said, resignedly.

“Lunch? Twenty-One? Twelve-thirty?”

“I’ll be there.” He hung up. The phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“This is Mr. Crown. Do you wish to meet?”

“There isn’t time,” Hickock said. “Listen to me…”

“Stop, don’t talk. Same place as last time. One hour.”

“Yes,” Hickock said. The connection was broken.

Hickock struggled into his coat, headed for the door, then stopped and went back to his desk. He dialed a London number.

“Hello?” a familiar voice said.

“It’s Dick,” Hickock said. “Your son-in-law in L.A. has talked too much; he may have blown the lid off everything.”

There was much swearing at the other end of the line.

“Yes, I feel pretty much the same way. I may be able to head this off, but I thought you should know about Peebles. I’ll leave it to you how to handle him.”

“I know exactly how to handle him,” the man said.

Hickock hung up and ran for his meeting with Bianchi.

Chapter 56

Arrington saw her editor at The New Yorker, and they had lunch at the Royalton Hotel; then she did some shopping at Bloomingdale’s. It was growing dark when she got out of a cab in front of her apartment building.

“Good afternoon, Miss Carter,” the doorman said, holding the cab door for her. “We haven’ seen you for a while.”

“I’ve been staying with a friend, Jimmy; I just came by to pick up some things.”

“I’ve been keeping your mail for you,” Jimmy said. “You want it now?”

“I’ll pick it up on the way out,” she said. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Very good, Miss.”

Arrington took the elevator to her floor, rummaging in her bag for the key. She kept a key in each of her bags, and today she had taken the big one. The key was at the very bottom, as usual. She inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. To her astonishment, there was someone sitting at her desk. Then something struck her on the side of the head, and she fell to the floor, only half-conscious.

“Jesus Christ, Tommy!” she heard somebody say. “You never said she might come home!”

“I didn’t think she would,” Jonathan Dryer’s voice replied. “There’s a roll of duct tape in my bag, Charlie; hand it to me, will you?”

She was rolled onto her back, and before she could focus on the face above her, a wide strip of tape was slapped across her eyes, and another across her mouth.

“What are we going to do with her, Tommy?” the first voice said. “We can’t leave her here alive.”

“I guess not,” Tommy replied, “but we’re going to be here until tomorrow. Wouldn’t you like to fuck her while we wait to hear from the bank?”

Arrington was rolled roughly onto her stomach. and her hands were taped behind her back. She was blind and dumb, but her head was beginning to clear, and she digested what she had just heard.

“Sure,” Charlie said, and he sounded greedy.

“She’s hot stuff, take it from me,” Tommy said. “I won’t tape her feet.” He hauled her to her feet and dumped her on the sofa. “You’ll want to be able to spread her legs, won’t you?”

“Right,” Charlie said, chuckling. “Just let me finish this fax to the Luxembourg bank.”

Out on Fifth Avenue, Detective Ernie Martinez was on foot, doing a patrolman’s job. It was beneath him, but Martinez had his own reasons for working so hard that day. He saw a doorman standing outside an apartment building, at least the fiftieth he had talked to that day. “How y’doing?” he asked the man, flashing his badge.

“Pretty good, officer. Can I help you?”

Martinez produced the two photographs. “You ever seen either one of these guys before?”

The doorman looked carefully at the two photographs, then glanced back at Martinez. “Maybe, one of them,” he said.

“There’s twenty in it for you, if you do me some good here,” Martinez said.