They walked and talked a little more before Morgan asked, “You got a copy of this file?”

“You’re kidding, right? You asked why I’m afraid of Jack and I’m telling you. I wouldn’t want him carrying a grudge against me.”

“That all you’ve got?”

“That’s barely an appetizer, Morgan,” Charles said, picking up his pace a bit. “Now shut up.”

Martinelli was about thirty yards behind the two men, squeezing the steering wheel as he weathered a symphony of honks and angry gestures. New Yorkers! He remembered the old joke about the tourist totally lost in the city and he stops and asks a native for directions, saying, “Aside from ‘get screwed,’ could you please tell me the way to the Empire State Building?”

He cursed and wished Morgan and Charles would pick up the pace. The taxi driver directly on his rear was nearly leaning on his horn. A quick glance in the rearview mirror-the driver wore a turban and had a thick Sikh beard. Amazing how quickly even foreigners dropped their hospitable native manners and adopted the surly rudeness of this city.

To his left and right, he could see Rivers and Nickels following on foot, both on opposite sidewalks, blending in quite nicely.

Then without warning, Morgan and Charles hung a right onto a one-way street with traffic going the wrong way. Martinelli started to follow before a fusillade of horns reminded him it was one-way.

He uttered another loud curse, backed up, and began driving to the next block to try and pick them up again at the far end of the street. The Sikh was leaning outside the car window, howling obscenities, his middle finger stuck in the air.

They were on West 45th, passing theaters now. The best Morgan could tell, Charles never once glanced back, or even looked around to check if they were being tailed. Never once gazed at reflections in storefront windows, never bent down to tie his shoes and steal a furtive peek. Could he have overestimated this guy?

Morgan pressed his coat button, activated the mike, and asked, “Where are we going?”

“Shut up.”

“I just want to know.”

“You’ll know when we get there.”

They took ten more steps when, without warning, Charles grabbed his arm and yanked him into the covered entrance of a theater. Morgan hadn’t been paying attention to the overhead billboards; he hadn’t a clue which theater, or which play. He kept his mouth shut as Charles smoothly handed two tickets to the doorman, and they were inside.

They had apparently arrived right on time for the start of the show. Only a few stragglers were still milling around the lobby, exchanging gossip or whatever. He saw that they were in the Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre, and according to the large poster on a stand-up easel, the night’s entertainment was A Chorus Line. “What are we doing here?” he demanded.

For the first time Charles faced him. “You look pale, Morgan. Don’t tell me you’ve seen Chorus Line before?”

“Well… no, I haven’t.”

“Good. It’s sold out. I paid a fortune for these tickets. Thought you’d be more appreciative.”

Morgan was pleased that he had lured Charles into naming the play before it struck him what Charles had done and why. Who cared if the trailers knew where they were? It was sold out, so they couldn’t get inside. Such a simple, obvious ploy, why had nobody thought of it?

Charles seemed to sense what he was thinking. “Worried about your friends out on the sidewalk?”

“I told you I came alone,” Morgan insisted without the barest hint of conviction.

The final curtain bell was ringing and the last loiterers in the lobby began a mad hustle for their seats. Charles didn’t budge. “Are we going in to watch the show or not?” Morgan asked, speaking loudly so the boys out on the street could hear.

“Come with me.”

“Where?”

“The men’s room.”

“Why? You want me to hold it for you?”

Charles didn’t smile or in any way reply to the infantile wisecrack, just began walking quickly to the men’s room. They could hear the orchestra blaring the opening notes of the theme song. The restroom was empty when they entered. Charles moved toward a urinal, reached down to his front, then spun around with a.38 caliber in his right hand. “Now, we’re gonna do this my way, Morgan. Don’t get nervous. I won’t shoot you unless you make me.”

Morgan’s mouth gaped open in shock. “A gun,” he gasped loudly.

“I believe that’s what it’s called, yes.”

Morgan balanced his feet and tightened his grip on the briefcase. “What’s this? A two-bit holdup?”

Charles studied Morgan’s face a moment. “I told you to come alone, and you’ve turned this into a street orgy. I warned you not to wear a wire, and you’re a walking DJ. You’re making me nervous, Morgan. This”-he began shaking the gun-“is to make sure you don’t break any more rules.”

Morgan adjusted his expression to one of resignation. “Hey, pal, I have no intention of getting myself clipped, not over fifty grand. Hell, it’s not even mine. Here,” he said, taking a step closer and jamming the briefcase in Charles’s direction-another five feet and he’d be all over him. A quick kick in his groin, a chop across the forearm, then he’d make him eat that gun.

Charles immediately stepped backward and the gun popped into Morgan’s face. “Don’t. That would be very stupid.” The sound of the hammer being cocked was loud and ominous.

“All right.”

“Step back.”

Morgan stepped back.

“Put down that case.”

Morgan placed the case on the floor. Whatever the man with the gun wanted.

“Good boy. Now take off your clothes.”

“What?”

“The clothes, Morgan. Remove them.”

“Forget it. No. That’s just not going to happen.”

Charles leaned his back against the wall. “Listen to me. I offered you a deal, and I intend to honor it. But on my terms, not yours.”

When Morgan did nothing, Charles leaned toward him and announced very loudly, “Listen up, fellas. Your friend Morgan is about to blow this deal. Because of his silly modesty, you’re not going to learn things about Wiley you couldn’t imagine. It’ll cost you fifty thousand to get nothing.”

“Who are you talking to?” Morgan asked. This time, not only was he not convincing, it sounded asinine.

“Jack has a nasty scandal in his past, Morgan. Very nasty. It’s everything you’ve been hunting for, and then some. But you’ll never find it without me.”

Well, what the hell, Morgan thought. Charles had already made a fool of him-twice-so what was a little more mortification? Only one thing was worse than this: after all this time, effort, and money to come back empty-handed. With a great show of reluctance he removed his jacket and tossed it to Charles. Then his shirt, his shoes, and his trousers, until he was naked but for his socks and underpants. He couldn’t remember a more humiliating moment. “Get into that stall,” Charles ordered, waving the gun at the far one along the wall.

Looking very aggravated, Morgan dutifully entered the stall, and Charles closed the door behind him. He could hear Charles walk around, then the sounds of him entering the adjoining stall and sitting down. “What next?” Morgan asked, wondering how it came to this.

Twenty-five years in the CIA. He had survived so many dangerous encounters, outsmarted so many bad guys, and this amateur, Charles, had the money, and he had the gun, with Morgan stripped down to his undershorts in a public bathroom. He cursed himself for turning on the mike. The entire episode had been broadcast to the boys out on the street. He knew the ribbing was going to be absolutely horrible, and he was right. “What are you doing?” he asked, after a long moment with no answer.

“Counting my money, Morgan. Since you lied, I want to be sure you haven’t cheated me. Now, shut up.”

“It’s there, all of it,” Morgan insisted with as much force as he could muster, given the circumstances. “You can trust me.”