Marie-Thérèse yawned. It was boring, this sort of surveillance, but at the moment, it was her only way to keep track of these people. She had been waiting for nearly two hours in that most anonymous of vehicles in New York City, a black Lincoln Town Car.
“How much longer?” the driver asked. He had been provided by her friend at the embassy.
“As long as it takes,” she replied. “Read your paper.”
“I’ve read it.”
“Then do the crossword.”
“I can never do those things in English.”
“Then shut up.”
He was silent.
They were parked in a legal spot on Third Avenue, near the anonymous building that housed the people she wanted. She had a good view of the front door, and her eyes rarely left it. Then, finally, something happened. Three large, black SUVs with darkened windows passed her car and turned left into the street. They drew up to the front door of the building, and immediately, four men came out the front door and began looking up and down the street.
“Now,” she said aloud. “Wait until the three black vehicles move, then start the car.”
“Right,” her driver replied.
A man and a woman emerged from the building and quickly got into the middle SUV, and the three cars began moving.
“Let’s get going,” she said. “Stay as far behind them as you can without losing them.”
The driver did as instructed, and the trip was short. The three cars drove to Park Avenue, turned, then turned again into Fifty-second Street and stopped at an awning protruding from the lower level of the Seagram Building. Four men emerged from the first and third vehicles, had a good look around, then, at a signal from one of them, the rear doors of the middle SUV opened, and three men and a woman got out and went inside. The three SUVs drove off, no doubt to find a convenient parking spot.
Marie-Thérèse, whose car was waiting on Park Avenue, spoke. “Drop me at the awning, then drive around the block and park where you can see the doors. If the police hassle you, show them your diplomatic passport, but don’t move from the spot until I appear.”
The car stopped before the awning, and Marie-Thérèse got out, smoothing her little black dress and pulling on a pair of short, black kid gloves. Her hair was long and dark for the occasion. She went inside and started up the broad staircase. Her quarry was only yards ahead, and as she emerged on the second floor, his group, along with two bodyguards, were disappearing down a hallway toward the pool room of the Four Seasons.
This was not good. There was no way in or out of that room except by a hallway, perhaps ten feet in width, except maybe a kitchen door that she didn’t have access to. She took a seat at the corner of the large, square bar, facing east, with the hallway on her left. One of the bodyguards returned after a couple of minutes, presumably having completed his scan of the large dining room, while his companion had stationed himself there. The man took up a station across the bar from Marie-Thérèse, facing west, so that he could watch the hallway from his seat. He ordered a mineral water and sipped it slowly.
He was not British, she thought. His suit was wrong, and his hair cut too short. He looked like a very boring young businessman.
Marie-Thérèse put a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and glanced at her watch. “I’m early,” she said to the bartender. “A very dry Tanqueray martini, straight up, please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the bartender replied, then went to work.
How long would this take? Her man was in his mid-sixties, so probably not all that long. Before the main course was served, was her guess.
The young man sitting across the bar from her picked up his drink, walked around the bar, and sat down next to her, facing south. Now his back was to the hallway he was supposed to be watching. “Good evening,” he said. Yes, American.
“Good evening,” Marie-Thérèse replied coolly.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” the man said, “but I find you very attractive. May I buy you a drink?”
“Thank you, I already have a drink. And my date will be arriving in a few minutes.”
“May we talk until then?”
“All right.”
“My name is Burt Pence,” he said, offering his hand. “And yours?”
“Elvira Moore,” she replied, shaking his hand.
He moved the fifty away from the bartender, toward her purse. “Please put this away,” he said. “This is on me.”
Marie-Thérèse picked up the fifty and stuck it into her large handbag, which rested on the stool next to her. “Thank you, Burt. Tell me, what sort of work do you do?”
“I’m an FBI agent,” Burt replied.
“Oh, sure. I’ve heard that one before.”
Burt reached into an inside pocket, produced a wallet, opened it, and laid it on the bar.
“Oh, my, you’re telling the truth,” she said, picking up the wallet and examining it. “What on earth are you doing at the Four Seasons? I hope you’re on an expense account.”
“Actually, I’m not dining this evening,” Burt replied. “I’m on duty.”
“Really?” She tried to look very interested. “What sort of duty?”
Burt looked slyly from side to side, as if he feared being overheard. “I’m protecting the director of the FBI and the head of British intelligence.”
Marie-Thérèse looked around. “Where are they?”
“In the other dining room, down the hallway. My partner is on duty in there.”
“What are you protecting them from?”
“Oh, nothing in particular. I mean, there’s no specific threat at this time, but the director always has a bodyguard.”
“I see. What about those people there?” She nodded at a couple who had come up the stairs and were being escorted down the hallway. “Would they be a threat?”
Burt looked down the hallway at their backs. “Probably not, but my partner will observe their actions in the dining room.” He suddenly stood up. “Uh-oh, you’re going to have to excuse me.”
Marie-Thérèse looked down the hallway to see Sir Edward Fieldstone walking briskly toward them.
“That’s my British subject,” Burt said out of the corner of his mouth. “Probably going to the can.”
“Well, you’d better go and hold his . . . hand,” she said, laughing.
Sir Edward started down the stairs, and Burt fell in behind him.
Marie-Thérèse put her fifty back on the bar and hopped down from her stool. She began walking down the stairs and stopped on the landing. Sir Edward was standing outside the men’s room, and Burt was nowhere to be seen. Then Burt came out the door, nodding, and held it open for Sir Edward, who disappeared inside. Burt took up his station outside the door.
Marie-Thérèse walked quickly down the stairs and over to Burt.
“What, you’re leaving?” he asked. “I’ll be right back.”
“My date called me on my cell phone and canceled,” she replied.
“I’m off in a couple of hours,” he said. “Want to meet somewhere?”
Marie-Thérèse looked around. The coat-check girl had momentarily disappeared. “Are you carrying a gun, Burt?”
Burt grinned and opened his jacket, revealing a 9mm semiautomatic.
“Oh, good,” she said, sticking her silenced pistol into his ribs and backing him against the wall. “I’ll have that, Burt.” She pulled his pistol from its holster. “Now, let’s go to the men’s room.” She shoved him with her gun barrel.
“Hey, lady, what’s going on?” Burt asked, as if she were joking. But he went through the door into a little vestibule.
Marie-Thérèse hit him, hard, in the back of the head with his own pistol, then tossed it onto his crumpled form. “Sorry about that, Burt.” She pushed open the door to find Sir Edward standing at a sink, washing his hands. An attendant stood by with a towel. She shot the attendant first, to get Sir Edward’s attention.
Sir Edward stood up straight, holding his wet hands out before him. “No, no,” he said. “I paid the money, really I did.”
“A liar to the end,” she said, and shot him once in the chest. He fell to the floor, then she walked over and put a round into his head.
She dropped the pistol into her bag, left the men’s room, stepping over Burt’s inert form in the vestibule. He began to stir. She thought about it, then picked up his pistol and hit him with it again. “This is your lucky day, Burt.” Then she peeked out the door. The entrance hall was empty. She walked casually from the men’s room and out the front doors, looking for her car. Spotting it near the corner, she beckoned, then waited, and the driver drove quickly up and stopped.
“Slow down, for Christ’s sake,” she said as she got into the car. “Just drive away in a leisurely fashion.” She looked back at the three SUVs parked at the curb. They remained where they were.
“That went very well,” she said, removing her gloves. “Drop me at Madison and Seventy-second Street.”
She got out of the car and began window-shopping her way back toward the Carlyle.