Saint (19 page)

But Carl was much closer to Bellevue than they were.

He sprinted down Thirty-seventh, ignoring the casual gazes of pedestrians, clearly clueless about the events behind him. The city exploded back to life at Third Avenue, but no one in this part of town had heard the news that the president had just been shot twenty-two blocks north. They still sold their magazines and walked briskly to their meetings and hailed their cabs.

Carl ignored the red lights and tore across the street, ignoring a long horn blast from a motorist. The chorus of sirens reached him above the street noise. The ambulance and its police escort were behind him on Avenue of the Americas, screaming toward him.

What are you doing, Carl? You think you're going to find your
father? Every step is a step closer to death.

Left on First Avenue. He could see that they'd already closed the Midtown Tunnel in an attempt to cut off escape routes. Confusion was backing up. News was spreading.

Carl reached Bellevue Hospital on First and Thirty-fourth ahead of the piercing sirens. He stepped into an alley opposite the emergency ramp as the first police swept around the corner, sped past the alley, and squealed to a stop one block north. Another car joined the first. Two others peeled south to cut off any approach from Twenty-third Street.

The ambulance slowed to take the corner, then accelerated toward the emergency ramp, directly across from Carl.

He eased back into the shadows, panting from his run. But he couldn't stay here; there was no direct view of the ramp.

He glanced behind, saw that the alley was clear all the way to Second Avenue, shoved his hands into his pockets, and headed directly for the ramp, head down.

Why are you risking exposure, Carl?

I'm not. I'm simply a curious bystander, oblivious to the contents
of that ambulance.

You'll be seen.

I've already been seen at a dozen events. My face is undoubtedly
on film. Faces can be changed.

You haven't mapped this escape route. If they grow suspicious,
you'll be running blind.

I do well running blind.

Do you think the old man is your father?

He couldn't answer the question.

Then Carl was behind a waist-high retaining wall, staring down a slight incline at the red ambulance. The doors flew open. A para-medic spilled out and was quickly joined by six medical staff who'd been waiting.

The gurney slid out. The man he'd come face-to-face with yesterday in the Waldorf lay on his back with a green oxygen mask over his face. A silver pole with a bag of fluid was affixed to the gurney.

But it was the blood that held Carl's attention. The sheets draped over his chest were red with blood. This had been his bullet's doing.

The old man in tweed stepped from the back of the ambulance, and Carl's heart skipped a beat.
Father
. Surely this couldn't be his father!

The man hurried beside the gurney as they wheeled it to the open doors. He seemed to be praying.

The distant features that had transfixed his mind as he settled for the shot now confronted him in full color at less than fifty paces.

He did know this man!

He didn't know who he was, or how he knew him, or even how well he knew him, but he did know him.

As a father.

Carl stared, wide-eyed. His father? Or his spiritual father?

They call me Saint.

A STRANGE calm had stilled David Abraham's heart the moment Robert dropped to the stage floor. He knew then that one of two things had happened.

Which meant that he'd been right all along.

Or dreadfully wrong.

He was second to reach the president, just behind an agent who ran between Robert and the audience to intercept a second shot.

But one look at the president, and there was no doubt that a second shot would not be needed. Robert Stenton lay on his back, eyes closed, red blood spreading from a small tear in his white shirt.

David's inexplicable peace quickly changed to an urgency. Perhaps some panic. The president of the United States had been assassinated, right here in front of a hundred cameras. And he had played a role!

He began to pray, loudly and fervently, pausing every few seconds to demand they work on him faster, load him faster, get to the hospital faster.

Now they had arrived at the hospital, and the singular calm returned to him. He prayed as he hurried to stay by Robert's side. Disbelief gripped the staff as they rushed him in. A doctor spoke urgently, issuing orders, but David wasn't listening. His own prayers crowded his mind.

Not until he'd crossed the threshold did he notice a lone figure in his peripheral vision, watching them from behind. He turned his head. David froze. Dear Lord, it was
him
!

They exchanged a long stare.

Someone touched his elbow. “Sir—”

“I'll be right in.”

David turned and walked toward the man, who still stood with his hands in his pockets, mesmerized by the scene. He stopped less than ten feet from the man, separated from him by a waist-high barrier.

David found his voice. “Do you know who I am?”

The man searched his face, eyes blank.

“Do you know what's happening?”

“Are you my father?”

The sound of his voice—he would never mistake that voice!

“No. My name is David Abraham. Do you know who I am?”

No response.

“I know who you are,” David said.

The air was thick between them.

“Who am I?” the man asked.

David glanced back and satisfied himself that they could not be overheard. A part of him demanded that he call security. Unless he was wrong about everything up to this point, he was facing the man who'd assassinated the president of the United States.

But if he wasn't wrong, calling out for help would be the worst thing he could do.

He jerked his head back to the man. “You're more than I can tell you here. Did you kill the president?”

“Was that the president?”

“Yes. He was shot. Did you do the shooting?”

“No.”

As far as David could see, the denial wasn't a lie. But that meant nothing; he couldn't see into the mind.

“Do you know my father?” the man asked.

“No, I don't.”

The man hesitated a moment, then turned to his right and began to walk away.

“They've lied to you,” David said. “It's all a lie.”

The man stopped and turned back.

He knew it! David pushed forward while he had the advantage. “Tell me where I can find you. I'll send a boy to talk to you. He's my son. No one else, you have my word.”

The man stood still, considering. Then he pulled his hand out of his pocket and dropped something on the ground. Without a word or a glance, he jogged across the street and into the alley.

David hoisted his leg over the short wall and struggled over. It was a matchbook, he could see that now. He ran to the matches and picked them up.

Peking Grand Hotel. Chinatown.

Hands trembling, lips mumbling in prayer, David pulled out his cell phone and made the call.

21

C
arl unlocked the hotel room door, stepped in, and eased the door closed.

“Thank goodness you made it! Is everything okay? You're late.”

He felt lost but refused to show it. “I'm here, aren't I?”

A wide smile split Kelly's face. She hurried over to him, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the lips.

Her enthusiasm washed over him, and the desperation that had plagued him for the last hour faded.

“We did it, Carl.” She kissed him again, and this time he kissed her back. It was a great moment, wasn't it? They'd completed their first mission together. Kelly had never been so happy when he'd success-fy executed an exercise, but now, in the field, her joy was practically spilling over.

It was a very good day to be alive.

Carl suddenly wanted to see their work. “Is it on the news?”

“Are you kidding? They've been playing it nonstop. A perfect hit, Carl. Agotha will be so proud.”

“I don't care about Agotha,” he said. He clarified his statement when she raised her brow. “Not like I care for you.”

“She's your mother,” Kelly said. “I'm your lover.”

He winked at her. Imagine that, he actually winked at her. He wasn't used to being so forward with her, preferring instead to let her take the lead. She was, after all, his handler as well.

But he was emboldened by his tremendous success. “One day we should get married,” he said.

Her eyes lit up. “And run off to Nevada?”

“Why not? We're lovers. Isn't that what lovers do? Run off?”

They stared at each other.

“You want to see it?” Kelly plopped down on the bed and faced the television.

Carl sat next to her and watched the muted images. A reporter was speaking below a large graphic that read “President Stenton Shot.” At the bottom was a disclaimer that the images were graphic.

He stared as the footage of his kill played in slow motion. It looked surreal. The president talking, pointing to someone in the crowd. A sudden tug at his shirt, his mouth caught open in a gasp, clutching a growing red spot on his chest. He dropped to his seat hard, then toppled back and lay still.

Kelly was biting her fingernail when Carl looked at her for approval. “Amazing,” she said.

He shrugged. “Just a day on the range.”

But there was more to it, wasn't there? Far more. He was playing her game now, as he always had, but if she knew he'd spoken to someone at the hospital, she wouldn't be so happy.

Carl knew he faced a predicament that could end his life. He had to tell her. She would help him figure it out—she always had. But he couldn't bring himself to ruin her happiness.

“What's wrong?” Kelly asked.

He looked at her. “Hmm? Nothing.”

“You're sweating.”

“Am I?” He drew his fingers across a moist forehead.

“What's wrong?”

Here it was, then. He couldn't lie to her. Never. Yet he'd just lied, hadn't he? He felt nauseated. He'd felt this way before, many times. When he lied to Agotha while on the hospital bed. When he'd mistaken the truth about who he was and answered incorrectly. In that moment before they turned up the electrical current to help him understand the truth, he'd often felt nauseated.

“What is it?” Worry laced Kelly's voice.

“Our lives might be in danger,” he said.

Kelly stood up. “They know?”

“No, not from them. From Kalman.”

She looked at the television. “But you've executed the hit perfectly.”

Carl blurted the truth as he knew he must. “I talked to him, Kelly! I went to the hospital and talked to the old man. He said his name was David Abraham.”

“What old man? What on earth are you talking about?”

Carl pointed at the television, which was replaying the scene.

“Him. The old man behind the target. I recognized him. I felt as though I had to be sure . . .”

“Sure about what? The hit? We can verify through the media! You . . . You're saying you went to the hospital?”

“They took him into the emergency room. The man was there. He said he knew who I—”

“You
talked
to him?”

“I told him I didn't shoot the president.”

“He actually asked you that?” Kelly stared at him, face white, eyes round. She was angry. Or shocked. Both. At moments like this Carl felt nothing like the hero who could kill any man he wished. He felt more like a child.

Kelly walked to the laptops that showed the views of the dummy rooms, slammed them closed.

“What are you doing?”

“We're getting out of here! You've been identified. It's only a matter of time before the old man matches you to file footage taken over the last few days. They'll have your face on every television in the world by tonight.”

“He gave me his word that he wouldn't do that. He's sending his son.”

Kelly faced him, aghast. “Here?”

“No. To the Peking.”

“How could you do this? You've just killed the president of the United States! Do you think some old man loyal to the president will let you walk away because you told him you didn't kill the leader of the free world?”

Carl fought the nausea sweeping through his stomach. He'd never seen her so distraught. He'd made a terrible mistake, he knew that now. They would terminate him as soon as they discovered it.

And Kelly with him.

He stood and paced in front of the television. “I'm sorry, Kelly. I don't know why I did it. He
knew
me!”

“And I know you,” she said quietly.

“Then tell me what to do.”

She studied him. She loved him—he could see it in her eyes. Even when he made such a terrible mistake as this, she loved him.

Kelly closed her eyes, trying to think. “Okay. Forget what happened. Right now we have to survive.” Her eyes drilled his. “You tell me, what will increase our likelihood of survival now?”

He'd already thought this through. Perhaps, if the cards fell in his favor, he could undo the damage before Kalman discovered the truth. “Even if the man sends his son to the Peking, they have no idea where we are. Our exit window is still four hours away. We should watch the room. If the boy arrives, we may be able to use him. We may also choose to ignore him.”

“How will we know if the boy arrives?”

“Before coming here I went by the Peking and opened the door for him.” Carl pointed at the computers she'd closed. “We'll see him enter the room.”

“We could never trust him. It's likely a trap.”

“He could have alerted the police at the hospital, but he didn't. If the son comes, it won't be a trap.”