The Angel Tapes (35 page)

He obeyed. Then she kicked the door at a certain point and it flew inward, giving Blade a view of a dark and filthy interior.

“In there, just inside the door, there's a car cover. Bring it out.”

He had to admit that she'd thought of everything, right down to the cover. When he'd unfolded it on the sidewalk he saw it was just the right size for his car: not too big, not too small. Perfect. Once covered by the plastic, his car would be invisible; no one would know he was in the building. It wouldn't survive a night in this part of town but, Blade thought, he might not survive either.

“Hurry up, Blade,” she said. “Get that thing on. And be sure to do the cords up tight.”

He'd let her go as far as he was intending to. Once inside that building he'd be at her mercy. Once the suitcases were where Carol wanted them Blade was expendable. He saw no reason why she'd spare his life now.

It took Blade no more than a minute to cover the car in its waterproof coat and pull taut the nylon cords that would make it windproof. The final knot had to be tied. It meant that Blade had to crouch down under the rear bumper. He did so, causing his right hand to be momentarily hidden from Carol.

Yes, safety off. He brought the gun out into view.

“Drop it!” he shouted. “Drop the gun. Now!”

“Bastard!” Her face was ugly with hate.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Let it drop, Carol.”

Had it been the movies, Blade considered afterward, then they might have engaged in a stand off. He'd have persuaded her that the game was up, that it was senseless to keep the gun trained on him. Blade would have reasoned with her, showed her “the error of her ways.” Then she'd have lowered her shooting arm and done one of two things: either meekly allowed him to take the gun from her limp grasp, or let it fall on the cobbled roadway with a clatter.

But this wasn't Hollywood; this was real life.

Carol shot him.

Forty-one

The impact of the bullet was like a kick in the chest by a mule. Blade, still crouched at the rear of the car, was knocked off balance and sent sprawling backward. He felt as though his heart had stopped. The roar of the gun seemed to come one or two seconds later. There was no pain yet where the bullet had struck, only a numbness that was spreading rapidly. There was an ache in his head where it had hit the stones. He couldn't breathe. From his supine position he saw her move into his field of vision and point the Beretta again, this time at his head.

“Don't, Carol. Please.”

Car engines suddenly whined. Tires screeched, as six big vehicles, driven at speed, came to a standstill, blocking the street. Blade and Carol turned their heads as one.

“Back off!” Lawrence Redfern barked.

Two-dozen men had emerged from the cars; they held high-caliber handguns, each trained on the woman in the shawl.

“Back off, Carol!” Redfern shouted again. “Put the gun down.”

Instead, she ducked behind Blade's camouflaged car.

“You fuckers!” she screamed. “I'll blow us all sky-high if you come any nearer. Don't make me.”

Blade was struggling to his feet. The numbness had gone; fire shot through his chest. He nearly fainted from the agony.

“Hold your fire, Redfern,” he managed to blurt out. “For Jesus' sake don't shoot her. She means it.”

Carol was moving slowly toward the red, open door, left hand still inside the shawl.

“Devils!” she bawled. “To hell with you all. To hell with your fucking president.”

The slug took her full in the left shoulder, spun her around, and sent her tottering through the doorway. Something pink fell on the sidewalk and bounced twice. Blade looked aghast to where the shot had come from and saw a heavily built man holding a gun in both hands, smoke issuing from the barrel. The sound of the shot echoed back from the warehouses, then more faintly from the wharf on the other side of the river. Hands were helping Macken to his feet.

“You okay?” It was Redfern.

“‘No' is the simple answer to that. How did you find us?”

“Magic. You're white as a sheet. Nothing broken?”

“Don't think so. Where is she?”

“Ran into the house. We're going in after her.”

“Has she still got the gun?”

“Yes.” To an associate he said: “Good work, Mr. Coburn. A nice clean shot.”

“Ahm, I was aiming for the heart, Mr. Redfern. She moved.”

They operated like army men. They split up: six went swiftly to check any rear or side exits; four went to redirect traffic; the rest took up positions on both sides of the red door. At a signal from Redfern, two men ran inside at a crouch. Gunfire sounded and Blade heard curses. The two came out almost as quickly as they'd gone in. One was holding his arm and swearing loudly.

“Bitch got me in the arm,” he said unnecessarily.

Blade had to think for a moment about what he'd have done in a situation like this. Hailed Carol through a bullhorn, ordering her to give herself up? Radioed for reinforcements?

Redfern was more pragmatic. He jabbed a finger at two of his men and pointed to the doorway. The two sprang into position, legs apart, weapons aimed high. Two Colt-Magnums thundered in rapid fire. Then the men pulled back and allowed their comrades to run through. Blade heard heavy feet pounding up the stairs and voices raised. Then he was inside, too.

The banister moved dangerously when he placed a hand on it. He'd no weapon; it lay where he'd dropped it on the street. But Redfern's men had enough firepower. Blade's aching chest slowed him down and he was panting when he reached the first landing. He found two CIA men stationed there.

“Where is she?” he gasped.

“Next floor.”

He clambered up the second flight of stairs. Incongruously, a naked light bulb burned on the third floor. Carol—or some other squatter—had evidently found an illicit power source; Blade didn't think that the derelict building was still supplied by the electric company. The yellow light illuminated the faces of Redfern and six of his men, deployed on either side of a paneled door. The walls had once been painted a light green; now their color was indefinable. Redfern saw Macken.

“She's locked herself in there,” he told him. “We're going to rush it. Better stand way back. You never know.”

“I'll try and talk to her.”

“I think,” Redfern said evenly, “the time for talking is over, Blade.”

“Just let me try. Just this one last time. It's important to me.”

Redfern thought about this, nodded and stood aside, gun held at the ready. Macken went to the door.

“Carol?”

No reply. He put an ear against one of the panels. He thought he heard somebody moving around.

“Carol, it's Blade. This is senseless. There's no way out. Look, I can help you. I really can.”

He put his ear to the panel again. More muffled sounds came from within.

Then he stiffened and caught his breath. Because of his position—ear against the door, eyes cast downward—Blade was able to see something the Americans could not. There was a contoured molding that ran along the walls about three feet above the floor. Dry rot had set in at a point close by the door and part of the top had crumbled away. Through the break, lighted by the weak bulb in the ceiling, something was reflecting light.

A semitransparent strand.

Blade ducked down and looked beneath the upper rim of the molding.

“Redfern!” he hissed urgently. “Get out. Get out
now!
”

“What?”

“Don't argue, Redfern. Get your men out of here right this minute.”

Blade ran a finger along the telltale wire. It felt like a silk thread.

“She's got the whole fucking shebang booby-trapped. It could go any second.”

Redfern squatted beside Macken. He needed little convincing. The Iraqis had used it, too—or something so much like it as to make little difference. He holstered his gun, turned, and bawled.

“Everybody! Leave! Right now. We're abandoning the building. Let's
go
now. Everybody out!”

There was the rattle of a bolt being drawn aside. The door opened.

Carol Merrigan's face possessed the serenity of an angel's. The lines were softer, as though she was at peace with herself. The plaid shawl was gone, as was the grubby, floral-patterned dress. Now the woman was clad in a white nightgown that reached to her ankles. Its silky material shimmered when she walked. Blade thought suddenly of a Pre-Raphaelite oil painting that hung in his mother's living room.

The smooth sheer line of the nightgown was interrupted by a bulge at the left shoulder and Blade saw a small red stain there, one that grew with each second. Yet if Carol was in pain she didn't show it; she carried a lighted candle in her left hand. The other was raised to eye level, and made a sign recognizable to Christians for more than a millennium: two fingers rested on the palm; two were held aloft; the thumb was splayed. The sign of benediction.

But the two raised fingers had been taped together. Where they joined, Blade saw an electrode. A strip of tape secured another to Carol's thumb. Twin strands of wire ran behind her hand and trailed behind her as she advanced.

“Christ,” someone whispered.

“Go!” Redfern said again. This time his voice was hoarse.

Macken had seldom seen men of their bulk move so quickly. It certainly sharpens the senses, he decided: The prospect of impending death sharpens the senses like nothing else imaginable.

The stairs had been hard to take coming up, Blade thought; but, by Jesus, they were no trouble at all on the return journey. Sixteen burly CIA operatives fairly flew down them. Blade heard the sharp report of timber cracking. He followed, heart pounding, the pain in his chest forgotten. He took the stairs two at a time.

That was a mistake.

His right foot came down heavily on a step near the top. What had cracked under the weight of one of Redfern's men now gave way. Macken's foot drove down through the rotten timber. He cried out as he was thrown sideways against the banister. Something in his right calf tore.

Blade lay sprawled awkwardly on the stairs. His leg was imprisoned to above the knee. He leaned his weight against a step and pulled. The pain was excruciating. He beat the timber with his fist. It wouldn't budge.

Carol Merrigan now stood close to the edge of the landing. The candlelight flickered over her face. She was smiling, a travesty of the sweet child he'd once known.

“It's time, Blade,” she said. “Mammy and Daddy are waiting for us.”

“No, Carol, don't.”

“But I must, Blade. Don't you see? It's what my mammy wanted. It's the power that I got from my mammy. ‘You'll only have to click your fingers, Angel,' she used to say, ‘and you'll have any man you want.' She was a lovely woman, Blade. She told me I looked just like her when she was a girl.”

Macken struggled with the step, pushing, pulling. He heard a nail starting to come loose with a groan. Somebody was coming back up the stairs. Quietly.

“You do,” he said. “You're beautiful, Carol. Really.”

“Then you want me, Blade? I know I want you. I told you that already. Now I have you all to myself.”

Blade's gaze was fastened to her upraised hand. The deadly electrodes sparkled in the light of the candle. He tugged again furiously and frantically and heard another nail wrench itself loose. He had his knee free. There was no feeling in his calf.

“It doesn't have to be like this, Carol,” he gasped. “We can work something out. There's always hope.” His calf was halfway out.

“Yes, Blade,” she said slowly. “There's hope for us. But not here. Angels have the power of life and death, you know. All an angel has to do is click her fingers. Watch.”

“No!”

Strong hands gripped Blade's arms. Pain shot through his leg as he was yanked free. Then he was tumbling head over heels down the stairs, falling over another body. They came to rest in a tangle of limbs on the lower landing. Redfern. They were on their feet faster than the speed of conscious thought, half-running, half-falling down the last flight of stairs.

Daylight.

Then the third floor of the building detached itself from the rest with a roar.

She'd rigged it, Blade discovered later, so that a series of minor charges, strung together and snaking around all four walls of the third story, would detonate simultaneously. Captain Tom Fitzpatrick said—later still, when inspecting the rubble—that he'd seldom seen such expert workmanship.

The masonry, windows, and timber surrounds blown horizontally outward. The debris arced above the heads of Blade and the agency men, coming to earth harmlessly on the other side of the street in the space between the warehouses. The fourth story descended upon the second—and settled there, as though they'd always belonged together. It was like the collapsing of a giant soufflé.

“Jesus H. Christ!”

It was Redfern. His dark suit was powdered with masonry dust. He looked up at the transmogrified building with something resembling awe.

“She didn't miss a goddamn trick. That's the damnedest thing I ever saw.”

He turned to his men. “Everybody all right?”

There were mutterings of affirmation, accompanied by curses; heads were shaken in disbelief.

“You okay, Blade?”

“I think so.” He could walk—after a fashion. “Thanks again, Redfern. That's two I owe you.”

Blade dusted himself off, got out his telephone. He asked to be put through to his assistant.

“Sweetman? You can come on in now. It's over.”

“We heard an explosion. Where
are
you?”

He told her.

“And Angel?”

“Hoist with her own petard. Literally.”

“What?”

“She blew herself up, the poor, twisted bitch.”

“My God. We're on our way. Duffy's here, too.”