Complex 90 Read online

  Her arms snaked around me and her fingers were at my neck, one hand digging into the hair at the nape. “Please stay, Mike...” She pressed against me and the warmth of her body wanted to suck me in like a vacuum. The apparent softness was all firm reality, her heavy breathing giving a separate and deliberate movement to her thighs and the flat of her belly.

  This was a woman. Not a little girl. A woman with curves and flesh and passion and urgency...

  I hugged her lightly, then held her away. “There’s too much to be done for me to stay,” I said. “I’ll be back, Irene. I will be back.”

  She stepped away reluctantly. “That wasn’t right, throwing a scare into me like that.”

  “Why not, honey?” I grinned at her. “You scare the hell out of me.”

  A flicker of a smile parted her lips. “All right. Get out of here, you big bully. And I’ll work at thinking up ways to scare you even better.”

  “I just might like that,” I said.

  And I stuffed on my hat and left her in the red, white and blue living room, with the big comic-book face of a crying woman staring at her.

  * * *

  Peerage Brokers was a single floor in an unremarkable building on Broadway. It could have been an accounting firm or a mail order company or anything at all, really, with its desks and chairs and filing cabinets and typewriters and faceless crew of apparent office drones. But this was a very different kind of business, behind the bland façade.

  The brunette receptionist was in her thirties, neither attractive nor unattractive, in a gray suit. Unlike Jasper’s secretary, she didn’t pretend not to know me.

  “Mr. Rickerby’s in the conference room, Mr. Hammer.”

  “Thanks, kiddo.”

  Art Rickerby was standing facing a window, waiting for me, with Tony Wale already seated at a small conference table. Another guy was seated there, too. Him I didn’t recognize. This struck me as a roadshow version of my recent farce in D.C.—call it The Pentagon Follies. I shut the door behind me. Art turned and motioned me toward a chair.

  The stranger sat at the head of the table—a slim, narrow-faced guy in a three-piece suit, his hair short and gray, with frozen gray eyes that dissected me as I walked over and sat down and tossed my hat on the table.

  The guy didn’t bother to get up or offer a hand to shake when Rickerby said, “Vincent Worth, Mike Hammer.”

  Rickerby sat, leaving one chair between us. “Mike, Mr. Worth is attached to Special Sections.”

  I gave the great Mr. Worth the most sneeringly insolent expression I could muster.

  “Mr. Worth can drop dead,” I said.

  With as much expression as Buster Keaton regarding a train coming his way, Worth said, “I’ve heard about your childish attitude, Hammer.”

  “Mike,” Rickerby said, “Mr. Worth is in charge of this case now. There are multiple agencies involved, including mine, and Mr. Worth is coordinating all of their efforts.”

  Worth said, “Cooperation is not optional, Hammer.”

  I sat forward. “Who the hell do you think you’re screwing with? Any cooperation you get from me is a matter of my own choice and discretion, so don’t give me any crap and maybe I’ll play ball. Maybe. Now—what urgent thing did you want to see me about?”

  I’ll give them credit, Worth particularly. My little tantrum didn’t faze any of them. Rickerby and Wale had heard it all before, and this newcomer of a scrawny unblinking bureaucrat had been told what to expect.

  Worth said, “Our orders were to go along with you only so far, Hammer. Don’t press your luck.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your odds of making it to the end of the week are just about nil without our cooperation.”

  Something clearly was up—Rickerby’s expression sent that message, strong. So it was time to lean back and shut up and behave.

  Worth reached in a coat pocket and tugged out an envelope. He tossed it on the table like the card that won the game. “We got a make on that print your secretary lifted in your office yesterday.”

  I frowned. “Was it the guy who killed the real Rath?”

  “We don’t know if your visitor did the actual killing or not. That was likely someone else. We just know who your visitor was... is. The report came in from London a few hours ago.”

  “I’m interested.”

  “Felipe Mandau—a known Soviet agent.”

  In spy speak, that wasn’t redundant—that Mandau was a “known” Soviet agent and not just a “suspected” one was significant.

  “So,” I said, “you have definitive proof that a K.G.B. agent is operating on American soil.”

  “We do, Mr. Hammer.”

  It was “Mr. Hammer,” again. We were regular lodge members now

  Worth was saying, “Mandau works exclusively on high-priority, special assignments. We know he was implicated in that Canadian business a few years ago, and again in Madrid earlier this year. There are no useful pictures of him, nor any positive physical identification.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Rickerby chimed in: “This spook works the disguise bit. He’s a master at it.”

  Worth went on: “Your description of him is of little or no value because it’s unlikely that he’ll appear the same the next time.”

  Then that froggy look of his had been stagecraft. You had to be damn good to pull that kind of thing off at close quarters.

  “So I may not recognize him myself,” I said, “should I run into him.”

  “That’s right. And we’re sharing this information with you, Mr. Hammer, because Mandau’s interest in you is... suggestive.”

  “Of what?”

  Rickerby said, “As Mr. Worth said before, Mike, this assassin only works high-priority assignments. That confirms our assumptions that you are a top K.G.B. target.”

  “And you already know why,” I said. “Right now, the Soviets look like saps, and I’m the guy who—”

  Worth cut me off. “Perhaps there’s a different reason, Mr. Hammer. We believe that K.G.B. agents or domestic assets may have had several opportunities to kill you since your return to New York.”

  “I’m not that easy to kill.”

  Rickerby said, “Damnit, Mike, quit being so full of yourself. You really think the K.G.B. couldn’t liquidate one lousy private eye if they felt like it?”

  “They couldn’t manage it back home. What makes you think they can pull it off on my turf?”

  Worth said, “Hasn’t it occurred to you, Mr. Hammer, that Mandau could have taken out both you and your secretary before Sergeant Casey slugged him?”

  “He didn’t have time,” I said.

  But who was I kidding? He did just stand there a while...

  Rickerby said, “We’re inclined to think there’s another reason why you weren’t shot down in cold blood.”

  “Look, guys.”

  “You look, Hammer. Felipe Mandau is the likely assassin on half a dozen major hits internationally in the last two-and-a-half years. The K.G.B. isn’t likely to waste his considerable talents on an inconsequential subject. Ever hear of Conrad Toy?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll enlighten you. Conrad Toy is Colonel Toyevshka, only the man largely responsible for disrupting the unity between the Allies after World War II. When Drushev was ousted, Toy took over the K.G.B. department designed to blow Latin American relations wide open, and he damn near succeeded. Despite our putting a crimp in those plans, he managed to avoid shipment to a gulag during the recent regime change. He is reportedly now in charge of international assassinations.”

  Rickerby said, “Conrad Toy is Felipe Mandau’s direct superior, and we have reports that he may be in the country. Possibly in this city.”

  Worth picked up: “And when they go so far out on a limb as to put the likes of Toy on the scene in person? You know the situation’s hot.”

  “So catch him,” I said with a shrug. “All you alphabet boys are in the soup together on this one, aren’t
you?”

  “We will catch him,” Worth told me slowly, “but probably not until we find out where you come into this.”

  “What, do you think I’m holding out? Hell, technically I’m one of Rickerby’s men—you want to see my badge?”

  “Mike,” Rickerby said, “we just think there’s something else to this, something we don’t know, and something you don’t know.”

  “No, I do know,” I said.

  They all sat forward, even the frozen-eyed Worth.

  “If they’ve passed up chances to kill me,” I said, “that means they want me alive. They want to abduct me again. Make me stand trial in Moscow. Embarrass Uncle Sam and make me out a war criminal.”

  Rickerby and Worth exchanged glances. Across the table sat Tony Wale. He hadn’t said a word throughout all of this.

  I said, “I gave you guys the picture loud and clear in Washington. You read the polygraph charts. What else do you want from me?”

  Worth looked at Rickerby and nodded.

  Then Rickerby, with a smile that wouldn’t fool an infant, said, “Frankly, Mike, we’d like to dangle you out there as bait.”

  “Aren’t you doing that already?”

  “You have a minimum amount of support on this thing— Sergeant Casey at your side, and a handful of agents salted around keeping an eye on you and... Velda.”

  There was something in Rickerby’s voice I didn’t like. “Why the pause before Velda’s name?”

  And now, finally, Tony Wale spoke.

  He and I went way back, but he had done damn little to help me when I was held in D.C.

  “You’re very close to your secretary, aren’t you?” Wale said. “She’s a remarkable woman, Miss Sterling.”

  I felt the muscles in my upper back go taut. “Yeah, she is. So what?”

  “An hour ago we prevented her attempted abduction. The two men who tried it were killed.”

  I reached across the table and grabbed him by his lapels and dragged him over to me. The other two men jumped from their chairs, startled as hell.

  “Where is she, Tony?”

  He was scared, flopping on that table like a swordfish on deck; his hands clutched at my wrists and tried to force them down, but he couldn’t. “Take it easy, Mike! She’s home! Home and safe.”

  I let go slowly, then clenched my fists again so they couldn’t see my hands trembling. Wale crawled back across the table, shaken and missing his dignity.

  I turned to Rickerby. “Who were they, Art?”

  “Local hoods. One of our cars cut them off, and the punks knew they’d been had. There was a high-speed chase and they turned their car over. Both died in the crash.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Yes. We would have liked to question them.”

  “I would have liked to break their necks.”

  Worth said, “Mr. Hammer, we don’t believe your secretary knew the attempt was even made. They were spotted moving in, saw our people, and panicked, trying to get out of it. That simple. You were lucky we were tagging along behind her. Right now, we’re running a check on both the late perpetrators, but I’m not holding out any hopes of finding anything.”

  “Damn!”

  Rickerby said, “Mike, this tells us they’re reaching out to locals—that means they have a limited crew here in the States. We’ve picked up back-channel chatter that indicates a second assassin, possibly Mandau’s partner, is also in the country.”

  I smashed a fist into my palm. There were lightning flashes in front of my eyes. “I’ll find them all and I’ll kill them all!”

  “Actually, Mike,” Rickerby said, “you’re closer to what we’re after than you might guess.”

  “Huh? What?”

  Worth said, “The pressure’s on in Washington, Mr. Hammer. Tomorrow the Soviet Ambassador is making a visit to the White House. There are voices against you in both houses of Congress, and Communist factions around the world are screaming for your hide.”

  I made a suggestion about what all these good people could do to themselves.

  Rickerby was in the chair next to me now. He put a hand on my shoulder. “There is a real problem tied into all this, Mike, and it’s a bad one.”

  My head was throbbing. “And the hits just keep on coming. What?”

  His voice was as calm as mine was ragged. “As you pointed out back in D.C., we don’t have any extradition agreement with Soviet Russia... but we do have such treaties with several of those other countries you, uh, traveled through.”

  “Aw, shit.”

  “You can come out on the short end, my friend.”

  I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I can hear it in your voice, Ricketyback. you’ve got an angle.”

  The three men exchanged glances, and tiny smiles. I didn’t know whether to be nervous or reassured.

  “Mike, if you can deliver one of those Soviet agents to us, preferably alive,” Rickerby said, “we would have evidence of espionage on American soil. That could be viewed as an act of war.”

  “Or,” Worth said, “it could serve as a bargaining chip.”

  “I give you a K.G.B. agent,” I said, “and you can put the squeeze on the Soviets?”

  “We can trade someone on the level of Mandau or even better Conrad Toy for half a dozen of our people rotting in an East Berlin prison.”

  “And part of the deal is the heat comes off me?”

  Rickerby nodded. “You have our word. You have my word.”

  I rolled that around in my mind some. “How much time have I got?”

  Worth said, “These efforts to extradite you have to go through all sorts of channels, of course. I’d say you might have a week. That is, if you can live that long, or avoid being abducted. Of course, if you would allow us to increase our protective participation...”

  “No,” I said, and reached for my hat. I got to my feet. “I don’t want to scare these boys off. Now we’re at the flush them out stage.”

  “Otherwise, Mr. Hammer,” Worth said, “if this extradition effort goes through, I would get a really top-notch lawyer, if I were you.”

  “Oh, if it comes up,” I said, “I’ll get the best.”

  “That’s a relief to hear.” He paused and frowned. “Who might that be?”

  “The American public,” I said. “I want to see what the voters will do to the idiots who yelled for my scalp.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Des Casey was waiting for me in the Peerage Brokers reception area, a soldier uncomfortably out of uniform. Beyond his attitude, the only thing G.I. about him was his shoes and socks. For some reason, career guys never seem to change those when they get into civvies.

  Down on the street, we caught a cab and climbed in. Since Rickerby had used him to summon me, Casey seemed apologetic when he asked, “They give you a rough time up there?”

  “It’ll get rougher.”

  His shook his head and his eyes widened. “Brother, did they lay into me for letting you take off alone.” He handed me a small notebook and said, “I think I got most of the information you were looking for. Didn’t take that long.”

  “How did the senator come out?”

  “Clean, Mike. As close to spotless as I figure any politician could be. He has no suspicious business ties, has cut himself off from any of the proceeds from his law firm while he’s in office, and he’s known for voting his conscience... even when it’s at odds with campaign donors.”

  “You said ‘close to spotless.’”

  His grin had a nice boyish quality, surprising from such a rugged guy. “Well, I don’t have anything to support that, but your friend Hy Gardner told me there were. how did he put it? ‘Whispers’ about Jasper’s personal life. Mr. Gardner said if you wanted to know more, you should stop by his office in person.”

  “That sounds like Hy. Okay, I’ll do that.”

  “What next?”

  “How are your contacts around this town?”

  “They go back a few years. But I st
ill got ’em.”

  “Good. See what you can get on a deceased punk named Pietro Romanos.”

  I gave him everything Pat had passed on to me. That he’d been out of the loop for a while actually gave Casey a certain advantage. His military status overshadowed any of his police background, and a G.I. on leave can get into all kinds of places no questions asked. And there was always the excuse of looking up an old buddy, if somebody asked—after a couple of belts of booze, those old-line infantrymen will always talk up a storm with one of their own.

  “Listen,” I said, “act like you don’t know Romanos is dead. Say that he’s a longtime pal you’re trying to get in touch with. When you ask somebody about somebody who turns out to be dead, all kinds of information comes pouring out.”

  “How would I have known Romanos?”

  “Des, you’ve got the perfect excuse to reach out to him. This Romanos was a competition sharp shooter. You took several division championship pistol matches, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Isn’t it conceivable that at one time or another, you went up against Romanos at a meet?”

  “It is. You’re pretty good at this detective stuff, aren’t you, Mike?”

  “Yeah. I gotta be.” I grinned at him. “The killing evil bastards part doesn’t pay that well.”

  The kid thought that was pretty funny, but the cabbie was frowning at us in the rearview mirror.

  “Then, Mike, you want me to go off on my own again?”

  “I do. But it’s strictly volunteer. I can’t promise I can protect your stripes, son.”

  “I never wanted to be a sergeant forever, anyway.”

  Two blocks from our apartment building, I got out, waited for the cab’s taillights to disappear around the corner, then started to walk west. The drizzle that had greased the streets stopped momentarily, then the wind came back with a soft chill to it and the rain began with that strange quality of blanketing the sounds that were the heartbeat of the city.

  I didn’t see them, but I knew they were there. Field glasses would be trained on anyone entering the apartment building and the doorman standing out of the wet wasn’t the same one I had seen last time. Neither was the porter who was making a sad show of emptying clean ashtrays into a pail in the lobby. God bless ’em, they couldn’t hide it. There was too much training there. They looked at me casually, nodded half-heartedly, playing the game to the hilt, but they might as well have left their badges pinned to their shirts.