The Company of the Dead (15 page)

Standing and stretching, he pulled at the cuffs of his shirt and straightened the hem of his jacket as he turned to face the gate that opened out of the park and back onto Broadway.

Shine, in his guise as hotel staff, returned to the Waldorf. Hardas was watching the pier; Shaw and Collins were trawling the downtown bars. It looked like Lightholler was long gone.

Kennedy, informed by Saffel’s missive, had thought that Lightholler wouldn’t run. Now he knew the truth of it: Lightholler was merely a pawn in the Germans’ game. Alarmed by Kennedy’s visit and discarded by his superiors, he could be anywhere.

Abandoning the brownstone, Kennedy had spent the night on the streets, Morgan contritely by his side as he issued orders from his two-way. By the time Shaw called in, announcing that their quarry had been sighted on Fourth Avenue, Kennedy knew exactly what to do. With a man like Lightholler, honesty would yield the best results.

Kennedy recalled Shine. Two kills and no sleep made him a liability.

He spoke to Shaw and arranged for Lightholler to be brought over to Kobe’s joint on 12th Street. As neither Shaw nor Collins could be privy to the recruitment, Hardas would have to escort Lightholler on to the Lone Star. Shine would be held on tap.

There was no way of knowing how Lightholler would handle the revelation at hand.

It was Lightholler’s third shower in less than twenty-four hours. It restored much of his vigour, but a seedy aftertaste of the night lingered.

He’d entered the suite’s lounge, still feeling somewhat at a loss, when he heard a knock at the door. He started at the sound. Kennedy had said that they’d meet up again on Tuesday, and he wasn’t expecting any visitors today. Reluctantly he opened the door. Two strangers framed the entrance.

“Captain Lightholler,” one of them said. “Major Kennedy sent us. I’m Collins. This is Shaw.” They flashed their badges. “Would you please accompany us?”

They wore the drab grey suits that seemed to be
de rigueur
for Confederate operatives. Both men were heavy-set, their square heads squatting on thick necks that threatened to burst through their shirt collars.

“What happened to Tuesday?” Lightholler asked warily.

“The major needs to see you now, Captain,” Collins said. “I’m afraid we don’t have any time to waste.”

“Could you give me a moment?”

Motioning the men to step into the inner hallway, Lightholler walked back into his bedroom, surprised to find that he was experiencing some sense of relief, some purpose to this strange day. He grabbed a jacket and smoothed out the lapels, slipping it on as he emerged from the room. The two men were still standing in the hallway. They stepped to either side as he passed through the doorway.

They rode the lift in silence and led him out of the lobby. A white Hotspur was idling in the valet parking area. The agents directed him into the back seat and positioned themselves to either side. A third man drove. A light drizzle of rain sprinkled against the windshield.

“Isn’t the Lone Star downtown?” Lightholler asked.

Shaw laughed.

The driver picked up his radio and said, “Tell Mr Cooper to send his team to cover the Lone Star.”

The reply was too garbled for Lightholler to understand.

The driver glanced up at the rear-view, appraising him, and added, “No. We’re fine. We’ll see you at Kobe’s after we make the pickup in Queens. Hardas will wait. He wants this package.”

Collins turned to stare at Lightholler, giving him a long, hard look. Lightholler returned the gaze. Slate-grey eyes blinked back at him slowly. The agent appeared to come to some conclusion. His face relaxed into a confident smile as he turned away.

These agents were a different cut from Kennedy’s men. They seemed as resolute as the others had seemed desperate. They were certainly more consistent with Lightholler’s expectation of intelligence men. Yet there was something wrong here.

The Hotspur made a right-hand turn onto 42nd Street. Rain slashed the asphalt. Up ahead, the entrance to the Queens Midtown Tunnel appeared.

Lightholler considered his options.

Kobe’s sushi bar sat on the corner of Third Avenue and 12th Street. Wide awned windows received a spatter of rain while permitting a clear view of the narrow street. From where he sat, Hardas could observe anyone who approached.

Through the bar’s open door wafted the sounds of distant traffic. Car horns, the occasional whinny of a carriage horse, fragments of conversation from passers-by, all borne on the swell of auto fumes. He glanced at his watch, not even bothering to check the time but going through the same motions he’d repeated since his arrival. He glared at the phone booth, three feet away on the pavement’s edge, willing it to ring.

He’d spoken with Shaw almost an hour ago. They should have been here by now.

He lit up a Texas Tea and thought about it.

Kennedy was convinced the Bureau was shutting them down. It all fell in to place. Webster, as director of the CBI, was aware that Kennedy had recruited Morgan, an expert on the
Titanic
. He’d also discovered that Kennedy was trying to recruit Lightholler, the man who’d brought the new
Titanic
to New York. And, somehow, he must have gotten wind of what she carried in her hold. That, along with Hardas’s own involvement with the wreck of the original ship, presented a compelling body of evidence. Webster had added one plus one and got three. Odds were that he thought Kennedy and his crew had thrown in with the Kaiser.

For all Hardas knew, the Bureau could have been monitoring Shaw’s phone line as well, which meant they knew about Kobe’s place. He had to get out of there.

Rising from his chair, he pinched the remains of his cigarette between yellow fingertips. The Lone Star was five minutes away at a run. He made his way to the back of the bar and found Kobe sitting staring at a small television.

Kobe’s face was a sickly hue in the reflected light of the screen. But his eyes shone with a contained energy. He was slight and seemed lost in the folds of a leather kimono. When he raised a hand to wipe away a tear of laughter, Hardas glimpsed the tattooed tail that flicked about his wrist to envelop his arm in a red-green dragon. A potent reminder that this man was yakuza.

“One minute, Commander, this is the best part.”

Hardas glanced at the screen. The picture quality was grainy black and white. A fat man in a tight suit stood beside a ridiculously thin man who was scratching his head in confusion to the accompaniment of a tinny piano.

“That’s another fine mess, no,” Kobe mimicked, before muting the television.

“I have to leave,” Hardas said. “I was expecting someone, though. If he arrives, could you make certain he remains here till I return?” He pulled out a photograph of Lightholler, the one Shine had lifted from the Bureau assassin. He passed it to the gangster, who rotated it a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees before passing it back. “And keep him out of sight.”

“I don’t know. You all look the same to me, Mr Hardas.” Kobe rolled his eyes.

Hardas reached back into his pocket and withdrew a wad of ten-thousand-yen notes. He peeled a number of bills off the top of the roll and handed them over.

“I feel a sudden improvement in my vision,” Kobe said with a smile.

“I bet you do.” Hardas smiled back through his teeth. “If I’m not back in the hour, could you send him on to the Lone Star?”

Kobe’s eyes returned to Hardas’s billfold.

Hardas took some more notes from the roll and handed them over. “Is there a way out back?” he asked.

“Always.”

Kobe took the rest of the bills from Hardas’s hand unceremoniously. Slipping them somewhere within his kimono, he replied, “If I see this man, I will take care of it. Consider your contribution an insurance payment.” He patted his kimono. “That’s the best deal you’ll get in Osakatown.”

Hardas watched the red-green dragon writhe on gold hairless skin and said, “I know it.”

Kobe led him out of the bar.

The Hotspur was perched at the lip of the tunnel entrance, waiting for the traffic to pass. The driver snapped on his lights and a single beam illuminated the car ahead.

“You ought to get that fixed,” Lightholler said, addressing the back of the driver’s head. “A sentry might pull you over.”

The two agents traded a look. Collins withdrew a gun from his shoulder holster and let it rest in his lap. A Dillinger parabellum with a customised leather grip.

“What tipped you off?” Collins asked carelessly.

“You had no idea about the Lone Star.”

“We do now, Captain. Thank you.”

Lightholler felt the panic seep. Cold fear worked its way from the nape of his neck to his fingertips. There was a lurch as the Hotspur waded into the tunnel’s traffic.

“Who are you?”

“CBI, Captain, like we said,” Shaw replied. “Kennedy sold us out.
You’ve
sold us out. Keep your nose clean and you just might have an exciting story to tell your grandchildren.”

Lightholler felt the muzzle of another gun poke up against his right flank. There’d been no telltale click of the safety’s release but that meant little. Familiar enough with small arms, he entertained no confidence in snatching the other agent’s weapon in time to gain any advantage. Besides, he’d done nothing wrong.

They were only a few car lengths into the tunnel when the traffic started to pile up. The far left lane, usually reserved for the aristocracy, was empty. Amazingly, the driver veered into it. Clearly, he was new to New York. Lightholler felt a faint swell of hope.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Collins called out.

The driver opened up the throttle and the Hotspur coughed into fourth gear. “I’m making time,” he replied.

A red light began to flash at the tunnel’s far end, above their lane.

“Fuck,” Shaw said.

“What’s going on?” The driver spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“What are you? An idiot?” Shaw snarled. “Never touch the left lane unless you’re on horseback or dragging a shitload of rich nips in the back of a limo. Jesus, just pull over. I’ll deal with this.”

“You’d better let Cooper know,” Collins said. There might have been the slightest edge of alarm in his voice.

Lightholler felt the gun’s muzzle slip away as Shaw reached for the radio. Collins placed his own weapon beneath the flap of his jacket, his hand still firmly on its grip. From another pocket he withdrew a thick roll of yen notes, saying, “This ought to take care of it.”

“Behave nice, Captain,” Shaw growled. “We don’t want to spark off an international incident now, do we?”

The others seemed to find this comment amusing and were still chuckling as the car rolled to a halt. Lightholler peered into the tunnel.

Ahead, into the single beam of the Hotspur’s headlight, stepped a solitary figure.

Kennedy had selected the Lone Star Cafe for a number of reasons. Its owner, Friedman, was an old friend—a veteran who’d served under his command in the Second Ranger War. It was situated in a busy neighbourhood. It had three exits. As one of the last outposts of Southern culture remaining in the Union, its sheer obviousness made it ideal. The perfect place to hide a Confederate conspiracy was among a group of bitter Southern sympathisers who spent their afternoons exchanging tales of the glory days between mouthfuls of whiskey and cheap Texan beer.

The café’s door was tattooed with the mandatory faded yellow rose that grew from the sawdust-paved floorboards. Dim light filtered through bronze-tinted windows in a permanent sunset. The walls were adorned with flags, including the old Texas State banner and a tattered Confederate battle standard. Between them hung the flag of the Second Confederacy: a blue star ringed by eleven smaller stars, surmounted on a concessionary field of red and white stripes. Beneath the flags hung maps marking out the territories that had rushed to join the new Texan Republic following its secession from the Union in 1930: Florida, Georgia, Tennessee, Alabama, Oklahoma, Mississippi, Arkansas, Louisiana, New Mexico, Arizona and Nevada.

There was an eclectic assortment of photographs that ran the gamut from Hank Williams to President Patton, all arranged around a centrepiece depicting the last meeting between Lee and Jackson. To one side, a more recent portrait of Thomas Clancy—incumbent president of the Confederacy—had been defaced. Someone had added a monocle and spiked German helmet to his photo. Friedman had left it hanging with no attempt at removing the crude alterations. For all Kennedy knew, he might have made the “improvements” himself.

Kennedy and Morgan sat at a wooden table in the back. Kennedy had his back to the wall. He let his hand slip down the side of the chair leg to feel the reassuring presence of the leather satchel beneath his feet.

“Another drink?” Morgan ventured, breaking the silence.

“Coffee, thanks,” Kennedy replied. “You could probably do with one yourself.”

Morgan eyed him sourly and made a beeline for the bar.

Kennedy’s glance swept across the mixed crowd of Confederate wannabes. He felt displeasure rise within him at the young Union business types and tourists who thought that wearing a string tie or a faded grey shirt conferred upon them the immediate status of Johnny Rebel. Then again, hadn’t an affinity between South and North been one of the more peaceful precepts of Camelot?

Perhaps, but the South was a nation. North was just another direction on the map.

It was almost midday and still no word from Hardas. Kennedy’s forces were scattered, spread wide across the board and largely unsupported. He needed to regain some semblance of control.

The saloon doors swung open. Kennedy rose from his chair at the sight of Hardas’s silhouette. He was alone. He caught sight of Morgan at the bar and followed him back to the table.

“Anyone see you come in?” Kennedy asked.

“No.”

“Sit down. Talk to me.”

“Shaw and Collins didn’t show.” Struggling with the words, Hardas stared at the floor.

“If they had him, they would have brought him in by now,” Kennedy said.