Read Online Bernhardt's Edge by Collin Wilcox - Free Book Online

pairs of slacks, a pair of sport shoes from the shoe rack. He threw everything on the bed, then carefully folded the clothing, packed them, put the shoes in plastic bags. He straightened, took his practiced traveler’s last-minute inventory, then closed the suitcase, locked it with a key from his key ring. He returned to the closet, slipped out a matching leather case from the shelf. He took the second case to the bed, where he unlocked it, opened it. Both halves of the case were filled with scalloped foam. Embedded separately in the foam were a Smith and Wesson .357 magnum with a four-inch barrel, a .22 caliber Colt Woodsman with a six-inch barrel, and a UZI machine pistol, along with a silencer for the Woodsman, three clips for the UZI, and two boxes of cartridges, one for the .357, one for the Woodsman. Two ice picks, both with weighted metal handles, completed the cache. Quickly, he checked the contents of the cartridge boxes, checked the operation of the two handguns and the UZI. Working with the guns, his touch was as deft as a musician’s, handling his cherished instruments.
    He closed the second suitcase and tested the lock. Now he slipped into a blue blazer, took an envelope from the first suitcase. He opened the envelope and riffled the contents: approximately five thousand dollars in used bills. He put the envelope in an inside pocket of the blazer, checked for his wallet, checked again for his keys, and his pocket change.
    Next stop, San Francisco.

5
    P OWERS TOUCHED THE BREAST-POCKET-BULGE of the envelope, recrossed his legs, cleared his throat. Now he lifted the U.S. News and World Report so that it screened his face, as if he were nearsighted, and was concentrating on reading the magazine. His instructions had been simple, recognizably ingenious. He was to sit in the observation area, ostensibly reading. On his lap, placed so the logo could clearly be seen, he was to put a copy of Time. Both magazines were to be the current issues. Carefully, Fisher had repeated the instructions, then gone on to elaborate: If American flight 324 from Detroit was on time, and if Powers hadn’t been contacted by midnight, then he was to phone the Detroit number, and make new arrangements.
    Meanwhile, dressed casually in slacks and a golf jacket, he was playing the part of the ordinary, work-a-day traveler, or the suburban husband, waiting to greet his returning family.
    Time, 11:40 P.M.
    What were the odds of his being recognized? How many people did he know in San Francisco, in Northern California? If it happened, if he was recognized, he’d say he was traveling incognito, suggesting that he’d been sent on a secret mission, business related. It was important, he knew, to have a prepared story, should the unexpected happen. Role-playing, staying one step ahead—in every field of endeavor, it was important. In the boardroom or the back alley, it was important to be prepared, constantly anticipating. He’d learned that, learned to—
    He was aware that someone was standing in front of him—expectantly, politely standing in front of him. Conscious of a sudden, overwhelming reluctance, aware that his whole world was turning, tilting, about to fall away, he lowered the magazine.
    Fisher was a black man, probably in his early thirties, conservatively dressed in a blue blazer, gray flannel slacks, a white button-down shirt, striped red tie, everything in place, the pat picture of the upwardly mobile black on the make. His luggage, too, was part of the predictable package: matched saddle-leather cases, convincingly worn. His features were regular, classical Negroid. His eyes were shrewd and watchful: careful, cautious, calculating eyes. His hair was short. His voice was quiet, urbanely modulated: “Mister Carter?”
    Silently, Powers nodded. His eyes, he knew, were beyond control, in helpless flight from the impassive brown face before him to the nearby faces of random passersby to the doors