the Plaza Hotel, a corner room on the fifth floor that overlooked the trees of Central Park. The horse-drawn carriages were plying their immemorial trade here as in all the other versions of New York that Stone had visited. A gallows - this was something he hadn’t seen before - stood in front of the Grand Army Plaza. He counted fifteen corpses, barefoot in grey pyjamas, placards with block printing he couldn’t quite read hung around their necks. Shaved heads, swollen faces black with congested blood. Two sailors posed while a third took their photograph.
‘The locals’ idea of justice,’ Welch said. He’d brought his tumbler of whiskey with him, and a cigarette drooped from the corner of his mouth as he sat on the edge of the bed and used his handkerchief to remove dried mud from his combat boots. ‘Spies and black-marketeers, mostly. They hang ’em on the Great Lawn in the park. Night rallies with flaring torches, speeches, loyalty pledges, marching bands, Girl Scouts selling cookies . . . the whole nine yards. Afterward, they display the bodies pour encourager les autres . They’ll hang Tom Waverly there if they get the chance. Why don’t you try on the suit, get rid of that hick-from-the-sticks look.’
A black suit and a white shirt were laid out on the king-size bed, alongside black lace-up shoes, black socks, a cell phone, a billfold containing two thousand local dollars, ID and documentation that backed up Stone’s FBI cover story, a local driver’s licence, and an NYC Military Zone pass.
Stone checked that the cell phone worked, asked if he could use it to contact the local office if he needed information.
‘My cell number is on speed-dial.’ Welch said. ‘Call me if you need to know anything.’
‘You aren’t coming with me?’
‘I have a meeting with General Grover, the local who’s in charge of security in the New York Military Zone. Ralph Kohler wants me to smooth his feathers, feed him bullshit about cooperation and full and frank exchange of information. As I said, this isn’t like the old days when we could do whatever the hell we wanted and make up some story to tell the locals afterward. We don’t coerce, we cooperate. Anyhow, you won’t be on your own. I’ve arranged a driver for you.’
‘I can drive myself.’
‘You think you can handle Manhattan traffic after three years in that back-to-nature sheaf? And if Ed Lar does have people dogging your tail, you’ll need someone with local knowledge to shake them if you want to go somewhere you don’t want them to know about.’ Welch watched Stone take his Colt .45 and shoulder rig out of the kitbag and added, ‘Are you seriously going to carry that?’
‘You bet.’
‘Jesus. Try to remember that you’re not working for Special Ops now, Adam. You have diplomatic cover, but you don’t have carte blanche . If you start shooting at people, I won’t be able to keep Ed Lar off your back.’
Stone shrugged out of his checked shirt. ‘Back when you were working for Special Ops, I remember that you liked to boast that the only time you fired your weapon was on the ranges.’
‘I’m proud to say that’s still the case.’
‘I guess you don’t need to carry a piece into an embassy reception or a courtesy meeting with some local general, but I’ll be moving in different circles. Don’t worry, I promise I won’t shoot at anyone unless they start shooting at me.’ Stone buttoned up the white shirt. ‘Your file didn’t have anything about the Real version of Eileen Barrie. About whether or not Tom tried to make a hit on her.’
‘I haven’t been told everything about this operation, Adam. You know how it is - compartmentalisation and all the rest of that horse-shit. ’
‘Tom seems to be trying to kill off every doppel of the woman. So why wouldn’t he go after the Real version too? If he had any sense, he would have hit her first.’ Stone pulled on the suit trousers, sat down on the bed beside Welch to lace up
‘The locals’ idea of justice,’ Welch said. He’d brought his tumbler of whiskey with him, and a cigarette drooped from the corner of his mouth as he sat on the edge of the bed and used his handkerchief to remove dried mud from his combat boots. ‘Spies and black-marketeers, mostly. They hang ’em on the Great Lawn in the park. Night rallies with flaring torches, speeches, loyalty pledges, marching bands, Girl Scouts selling cookies . . . the whole nine yards. Afterward, they display the bodies pour encourager les autres . They’ll hang Tom Waverly there if they get the chance. Why don’t you try on the suit, get rid of that hick-from-the-sticks look.’
A black suit and a white shirt were laid out on the king-size bed, alongside black lace-up shoes, black socks, a cell phone, a billfold containing two thousand local dollars, ID and documentation that backed up Stone’s FBI cover story, a local driver’s licence, and an NYC Military Zone pass.
Stone checked that the cell phone worked, asked if he could use it to contact the local office if he needed information.
‘My cell number is on speed-dial.’ Welch said. ‘Call me if you need to know anything.’
‘You aren’t coming with me?’
‘I have a meeting with General Grover, the local who’s in charge of security in the New York Military Zone. Ralph Kohler wants me to smooth his feathers, feed him bullshit about cooperation and full and frank exchange of information. As I said, this isn’t like the old days when we could do whatever the hell we wanted and make up some story to tell the locals afterward. We don’t coerce, we cooperate. Anyhow, you won’t be on your own. I’ve arranged a driver for you.’
‘I can drive myself.’
‘You think you can handle Manhattan traffic after three years in that back-to-nature sheaf? And if Ed Lar does have people dogging your tail, you’ll need someone with local knowledge to shake them if you want to go somewhere you don’t want them to know about.’ Welch watched Stone take his Colt .45 and shoulder rig out of the kitbag and added, ‘Are you seriously going to carry that?’
‘You bet.’
‘Jesus. Try to remember that you’re not working for Special Ops now, Adam. You have diplomatic cover, but you don’t have carte blanche . If you start shooting at people, I won’t be able to keep Ed Lar off your back.’
Stone shrugged out of his checked shirt. ‘Back when you were working for Special Ops, I remember that you liked to boast that the only time you fired your weapon was on the ranges.’
‘I’m proud to say that’s still the case.’
‘I guess you don’t need to carry a piece into an embassy reception or a courtesy meeting with some local general, but I’ll be moving in different circles. Don’t worry, I promise I won’t shoot at anyone unless they start shooting at me.’ Stone buttoned up the white shirt. ‘Your file didn’t have anything about the Real version of Eileen Barrie. About whether or not Tom tried to make a hit on her.’
‘I haven’t been told everything about this operation, Adam. You know how it is - compartmentalisation and all the rest of that horse-shit. ’
‘Tom seems to be trying to kill off every doppel of the woman. So why wouldn’t he go after the Real version too? If he had any sense, he would have hit her first.’ Stone pulled on the suit trousers, sat down on the bed beside Welch to lace up
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