a kind. There were people who’d give a pretty penny to get their hands on an unpublished Bolt manuscript or his private journals.
No more procrastinating, Korman. Right after the Fourth, you call a contractor and get a safe installed.
Another noise interrupted his resolution-making. He stepped back into the hall, peering over the banister to the open area below. Mr. Rochester, the old black tomcat Em had adopted from the local animal shelter, was sprawled in a sunbeam on Emma’s favorite blue chintz chair, one rear leg raised high as he washed himself.
“Keep the noise down, will ya?” Chap grumbled.
Rochester peered up, blinked disdainfully, then went back to licking his rear end. The cat had stopped coming upstairs altogether. Too bloody fat to make the climb, Chap decided. During the months Em was sick, though, the animal never left her bedside except to eat or use the litter box. After she died, the cat had walked around the house yowling plaintively for days. Now, man and feline cohabited like some interspecies Odd Couple. Rochester lived on Em’s chair, ignoring Chap entirely except at mealtimes. Even then, the Fancy Feast got a suspicious sniff before he deigned to bolt it down.
“Stupid cat,” Chap muttered, returning through his room to the deck. He’d overdone it in the garden. His joints felt as if they were swelling. He should take a pill, but he was too damn tired to walk back to the bathroom cabinet.
Instead, he dropped his towel and climbed naked into the churning spa, as he habitually did now that Em was no longer there to fret about peeping Toms with binoculars. The nearest building high enough to see down onto his second-story deck had to be half a mile away. Odds were, nobody out there was looking, but if they were, his round, sagging, hairy-ape body made for pretty poor voyeuristic pickings. Anybody that hard up was welcome to the thrill.
Reaching for his drink, he took another long sip, then set it back on the edge of the tub and leaned into the molded seat and cushioned neck rest. Soothing amber comfort slid down to his center core. Chap closed his eyes, one hand lazily raking his matted chest. The warmth of the scotch, the sun and the Jacuzzi melted his aches and lulled him. This was as close to perfect as it got, he thought, lacking only Em to share it.
Suddenly, he felt a distinct vibration under his butt, like the tread of a nearby foot. His eyes opened to the brilliant blue sky, and he looked around. Em’s red geraniums swayed in the breeze, potted in the old whiskey cask she’d transformed into a dual-purpose planter and base for the green market umbrella that shaded their his-and-hers rattan lounge chairs. Except for chirping birds and the dull rumble of distant beach traffic, the afternoon was sunny, hot and blessedly silent.
Had he locked all the downstairs doors before coming up? The garage he’d closed—that much he knew. But the side door? And the front, leading to the courtyard and the walkway beyond? Must have. He hadn’t lived in New York for nearly sixty years without acquiring a few security tics, after all.
He strained to mentally retrace his steps. Hadn’t even used the front door today, he realized. Mariah had called just as he was getting ready to put the impatiens in the front bed. He’d taken the call in the kitchen, then gone out through the garage to collect the tools, the flat of plants and the recycling bin.
The side door of the garage was on a spring. Had he reset the lock?
He took another sip of his drink and settled back into the gently pulsing water. Check it later. He was a New Yorker. A onetime amateur boxer with a 17–0 record. Never lived timidly before. Wasn’t about to start now. Too tired to sweat it, anyway.
The churning of the Jacuzzi lulled him like rolling waves. Like being on a boat, he thought, drifting. Porter’s boat. Mariah. And Lindsay…fifteen, already! Last time he’d seen her? Her dad’s funeral. A heartbreaker even then. Like her mother. Grandmother, too. Incredible Ben would abandon his pretty wife, Andrea, for a man-eater like Renata Hunter. Human nature, Chap thought…no accounting for it.
He reached for his drink. Misjudged the distance. His perspective was all wonky, he realized idly. Fingers only brushed the glass. It tumbled in slow motion to the deck, each amber drop distinct as it splashed on the wooden planks.
Chap felt his butt slide a little on the smooth plastic bottom. So tired. His head lolled on the cushioned rest. He looked back toward the bedroom. Squinted, then frowned. Was that someone in the doorway?
“Hey, you,” he called. Thought he did.
Did he?
Figure in the doorway never moved. Half hidden in shadow. Just a grim smile. Teeth gleaming like a goddam Pepsodent commercial.
Well, let him stand there, Chap thought grumpily. Guy wasn’t going to make the effort to be sociable, neither would he.
He lay back and closed his eyes. So comfortable.
He felt himself slipping a little more. Opened his eyes. Guy in the doorway still watching him. Why? he wanted to ask, but he felt a little dizzy. Short of air. Inhaled deeply and slipped again on the slick plastic, his body pivoting. Almost on his side now, shoulders underwater.
Be up in a minute, Em. Just gonna grab forty winks here, okay?
So sleepy. A deep sigh. Another long slip on the smooth bottom, his head bumping on the hard plastic edge as Chap Korman sank beneath the churning bubbles.
Chapter Six
The quiet was beginning to get on Tucker’s nerves. When he started hearing the building breathe, he knew he was losing it.
Logically, he knew the deep thrum permeating his office walls was the reverberation of massive air conditioners. Their primary function was to cool—not people but a vast array of supercomputers, satellite receivers and transmission devices—sensitive equipment that bristled day and night, processing the agency’s sensory input and outgoing commands.
Once aware of the pulsing rhythm, though, Tucker couldn’t shake the sense he’d been swallowed alive by some huge beast of prey.
He glanced at his watch, wondering if he had time to run out and pick up Mariah’s letter from the Courier Express distribution center in Falls Church. The place was open till 10:00 p.m. He had plenty of time. What he didn’t have was patience. Geist’s secretary had phoned down over four hours ago to tell him to stand by to be summoned upstairs for a debriefing on his Moscow trip. Now he was itching to walk out.
It would have been premature to tell Mariah this Urquhart character might not be as far off base as she thought. Better to find out what the professor knew, then decide what to do about it. This should have been ancient history by now, Tucker thought grimly. She had enough on her plate. Damn them all to hell, anyway.
One file sat on his desk a little apart from the others he’d pulled from the Navigator’s crate. He’d stumbled across it not long after talking to Mariah. Finally, the pieces were falling together. His late-night message from the courier. His cryptic conversation with the Navigator in Moscow. And the reason why he, in particular, had been chosen to receive this loaded gift.
Tucker had met with Georgi Deriabin late at night in a modest dacha on the outskirts of Moscow—although recognizing the infamous Navigator had required a leap of imagination on his part.
Deriabin was tall and skeletally thin, with weathered skin the color of mustard. His wispy white hair was shorn to a stubble, leaving his head almost as smooth as Tucker’s
