Wild Card (Stone Barrington #49)(69)

“Where and when?”

“There is a restaurant called Patroon, on East Forty-sixth Street.”

“I know the place.”

“They have an outdoor bar and lounge upstairs. Let’s meet there at six PM today.”

“That will be satisfactory.”

“And don’t forget to bring payment,” Tigner said, then hung up.



* * *



? ? ?

At six sharp, Damien got off the elevator at Patroon and, carrying a briefcase, walked onto the upstairs deck, which was busy with the after-work crowd. He looked around and saw no one who might be Tigner. Then, across the deck, sitting on a divan, a young man raised a single finger.

Damien crossed the deck and stood before the divan. “I can’t quite remember the name,” he said. “Mr. . . .”

“Tigner.” He moved over to make room.

Damien sat down, and a waiter came over. “A very dry vodka martini,” he said to the man.

“Two,” Tigner added.

Damien set down his briefcase between them on the divan.

“Is that my payment?” Tigner asked.

“It is. Exactly two hundred thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills.”

Tigner reached for the briefcase, then stopped. “Open it, please,” he said.

Damien noted that the dark, friendly eyes had hardened. “Of course,” he replied. He rotated the case 180 degrees, reached out, released the locks, and, after a look around to be sure no one was watching them, opened the case.

Tigner reached out, riffled through each stack of notes, then nodded and closed the case. “Very good.”

The waiter delivered their martinis and they raised their glasses to each other.

“To a useful and happy relationship,” Damien said.

They clinked glasses and sipped.

“And now, I believe there is the matter of Miss Grant, Mr. Barrington, Robert Cantor, and Sherry Spector,” Tigner said.

“There is, but that contract has been put on hold for a while. There is a new subject, however, one that will require a new contract.”

“Please continue,” Tigner said.

“His name is Joseph Box. He’s a United States senator.”

“Ah, yes,” Tigner replied. “I have seen him on the news shows. He is very articulate.”

“That he is,” Damien replied.

“Where and when would you like the contract executed?”

“Senator Box is on the road at the moment,” Damien said, withdrawing several sheets of paper from an inside pocket and handing them to Tigner. “This is his schedule. I would like you to follow him and discern his habits, particularly with women. It would be good if he were found dead with a woman, particularly if it were a married woman. That’s something of a specialty of the senator.”

“But no date?”

“To come—sometime during the next few weeks. When it does come, you’ll be expected to execute within twenty-four hours.”

“All right,” Tigner said. “A hundred thousand for Box, another fifty for the woman, and a thousand dollars a day for travel expenses.”

“Done,” Damien said. “You’ll find another hundred thousand in the case, under a flap in the bottom, as a down payment; the rest, on execution.”

“As you say,” Tigner replied. “I will leave first, if that’s all right.”

“Of course.”

Tigner handed him a throwaway cell phone. “This is to be used for all contacts.”

“Right,” Damien replied.

Both men rose, shook hands, then Tigner picked up the briefcase and walked to the elevator.

Damien poured the remains of Tigner’s martini into his own glass, and made himself comfortable.





54


Tim Tigner took a one-week driving-school course, obtained a New York driver’s license, and bought a five-year-old, low-mileage Mercedes station wagon from an online ad, paying the grateful seller in cash.

He rented garage space next door to his building, then removed the folding third-row seat from its compartment, installed a lock, and stowed his necessary weaponry, equipment, and cash there. He consulted a road map and Senator Box’s schedule and selected Kansas City, Missouri, as an interception point.



* * *



? ? ?

Three days later, he checked into an old hotel across the street from Box’s Kansas City, Missouri, campaign headquarters, then dropped in and collected some pamphlets and position papers, while casing the premises. Box’s name was on a mezzanine office, overlooking a dozen desks, next to a plate-glass window. His hotel was in view, and the building next to it seemed a good point for a sniper, if the opportunity arose. He stopped at a desk and asked a young woman when the senator was due in town.

“He’s already arrived,” she said.

“Will he visit the headquarters?”

“Yes, about five o’clock, for the rally this evening,” she said, “if you’d like to meet him.”

“Thank you, I would,” Tigner said. “I’m with Nouveaux Temps magazine, in Paris. We have a worldwide circulation, and I’d very much like to interview him.”

She consulted a schedule—without asking for his credentials. “If you could be here at six-forty-five, he has fifteen minutes free then.”