The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(62)

“I can see why the CIA wasn’t happy with you.”

“It just proves that the United States does not own the moral high ground. It also shows that your government was paranoid and desperate, capable of anything. Even the murder of a civil rights leader.”

“It wasn’t our government. It was a few fanatics who misused their positions of power.”

I watched Valdez shift in his chair. Coleen, too. This was like trying to keep frogs on a wheelbarrow. There wasn’t much I could do about Coleen, but I could tempt Valdez. I removed the plastic sleeve from my pocket and laid it on the table.

“It’s worth what?” I asked, pointing. “Eight million? Ten million?”

“At least,” Valdez said. “There are buyers out there willing to pay for the privilege of owning the last one known to exist outside a museum.”

“But you didn’t figure on Oliver still being in the picture, did you?” I asked.

“Stupid me assumed that time had rendered it all forgotten. Only a handful knew that Bishop’s Pawn even existed in the first place. I was told the FBI’s files on it were destroyed after Hoover’s death.”

“Which only upped the value of your stash of documents,” I pointed out.

Valdez nodded. “A fortunate occurrence.”

Unfortunate for him was our government’s newfound ability to listen in on international calls.

“Thank goodness Oliver is still negotiable,” I said.

Valdez chuckled. “More like out of options. I seem to be all he has to work with on matters like this.”

“Give him the coin, Malone,” Coleen said. “I don’t want to change the world. I don’t want to rewrite history. I just want to know what my father did to earn a 1933 Double Eagle.”

I caught sight of our server approaching from the far side of the second floor, toting an oval tray loaded with our lunch. She swung around and stopped to my right, flicking open a wooden stand upon which she gently balanced the tray. She was just about to start doling out the entrées when I pivoted off my chair, securing the coin within my clenched left fist, sweeping my right hand under the tray. I brought it up and over, depositing an assortment of hot Cuban food right onto Valdez.

He reeled back from my assault.

Coleen just sat there.

I slipped the coin into my pocket and grabbed the table with both hands, upending and sending it Valdez’s way, too, which shoved him and his chair down to the floor.

The server stood in shock.

“This guy has a gun,” I yelled. “Everyone run.”

I then stuck my head out over the second-floor railing and screamed, “There’s a guy up here with a gun. Get of here. Now. Hurry. Go.”

People both on the second floor and below contemplated my warning for a millisecond, then began to spring from their chairs and rush toward the exits. I was hoping the confusion would be enough to allow us to avoid the two men with guns below.

“We have to leave,” I said to Coleen.

“I’m staying.”

“We have to go. I’ll get you answers, but not here.”

Valdez was beginning to rouse from his predicament.

“You’re not getting this coin from me,” I made clear to her.

And she seemed to realize that would place her in dire jeopardy if she stayed.

She rose from the chair and we headed for the stairs.

Other patrons from the upper floor came with us, no one dawdling, everyone wanting nothing more than to flee the building.

At ground level it was chaos.

People rushed for the outside.

The two men with guns were nowhere to be seen.

I avoided the three main exits and turned right toward the kitchen door I’d noticed from above. The ground-floor dining room was nearly vacant. I glanced up to see Valdez still struggling to raise the heavy table off himself, the server helping. We passed through the swinging door and into the kitchen, where the panic had not quite taken hold. I decided to toss a little gasoline on the fire.

“There’s a guy out there with a gun,” I yelled.

The cooks and a few of the servers did not have to be told twice. They all headed for a door at the far side that, I hoped, led to daylight.

And it did.

We came out to the back of the building and a small parking lot. More of the old town’s narrow streets bordered the open space along with rows of clapboard houses. If we hurried we could disappear before Valdez, or his two men, realized where we’d gone.

We both saw the trolley at the same time.

One of those long, open-aired vehicles, orange and green and fashioned like a choo-choo train, it was intended for visitors who wanted to be driven around to the city sights. Its tail end had just passed the restaurant parking lot, heading away, down the street. We rushed ahead and leaped onto the last car, taking a seat. The driver fifty feet away was droning on about the historic sights we were passing. I glanced back and saw Valdez, standing in the street, his clothes stained by the food shower.

“Senora Perry,” he called out. “I never was able to say that your father sends his regards. I’ll be seeing him shortly.”

Valdez raised one of his fingers, as if to add some accusing emphasis to a seemingly casual remark. Coleen heard the words and I saw the concern in her eyes. We both got it. Valdez had Benjamin Foster. Which changed everything. I knew what she wanted us to do.