The Deadliest Game Read online

  There was no answer.

  A sick feeling reached the pit of his stomach.

  As midnight approached, Blair realized that trying to sleep was out of the question. He moved to the den and took a seat on the couch. Cradling the phone in his hands, he willed it to ring.

  CHAPTER 76

  It was mid-morning, three days later, when he took a cab to Pigalle at 48th and 8th.

  As usual, the restaurant was crowded.

  Andrew Sciascia, gregarious as ever, immediately began regaling him with his recent legal exploits.

  Instead of acknowledging his friend’s comments, Blair took the menu in hand and asked what he wanted to eat.

  “Eggs Benedict,” Andrew said, smiling. “The only chance I get to have it is when my wife’s not around.” He patted his paunch. “Although, at this point, do you really think it makes a difference?”

  “Not much,” Blair said dully.

  “Oh, yeah? Last time I ask you.”

  Blair called the waiter over and placed their order.

  “Look,” Andrew said, “the press may not be following you around much anymore, but they are still bugging the hell out of me. It might be time for you to come in from the cold.”

  Blair brushed the suggestion aside. “You wanted to see me?” he said.

  “Yeah,” Andrew acknowledged. “I have something for you.” He pulled out a plain rectangular box from his attaché case and handed it over. “This arrived via courier at my office. I thought you’d like to have it.”

  Curious, Blair said, “What is it?”

  “Your medal, for God’s sake. Have you already forgotten?”

  The truth was, he had forgotten. “Weren’t you to pick it up in person?” he asked.

  “Sure. Except when the president heard I’d be substituting for you, he changed his mind. Or, his flunkies did.”

  Blair opened the box. The white, star-shaped medal was larger and more impressive than he had expected.

  Andrew waited for his comment.

  Blair closed the lid and placed the box beneath his chair.

  “That’s it?” Andrew asked.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  Two more weeks passed. His phone calls and e-mails to Jeremy continued to go unanswered.

  The Friday of the third week remained warm, but a September rain was blanketing New York. Unconcerned, Blair walked without the benefit of an umbrella or top coat. Hair soaked, body drenched, he ended up a few hours later at the address he knew all too well in Lower Manhattan. The yellow crime-scene tape was long gone, and there was no indication whatsoever of what had transpired there.

  Soon, as if an unseen hand was guiding him, he stepped up to the door of the house. He raised his index finger to the bell. He pressed it once. Twice. A third time.

  When no one responded, he pounded on the door with his fist, again as a conduit for a mysterious force not his own … until he began to feel foolish.

  He walked away with his shoulders slumped. What was I thinking? he asked himself. That Sandra would actually be here?

  The rain picked up. He could feel the wetness in his shoes and socks. When he spotted the subway station, he decided he’d had enough. He paid his fare, used the ticket in the turnstile, and descended to the platform below, where he paused.

  There was a large crowd, and in the thick of it Blair noticed Khalid Yassin. He did a double-take and felt his stomach turning to stone. He looked away, then back. Yes, it was him. He was certain of it.

  Blair was just wondering what to use as a weapon, when he got a closer look and realized his mistake. It wasn’t Yassin, after all. The man was at least ten years older.

  Blair turned, moving as far along the platform as possible. He waited as a train rumbled through the tunnel. He watched it approach as if transfixed. It pulled to a stop and he got onboard.

  He arrived home, changed out of his wet clothes, and put on a kimono. He poured himself a Scotch, brought the bottle with, and took a seat in the den.

  It didn’t take long for his mood to turn sour. The fact that he was mistaking strangers for Khalid Yassin said a lot about his state of mind.

  Your daughter needs you to be strong, an inner voice reminded him.

  He flashed back to an image of Sandra at the age of three months, her hair turning blond and filling with curls, her bright blue eyes taking in her surroundings and becoming more aware. Then at seven months, holding her milk cup in her hands and eating cut-up pieces of bread and cheese. And at a year old, crawling but in a weird way, more monkey than human, one foot often twisted beneath her bottom.

  Blair shot upright.

  There had to be something he could do to help rescue his daughter. But what?

  He filled his glass to the brim and took a long swallow, relishing the burning sensation in his throat.

  Snippets of an idea formed in his head. When his idea finally coalesced, he resumed drinking, guzzling Johnnie Walker as if it were water.

  The phone woke him before 5:00 AM.

  At first, he didn’t know where he was. His head was pounding so badly, the thought of a lobotomy was appealing. Hearing the ring again, Blair cupped both ears with his hands and squeezed. When the phone persisted, he reached over and snatched the receiver.

  “Sorry to wake you so early,” Jeremy said.

  “What’s wrong?” Blair shot upright.

  “We have a lead. I apologize for not getting back to you sooner. But everything kept changing. Even now, I’m not sure how reliable my information is. You have to understand, we are dealing mostly with informants, not all of whom are trustworthy.”

  “What kind of a lead?”

  “As good a lead as can be expected. I hope to know more in a few hours.”

  Blair put a hand to his still-aching head. “Don’t leave me in the dark,” he said. “If you’re saying a few hours, Jeremy, then that’s when I’ll want to speak with you. Not in a few weeks.”

  “I understand. I’ll call you before noon. Your time.”

  He put on a pot of coffee. When it was ready, he tried a sip. Two cups later he felt as if he could function. Barely.

  He took his time showering and shaving. His third coffee of the morning, along with a piece of dry toast, eased some of the pain.

  He got dressed and returned to the kitchen.

  Jeremy called shortly afterwards.

  “I’m sorry,” he heard him say. “The lead was bogus but we’re working on something else.”

  Blair asked how much longer it would take.

  “I don’t know. You can’t put a clock on something like this.”

  Remembering last evening’s idea, he paused to gather himself. “Jeremy,” he said, “I have a proposal that I don’t want you to reject out of hand.”

  “Which is?”

  “Do I have your word?”

  “How can I give you my word if I don’t know what your proposal is?”

  “I’m not talking about the proposal itself. I’m talking about you listening with an open mind.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I want your informants to make an offer to Khalid Yassin. My daughter is of no use to him. I am the one Yassin would like to get his hands on. I’m the guy who foiled his plans. We will do an exchange. Me for my daughter. Yassin will jump at the chance.”

  The pause was elongated. “Sorry,” Jeremy finally said.

  “Can’t you at least make the effort?” Blair pushed.

  “No, I can’t. Don’t you get it? These people can’t be trusted. Negotiating with them is out of the question. The only thing we can try to do is gain Sandra’s release by force. Sacrificing yourself would serve no purpose whatsoever.”

  “How do you know?”

  “From my experience; that’s how. You’re starting to insult me, Blair.”

  “Is that your ego talking? I’m not trying to insult you. I just don’t want my daughter to end up dead.”

  Jeremy’s voice softened. “I know how this is eating at
you. And I sympathize. Really, I do. But if you went through with your idea, despite any promises that were made, you’d be murdered along with Sandra. And that’s something I can’t allow to happen.”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  “You have to leave this with me. With my organization. We’ll find a way to get your daughter back.”

  “Fine, but I want to be involved.”

  “You can’t be involved. How many ways do I have to explain it to you?”

  He knew immediately that he’d ignore Jeremy’s wishes. His idea gave purpose to his life. And he wasn’t going to squander it.

  He turned on his computer and connected to the Internet. The extensive list under “Soldiers of Fortune” surprised him. He made a copy of over a dozen names and their contact information. He was going to make his offer to Khalid Yassin, no matter what.

  CHAPTER 77

  A meeting was held in the late afternoon on a Tuesday in a contemporary building in downtown Manhattan. Present were Blair, Andrew Sciascia, and Ms. Applegate, a prim and proper forty-something, representing the firm of Rollins and Dunn.

  Though resigned to his fate, Blair was disappointed that it had come to this. As a show of his displeasure, he had forsaken a tie. Although he was still dressed in a suit, black in color and his least favorite.

  The boardroom was spacious with floor to ceiling windows. The mahogany table could accommodate at least twelve or more. Floral planters sat at either end. A pitcher of water and a half dozen glasses were positioned in the center. A number of eight-by-ten, framed testimonials to the company’s success were hanging on the near wall.

  Observing Ms. Applegate as she went through her presentation, Blair found it curious that someone of such refined features, short red hair, delicate cheekbones, could be cursed with such a high-pitched voice.

  He didn’t want to be here, but he waited patiently as she pointed out that the firm of Rollins and Dunn had a proven track record. That unlike their competitors, they specialized only in the toy and sporting good industries. That for a mere fifteen percent off the top they would handle all aspects of the sale of Blair’s company, save for due diligence and other legal requirements.

  “What about my request for strict confidentiality?” Blair asked.

  “That goes without saying, Mr. Mulligan.”

  “And no approach to companies such as Spin Master, MGA, or JAKKS Pacific?”

  “Duly noted.” Ms. Applegate attempted a smile.

  Blair stood. “What happens if word leaks out?” he asked.

  “It won’t.”

  “But what if it does? Do you realize how disruptive that would be? The affect it would have on my staff? The impact on my company’s reputation?”

  Ms. Applegate stood as well. “Mr. Mulligan, I can assure you that in the forty-some-odd years we have been in business, there has never been one leak, ever.”

  Blair held his ground. “But if there is a leak, are you ready to confirm in writing that you will offer us compensation?”

  The question stopped her cold.

  Andrew led the way into the elevator, down and out of the building, to a corner pub. He ordered a beer for each of them. “What’s gotten into you?” he said. “I’ve never seen you so antagonistic.”

  Blair could only shrug.

  “You didn’t want to have this meeting. Did you?”

  “Not really.”

  “So why’d you do it?”

  “To be prepared. My business sucks. I doubt I can keep it afloat much longer. I … feel sorry for my employees. What can I possibly tell them?”

  “Tell them nothing for now. Once your life returns to normal, you’ll find a way to salvage your business.”

  “If it returns to normal.”

  “It will! Christ, you can’t continue to wallow in self-doubt.”

  Blair had the beer bottle to his lips. He stopped himself from taking a sip, wondering if he was really that transparent. “I’m just being realistic,” he said.

  “Yeah. Realistic, my ass.”

  “Andy—”

  “Blair, you have to be strong. For Sandra’s sake, if not your own. You’re a good person, dammit, with a lot of admirable qualities.”

  The comment unnerved him. Recently, his belief in himself had been greatly diminished.

  “Cheers,” Andrew said.

  They clicked bottles.

  “I meant to ask you if my will is still in order,” Blair said as if he had just thought of the question this minute.

  Andrew’s concern showed. “Where are you going with this, bud?”

  “I just want to know.”

  “Everything is fine. But why the sudden interest?”

  “No special reason.”

  “Yeah. I’ll bet. Well, you can rest easy. The bulk of your estate goes to your daughter. If she should predecease you, your sister inherits it all.”

  “Okay,” Blair said. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

  CHAPTER 78

  His first call to Jeremy was made at 1:00 AM, which was 7:00 AM in Israel. He tried his cell, then his office. Not getting an answer, he left a message at each number. Then he went back to the Harlan Coben novel he’d been trying to read. He barely got through a page before losing his concentration.

  He continued to try both numbers, every hour on the hour.

  When there was still no answer by 4:00 AM, he gave up.

  He had last spoken to Jeremy on Friday.

  Five days without a word.

  Blair had gotten no sleep but didn’t feel tired. Mid-morning, he called the first mercenary whose name he’d gleaned from the Internet. It was a number in Philadelphia.

  The man spoke in a robotic voice. His words were clipped and to the point. “We don’t meet until I get your deposit,” he said.

  “Three thousand dollars?” Blair wanted confirmation.

  “That’s correct.”

  “And what protects my deposit?”

  “My reputation does.”

  “Your reputation? Can you give me some references?”

  “What for?”

  “What do you mean, what for? So I can get to know who I’m dealing with. So I don’t end up blowing my money.”

  “What did you say your name was again?”

  Blair refused to give it out. The more he talked to this guy, the more he sensed a scam. “You’ll have my name soon enough,” he told him. “After I get a chance to check your references.”

  “That’s not the way this works, mister.”

  “Well, can you at least tell me about some of the jobs you’ve done? It said in your blog that you specialize in the Middle East.”

  “That I do. But I can’t divulge any details.”

  “Why not?”

  “Confidentiality. Don’t you want someone discreet?”

  “Discreet, yes. A bull-shitter, no.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I’ve torn limbs off people for saying less than that to me.”

  “I’m sure that you have. But what’s it going to be? Do I get your references or not?”

  “I’ll think about it. Call me back tomorrow. Or better still, let me have your number and I’ll call you.”

  “Goodbye, sir. It was nice talking to you.”

  The guy was trouble, Blair realized, and that was something he didn’t need any more of right now. He sat at the kitchen table staring at the phone. Now what? he asked himself.

  He wondered where Sandra was, at this moment. Was she hurt? Was she suffering?

  Was she even alive?

  A knock on the door drew his attention. It would most likely be the super or a neighbor, neither of whom he was in a mood to see. But when the knock came again, he reluctantly lifted himself up and went to answer it.

  “Someone let me in,” Jeremy Samson said, which explained why there was no buzz from the downstairs lobby.

  Fear shot through Blair’s heart. He placed a hand on the door
frame for support. “Sandra?” he breathed, believing his friend was here for one reason only, to give him the bad news in person.

  CHAPTER 79

  In Palestine, Yassin, with a full-grown beard, wearing a kaffiyeh, waited as the imam poured the tea. The man appeared to have aged far more in the three years that had passed than at any time before. He seemed as fervently determined as ever, but his too-thin body, stooped-over posture, and nearly all-white hair gave him the look of someone frail and well past his prime.

  They were seated in the imam’s office in the mosque Yassin had prayed at as a child. The room seemed smaller than he remembered: somber earth-tones with a fold-up table, now unfolded, floor lamp, and three wooden chairs.

  “Why so glum?” the imam asked as he slowly lowered himself into the seat opposite. “Not every operation can end successfully. This one failed. So what?”

  Yassin shrugged off the question.

  “You still seem bothered by it.”

  “Shouldn’t I be? We were this close.” He held up two fingers pressed together.

  “Ah, but time will heal. You just have to be patient.”

  “I don’t think so!” Yassin said heatedly. Patience had nothing to do with it. He was the one to blame, and he would never forgive himself.

  “How are your parents?” the imam asked, changing the subject. “I haven’t seen them in a while.”

  Yassin hated small talk. “My parents are fine,” he said. “My mother’s sister is ill so they went to Norway to visit her. I expect they will return shortly.”

  “And you? What have you been up to?”

  He didn’t reply. Admitting that he’d done nothing but brood since he’d returned from America was not something he was willing to reveal.

  “I might have another project for you.”

  His head partially cleared. “You do?”

  “Yes. Interested?”

  Yassin felt a familiar kick in his gut, the one that gave purpose to his life. “Of course, I’m interested,” he said emphatically.