The Deadliest Game Page 6

  Blair paused.

  The building had no security guard on weekends. One needed a key to get in. Upon his arrival this morning, he had noticed nothing out of the ordinary. No broken glass. No door under repair. Whoever had done this must have had a key. Not only for the door downstairs, but for the one up here as well. And the person would have had to have known the alarm code.

  Blair made a mental note to contact the building supervisor. He’d be curious to know if any other companies had been vandalized. Although, he already suspected what the answer would be.

  He stepped away from the reception area.

  His secretary’s desk was a relic. It weighed no less than seventy-five pounds. Often, they had joked that it would take a bulldozer to displace it. The desk had been slammed against the wall. Chunks of plaster lay scattered.

  Blair made his way around the mess and into his own office. Nothing was left standing. Chair, file cabinet, computer: all toppled onto the floor. He stood, shaking his head. What got to him wasn’t the damage so much as the violation of his personal space.

  He left his office and headed down the hall. He entered the twenty-by-thirty boardroom. This was a place that not only was witness to important business deals being ratified, but also functioned as Blair’s sanctuary. It was a room to which he came whenever he needed to be alone.

  Lacking a television and phone, there were few distractions. Rectangular wood table. Ordinary, straight-backed chairs, two to a side, facing each other.

  Blair took a seat at the table and purposely avoided the bookcase.

  His secret passion was his collection of novels, some in limited edition, all in pristine shape. He had read most of them, a few more than once. He found them remarkable for their relevance even in today’s irreverent world. From Cervantes’s Don Quijote to Voltaire’s Candide. Herman Melville’s Moby Dick to James Joyce’s Ulysses. Modern writers like Philip Roth and John Updike. Contemporary authors such as John Sandford, Joseph Wambaugh, and Carl Hiaasen.

  After having graduated high school, Blair had been forced to forgo college and get a job to help support his parents. A few years later, he began taking night courses toward a Bachelor of Arts degree. His creative writing teacher, Linda Farquhar, whom he would never forget, had turned him on to the classics, and he was soon hooked.

  Now, through the corner of his eye, he was able to catch sight of the torn jackets. He remained seated for an indeterminate amount of time. Minutes? An hour?

  Finally, he stood and approached the bookcase.

  Ernest Hemingway, he read along one partially dismembered spine. John Fitzgerald. His fingers reached out, handling the splintered pages delicately. And he gently touched each one as if he could will them back together and make them whole.

  CHAPTER 16

  The meeting place, a small deli off Broadway, was not of his choosing. And it troubled him that he was here at all. But he required no further proof of the extent to which John Dalton would go.

  Both men were dressed in business attire: the agent’s suit a severe shade of brown; Blair’s navy blue.

  The restaurant was half empty. And Blair could understand why. The dark tiled floor was badly in need of a scrub. The general atmosphere suggested sanitary codes were not exactly being obeyed.

  Dalton had that same cold look in his eye, Blair noticed. The one that said, Don’t mess with me.

  Blair waited as the man selected a chicken salad sandwich and Coke. He didn’t order anything for himself. Not that he wasn’t hungry. He simply wasn’t comfortable around Dalton; didn’t like him, did not want to share a meal with him.

  “So, how was your Monday morning?” the agent asked. “Anything exciting happen?”

  Blair didn’t want his look to kill, he wished he could just do it with his hands. “My Monday was fine,” he said, playing along. “But boring,” he quickly added. “How was yours?”

  “Oh, the usual.” A half-grin.

  So much for an apology, Blair figured. “The usual, huh?” he said. “I’ll bet.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Exactly what it implies, John. Don’t you have something to tell me?”

  “My, you’re an edgy cuss, aren’t you?”

  Once more he observed the agent’s slight accent, his choice of words.

  “But I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses,” Dalton continued. “This trip won’t take up much of your time.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “It happens to be the truth.”

  Dalton’s Coke and sandwich arrived, the fries piled high.

  While he ate, the agent took an airline ticket from his briefcase. “First class transportation on El Al,” he said. “Paid in full by Uncle Sam.”

  “Very generous of you.”

  “It is. We could have sent you coach.”

  “Oh, yeah? And I could have refused to go. What are the details, John?”

  “Man, you always in this much of a hurry?”

  Only when I’m talking to you, he didn’t say.

  Dalton finally started to explain: “Hillel Electronics use SDF as their prime manufacturing source for the mini DVDs that will work with Cyber-tech. However…”

  “Huh?” Blair interrupted, surprised. “How do you know about Cyber-tech?”

  “What do you mean, how do I know?”

  “C’mon, John. Our gaming system has been kept under wraps. No one outside of a few select people are even aware of its existence. So how did you find out?”

  “Oh … we have ways.”

  Blair detested the man’s smugness.

  The agent paused, but not for long. “We have known for some time that SDF is poisoned from within. Most of the profit they earn is diverted to an old Palestinian ally who’s turned renegade. This is a man not only bent on the destruction of the Jewish State, but of the United States as well. He will stop at nothing. The recent bombing in Paris? That was him. The machine-gunning in the restaurant in London? The gunboat attack in Amsterdam? This person has much in the way of resources and nothing in the way of fear.”

  Dalton took a bite of his sandwich, chewed and swallowed, and wiped his lips with a napkin. “While we have known about SDF,” he continued, “we have not been able to act against them. This is why we need you to convince your friend, Jeremy, that it would be in everyone’s interest if he talked Hillel into switching production of the mini DVDs from SDF to a company called On Time Electronics. Losing an order this size will hurt SDF. If we stop their inflow of cash, we will have a far better chance of ending their operation.”

  Again, Blair had a problem accepting the agent’s argument. “What if Jeremy is not convinced?” he asked.

  Dalton gave a small shake of his head. “If he gives you a hard time, tell him your bank has done a thorough search and has come up with some questionable dealings. No matter what, you will not mention the truth to Jeremy. While he is aware of the SDF connection to terrorism, we do not want him to know that we know. This is very important, Blair. You will simply tell Jeremy that your bank insists on a change being made.”

  Blair hesitated, then stood from the table, leaving the airplane ticket behind.

  “Hey, where’re you going?”

  Finally, a reaction out of him. “Back to my office,” he said.

  “You forgot the ticket.”

  “You can keep it.”

  “Blair—”

  “No, I’m serious. Keep it. Or better still, try handing it over to the next patsy you find.”

  “You’re not a patsy,” the agent said, standing himself. “We desperately need your cooperation. By working with us this one time, you’ll be helping America rid the world of a potential terrorist threat.”

  Blair recognized a disingenuous speech when he heard one. And it was troubling to know that the man still unnerved him. Dare I call his bluff? he wondered. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, going for it. “You pay for all the damages and I’ll take this trip for you.”

 
“What damages?”

  He started walking away.

  “Wait. Hold on a second.”

  He turned back.

  “It’s a deal.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’ll do as you ask.”

  Blair couldn’t believe the agent’s compliance, and still without uttering an apology. “I want everything replaced,” he said. “The furniture and the books.”

  “Done.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that,” Dalton said. “And don’t forget the ten thousand dollars I said we would give you for your trouble.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “Fine.” He held up the airline ticket.

  Blair snatched it out of his hand.

  CHAPTER 17

  He was at home watching television, dressed in sweatpants and a New York Mets T-shirt. When the doorbell sounded just after 8:00 PM, Blair strolled out of the den. He pressed the intercom and asked who it was.

  “It’s Lisa Brandt.”

  Surprised, he buzzed her in.

  She came out of the elevator wearing a tight-fitting, cream-colored sweater and low-rise jeans. Blair smiled as she approached. He held the door open for her. She handed him a bottle of wine.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked inanely.

  “I felt bad about leaving the other morning without saying goodbye.”

  “You felt bad?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He invited her into the den. Black couch, an étagère, soft lighting.

  “I’m starved,” Lisa said. “Have you eaten yet?”

  “Nope. Should I order something?”

  “Pizza?”

  “Pizza it is. Want something to drink first?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Fuzzy Navel?”

  “You remembered.”

  In the kitchen, he ordered their pizza. Then he made her drink by following directions in a book he kept near the wine cooler. He filled his own glass with Scotch.

  He carried their drinks into the den and put them down on the coffee table. It was an unusual pseudo-African design made of wood. The carving depicted a herd of elephants. When he turned to Lisa, he found he couldn’t keep the grin off his face.

  “What?” she said.

  He shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  He placed her drink in front of her. “I’m just glad that you’re here,” he said.

  She gazed at him, then touched his glass with her own. “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

  Blair stood, shut off the television and turned on his iPod. Beyonce’s voice soon filled the room from his compact Bose speaker.

  When the pizza arrived, he opened the bottle of Chianti Lisa had brought, and poured. As they ate, she pushed for more information about his failed marriage. “I mean, whose fault was it?” she asked.

  “I can’t discuss it,” he said.

  “Why not?” she challenged.

  “Because. I don’t know you well enough.”

  After their meal, they both helped clear the dishes. She rinsed. He placed them in the dishwasher. When they were done, she leaned in and kissed him. Soft lips—teasing.

  “Tell me more about yourself,” she demanded.

  “I already told you everything you need to know,” he said. “For now.”

  They kissed again. “Do you happen to have an extra toothbrush?” Lisa asked.

  “In the bathroom,” he said, pretending her question was one he expected.

  By the time he came to bed, Lisa was already under the covers.

  “I know just what you need,” she announced playfully.

  He cringed.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He removed his pajama top to show her.

  “Jesus,” she swore. She touched each black and blue mark. “Did I do this?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Here.” She patted the sheet. “Turn on your stomach.”

  Soon, light fingers were manipulating his shoulders and the back of his neck.

  “Blair,” she whispered.

  “Yes?”

  But he never heard the question. The sheer pleasure of her massage was overwhelming his senses. A drowsiness took over and his eyes began to close.

  Blair’s alarm went off at six. He quickly sat up and turned it off. He peeked at Lisa. She still seemed to be asleep. He got out of bed, trying to make as little noise as possible. He entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. Within a moment or two, the curtain parted and a naked Lisa came up beside him.

  “Could you wash my back?” she asked coyly, handing him the soap.

  He hesitated.

  “Blair?”

  “Mmm…”

  “Please?”

  “Lisa,” he said, “couldn’t we…”

  “Couldn’t we what?”

  He wanted to say, “Couldn’t we go back to bed.” But he didn’t want to insult her. Women commanded and he obeyed.

  So he soaped her back, and her front. She had a slim waist, and toned arms and legs. And scars—one left of her navel, running up and down for about eight inches, another beneath her left armpit, a third on her right thigh. He wondered how she got them.

  “Don’t you like this?” Lisa was saying. She had taken the soap from him and was spending extra time on his engorged penis.

  Blair found it ludicrous. His experience with his ex-wife, having sex in uncommon places, had been enough to last a lifetime. Yet, here he was, subservient again and unable to change a thing.

  But he very much wanted to please her. He put his arms around Lisa, barely touched her lips with his own. She waited for him to do it again, then she kissed him; gently at first, then harder.

  In one fluid motion, as if she were a contortionist, she wrapped a leg around his waist and guided him inside.

  They soon hit upon a rhythm. But with each thrust, Lisa’s head bounced off the wall. Blair feared for her well-being. He tried easing up.

  “No! You mustn’t!” she demanded.

  It was thrust-ka-boom, thrust-ka-boom.

  He was growing apprehensive.

  “Yes!” she was soon calling out.

  He imagined a compound fracture, possibly something worse.

  “Yes, yes, yes!”

  The police would be called, then an ambulance.

  “Please, Blair!”

  Despite his concern, he was losing control. Soon after Lisa climaxed, he came as well.

  They held on to each other until they caught their breath.

  “Not bad for a toy man,” Lisa teased.

  He studied the back of her head, was unable to find any sign of trauma.

  They began to soap off.

  She put a hand to his cheek. “I might be falling for you, Blair Mulligan,” she said.

  He pretended he hadn’t heard, while inside he was tingling.

  CHAPTER 18

  Boarding the plane to Israel, Blair took his seat but kept his eyes glued to the front. He checked each male passenger as he embarked. He half expected John Dalton to show up, knowing the agent wanted to keep a close watch over him.

  As the plane pulled away from the gate, he started to relax. The minute they reached cruising altitude, he ordered his favorite drink. Three glasses of Scotch later, he was beginning to mellow. He ate the meal—mixed salad with salmon and vegetables—then slept for a while. A movie starring George Clooney filled the remainder of the trip.

  The airport in Tel Aviv was small yet functional. Customs clearance went smoothly, as usual. Blair stepped into the Arrivals Hall and scanned the crowd, disappointed not to see Jeremy. Still he waited, wanting to be sure, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  Finally, he walked outside. The brilliant late afternoon sun caused him to blink his eyes. The pilot said it would be ninety degrees for their arrival. It felt like at least that, if not more. He removed his suit jacket and flipped it over his arm. For once he was pleased tha
t he had forsaken his tie.

  “Taxi?”

  He turned to the voice.

  The man was short with dark hair. He was wearing sunglasses. He could have been a Jew or an Arab. “Taxi?” he said again, apparently the only English word he knew.

  Blair looked around but didn’t see any other means of transportation.

  “Come, come,” the driver said, expanding his vocabulary and pointing. “Car over there.” He took the suitcase from Blair’s hand and led the way.

  “David Intercontinental,” Blair said once he was settled in the back seat of the beat up Volvo.

  The driver turned and gave him a blank stare.

  “My hotel.” He spoke slowly. “Hotel … David … Intercontinental?”

  The man nodded.

  The hotel had a view of the Mediterranean, so when they turned onto Hayarkon Street, which ran parallel to the sea, Blair figured they were headed in the right direction. He took in the sights, admiring the expanse of white sand and beachfront. The boardwalk was crowded. Dozens of people were sunbathing.

  The screech of the cabbie’s cell phone brought him out of his reverie. The driver flipped on the phone and brought it to his ear. The higher his voice rose, the less attention he paid to the road. Soon, he was swerving back and forth across the center line.

  Horns honked. Blair was reminded that it was illegal to use a cell phone here without a hands-free device. When they pulled up to his hotel without incident some twenty minutes later, he was relieved.

  “Four hundred fifty shekels,” the driver said.

  Blair gaped at him with amazement. “I beg your pardon?”

  The man’s smile was gone, as was most of his accent. “You heard correctly,” he said. He thrust out his hand. “Four fifty. Give, give…”

  A quick calculation told him that the driver was asking for approximately one hundred and ten American dollars. “Four fifty?” Blair repeated. “For a trip that has never cost more than half that amount?”

  The man’s look soured. “Okay. Four hundred, then.”