Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [22]
“You made me front page. Congratulations.” Laurence Hadford finally offered a guarded, casual whisper.
His voice was controlled and as smooth as his expensive silk scarf. “I watched the intriguing spectacle on the six o’clock, the seven o’clock, the ten and eleven o’clock news shows. You’ve succeeded in baffling them.”
“We’ve done reasonably well so far,” Hudson nodded in agreement. “The difficult steps are still ahead, though. The true tests of the plan’s legs, Lieutenant.”
“You brought me a present, I hope? Christmas present?” As Laurence Hadford slid closer to Hudson on the plastic subway bench, Hudson could smell the man’s citric cologne.
“Yes. Exactly as we agreed the last time.”
David Hudson turned his head sideways for the first time. He stared into the blue eyes and persistently mocking half smile of Laurence Hadford. He didn’t like what he saw. Never had. Not now and not back in Viet Nam either, when Hadford had been a smug young officer.
Laurence Hadford was impassively cool. He showed nothing of his emotions. The well-shaved face might have been a door closed on private rooms.
Reaching inside his coat, Hudson handed over a thick, overstuffed manila business envelope. The package bore no external marking, nothing to identify it in case there was any problem.
The envelope disappeared inside the rich softness of cashmere.
“There’s one small hitch. A tiny problem has come up. The amount here isn’t enough.” Hadford smiled easily. “Not considering what’s happened. What you’ve gone and done now. You’ve made this a very dangerous business arrangement for me. If you’d told me what you actually planned to do—”
“You wouldn’t have helped us. You would have had too many doubts. You would have been scared shitless.”
“My friend, I am scared shitless.”
The subway train buckled slightly, but only seemed to slow minimally as it charged into the 110th Street station.
“We agreed on a figure before you did any work for us on Wall Street Your fee, half a million dollars, has now been paid in full.” Hudson felt a familiar alarm sounding inside him. “Any information you’ve supplied us, any personal risks you took, were infinitesimal considering your financial gain.”
Hadford’s perfectly capped white teeth gritted slightly. “Please. Don’t tell me how well I’ve been paid. I know what you’re all about now. You’ve got so much money, you couldn’t possibly know what to do with it. Another half million is meaningless. What’s another million for that matter? Don’t be so uptight.”
Colonel David Hudson managed to smile. “You know, perhaps you’re right. Under the circumstances—what is another half million?… Especially if you’re willing to do a little more investigation for us.”
“I suppose for the right price I could be convinced, Colonel.”
The next station David Hudson noted was 157th Street Between 110th and there, he and Laurence Hadford talked of the next steps to be taken on Wall Street; the kinds of information needed.
Stenciled numbers announced the train stop on mottled, blue standposts. A sullen black face slowly supped past the spray-painted train windows. The brakes screeched, then let out a loud, gaseous whump.
The last few passengers besides Hadford and Hudson exited at the 157th Street stop. The subway doors slammed tightly shut. They were completely alone.
David Hudson felt himself tense. The blood coursed rapidly through his veins. All his senses were suddenly alert, and his perceptions had an astonishing clarity. Everything around him stood out as if illuminated by a harsh arc light.
“I’m sorry, Hadford.”
As the train rumbled out of the station, the flashing knife appeared. What made David Hudson’s parlor trick so unexpected was that the blade was so long—six inches at least, the handle another four.
The sharp blade jabbed hard and disappeared into Had-ford’s underbelly, just below the wall of his rib cage.
It shredded the cashmere coat, tearing fibrous