Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [66]
Moving to the window, Harry stood at the edge and looked down at the street. Nothing any different than when he came in. Passing cars, motor scooters, the occasional pedestrian.
Taking off his jacket, he set it on a chair and went into the kitchen. In a cupboard next to the sink he found a glass and started to fill it. Then he had to set it down. The room spun, and it was all he could do to get his breath. Emotion and exhaustion had caught up with him. That he was even alive was a miracle. That somehow he was off the street was a gift from the gods.
Finally he calmed enough to splash some water on his face and begin to breathe normally. How long had it been since he’d left Hercules and come here? Three hours, four? He didn’t know. All sense of time was gone. He looked at his watch. It was Friday, July 10. Ten after five in the afternoon. Ten after eight in the morning Los Angeles time. Another breath and his eyes went to the telephone.
No. Can’t. Don’t even consider it. By now the FBI would have every line to his home and office tapped. If he tried to call, they’d know where he was in a millisecond. The fact was that even if he reached someone without being caught, what could they do? In truth, what could anyone do, even Adrianna? He was caught in a horrendous dream that was no dream at all. Just stark, brutal reality.
And except for that few square feet of apartment where he was, there was absolutely nowhere he could go where he didn’t risk being caught and turned over to the police. Even here, how long was he safe? He couldn’t stay where he was forever.
Suddenly there was a sound in the other room. A key had been put into the lock. Heart pounding, he pressed back against the kitchen wall. Then came the sound of the door opening.
“Mr. Addison?” a male voice said sharply.
Harry could see the jacket he’d left on the chair in the front room. Whoever had come in would see it, too. Quickly he glanced around. The kitchen was little more than a closet. The only way out, the way he had come in.
“Mr. Addison?” the voice rang out again.
Dammit! Adrianna had set him up for the police. And he’d walked right into it. At his elbow was a butcher block with carving knives. No good. They’d kill him in a second if he came out with a knife in his hand.
“Mr. Addison—are you here?” Whoever it was spoke English and without an accent.
What to do? He had no answer because there was none. Better to just walk out facing them and hope that Adrianna or someone from the media was with them so they wouldn’t kill him on the spot.
“I’m here!” he said, loudly. “I’m coming out. I’m not armed. Don’t shoot!” Taking a deep breath, Harry raised his hands and stepped into the room.
WHAT HE SAW WAS NOT the police but a sandy-haired man alone, the door closed behind him.
“My name is James Eaton, Mr. Addison. I’m a friend of Adrianna Hall. She knew you needed a place to stay and—“
“Jesus God…”
Eaton was probably in his late forties or early fifties. Medium height and build. Dressed in a gray suit with striped shirt and gray tie. The most striking thing about him, other than that he was alone, was his plainness. He looked like the kind of guy who’d made it as far as he could in a bank, who still takes his family to Disneyland, and cuts his lawn on Saturdays.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“This is your apartment…” Incredulous, Harry lowered his hands.
“Sort of…”
“What do you mean sort of?”
“It’s not in my name, and my wife doesn’t know about it.”
That was a surprise. “You and Adrianna.”
“Not anymore…”
Eaton hesitated, looking at Harry, then he crossed the room and opened a cabinet above the television. “Would you like a drink?”
Harry glanced at the front door. Who was this guy? FBI? Checking him out, making sure he was unarmed and alone?
“If I’d told the police where you were, I wouldn’t be standing here offering you a drink…. Vodka or scotch?”
“Where’s Adrianna?”
Eaton took out a bottle of vodka and poured them each two fingers.
“I work in the U.S. Embassy. First secretary to the counselor for Political Affairs…. No ice,