The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [115]
“No call to get any civilians involved,” he whispered, nudging me with his weapon.
We walked to the end of the corridor, passed through a metal fire door, and ended up on the landing of the emergency stairs. The man with the gun spun me around and pushed me against a wall, holding me by the collar while his companion searched me. The only thing he seemed interested in was my phone.
“A disposable,” he remarked, taking it from my pocket. “I would have expected something more high-end from someone in your income bracket. Any particular reason?”
Despite the weapon to my back, it struck me that neither man had been particularly threatening thus far. They sounded almost conversational, entirely unlike Smith. It made me wonder if I was dealing with another outfit altogether.
“I had something more high-end. Someone reprogrammed it as a listening device. You know anything about that?”
He shrugged, looking thoughtful.
“The man you’re meeting might. Let’s go.”
We walked down the stairs and exited the building onto Fifty-sixth Street. A white delivery truck was double-parked a few yards away, gold lettering on the side advertising an appliance dealership in the Bronx. I remembered Joe’s description of the vehicle at the motel and came to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk.
“You’re the guys who shot those men in the parking lot. You just changed the sign on the side of your truck.”
“Lot of trucks like ours in the city,” the man behind me said crisply. He pressed the gun into my side. “Keep moving, please.”
I glanced left and right as much as I could without turning my head. The sun had set, but the street was crowded with pedestrians, and I could see a police car on the corner across Sixth Avenue. It was the best opportunity I was going to get to make a break for it. An expression I’d heard once came back to me: The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
I took a deep breath and stayed close to the man in front as he edged between two parked cars and opened the passenger door to the truck. He tripped a lever to fold the seat forward, hoisted himself up, and ducked through a dark curtain into the cargo area. Fighting back my fear, I followed.
A hand gripped my arm and guided me as I stepped through the curtain. A sickly red light illuminated the area beyond, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The interior was partitioned, the rear section hidden from view. The space I was standing in was about eight by ten. Three captain’s chairs were bolted to the floor in front of a counter that ran the length of the side wall, the space above filled with racked electronics. The center chair was occupied by a man with a shaved head who appeared to be in his early fifties. He was wearing an open-collared button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and khaki pants. The red light made him look ghoulish.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing toward the chair to his right. “Please.”
He had the same accent as the man still holding my arm. The passenger door slammed behind the curtain, and the truck’s engine roared to life. Being in the truck seemed like a much worse idea than it had when I was on the sidewalk.
“I’d like to know who I’m talking to first.”
“Shimon,” the bald man said, indicating himself. He pointed to the man standing next to me. “And Ari.”
“You’re Israelis,” I said, the names helping me place the accents. “I don’t get it. What are you doing here?”
The vehicle jerked forward without warning, and I would have fallen if Ari hadn’t caught me.
“Sit,” Shimon repeated. “We’ll talk. I’d hate for you to get injured. A mutual friend of ours always spoke very highly of you.”
“What friend is that?”
“Sadly, a friend who isn’t with us anymore. The name you knew him by was Rashid al-Shaabi.”
Ari had to help buckle me into one of the captain’s chairs, the combination of movement and surprise making me