“Aw, come on, Dino. Think of the people who will be canceled to make room.”
“No one will be canceled. Someone will get crowded closer to the kitchen.”
The phone rang. Stone scooped it up. “Hello?”
“Hi, Stone.”
“Billy!” Stone said. Then to Dino, “Hey, Dino, it’s Billy Barnett.”
“Invite him to dinner,” Dino said.
“Dino and I were just planning dinner.”
“I’m in L.A.”
“That makes it harder.”
“Where are you going to go?”
“We were just talking about it. Dino’s pushing Peter Luger.”
“Wish I were there. I love their steak. Why are you arguing?”
“We don’t have a reservation.”
“And Dino thinks they’ll serve him anyway?”
“Ever since they made him commissioner he’s got a swelled head.”
“Hey, I’m right here,” Dino protested.
“So why did you call?” Stone said.
“Actually, I was calling about dinner,” Teddy said. “I can’t make it tonight, but how about tomorrow?”
“That would be great. Where do you want to eat?”
“Paris.”
5.
FAHD KASSIN, WHO had been monitoring Billy Barnett’s calls, honed in on the word Paris. It put him on high alert, and he listened to the rest of the conversation with eager anticipation.
He was disappointed. Billy Barnett failed to elaborate on the comment, saying merely that he would see Stone tomorrow.
Fahd threw down the headphones in disgust. Why couldn’t the man have been more explicit? Instead, he’d hardly been any help at all. He’d referred to the man he called as “Stone,” probably a nickname, and they referred to a third man as the commissioner, though no one said commissioner of what. He also had an unlikely name, though Fahd couldn’t recall it, he’d have to listen to the recording again. Fahd didn’t want to do that, he wanted a lackey to do it for him. Only he’d had that lackey shot.
All right. Billy Barnett was in Los Angeles, but the number he’d called was in a different area code: 212. He could look that up. More grunt work.
Fahd summoned one of the techies from the other room. The man came in rather hesitantly. The last techie summoned from that room had never returned.
“What’s your name?”
“Joram.”
Fahd handed him a piece of paper. “Trace this phone number, Joram. I want to know who owns it, and where he lives.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the techie scurried out, Fahd heard a ringtone sound coming from the headphones, indicating one of the lines he was tracking was making a call. He looked at the computer screen. It was Billy Barnett again. Fahd grabbed the headphones and jammed them on.
Fahd hoped he was calling his party back, but this time it was an eight hundred number. It rang twice before it was picked up.
“Thank you for calling American Airlines. If you are checking on a reservation, press one. If you are changing a reservation, press two. If you are making a new reservation, press three.”
The recorded menu would have daunted most callers, but over the mechanical voice there came the touch tone sounds of Billy Barnett punching in some code or other, and almost immediately the line was answered by an actual human being.
“American Airlines reservations, this is Jeremy, how may I help you?”
Aside from taking Billy first, Jeremy treated him just like any other customer, and took his reservation.
When Billy hung up, Fahd smiled in satisfaction. At last he had something he could deal with.
Fahd took off the headphones and picked up the phone.
6.
DARBY WAS GLAD to get the call. His current assignment was dull work on behalf of a Syrian asset. No chance to hone his skills. Not that they needed honing. He was, and always had been, a first-rate assassin. A good soldier, he’d accepted the transfer, still, L.A. was a little like being put out to pasture. He’d been happier in Washington, D.C., where jobs were frequent. He heartily disagreed with the assessment that the capital had become too hot for him, though he kept that opinion to himself, of course. He moved to L.A., and waited for the job that never came.
He could hardly believe it had.
“Yes?”
“Billy Barnett just booked a seat on the red-eye to New York. See that he doesn’t go.”
“Is he listed?”
“Address on Mulholland Drive. You can google him for a picture.”
“I know my job.”
“Then why did you ask?”
Darby knew better than to answer. He took his medicine and waited.
“Call me when it’s done.”
The phone clicked dead.
Darby put on a shoulder holster and slipped in his gun. It was a brand-new throw-down piece, as were all his weapons. Ballistics would never link one hit of his to another.
Darby went to his computer and found a photo of Billy Barnett. He didn’t bother to print it out. One glance and it was engrained in his memory.
He looked up Billy Barnett’s address and checked the time of the flight’s departure. It would be easier to kill him at home, but he wasn’t necessarily there, and finding out that he wasn’t would take too much time for comfort.
It didn’t matter where Billy Barnett was now. He knew where he was going to be.
He’d have to take him out at the airport.
7.
TEDDY BREEZED RIGHT through the airport. The check-in line was long, but he was flying business class, so he zipped through the priority line. He checked his suitcase, collected his boarding pass, and headed for security. Billy Barnett had TSA precheck, so once again he skipped the line. He handed his boarding pass and photo ID to the TSA agent, was approved, and walked on toward the metal detector. He didn’t even have to take off his shoes.
Darby watched in helpless frustration. His first assignment in months, and the man just walked away. He could not fail. He had to get through security.
Darby went back to check-in and got in the priority line. There was only one passenger ahead of him. He waited impatiently for the man to be done, then stepped up to the counter.
“One business class ticket to JFK.”
“That flight is sold out.”