Naked In His Arms. Sandra Marton

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      For the first time, the director looked uncomfortable. “I may have understated her hostility.”

      “Meaning?”

      “She’s not just a hostile witness, she’s hostile to accepting the government’s protection. She may, ah, she may object.”

      Alex narrowed his eyes. “And if she does?”

      “If she does, your job is to change her mind. Any way you see fit. Do you understand?”

      Now Alex knew why the Agency had been called in. The feds wouldn’t do anything that smacked of subterfuge or, even worse, coercion.

      The Agency would. He would. Even now, doing things that danced on the edge of the law was Risk Management Specialists’ bread and butter.

      “Well,” Shaw said briskly, “now to the details. You’re flying the noon shuttle to New York. There’ll be a car waiting in your name at Hertz, and a reservation at the Marriott on—”

      “Tell your secretary I won’t be needing any of that.”

      “I don’t think you understand, Knight. This is our operation.”

      “I don’t think you understand, Shaw.” Alex took a step forward, until the men were only inches apart. “I’ll run this my way. I don’t want anything from you or this office, not until and if I ask for it. You got that?”

      There was a long silence. Then the director nodded.

      “Yes,” he said stiffly. “I understand perfectly.”

      For the first time, Alex smiled. “Good.”

      Then he turned on his heel and walked out.

      CHAPTER TWO

      BY THE time the shuttle landed at LaGuardia, Alex had come up with a plan.

      Before he made any kind of move on Cara Prescott, he wanted to check her out. The drab bureaucratese of the file Shaw had handed him didn’t give him a feel for the woman.

      He wanted to see Tony G’s former mistress with his own eyes. Find out how she spent her time. Walk around in her space.

      Then, only then, he’d decide what to do next.

      Until recently, the lady had lived in Gennaro’s sprawling mansion on Long Island’s North Shore.

      Now, she lived in a loft in lower Manhattan, one of those neighborhoods identified not by a name but by an acronym nobody understood. Shaw said the feds had found her without any sweat. They’d been surveilling her, he said, but he’d seen to it they were pulled off.

      At least, that was what he claimed.

      Another reason to take his time and check things out, Alex thought as he headed for a car-rental counter. He’d said he wanted no interference on this job and he meant it.

      When he was ready, not before, he’d introduce himself to the Prescott woman.

      “Introducing himself” was probably a nice way of putting it, he thought as he handed the rental clerk his charge card. Assuming the lady was as hostile as Shaw said, it wouldn’t be a very polite meeting, but he’d worry about that when the time came.

      He drove away from LaGuardia in a nondescript black minivan. Stopped at a mall and bought a black leather jacket, a black T-shirt, black sneakers and black jeans. He already had his cell phone with him. Then he went into a camping-goods store and added a gym bag, a flashlight, a thermos, binoculars, a nightscope and a palm-sized digital camera.

      You never knew when gadgets like those would come in handy.

      He checked into a big, impersonal hotel, put on the black clothes, packed the gear in the gym bag and made a phone call.

      Within the hour, an old friend who asked no questions provided him with a loaded 9mm pistol and an extra clip. He shoved the pistol into the small of his back and the full clip into his sock.

      He was as ready as he’d ever be.

      By midnight, he was parked across from Prescott’s apartment building. It was on a street Manhattan realtors loved, a commercial slum just waiting to turn into a yuppie haven.

      No self-respecting New Yorker was going to pay attention to a black minivan, or to him.

      He watched the building all night. Nobody went in or out. At five in the morning, he set his internal alarm for half an hour’s sleep. A week spent with his mother’s elderly uncle, a guy Anglos erroneously referred to as a medicine man, had taught him how to go deep inside himself to gain needed rest for his mind and his body.

      At five-thirty, he awoke refreshed and finished the coffee in his thermos.

      At eight, Cara Prescott came down the steps.

      She wore a long black raincoat that flapped around her ankles, a newsboy cap that covered her hair and oversized dark glasses despite the grayness of the morning. Jeans and sneakers peeped from under the coat’s hem.

      Along with the phony name on the mailbox in the lobby—C. Smith—and an unlisted phone number it had taken him all of an hour to get, he figured this was her attempt at a disguise.

      Anybody determined to locate her would see through it in a New York minute.

      Either she believed in hiding in plain sight, or she believed in luck.

      Alex watched her walk up the street. He gave her a head start. Then he got out of the van and fell in half a block behind her.

      She made a stop at the Korean deli on the corner, came out with a foam cup of what he figured was coffee in one hand and a small paper bag in the other. When she headed back toward him, he melted into a doorway, waited until she went by, then fell in behind her again.

      She went into her apartment building. He got into the van.

      The hours crawled by. What the hell was she doing up there? If she spent her time locked away like that, wouldn’t she go stir-crazy?

      At four-thirty, he had his answer.

      Cara Prescott came down the steps again, wearing the same long raincoat, the cap, the dark glasses even though, by now, the sky was charcoal. But no jeans peeped out from the coat’s hem and the sneakers had given way to low-heeled black shoes. She walked briskly toward the corner, checked the traffic light, crossed the street and kept going.

      Alex followed.

      Twenty minutes later, she opened the door to a bookshop. A stooped-shouldered old guy with white hair greeted her. She smiled, took off the coat and hat and dark glasses…

      Alex caught his breath.

      She was demurely dressed. Dark sweater, dark skirt with an unexciting hem length, those practical shoes.

      He already knew the lady had the face of a Madonna. Now, he knew she had the body СКАЧАТЬ