The Pretender's Gambit

The policeman spoke first. “What did you say your name was?”

The ploy allowed the man to think a little longer, or perhaps it was only so the microphone of the recording device he wore might pick up his name better.

“Nguyen Rao.”

“I’m Detective McGilley of the New York Police Department.” The detective smiled a little, and the effort was almost guileless. His face was placid as a lake in a dead calm, but his body language was tight. Rao had learned to read both while in the temple.

“It is good to meet you, Detective McGilley.”

McGilley didn’t offer to introduce Annja Creed. “What are you doing here?”

“I came about the elephant.”

“You’re not from around here.”

“No.” Rao made himself endure the inane questions. He knew they would be coming and he had prepared himself to deal with them.

“Where are you from?”

“Phnom Penh.”

McGilley’s eyes cut to Annja Creed for just a moment.

Rao spoke again to remove the confusion and lack of knowledge. “Phnom Penh is in Cambodia.”

McGilley smiled a little at that. “Cambodia’s a long way off, Mr. Nguyen.”

“It is.” Rao thought being agreeable would be best. “The trip by plane required many hours.”

“I’m sure it did. When did you get to New York?”

There was almost no suspicion in the man’s words to touch the ear, but Rao knew the focus that drove the question. “Too late to save Mr. Benyovszky.”

“To save him?”

“Your inference was that I had killed him,” Rao said politely. “I did not. Had I gotten to him in time last night, or this morning—I must admit to some confusion regarding the time, I might have saved him.”

The cop surfaced in McGilley then, and Rao knew that the conversation was going to go badly. Still, he knew he had to try to convince the American that he was in no way responsible for Benyovszky’s death.

“You knew that Benyovszky was going to be killed?”

“No. Had I known that, I would have notified authorities. I was not there. Mr. Benyovszky was. If he felt he was in no danger, then why would I have thought so?”

“You said if you had reached him earlier he might not be dead.”

“I misspoke. It could just as well have been that both of us were killed. I choose to think that his death might have been prevented. But that is already in the past and we must work on the future.”

“Do you know who killed Benyovszky?”

“No.”

McGilley looked around, noticing then that nearby patrons were starting to pay attention. He returned his attention to Rao. “Perhaps we can talk about this somewhere else.” He slid out of the booth and stood, and the woman closed her computer, tucked it away in a messenger bag and slid out of the booth, as well.

“I can save us some time,” Rao offered, thinking that maybe the direct approach—though the most honest—was not working in this instance. “I only need the elephant.”

“We can talk about that outside.” McGilley waved toward the door and indicated Rao should precede him.

Thinking that maybe he was wasting his time, that the elephant had already been lost, probably taken by the man or men who killed Maurice Benyovszky, Rao felt disappointed and turned his thoughts to getting out of police custody, for he felt certain that was where he was headed. He turned and started for the door, then he spotted one of the Portuguese men he’d encountered weeks before.

The man stood at the counter next to the side door and nursed a coffee or a hot tea. No one else was around him.

Rao did not know the man’s name, but there was no mistaking that cruel look or those dead eyes.

* * *

UNTIL THE MONK started to walk out with the police detective and Annja Creed, Calapez thought he had the situation in hand. The fact that the monk was there let Calapez know that the Asian didn’t have the elephant. Evidently the piece was still in play.

However, when recognition flared in the monk’s eyes, Calapez felt threatened and reacted instantly because he preferred the element of surprise to be one of his weapons rather than someone else’s. He pushed away from the counter and swept his coat back, reaching for his pistol.

The detective, focusing on the Asian, was slow getting to his own weapon. Calapez had the 9mm out and started firing, aiming for the detective because he knew the American would have a weapon and the monk and the woman probably didn’t.

Calapez squeezed the rounds off as quickly as he could, putting all three of them into the center of the detective’s chest. The American went back and down, the pistol tumbling from his fingers. The woman dropped down beside him, concern tightening her features.

The monk came toward Calapez so quick that Calapez couldn’t bring his pistol around fast enough to center his weapon on the man. It didn’t matter, though, because one of the men Calapez had stationed outside stepped through the door and raised a machine pistol, spraying bullets indiscriminately.

* * *

SEEING THE MACHINE pistol in the other man’s hands as he entered the diner and knowing that continuing to stay inside the building would only be endangering the rest of the patrons, Rao abandoned his forward momentum and threw himself over the counter. As he landed on fingers and toes, he swept out his left leg, caught the legs of the man tending the grill, and knocked him down as well, so the machine pistol’s bullets cut the air where he’d been, instead of tearing through flesh.

The man sprawled in shock and decided to lie there, still clutching the spatula he’d been using. He mumbled, curses or prayers, Rao couldn’t tell over the yammering machine pistol. Bullets hammered the stainless-steel grill vent and cored through the tile wall, spilling ceramic fragments over the floor.

Rao ran, staying low behind the counter, knowing that his opponents would seek to find him because they had recognized him as a familiar threat even if they didn’t know what he truly represented.

Hoping that his departure would draw his enemies away from the diner, Rao slid around the end of the counter and angled for the door. Bullets chased him, cutting through the air just inches behind him. Thankfully the patrons were down on the floor and out of the way.

He hit the door with both palms, spreading the impact so that the glass door shattered. He ran through the falling fragments and out into the street, thinking that the Portuguese man would have set up his cronies at that door, as well. He just managed to stay ahead of a swath of bullets from the two gunmen standing outside the wrecked door.

Traffic had been held up by a red light at the intersection. At the sound of the shots, the drivers panicked and began trying to pull around each other. Failing that, many of them got out and ran or stayed in their vehicles.

Rao ran, his head low, and knew that the gunmen pursued him.

* * *

ANNJA FELT THE shock of adrenaline hitting her system, but concentrated on examining Bart. He’d been hit by the man’s bullets. That was all she knew.

She reached for him, gazing at his chest and expecting it to be a bloody ruin. It wasn’t. Three bullet holes showed in his shirt, one of them piercing his coat as well, but there was no blood.

Vest, Annja thought frantically. He’s wearing a protective vest.