The Zero Hour

“So now what?” Sarah asked.

“So just because they can’t do it doesn’t mean I can’t.”

Sarah smiled wanly.

“Through the Bureau’s link, I tapped into the Consular Lookout and Support System to see what passport numbers have been flagged as lost or stolen. Then simultaneously I went into the INS database that lists everyone who’s entered the country by any port of entry.”

“And if there’s a match,” Vigiani said excitedly, “you’ve got yourself a list of everyone who used a stolen or lost passport to get into the country in the last couple of months.”

“Right,” Ken concluded.

“And?” Sarah said.

“Well, I’m running the cross-check now, and I’ll fill you in as soon as you let me go back to my toys.”

“You did all this over the weekend?” asked one of the cops, a black man named Leon Hoskin, with more contempt than awe.

“Computers never sleep,” Ken explained offhandedly. “Some of these passport numbers will be automatic rule-outs, I suspect. Plus, I can eliminate females, older folks, nonwhites.”

“Don’t,” Sarah said. “Be careful about what you eliminate. A pro like Baumann can look older or younger than he is, can dress like a nun or a wheelchair-bound middle-aged man, for all I know. Don’t be too hasty to rule any of them out.”

For some reason she flashed on an image of Jared curled fetus-like on the ground in Central Park, then saw the wispy goatee of her mugger.

She felt a surge of anger and of protectiveness, and thought of how little progress they’d made, really, since she’d arrived here, how much further there was to go before there was even the remotest chance of stopping the Prince of Darkness.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Warren Elkind, chairman and chief executive officer of the Manhattan Bank, had been under intensive FBI surveillance since Operation MINOTAUR had begun its work. Elkind had been unreceptive to repeated FBI inquiries, and therefore Sarah had ordered the surveillance, knowing in time they would find his weak spot.

There were several leading private bondage-and-discipline sex clubs in New York City, and considering his relationship with Valerie Santoro, the odds were great that Elkind frequented at least one of them. He did not, however, turn up at the two best-known ones, Pandora’s Box and the Nutcracker.

At around four o’clock the next afternoon, Elkind left his office in the Manhattan Bancorp Building and began walking north up Lexington. His tails followed him to an office building on East Fifty-sixth Street between First and Second avenues, which was just a few blocks away.

Repeated calls to his office at the same time elicited the information that he was “out of the office,” and then that he had “left for the day.” As soon as surveillance had determined that Elkind’s destination, on the thirteenth floor of the building, was the private and very exclusive Brimstone Club, Sarah’s beeper went off.

She was there within twenty minutes, which, given the traffic, was impressive time.

The elevator took her straight to the thirteenth floor and opened on a small, dark, eucalyptus-scented waiting area with comfortable-looking couches around a black shag rug. On the wall were vast blowups of artistically grainy photographs of women posing provocatively in black leather. Behind a glass window, sitting at a counter, was a fierce-looking middle-aged woman with obviously dyed blond hair, an enormous bosom, and heavy purple eyeshadow. She glanced warily at Sarah and said, “Can I help you?”

Sarah had dressed casually in jeans and a button-down polo shirt rolled up at the sleeves. She looked like an attractive young woman who was perhaps a graduate student, perhaps a professional on a day off. Hard to read, yes, but certainly not someone to beware of.

She had thought long and hard about her approach here, too. Flashing her credentials wouldn’t get her beyond the waiting area, if they wanted to play hardball. If she bluffed her way in, she risked alerting him. Yet she had to get in somehow.

“A friend of mine suggested I check out working here, learn the trade,” she said offhandedly.

“Uh huh,” the blond receptionist said. “And who’s that?”

“I’d rather not say, okay? A friend. I’m sort of into the idea of dominance.”

She looked at Sarah neutrally yet appraisingly. “You have experience?”

“Some. I’ve played a little, with a lover. Done the clubs, the Nutcracker, you know. Now I’m sort of looking to do it professionally.”

“You married?”

“No. My ex-husband’s idea of dominance and submission was more mental than physical, if you know what I’m saying.”

The receptionist gave a short laugh. “What toys are you familiar with?”

“Well… single-tail whips. Floggers. Some knifeplay, electrical play. CBT.” CBT was the argot for cock-and-ball torture.

“We don’t allow the knife,” the receptionist said. “No blood sports.”

“I want a tour,” Sarah said.

“I think one of the rooms is booked,” said the receptionist.

“That’s okay. Everything else, though.”

The receptionist shrugged.