Free The 4 Phase Man by Richard Steinberg Page A

deep breath, then pressed a key.
    “Canvas,” came the static-filled answer after two minutes.
    “This is Apple Blossom, the man whispered through a haze of confusion.”
    “Clarify.”
    The man spoke in a shouting whisper. “I say again, this is Apple Blossom, Apple, copy?”
    “Line clear. Go ahead,” was the emotionless response.
    “Apple Blossom reporting, latest results are insufficient, insufficient, copy?” the man said, remembering Canvas’s open distrust for anything but the most general comments over even secured lines.
    “I warned you about going official.”
    “I don’t need recriminations, I need solutions.”
    A silence on the other end of the line.
    “We’ll bring in Hyacinth for another talk. We could use the updates anyway.”
    The man looked doubtful. “And the other thing?”
    “Yeah, well.” An unexpectedly long pause. “He’ll be extra.”
    “Whatever you say.”
    Light, somehow malevolent laughter drifted across the clean line. “Of course, darling. That goes without saying, now doesn’t it?”

Four
    Xenos fumed during the entire flight back to New York. The more he got into this
favor
, the worse it got. And the meeting with his former boss had only confirmed his worst suspicions.
    Herb Stone was a man who never owed anyone favors; who instead acquired them like a housewife does coupons. He was the epitome of the old-line intelligence bosses: a man with few if any morals; no emotional attachments to anything; and no restraints of any kind on what he might do or whom he would do it to.
    So it was soul-shocking to see him forced into a position he clearly detested. That of hired gun for an unknown boss. But it
was
typical of the man to disobey—no, that was wrong—
misinterpret
orders he disagreed with.
    He would’ve killed Xenos for many reasons, could probably have listed half a dozen or so instantly if asked.
    But he would never do it just to “follow orders.”
    Xenos only hoped, without really knowing why, that the old man wouldn’t be killed for his momentary bout of ethics.
    Which led directly to the problem at hand.
    The tap Xenos had placed behind Alvarez’s diploma had revealed that a half hour after he’d left her, she’d received a call from her tormentors. Although he’d onlyheard her side of the conversation, it was enough. Her hurried orders to her staff immediately afterward were clear enough.
    She was headed back to New York, most probably to another meeting with the men from Flushing. And she would most likely be carrying some classified papers with her. She’d called “the committee repository” to request access to “Bureau updates,” before catching her flight.
    She’d added one other piece to the puzzle as well.
    On the plane, Xenos played back that part of the tape.
    A LVAREZ: “When was the last time you talked with that boy from Columbia?”
    K RUSIEC: “Which boy?”
    A LVAREZ: “Paul Satordi. The one who was doing the IRT research for us.”
    K RUSIEC: “I don’t know. Couple of weeks ago, I guess. Why?”
    A LVAREZ: “When, exactly?” Her voice had gone low and cautious.
    K RUSIEC: “Uh, I guess it was around the time you spoke at the Ellen’s Fund banquet.” ALVAREZ: “He was there?”
    K RUSIEC: “Don’t you remember? He worked at the hotel where we were staying?”
    Alvarez’s voice had almost been indecipherable; it had gone so sad and mournful. “Oh God.”
    As he considered this newest piece, viewed in context with the rest of the continually bizarre tableau, Xenos decided what to do.
    As soon as he got off the jet shuttle, he placed a cell call. An hour later his corsican contact in New York arrived at the airport.
    They wandered among the kiosk food stands and souvenir shops, weaving their way through the sporadic crowds that surged through the plush terminal. The big man talked, the little man listened. For the better part of an hour Xenos reported what he knew, what he thought, drew the connections wherever and