“There will be no trouble. I just want to be dropped offal the main entrance. Then you’re on your way.”
The light changed and the driver accelerated. Martin’s comment must have satisfied him because he didn’t complain anymore and Martin was glad of the chance to think.
Sansone’s authoritative manner had been helpful. Under the circumstances, Philips felt he could not have made any decisions for himself. It was all too bizarre! From the moment Philips had left the hospital, he’d descended into a world not bound by the usual restraints of reality. He even began to wonder if his experiences had been imaginary until he saw Werner’s bloodstains on his parka. In a sense, they were reassuring; at least Philips knew he had not gone mad.
Looking out the window, he stared at the dancing city lights and tried to concentrate on the improbable intervention of the FBI. Philips had had enough experience in the hospital to realize that organizations typically function for their own best interests, not those of the individual. If this affair, whatever it was, was so important to the FBI, how could Martin expect they’d have his best interests at heart. He couldn’t! Such thoughts made him feel uneasy about the meeting at the Cloisters. Its remoteness disturbed him. Turning, he peered out the back of the taxi, trying to determine if he were being followed. Traffic was light and it seemed unlikely, but he couldn’t be certain. He was about to tell the driver to change direction when he realized with a sense of impotence that there was probably no safe place to go. He sat tensely until they were almost at the Cloisters, then leaned forward and said:
“Don’t stop. Keep driving.”
“But you said you wanted to be dropped off,” protested the cabby.
The taxi had just entered the oval cobblestoned area, which served as the main entrance. There was a large lamp over the medieval doorway and the light glistened off the wet granite paving.
“Just drive around once,” said Philips, as his eyes scanned the area. Two driveways led off into the darkness. Some of the interior lights of the building could be seen above. At night the complex had the threatening aura of a Crusader’s castle.
The cabby cursed but followed the circular road that opened up for a view of the Hudson. Martin couldn’t see the river itself, but the George Washington Bridge with its graceful parabolas of lights stood out against the sky.
Martin swiveled his head around looking for any signs of life. There were none, not even the usual lovers parked next to the river. It was either too late or too cold or both. When they came full circle to the entrance, the taxi stopped.
“All right, what the fuck do you want to do?” asked the driver, looking at Philips in the rear-view mirror. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
The driver responded by spinning the wheels and accelerating away from the building.
“Wait. Stop!” yelled Martin, and the cabby jammed on the brakes. Philips had seen three tramps who’d stood and looked over the stone wall lining the entrance drive. They’d heard the screeching of the tires. By the time the taxi had stopped, they were thirty yards back.
“How much?” asked Martin, looking out the window of the cab.
“Nothing. Just get out.”
Philips put a ten-dollar bill in the Plexiglas holder and got out. The taxi sped away the second the door closed. The sound of the car died away quickly in the damp night air. In its wake was a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional hiss of cars on the invisible Henry Hudson Parkway. Philips walked back in the direction of the tramps. On his right, a paved path led off the road and dipped down through the budding trees. Philips could vaguely see that the path split with one fork twisting back and running beneath the arched roadway.
He made his way down it and looked beneath the overpass. There weren’t three tramps; there were four. One was passed out, lying on his back and snoring. The other three were sitting, playing cards. There was a small fire going, illuminating two empty half-gallon wine jugs. Philips watched them for a while, wanting to be certain that they were what they appeared, just vagrants. He wanted to figure out some way of using these men as a buffer between himself and Sansone. It wasn’t that he expected to be arrested, but his experience with institutions motivated him to investigate and have some idea what to expect, and the use of an intermediary was the only method he could think of. After all, even if it made sense, meeting at the Cloisters in the middle of the night was hardly normal procedure.