Dean R Koontz - Surrounded.pdf - po ang - Januszek66

Surrounded “”[Version 2.0 by BuddyDk – Oktober 9 2003][Easy read, easy

print][Completely new scan][front flap:]The second fast-moving thriller by

Brian Coffey featuring Mike Tucker, art dealer, heir to a vast unobtainable

fortune and highly successful professional thief. He is persuaded to lead

Meyers and Bates in the robbery of an exclusive California shopping mall

containing a bank crammed with cash, an expensive jewellers and eighteen other

shops catering for super-extravagant tastes. The job is expected to take

little more than an hour and is seemingly a walkover. But something is bugging

Tucker: something Meyers has not told him. The operation has hardly begun when

an alarm is sounded - too soon. They are surrounded. There is no way out. Yet

when the police finally break in the three men have vanished with the loot

into thin air.Jacket illustration by William RankinPrice(in UK only)£2-50 net

SurroundedBrian CoffeyArthur Barker Limited LondonA subsidiary of Weidenfeld

(Publishers) Limited

Inc.,Indianapolis/New York, in 1974Published in Great Britain in 1975 by

ArthurBarker Limited, 11 St John's Hill, London SWi iAll rights reserved. No

part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

bound in Great Britain at The Pitman Press, Bath

The slim, tousle-haired man entered the lobby of the Americana Hotel, leaving

the cacophony of the Seventh Avenue traffic behind him. Well dressed and

quietly hand-some, obviously sure of himself and in control of his world, he

had a trace of aristocracy in his fine-boned face. And a vague but

unmistakable touch of fear lay in his dark eyes.It was one thing for the son

of a respectable family to carve out a successful career as a criminal

entrepreneur, but quite another for him to come to accept this unconventional

way of life on a visceral level. He knew he was a good thief, a master

planner, but he always expected to get caught. He was not yet working on the

new job, was not currently engaged in anything illegal, but already he was

wary and on edge.Pushing through a mob of conventioneers and their wives, he

crossed to the seedily elegant marble staircase that led down to the hotel

restaurants. At the bottom of the steps he glanced at the ranks of public

telephones but decided against using any of them. He passed the entrance to

the Columbian Coffee Shop, turned the corner, and walked the length of the

long corridor to the second set of telephones at the back of the hotel. These

were used far less than those phones posi-tioned more conveniently at the base

of the main staircase. Here he was alone. The dead-end hall was quiet, an

unex-pected pocket of serenity in the center of the city.Here he would not be

overheard. And privacy was essen-tial, more for his own peace of mind than for

any real danger that the pending conversation would reveal his criminality.He

deposited a dime and dialed the operator. She waited through eighteen rings

before she deigned to answer, and then she placed his call to Harrisburg,

Pennsylvania, as if she were doing him a favor instead of performing a

service.“Felton's Bookshop,” the Harrisburg connection said. It was an old

man's voice: cracked, dry, weary.“Clitus?”“Yes?”“This is Mike Tucker,” the

dark-eyed man said. He leaned in toward the phone, sheltered between the

Plexiglas sound-proofing wings on both sides.Felton hesitated. When he did

speak, he unconsciously lowered his voice. “Look, I'm busy right now, Mike.

The place is full of customers. Maybe . . . Can I call you back in five

minutes?”“Of course,” Tucker said. The call back was part of the routine they

went through every time it was necessary for them to communicate. “I'll give

you the number I'm calling from. You have something to write with?”“Wait . . .

Yeah, here's a pencil. Go ahead, Mike.”After Tucker gave him the number, the

old man read it back. Neither of them had mentioned the area code, an omission

that would have made the number meaningless to anyone who might be listening

in on the line.“I don't want to wait here too long,” Tucker said.“I'll get

back to you in five minutes. Promise.”The dark-eyed man hung up.All the papers

that he carried—driver's license, credit cards, museum membership—identified

him as Michael Tucker, although Tucker was not his real last name. His legal

surname was well known to readers of the Times society and financial pages

because his father's wealth commanded both respect and envy. However, he felt

more comfortable with his alias because the Tucker identity had not been

contami-nated by his father. He did not merely hate the old man, he loathed

him. When he was masquerading as Michael Tucker, he felt fresh and clean; and

he could almost con-vince himself that there was no blood tie between him and

his father. The Tucker identity was a release from unpleasant associations and

certain burdensome responsibilities. Besides, when you broke the law to earn

your living, you were wise to use a name that could not be traced back to

you.The hotel corridor remained quiet. Far down at the other end, past the

public restrooms and the entrance to the bar that would open later in the day,

dishes rattled in the coffee shop. Someone laughed, voices rose in good humor,

but no one turned the corner and came Tucker's way.Finally the telephone

rang.“Clitus?”“Hello, Mike. How are things with you?” He had left the bookshop

for a public phone. Traffic noises filled the air behind him.“Not bad,” Tucker

said. “How's Dotty?”“Couldn't be better,” Felton said. “She's taking

belly-dancing lessons.”Tucker laughed. “What is she—sixty-four?”“Sixty-three,”

Felton said. “I told her she'd be making a fool of herself. But you know

something? When she comes home from the lessons and shows me what she's

learned, she gets me so excited I'm like a honeymooning bridegroom again.” His

own chuckle complemented Tucker's laugh. “But this isn't what you called

about. You got my letter?”“An hour ago,” Tucker said.The letter had been in

the morning's mail at Tucker's midtown Manhattan post-office box: a white

envelope with no return address. He knew it was from Clitus before he opened

it because he received letters exactly like it once every month or so. Half

that often, it was something worth follow-ing up. Clitus Felton earned his way

as liaison between criminal free-lancers on the East Coast. Once he had been

in the business himself, pulling off two or three big robberies a year. But he

was old now, sixty-eight, nearly forty years older than Tucker. And he had

retired because Dotty was afraid that his luck was running out. However, after

six months in the bookstore, he had known he would be unhappy as long as he

was permanently estranged from the old life, the old excitement. Therefore, he

had contacted friends and offered his middle-man services. He kept names,

aliases, and ad-dresses all in his head, and when someone contacted him to

find the right partners for a job, Felton considered the possi-bilities and

wrote a few letters and tried to help. In return, he got five per cent of the

take if the job went as planned. It was second-hand excitement, but it kept

him going.“Your letter mentioned bank work,” Tucker said. “You know I don't

like bank work.”“The letter also mentioned that it was different from your

usual bank work,” Felton said. “It's very different. Safer, surer, with a

bigger-than-average reward.”“Where?”“California.”“That's a long way from

home,” Tucker said.“It's always best to work that way,” the old man said.

“Don't you agree?”“I guess I do.”At the far end of the corridor a young couple

turned the corner and started down the long hall toward Tucker. The girl was

searching the bottom of her purse and passing change over to the young man

with her. Clearly they were going to use one of the pay phones.“I can't talk

much longer,” Tucker said. “Can we get down to basic facts?”“You should get in

touch with Frank Meyers,” Felton said. “You know him? Ever worked with him

before?”“No.”“He's right there in your city.”“Is this his job?”“Yeah. He lived

in California for a while—that's where he got the idea,” Felton said. “He's a

good man.”“We'll see,” Tucker said, watching the young couple as they drew

nearer. The boy had hair to his shoulders and looked out of place in a

well-cut business suit. The girl was dark and pretty. “When can you set up a

meeting?”“I'll give you his home address,” Felton said.Tucker frowned. “He

doesn't mind my knowing it? He's that careless?”“He isn't careless,” Felton

said. “He—”“I don't like working with a man who can't separate his

professional and private lives.”“Not everyone's as fanatical about that as you

are,” the old man said. “Lots of guys have been in the business for years and

years, not separating anything, and they haven't taken any falls. I can name

dozens.”“Sooner or later they'll get bitten,” Tucker said.“Then you aren't

interested in this?” Felton asked.“I'm interested,” Tucker said. He had to be

interested because he needed the money. He took a note pad and pen from his

jacket pocket and copied down Frank Meyers' address.“I'm sure you'll like the

setup once Frank explains it to you,” Felton said. “If you don't . . . Tell

Frank to let me know if you aren't interested. I know I can find someone else

for him.”“I'll do that,” Tucker said.“It really is a sweet job, Mike.”“I hope

so. I need it right now. Otherwise, I wouldn't even give this one a second

thought.”“He's good. I guarantee it.”“Give Dotty my love,” Tucker said as the

young couple stopped at the telephone next to his.“Good luck, Mike.”“Sure,”

Tucker said, hooking the receiver in its cradle. He smiled at the girl, nodded

at the boy, and walked back toward the main stairs.

Dean R Koontz - Surrounded.pdf

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