Recoil (14 page)

“You're sure it's Merle? Why would the FBI put out an APB on him?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Evidently it's not an urgent bulletin. It's just one of those ordinary daily assignment-sheet items. You know, keep an eye out for this guy and if you spot him report him to headquarters. Now maybe it isn't Merle at all, but Ordway swears it is.”

Frank reached up to scratch his head and sat up irritably when he touched it; apparently he'd forgotten he was wearing the rug. “Let's take this through slowly. It's all assumptions. Assume the government gives Merle another new identity, this Paul Baxter name. Then they put out an all-points for the guy. If we assume Baxter and Merle are the same man, why do they provide him with a new name and then go looking for him? It only makes sense one way. It means Merle walked out on them.”

“Refused their protection, you mean.”

“It sounds that way. And if it's true it means Merle's out there in the open. Walking around loose.”

“That's about the way I had it sized up but I'd like to know whether this guy really is Merle.”

“You get on the horn to Ordway. You tell him to bring his FBI man back in and get that photograph away from him long enough to make a copy of it. I've got to see that picture.”

“I'll get right on that.”

“If they put him on the all-points sheet they must have given a reason.”

“Well it's just a routine ‘wanted to locate' bulletin. Agents aren't even supposed to stop and question him. They've been told this Baxter is some guy who's involved in something to do with film piracy.”

“With what?”

“Film piracy. You know, guys rip off prints of movies, then they sell them to grade-B distribution chains down South or something. It's one of the petty rackets but the FBI's in it because it's interstate. The reason this FBI agent brought it to Ordway, Ordway's involved in that racket. The word on this Baxter guy is he's a contact man of some kind and they want to follow him to his sources.”

“It's a cute story. Maybe it's true—maybe Baxter's just Baxter. I need that photograph, Ezio.”

“We'll get it. I'll call Ordway right after the meeting.”

Frank uncrossed his legs and put his elbows on his knees. “If it's Merle, it means he got disgusted with the way they were protecting him. He decided he'd have a better chance on his own. Which is stupid, of course. He hasn't got that nursemaid any more—what was his name?”

“Bradleigh.”

“He hasn't got anybody to keep him out of trouble. He'll make a stupid mistake. Now our problem is to be there when he makes it.”

“How?”

“On his own he'd probably do things Bradleigh would never let him do. For openers he'd probably make contact with his friends. Not anybody here in New York, that goes back too long ago, but friends he made in Los Angeles. Have you got that list?”

“Right here in the drawer.” Ezio opened it and took out the Merle file.

“Find out who his closest friends were.”

“All right.”

“Then put people on them. Bug their phones too.”

“My God, Frank, that could be an enormous operation. Cost us a fortune.”

“It's eight of my years we're talking about.”

“I'll do it, Frank, but it's up to you to convince the board. It's their money too.”

Frank's eyes went from point to point and suddenly shifted toward him and he felt pinned against the chair.

“Frank, all I'm saying is, if it was me I don't think I could talk them into it. But you're better than I am at convincing people.”

“I wish you'd put your mind on your job and find me Edward Merle.”

“We found him before. We can do it again.”

“I know you can, Ezio. I have every confidence in you.” Frank's smile filled him with gloom.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

California: 27 August-5 September

1

W
HEN THE BROWN CADILLAC CRUNCHED TO A STOP MATHIESON
went down from the cabin to meet it. Jan went with him; Roger and Amy waited by the cabin. The two boys were inside manufacturing something out of Billy's Erector Set.

Diego Vasquez stepped out of the car. He smiled when Mathieson introduced him to Jan. “A great pleasure indeed.” Vasquez bowed over her hand.

Jan was bemused. There was a chilly precision in Vasquez's deep voice that was out of kilter with the elegance of his attitudes. He still made Mathieson uneasy.

They went up toward the cabin. Walking behind them, Mathieson was surprised to realize Vasquez was no taller than Jan.

There was a round of introductions. Amy was captivated at once. The boys came out to meet Vasquez and they were impressed; they were inured to celebrities but Vasquez had an odd anachronistic flamboyance. After a while Mathieson knew what it reminded him of: radio voices from the age of fustian—Murrow, Alex Dreier, Kaltenborn, Westbrook Van Voorhis. It was with transparent reluctance that Roger gathered Amy and the boys and bundled them off on the pretext of casting a pool. The four of them went down the trail into the pines, fishing poles bobbing, lugging their picnic.

“I've enjoyed some of his films,” Vasquez said. “I've never decided whether he's a competent actor but I rather doubt that matters. He cuts an impressive figure on the screen.”

Mathieson said, “You know he was a rodeo champion before he came to Hollywood.”

“It's more than horsemanship, I'm sure.” Vasquez settled into one of the weathered rockers and glanced up at Jan. She stood with her hands in the pockets of her sheepskin coat, one shoulder tipped against the log pillar that supported the porch overhang. She watched Vasquez with tight expectant eyes. Vasquez put his whole attention on Jan. “May I assume you concur in your husband's decision?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“You said that a bit casually, Mrs.—what name should I use?”

“I don't care. Suit yourself.”

“You're tense. I'm sorry—I'm sure my presence only exacerbates that.”

She didn't reply; she took her hands out of her pockets and folded her arms, hugging herself against the mountain chill.

Vasquez said gently, “I really ought to know how to address you.”

She glanced at her husband. “Jan Mathieson.”

“Thank you.” Vasquez tipped the rocker back, crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. He looked comfortable—in command, fully assured. “You've had nasty experiences. It's natural that you should be troubled by great anxieties. We hope to allay those.”

“I hope you can.”

“My staff is already at work. My organization is rather unusual as you may know. You may have been misled by publicity. The news media pay attention only to climaxes. To the public I'm sure some of our operations appear reckless. I'd like to assure you that isn't the case. It may appear otherwise but we've never jeopardized innocent people. The Stedman kidnapping was a case in point. The media made it appear that the boy only escaped by great good luck. This wasn't the case. At no time was there any risk of the boy's coming under fire. Our movements were coordinated and prepared down to the inch. We had the camp under visual and electronic surveillance for sixteen hours before the moment came when we knew the boy had been left alone, temporarily, in his hut. That was when we made our move, and our first objective was the hut itself—to make sure the boy was protected. Corralling the kidnappers was only the secondary objective. Do you follow my drift?”

“Yes.”

“The primary objective in your case is to insure the safety of you and your son. I won't expose you or the boy to risk, and I won't permit you to expose yourselves to it. As for your husband, he must make up his own mind as to the limits of risk; we'll conform to his decision in the matter. You've decided to counterattack those who have attacked you. This ambition is laudable only if it has a reasonable chance of success. There'd be no point in approaching it as a kamikaze mission. Does this coincide with your view?”

“I suppose so.”

“You have reservations.”

“It's a last resort, isn't it. This whole madness. I'd be a fool if I held out much hope.”

“I understand your depression. But the forecast isn't as bleak as you may believe.”

The wisp of a polite smile fled across Jan's mouth. Mathieson looked away in distress.

Vasquez said, “It's an oversimplification to state that every man has a weakness that can be exploited. What is true is that criminals like Frank Pastor are particularly vulnerable to pressure. They appear formidable but in some ways they can be reached much more easily than can honest citizens.”

“Honest citizens don't retaliate by blowing up houses.”

“To be sure. But we've got to push your enemies back to the corner of the chessboard and achieve, if not checkmate, at least stalemate. At the moment it's you who are in check.”

“That much I understand.”

“The tactics remain to be defined. The strategy, however, is quite clear—to make it so costly for Pastor to persevere in harassing you that he will withdraw his threat and leave you in peace.”

Jan smiled wryly. “Even the federal government hasn't been able to do a thing about it with its thousands of agents and billions of dollars.”

“Offhand I can point out three specific advantages we have over the police and the federal government. One, we don't need to secure ironclad evidence before we can move against them. Two, our actions can't be deflected or frustrated by their efforts to subvert the judicial and enforcement machinery by corrupting officials. Three, we don't need to obey the law.”

“That's very glib.” Jan was watching Vasquez, holding his glance too long; it became a challenge. “Suppose we put ourselves in your hands. Suppose Frank Pastor approaches you and offers to outbid us. How do we know you won't sell yourself?”

“I'm an attorney,” Vasquez murmured. “You and your husband are my clients. It would be an obvious conflict of interests.”

“But you consider yourself above the law. That's what you've just said.”

“Unhappily there's a distinction between statutory law and moral law. I flout the one with unfortunate regularity. I am bound by the other with absolute rigidity.”

“It doesn't cost you anything to say that, does it.”

Vasquez turned his hands apart, palms out. “Then we're at an impasse. The only way you can determine whether you can trust a man is to trust him and see what happens.”

She only brooded at him. Vasquez said at last, “I've taken you on and I won't sell you out. It would be fruitless to offer further assurances than that. Either you believe it or you don't.”

“The moral law you're so concerned with—in your case it seems to include cold-blooded murder.”

“Don't believe everything you read.”

“That's an evasion.”

“Mrs. Mathieson, I might be able to influence you by proffering slick rationalizations about the differences between murder and execution, or justifiable homicide—self-defense—that is to say, by pointing out that the Commandment against homicide is hedged with innumerable exceptions. I've killed human beings, yes. I haven't killed many.” He lowered his head. “It's fair to say only that I can't answer to your conscience—I can answer only to my own. It is clear.”

In the same subdued voice and without lifting his head Vasquez said, “You've got to make a decision, you know. If you decide not to trust me there's no point going on with this.”

Mathieson waited for Jan to turn and look at him. Finally she did.

He couldn't decode her expression. “I don't have a choice,” she said. She turned back to Vasquez. “Neither of us does.”

“Then I'm to proceed?”

“You'll have to forgive me. I don't give this much of a chance.”

“Mrs. Mathieson, a sentence of death has been passed upon you by Frank Pastor's kangaroo court. You have three options. Give up and succumb. Run and hide. Or fight and hope. No human being in sound mental health would consider the first. You've already tried the second and found it wanting. Therefore, regardless how poor the chances appear, you're pretty well stuck with fight and hope.”

The nervous smile, meaningless, sped across her lips again.

Vasquez seemed to take it for assent. “We'll have to arrange a program, the object of which will be to formulate our plans down to the last detail. We'll need to do a great deal of work. It will take time—time that must be unencumbered by distracting pressures of the kind Frank Pastor has been inflicting on you. This requires seclusion. I have in mind a place where we should be able to make things as comfortable for you as might reasonably be expected. There'll be no companions the boy's age but the place of which I'm thinking does have stables and horses. I understand he's a self-sufficient child.”

“No child that age is self-sufficient.”

“He'll have his parents with him,” Vasquez said. “He'll miss school of course. The school terms are just now beginning.”

“I'm aware of that.” She was still cool with him. “Why can't we stay right here? There's a country school in the village—it's fourteen miles.”

“We don't want to involve your friends any more than they're already involved, Mrs. Mathieson.”

Vasquez let that sink in. Then he said: “I don't merely want you and the boy to be where you're safe. I want you to be where your husband knows you're safe and where I know you're safe. The only way we can avoid being distracted by concern over your safety is to have you and Ronny with us at all times. I'm afraid both of you may find it tedious but I'm sure you'll agree boredom is preferable to anxiety.”

An expression tightened the skin around her mouth: It might have been an effort to choke off anger. Abruptly she went across the porch. “I suppose I'd better get packed again.” Without further talk and without a glance at Mathieson she went inside the cabin.