Recoil (31 page)

He reinserted one of the keys and pulled and it slid easily toward him—an entire section of the underside of the dash.

The drawer was irregularly shaped, crowded with canvas money packets. There was an empty money belt, a passport in a wallet, a leather zipper case filled with shaving gear and toiletries and an old-fashioned pineapple hand grenade.

He made sure the pin was secured to the grenade handle. It wasn't a booby trap.
If
it had been we'd all be sky-high
.

He looked behind him. Ramiro sat rigid with his eyes squeezed shut and his fists locked on his knees, white-knuckled. If he was going to die it would come now—that was what Ramiro had to be thinking.

Homer said, “Let's go to the airport, Al.”

5

Through the observation panes he watched the 747 taxi away from the ramp. Homer's narrow mouth was stretched back to the point of splitting. “Bon voyage, George.”

They walked down the stairs. Homer said, “You were beautiful. You had
me
scared. That wild thing in your eyes.”

“That was terror.” Mathieson laughed with him.

Vasquez met them on the way out of the building. “On his way?”

“He'll keep running for a year before he stops to think,” Homer said.

“Ingenious again, Mr. Merle.”

Homer said, “Especially the part where we convinced him it was Pastor and Martin who put out the contract on him. That guarantees he'll never get in touch with them.”

Mathieson said, “Maybe. Sooner or later he'll stop and figure out he may have been conned. But by that time we'll be done with this.”

In the parking lot they transferred Ramiro's $35,000 and the rest of his goods into a suitcase. Mathieson pushed the homemade drawer shut and locked it with both keys. He locked the Cadillac and they walked across the lot to Vasquez's car. Mathieson put the suitcase in the back seat. “At any rate this will cover our expenses.”

Vasquez got behind the wheel and they drove out of the lot. “In due course his car will be discovered. Evidently abandoned. A cursory investigation will disclose that Ramiro bought a ticket to Lisbon and flew there today. The police doubtless will report this information back to Frank Pastor. Pastor will assume that Ramiro absconded, the result of some transgression. Suspicion is all those people need—proof of malfeasance isn't required. Ramiro is acting suspiciously, therefore Ramiro must be dealt with. A genuine contract will be put out. You realized that from the outset, I presume?”

“It won't happen.”

“Why won't it?”

“Because it will be a long time before that car is noticed. People leave their cars at airports for weeks on end—even on those twenty-four-hour lots. By the time Ramiro is traced to Portugal he'll have a month's jump on them at least. They may go after him but it'll be a cold trail unless Ramiro does something idiotic.”

“Like sending for his wife, perhaps?”

“He knows he's on the run. He knows he's got to hide. It's more chance than they gave me.” Mathieson felt a sour bile of anger in his throat. “He'll spend the rest of his life on the run. All right, it was my doing. Do you think I was wrong?”

“I think you may have inspired his murder, in the long run. I think you've stepped over that invisible line you're so scrupulous about.”

“No. That's like blaming Hiroshima for positioning itself under the Bomb. All I've done is conned one man into running for his life. If another man ends up killing him, it's not on my conscience—it's their own doing.”

“I thoroughly agree. But it marks a shift in your position.”

“I don't see any shift.”

“Put it this way. What has George Ramiro ever done to you?”

“He has existed,” Mathieson said, “and that's enough.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Washington, D.C.: 21 October

1

T
HE FALL COLORS IN ROCK CREEK PARK WERE STUNNING.
Mathieson watched them shimmer in the wind.

The wind muffled the sound of Homer's approach; Mathieson didn't know he was there until he felt weight behind him. He turned in alarm.

Homer grinned at him. “Old Indian Joe.”

“Scared half the life out of me.”

“Just practicing,” Homer said. “He's coming.” He pointed off through the trees, down the path.

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“All right.”

Homer said, “He's probably wired for sound.”

“If he is it'll be a recorder, not a transmitter. He's going against company policy by meeting me.”

“He says he is. Maybe it's true.”

“I know him, Homer.”

“I just don't trust these guys.” Homer turned back into the woods. “I'll be watching.” He patted the revolver under his tweed jacket.

Mathieson crossed the path and sat down on the bench.

Above him Bradleigh appeared. He came down the slope with his hands in the pockets of his topcoat. He stood above Mathieson for a moment and then turned around and sat down at the far end of the bench. “I never recognize you anymore. Somebody's been giving you makeup treatments.”

“I'm rehearsing for the remake of
Man of a Thousand Faces
,” Mathieson said. “You look a little peaked, Glenn.”

“I've been losing too much sleep.”

“Not on my account, I hope.”

“Yes, on your account. Now what's all the mystery?”

“Are you carrying a wire?”

“Just a recorder.”

“Mind if I see it?”

“Suppose I do?” Bradleigh kept his hands in his pockets.

“I don't want to be taped, Glenn. This is private.”

“It doesn't look like anybody's ever taped you. Christ and I thought I knew you, once upon a time.” But he went inside his lapels and pulled out a flat little recorder and held it up in plain sight while he switched it off. He put it down on the bench between them.

“I hope that's the only one you're carrying.”

“No, I've got eighteen others distributed about my person. You want to tell me why I'm here?”

“George Ramiro's gone, did you know that?”

“Gone?”

“Left the country last week.”

“Where?”

“It doesn't matter. He's on the run. He'll never be back.”

Bradleigh studied him as if he were something on the marquee placard of a freak show. “Your doing, I take it? First Gillespie, now Ramiro.”

“That's right.”

“You've got a reason for telling me this.”

Mathieson glanced idly up through the woods. He couldn't see Homer anywhere but he knew Homer was there.

He said, “The point should be obvious enough. I've taken two of them out of the game and put one of them in the government's hands eager to give up every scrap of information he's got.”

“You're saying you've proved you're capable of doing things we've failed to do.”

“That's right, Glenn. And in return I want a favor.”

“We'll see.”

“I expect you to say, ‘Name it.'”

“Come off it,” Bradleigh said. “I don't sign blank checks like that.”

A group of riders went by, cantering. Mathieson said, “Did you talk to Benson and the other two?”

“I talked to them.”

“And?”

“They want to know more about what you want to talk to them about.”

“All they need to do is call me and find out.”

“For them to go to a phone is a big risk.”

“Talk them into it.”

“That the favor you're asking?”

“Part of it. You can tell them to call me, Glenn. Don't ask. Tell them.” He took the slip of paper out of his pocket and wedged it under a corner of the tape recorder to keep the wind from picking it up. “That's three phone numbers. They're all pay phones in New York. Beside each phone number I've written a date and a time. One for Benson, one for Fusco and one for Draper.”

Bradleigh pulled the paper out and read it and put it in his pocket. “I'll see.”

“You'll tell them to make those calls, Glenn.”

“They don't have to take orders from me, you know that.”

“You can be persuasive.”

“I'll try. The way you're going about this, I'm not sure I even owe you that much. You're not even giving me a scrap to go on.”

Mathieson said, “What I'm doing is counterattacking. That ought to be obvious enough.”

“You can't get them all.”

“I don't have to. All I have to do is neutralize Frank Pastor. If I force him into a position where he's got to leave me alone, then he's got to pass the word down to his troops and his friends to keep their hands off me.”

“I don't see how you hope to accomplish that by picking off small fry like Gillespie and Ramiro.”

“That's just to put him off balance, make him nervous. I need him nervous.”

“You're out of your mind. You know that, of course.”

“I'm not under your protection anymore. If I'm wiped out it won't be on your conscience.”

“I wish I saw it that way.” Bradleigh sighed with exasperation.

“I'm doing a favor for Benson and Fusco and Draper. I want to let them in on this. It won't put them in any more danger than they're already in. Pastor hasn't found me—he won't find them either. And if it works it gets all four of us off the hook. And our families.”

Bradleigh said, “What if I refuse to cooperate with you?”

“I can pull a few things.”

“Feeling your oats, aren't you. But Pastor's a lot tougher to crack than penny-ante types like Gillespie and Ramiro.”

“I know that, Glenn. I had to start somewhere. Call it practice.”

“What is it you want, then?”

“One or two of them may want to come to New York after I've talked to them. Maybe all three of them.”

“Benson, Fus——”

“Right. I want them protected.”

“You mean you want me to keep them away from New York?”

“Just the contrary. I want them in New York if they're willing to come. I want their help.”

“Of all the incredible balls——”

“I'm not going to force them to do anything. But if they want to come, I want them protected every step of the way. Even if it means you have to send Caruso and Cuernavan and ten other people out there to escort them. Even if it means you have to charter a private executive jet.”

Bradleigh exploded. “It's out of the question, of course. We can't give support to any cockeyed private schemes. I told you you were out of your mind. This proves it. To even ask for——”

“Well, it's more than just a casual request, Glenn.”

Bradleigh sighed again. “It figured there'd be teeth in it.”

“I'd rather keep it on the level of favors between friends.”

“Would you.”

“I don't want to put a gun to your head.”

Bradleigh said, “I guess you don't have to spell it out. All it would take would be a word from you in the FBI director's ear. That after I blew you twice to Pastor you went out on your own and handed us C. K. Gillespie on a platter. I'd be out on my ass. I'd probably deserve it, too.”

“Then don't force me to threaten you with it. Come on, Glenn, I don't want to be the instrument of your disgrace and you don't want it either. I'm not going to the FBI or anybody else.”

“If that's a promise then your threat just sprang a leak.”

“It's not a threat. It's a favor. I'm asking one in return.”

“Jesus, you're a devious son of a bitch.”

“The only thing I'm putting pressure on is your conscience.”

“You bastard.”

“Then you'll arrange it all.”

Bradleigh didn't reply, But his quick angry nod was as good as a promise.

Mathieson stood up. “Tell them to call me.”

“Sure, sure.” Bradleigh didn't look at him. He reached out for the cassette recorder and shoved it inside his coat. Then he rammed his hands into his pockets. “I always hate the fall. Makes me know winter's coming on.”

“Can spring be far behind?”

“Jesus. Get out of here with your fucking platitudes.” He still didn't look up. After a moment Mathieson stepped forward, made a fist, nudged his shoulder with it and then walked away up the hill. Homer picked him up beyond Bradleigh's view and they walked on through the park to the car.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

New York City: 23 October

1

I
T WAS A HIGH-PRICED PRIVATE SCHOOL THAT OCCUPIED
three interconnected brownstones on Eighty-ninth Street between Fifth and Madison avenues. The neighborhood suggested old wealth. Trim blonde matrons in Diors and Givenchys went heel-clipping along under their umbrellas. In better weather you'd see nurses wheeling infants in perambulators to and from Central Park. The only black face was that of the occasional supermarket delivery boy on his box-fronted tricycle.

Mathieson and Roger Gilfillan sat in the car. They were parked at a hydrant in front of a narrow stone house with discreet small bronze plaques on its wrought-iron gate advertising the presence of two MDs who were probably psychoanalysts. That conclusion had been reached after the first half day on the stakeout when it became apparent that only two patients arrived in each hour.

None of them took any notice of the Plymouth with its two occupants parked at the same fire hydrant day after day.

Every few hours a police car would cruise past but they were never asked to move on. Had the car been unoccupied it probably would have been towed away.

Each morning the gray Mercedes arrived and discharged its two passengers. They would join the throng trooping into the school. Each afternoon promptly at half past three the Mercedes drew up and the two passengers came from the school and got in. Now it was 2:45
P.M.
and raining.