Recoil (34 page)

“You're a fundamentalist.”

“A meaningless label. I distinguish between good and evil. I think I do so far more realistically than you do.”

“A moralist who's cheerfully willing to indulge in extortion, fraud, illegal entry, kidnapping and God knows what other offenses.”

“Offenses against what, Mr. Merle? Against evil men. I justify my existence by jousting with evil. But I've never defrauded an innocent man or extorted anything from an honest citizen.”

“Robin Hood, are you?”

“I'm Diego Vasquez, Mr. Merle. Perhaps I make my own legend but I certainly don't model myself on others'.”

“You're extraordinary, you know that?”

“Are you going to tell me what your scheme is so that I may evaluate it?”

“I suppose I'll have to, won't I. All right. You may as well sit down.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

New York City: 24 October

1

T
HE BUILDING WAS EMPTYING OUT. WHEN THE LAST STRAGGLERS
had disappeared Ezio locked the door of the office and returned through the anteroom to his desk. He picked up the phone and punched ten digits.

“Ordway Enterprises.”

“Ezio Martin. Mr. Ordway in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ezio. That you?”

“Me. Turn on your scrambler,” Ezio said.

“Just a minute …”

Ezio opened the drawer and switched on his scrambler. “OK, you hear me?”

“Good enough.” Ordway's voice was distorted now.

“That order I placed yesterday morning. You got anything yet?”

“Working on it, Ezio. It takes a little time, it's a complicated order.”

“I'm waiting for Mr. Pastor in my office now, that's why I called. Thought I'd give him the latest.”

“We ought to have a crew for you in maybe forty-eight hours.”

“Clean?”

“Squeaky clean. That's what you asked for.”

“Mr. Pastor's going to appreciate that.”

Ordway said, “I don't suppose you want to tell me anything at all, do you?”

“Out of bounds right now. You'll make a nice profit on it, though. Mind telling me who you're sending us?”

“Well we haven't got them yet, Ezio. But two of the men we're trying to get, they're a couple of soldiers. I mean real army soldiers, they were out in Vietnam. Officers, Green Berets. No police records at all. Squeaky clean.”

“But their fingerprints would be on file.”

“Hell, anybody's fingerprints are on file, Ezio. So they wear gloves, whatever it is. These guys are into demolitions, communications, you name it.”

“We're not expecting to invade a Vietcong village,” Ezio said. “I'm not sure it's a bright idea. The operation we've got in mind, it needs to be real quiet. This doesn't want demolitions types, it wants second-story types.”

“These are good men, Ezio. They ran some shit into the country for us from Nam. They did it efficient and quiet. These are not loud guys.”

“I told you I wanted three men.”

“The third guy, I was thinking maybe Tony Senno up in Burbank.”

“No. Definitely out.”

“Why?”

“Because we've used him before. I told you, nobody we've ever used before. Senno drove the car for Deffeldorf, right?”

“Then I'll cancel him, get you somebody else. No sweat, Ezio.”

“You don't mention our names to whoever it is, you understand that. They're not going to know who they're working for. You'll call me back when they're ready to take off.”

“Today's Friday. I'll probably send them out Sunday on a plane. Where do I reach you?”

“It'll have to be here, the office, because I've got the scrambler here. I'll come in around noon, that's nine in the morning your time, you call me here then.”

“Fine. So long, Ezio.”

Ten minutes later Frank arrived. He tossed his coat and hat on the couch and shot his cuffs. “So?”

Ezio told him about his conversation with Ordway.

“Fine, fine. What about the schedule?”

“Everybody arrives in New York by Sunday night.”

“Assembly point?”

“Midnight Sunday, one of the piers in Brooklyn. It'll be empty—no ships in, no cargoes waiting. We slipped the watchman a few bucks, he won't see anything.”

“That's fine, Ezio.”

“Who briefs them?”

“You do. Buy some longshoreman's clothes, wear a stocking over your face, don't talk unless you have to. Rent a typewriter and have the instructions typed up, pass it around, make sure they understand. If they ask questions you answer them with a pencil, you write the answer down in block letters so they can't figure the handwriting, you let them read it and then you burn it.”

“Down payments?”

“Two thousand a man. The other eight thousand each when they bring us the files.”

“You worked out a plan for the drop or do you want me to take care of that?”

“Use a truck. They drive it to a given point, you pick it up there. You personally. Nobody else is in on this, Ezio.”

“Right.”

“Keep it that way.”

“I pay them off when I pick up the truck, then.”

“Yes. Treat them square, this is a hard job for them.”

“Got you,” Ezio said.

2

She put down five tiles and scored it. Frank rotated the board and scowled.

She said, “What now? Another seven-letter word?”

“No. How do you spell ‘harass'?”

“One are, two esses.”

“No good.” He lapsed into silent contemplation.

She said, “How long will it take them to do it, Frank?”

“How long will it take who to do what?”

“The files.”

“No telling.” He rearranged tiles on his rack. “First they'll have to scout the place, every inch. Find out what the security setup is. How many people work there weekends and nights. Bringing in one guy from Minneapolis who used to install alarm systems—he's supposed to figure out a way across whatever they've got but it may take equipment and time. You can't pull off anything this big overnight. And they've got to get away clean—it means working out complicated maneuvers, trucks inside trucks, diversions, all that kind of crap. It's a Goddamn military operation.”

“But it can be done. I'm sure it can.”

“Anything can be done,” he said. “Once they pull it off there's going to be all hell breaks loose. You know what we're going to do? We're going to put the stuff in the mail.”

“In the mail?”

He was smiling. “Sure. Bust it up in little packages, wrap it up in plain brown paper, mail, them out from all kinds of little branch post offices to guys all over the country who got testified against. Then we sit back and watch it all hit the fan. The government hasn't got enough agents to cover all of them at once. Eleven hundred witnesses? Eight, nine hundred of them be dead by the time the federals start catching up. And the first four are going to be Merle, Benson, Draper and Fusco.”

“If they still have a file on Merle.”

“There's that. But it doesn't bother me anymore. We miss Merle, OK, we miss one man. But we make our point, that's the important thing.”

“Then you still think Gregory was mistaken.”

“Sure, the both of them. Couldn't have been Merle. What's Merle want with a junkie connection? It doesn't make any sense. It was just some cop trying to run a bluff. Couple of clumsy cops running a poor tail, they got caught, they had to dream up some story.”

“But Belmont said he recognized him.”

“He backed off, you know. It's been nearly ten years. Ezio took him over the photographs again and Belmont admitted he wasn't sure, it was just a resemblance. I mean I'd love to think we had Merle right in our own backyard but things just don't work out that easy. Forget it. We'll find Merle—we'll find him in San Diego County, I'll bet you on that.”

“I never bet with you, Frank, I always lose.”

“The hell you do.” He grinned at her. “But that's the right thing to say.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

New York City: 24–31 October

1

M
ATHIESON RETURNED TO THE HOTEL IN A SEVERE DEPRESSION.
When he walked into the suite he found Vasquez and Homer going through real estate ads in the
Times
. Roger was fiddling with the Arriflex camera, checking its lens settings against the recommendations on the film pack. Roger looked up; it was clear that one glance at Mathieson's face told him the answer to the question in his mind; he didn't speak but Homer voiced it: “How're they doing?”

“Fine—fine.”

Vasquez was cold. “She's still upset. Very well—she'd have needed to be superhuman.”

“Don't we all.”

“Don't take on like that, old horse.”

“Amy's all right. A little itchy. The boys are raising some hell.”

“Expected that,” Roger said. “You et?”

He had to think. “No.”

“Then go down and get yourself around some grub. Might improve your disposition some.”

Without arguing he went downstairs, debating the dining rooms, settled on the coffee shop. Afterward he had a drink in one of the bars, a double, and felt slightly mellowed when he returned to the suite. Roger inspected him critically. “My turn to call tomorrow. I hope it don't have the same effect on me.”

“Hell, Roger, you've got the best marriage in the world.”

“Always tend to agree when people tell me that. Strange thing is, it's true.”

Vasquez folded the newspaper and put it away. “Mr. Merle, you didn't honestly expect your marriage to survive this. It would be imbecilic to blame its failure solely on these experiences.”

“I don't need undercutting—not from my wife and certainly not from you.”

“You do, however, need a clear mind. You've half-persuaded yourself that if you were to give up your quixotic quest, even at this late date, you'd have a chance of recovering your marriage. You've convinced yourself somehow that it's an either-or situation—that you can have Pastor or you can have your wife, but you can't have both. It's idiotic. If you accede to these irrational pressures you'll surely lose both of them.”

Roger said, “I hate to say this but I agree with the man.”

Acidly Mathieson turned to Homer. “What about you? Nobody seems to have asked your opinion.”

“Haven't got one, Mr. Merle. I don't mess in other people's private lives. Done enough messing in my own. I've got a back trail littered with ex-wives—three of them.”

Roger said, “I never knew that.”

Neither did Mathieson but it wasn't enough of a surprise to distract him. He said savagely, “Nobody said anything about giving anything up. Have I even hinted I ever thought about quitting?”

“That's beside the point,” Vasquez said. “You've created a talisman—the superstitious belief that if you succeed against Pastor it will cost you your marriage. I'm bringing it out in the open now because I believe it's the kind of superstition that may become a trip wire. Whatever happens to your marriage, it will not be the result of anything that occurs here. The two matters are completely unrelated. You must admit it—without reservation. Otherwise we're in peril.”

“You may be right. I may have been putting it to myself like that. I don't know. I haven't been able to think clearly about it.”

“Then do so now.” Vasquez left his chair and stood looking down at Homer. “I've been thinking that perhaps you should leave us, Homer.”

“What?”

“Return to Los Angeles. There are tasks waiting at the home office. Things have piled up during my inexcusable absence.”

“You've never thrown me off a case in the middle.”

“There are things that will transpire here, things you don't need to participate in. Please don't be whimsically gallant. I need you more at the home office than here.”

Mathieson's rage shifted toward the available target: “Is that the thanks he gets? At least Homer deserves to be in at the finish.”

“Please stay out of this, Mr. Merle. Homer knows nothing of your plans. If we exposed the scheme to him he would find it anathema. It would go against every principle in him. But he would insist on backing us to the hilt out of his loyalty to me. I don't wish to confront him with that dilemma.”

Homer was on his feet. “Talk to me, not about me.”

“I've done so. You have your instructions.”

“It must be something that stinks pretty awful. I've gone a long way down a lot of roads with you. Where did you change? I didn't spot it. Where'd you all of a sudden park your values, Diego?”

“I never had a shot at evil so large before.”

“And all of a sudden it's the end that justifies the means?”

“The means are, to say the least, appropriate.”

Abruptly Homer turned to Mathieson. “We've had fun so far. Does it have to go sour now?”

“I was never playing for fun, Homer.”

“That's too bad. You play the game better than anybody I know outside of Diego.” He turned back to Vasquez. “I'm not going.”

“Don't presume to——”

“Diego, I'm not going. You want to fire me, then fire me. I imagine Mr. Merle will put me on the payroll.”

Mathieson said, “If that's what you want.”

Vasquez turned away. “It's a bloody mutiny.”

“No,” Homer said. “Just a touch of insubordination. You've never hired lackeys—what do you expect?”

“I'm rather touched, Homer.”

“Is that sarcasm?”

“No. It's the simple truth.”

“Then I stay.”

“I'd prefer you didn't.”

“Your exception is noted.”