The Assassin (20 page)

‘Christ Almighty,' Mathews said. ‘We've got a big one, then.'

‘My guess is one of the biggest. Look at the records. He's been fifteen years here, establishing himself; who do you think financed that magazine of his—and what a perfect means of passing information, with offices in Germany and half a dozen men travelling round Europe? How much do you think it costs them to get him in the Huntley Cameron group—he must be one of the most important agents in the whole service.'

‘But where does Cameron fit—and Elizabeth? For Christ's sake don't tell me they're mixed up with the K.G.B.!'

‘I don't know,' Leary said. ‘But King went to the Lebanon for a reason, and he liaised in Paris with Druet to report on it, leaving your girl friend Miss Cameron to come back to the States with a different travelling companion, one she didn't tell me about when there was every opportunity.'

‘If it was a straight pick-up,' Mathews suggested, ‘just a guy she fell for in Beirut who went to live with her when they got home—would she have told you about that? Why should it connect with King?'

‘Because while your man was tailing her to Freemont another man was talking to the hall porter at her apartment block. She sure had a guy living with her, but he left the same morning she came here. The day after friend King got back from Europe.'

‘What do we do next?' Mathews said. He felt uncomfortable; he was also beginning to feel angry. He had never taken Elizabeth Cameron for more than just another trophy: intelligent, beautiful, a shade inhibited compared with some, but never with any suggestion that she could move into his cold and dangerous world. But she was in it; Leary was right, as he had been right from the start when he said she was holding something back. ‘I'd like to bring her in,' he said suddenly.

‘That's what I woke you for,' Leary said. ‘It's around three-thirty now, you can go home and freshen up and get down to Freemont for breakfast.'

‘They have guards on the gate, Mathews said. ‘It's like walking into Fort Knox.'

‘She'll get you in, she knows you're her contact with me. If she's playing for their side, Pete, she'll have to find out what you want. If she isn't, she'll still see you. Take her out of Freemont and bring her here.'

Mathews looked up at his chief. ‘I'd like to have an hour or two alone with her first,' he said. ‘I can use my place. If I can't break her by tomorrow you can take over. I'd like to try.'

‘What's the motive, Pete? Sentiment?'

‘You know me better than that. I feel she's crossed me up in some way, and I don't like it. Let me have her for a while.'

‘Okay,' Leary said. ‘Call in and let me know what progress you're making. Right now we're trying to get a lead on whoever was staying in that flat.'

‘There're so many leads,' Mathews said, ‘and none of them seem to tie up.'

‘Oh, I wouldn't say that.' Leary stretched his arms above his head and yawned. He felt the coffee pot, it was empty. ‘One or two things connect up. King goes to Beirut, taking a cover with him—Miss Cameron. When he leaves he goes to one of the top opposition men in Western Europe to make some kind of a report—right so far? Okay. Let's go back to the Lebanon. Somewhere, Miss Cameron picks up a man and takes him home with her. From what we know about her, this isn't very typical. Not typical at all. So there's two of them in the Riverways, for the period King is still abroad. Miss Cameron holds out on us about this guy, even when she hears about the plane crash. And she was shaken, Pete. She offered me Eddi King's head on a plate. But she didn't mention her house guest. Let's track back again. In the two weeks since she and King and Mr X left Beirut a girl gets murdered. That's not unusual, lots of murders happen in a place like that. The only funny thing is that healthy bank account and the European boy friend. There was another coincidence too. A Lebanese working for the airlines took delivery of a new car and it blew him and his family up the first time they went for a drive. He'd just banked a lot of money too. I think he and the Arab girl are connected. I think they were killed as part of a cover-up operation. That's how the opposition works with something big. They set it up and then they wipe out all the little people, one by one, who had a part in it. It's good security.'

‘Is it dope?' Mathews asked. ‘That's a big weapon in their hands these days.'

Leary got up and went into the outer office, taking the coffee pot with him. His secretary kept an electric percolator there.

‘An operator like King doesn't deal in narcotics,' Leary called through the open door. ‘They have a completely different set-up for that. There's thirty thousand acres in the Lebanon alone, just growing hash for export. The guy who owns them is a Member of the Parliament. No, Pete, this isn't that kind of thing at all. They're not bringing dope into the States on this run. What's worrying the hell out of me is who or what King went over to set up.'

‘And whether it came here with Elizabeth Cameron and hung out in her apartment for two weeks,' Pete Mathews finished for him. He got up, stretching as Leary had done. He didn't feel tired; he felt alert and eager to get moving.

‘I'll get town to Freemont around eight-thirty,' he said. ‘And when I'm home I'll call you.'

‘Good night, Pete.' Leary came back into the office with the coffee. The door had closed behind Mathews, but he spoke out loud, continuing the conversation with himself. ‘What worried me most of all,' he said, ‘what really gives me wrinkles, is that this goddamned business is blowing up in time for the Presidential election. If anything happens again …' He went back to his desk.

Keller had slept badly to start the night, and then drifted into a very deep sleep which ran over into the late morning.

When he heard knocking he woke instantly with the alertness of a man who had spent years prepared to spring up at the slightest noise.

The handle was turning round and round; he could sense the frustration on the other side of the door. The super's voice came at him through the wood like a rusty saw scraping on iron.

‘There's a guy here with the TV. Open up, will ya?'

There was a man behind the super, wearing dirty overalls, with a small portable TV set in his arms.

‘This is for you, bud,' he said to Keller. ‘I got to set it up and show you how it works.' Keller stood aside and let him come in. He kicked the door shut and turned the key again. He heard the super say something, which he couldn't understand, and then slouch off down the passage.

‘Who sent this?'

‘Guy who booked the room,' the man answered. He had put the set on the table near the bed; he was pulling out an indoor aerial and the set was humming, its white screen alight.

‘You should get a picture okay,' he said. He turned a knob and there was a blast of music.

‘That old dope has keyhole ears.' He turned to Keller and straightened up. ‘I guess we can talk through this. You want one?' He held out a packet of Chesterfields towards Keller, who shook his head.

He saw the tense, suspicious look and the heavy hands held ready at his sides, the fingers slightly curled, ready to bunch into fists. ‘Relax,' he said. He lit his cigarette and gulped down smoke. ‘Relax, you make me nervous. I got instructions for you. Here; read this.' He tossed an envelope towards Keller, who caught it. He didn't answer the man; he gave him a last look and then dropped on the bed, ripping the flap open. It was a single sheet of paper, and it consisted of a rough plan of a very big building. Keller studied it for a moment.

‘What is this place?'

‘St Patrick's Cathedral. Over on Madison Avenue.' He was a sturdily built man in his middle thirties, dark-eyed and coarse-featured; the face was a series of blobs, as if he were made of sloppy putty which hadn't ever set. Like so many Americans, his origins were difficult to guess. He smoked in compulsive gulps, sucking the smoke in and blowing it back like a steam engine. He watched Keller coolly, assessing him. Rough; edgy. Not the typical contract operator he was used to dealing with. He had the same taut, killer quality in the way he moved and those pale eyes could go dead like an angry snake's; but there was a hardness, a physical quality, about him which was different to the professional gunmen. Many of the pros were poor slum specimens, with greasy tenement pallor.

This man could have broken your back if he wanted to; he seemed a different species to the deadly breed which was spawned in New York's lower East Side. The TV man made these conclusions in the few seconds while Keller studied the sketch map. In his own organisation he was quite high up. A two-year stint in Viet Nam had taught him discipline and quick thinking. He was ambitious and intelligent, and when he came home he went into the criminal ranks with ambitions beyond petty theft and strong-arm jobs. He left that to the slobs. When there was something special to be organised, or a real special contract to be carried out, then he was sent in to handle it. This was a very big contract indeed. The money which had already been spent showed just how important it was. The importation of a man from outside the States removed any stain from his own professional reputation. This one was not for him. Most definitely not for him, now that he knew who the victim was.

Keller pointed to a series of dots made in red ink down one section of the map, and again at a circle drawn round something he couldn't identify because it seemed set in the side of the wall.

‘Explain this to me. And turn that noise down; he can't hear us but I can't hear you. What do these marks mean?'

The man came over and sat on the bed beside him. ‘Look, he said, ‘this is a rough guide; just to help the memory, see. This is where you're goin' to operate. St Pat's. Now, this is the nave, see? Up the left is the side aisle. Past the high altar you go on up till you get to this bit marked with the circle. Okay?'

‘What is it?'

‘Confessional box. Special box for the deaf. It ain't used now, they go across to the 50th Street Annexe. Nobody uses the box, see?' Keller didn't answer. The constant use of the word, perched irrelevantly at the end of most sentences, jarred him as much as the superintendent's West Side whine.

‘Those marks show where your target comes in and goes out.' Keller turned his head towards him and stared into the muddy eyes.

‘Who is the target?'

‘You got scruples about who you knock over?' It was a friendly question, like asking a man if he preferred a different brand of beer.

‘I don't understand you,' Keller said. ‘I'm getting paid, I want to know what I have to do. If you know, you tell me; that's all.'

‘Okay. Monday morning is St Patrick's Day. It's a big day over here, bud. All the Micks in America dive into the Scotch bottle and don't come out till March 18th. But they like to start it off with a prayer meetin' and a parade; all you have to worry about is the prayer meetin'. It's held right in the cathedral. And that's where your target comes in. Right through that door near the confessional box. You know what a cardinal looks like?' He grinned, making a joke of it. All the time he was watching Keller's face.

‘They wear red robes,' Keller said.

‘Sure they do. All dressed up like Santa Claus—without the whiskers. That's who you got to knock over, Cardinal Regazzi. During the High Mass on Monday morning, see? He comes in where it shows on your plan and he goes out the same way. You can take him close to, or as he goes on down to the altar. From the confessional box.'

Keller looked down at the sketch map. ‘How do I get out?'

‘There's an exit right by the box; leads to 51st Street. Here.' He had a pencil in his hand; Keller noticed that the end was chewed to splinters. He wasn't as nerveless as he seemed. He made a short line on the sketch. That's where you exit. It's a door between the confessional and the way the Cardinal comes in from the rectory. For Crissake don't muddle 'em up, or you'll run through into the rectory. And they won't be nice to you in there, not after you've made a nasty hole in the big boss!' He laughed; it was a curiously attractive sound, full of good humour.

‘You like it so far?'

‘So far,' Keller said. ‘I've got a lot of questions.'

‘I got all the answers,' the other man said. ‘I got the whole thing worked right out—here.' He tapped his temple, and added the inevitable, ‘See?' ‘Now, the way it goes is this. Mass starts around ten-thirty. Whenever the Cardinal shows up for one of these public shenanigins the whole place is crawlin' with C.I.A. Feds and City cops. You couldn't bring in a toothpick, bud, never mind an iron. But don't let it worry you. You come in clean as a baby's ass, an' down the left-hand aisle and land up near this confessional. Now when you pick the moment to duck in is up to you. But right behind the green curtains you'll find a kind of overall. Just pull it on; it's like the guys wear who mind the collecting boxes. This part of the church is pretty dark; don't worry if one of the other guys with an overall sees you; there's always extras brought in on St Pat's to keep a check on the crowds. The place'll be crawlin' with people anyway. Then make like you're looking around; go back to the box and pull back the curtains, act it up a bit, like you were making sure it was empty—the place will've been searched inside out the night before, but the Feds and the rest of 'em keep on checking, just in case. You know they grabbed a guy who went to Bobbie Kennedy's funeral with a
ticket
, just because he was carryin' an iron—your iron is under the top of the kneelin' rail in the confessional. The top's covered in a green stuff, like satin. Just lift it straight in the middle and a piece will come up. You'll find your iron inside, fully loaded. See?'

‘You have someone working from inside the cathedral?' Keller asked. It all sounded very glib, but even without seeing the church, he understood why they had offered so much money. Not just for killing a priest, but for doing it inside a building closed and guarded by security men.