“I don’t think he wants to be shot,” Padillo said and straightened up and put away his knife. Price looked at the one he held in his hand, shrugged, and tossed it on the floor.
Padillo jerked his head towards the French doors at the top of the stairs that opened onto the roof. “Move over there, Price.”
“All right,” the man said.
“Keep your gun on him,” Padillo said and moved quickly over to the doors. I motioned Price towards them. Through the doors’ glass we could see a strange dance on the polished marble floor. Dymec and Mush were locked together as each struggled to get a killing hold. They seemed to glide around the dance floor. A rifle lay near its edge. The two men broke apart and Mush tried to produce a revolver from his coat pocket. Its hammer snagged on his lining and Dymec kicked it as if he were kicking a soccer ball and the gun flew out of Mush’s hand and landed a dozen feet away.
Dymec reached behind his neck and produced a thinbladed knife.
“Make him come to you,” Padillo said softly.
“Who’s getting the advice?” I asked.
“Mush.”
Dymec came at him. The Negro jumped back slightly and Dymec’s concrete-colored face took on an earnest, thoughtful look. He turned slowly as Mush moved around him. Then he feinted and Mush tried for the right arm, but missed, and Dymec’s knife went through his coat and into his side. Mush looked surprised and knelt on the floor and opened his coat to look at what caused him to hurt so bad.
Dymec picked up the rifle and ran quickly to the east edge of the building, glancing at his watch as he ran.
“I thought Mush could take him,” Padillo said.
I looked at my watch. It was forty minutes after two. “That leaves it up to us.”
“No,” Padillo said. “Just me.”
Dymec checked his rifle and aimed it between the posts of the chest-high railing. It made a comfortable rest. Padillo ran across the dance floor. Dymec heard him. He tried to get the rifle from between the posts, but Padillo hit him in the side with both feet. The rifle fell to the floor and Dymec was down on his hands and knees. He looked up at Padillo, said something, and jumped at him, his left hand out and stiff and extended. Padillo caught the hand, twisted and tried to throw Dymec, but the grey-faced man seemed to have anticipated it and drove his right hand hard into Padillo’s left side. Padillo went white and started to bend over and Dymec aimed a kick at his head, but Padillo caught the foot and threw it upwards and Dymec fell. He fell hard, striking his head on the edge of the concrete railing. He lay still and his head was cocked at an odd angle. Padillo bent over Dymec and produced a cream-colored envelope from his jacket pocket. Then he straightened up and motioned to me.
Mush was still on his knees in the middle of the dance floor and I herded Price towards him. Padillo was kneeling by Mush when we got there.
“How do you feel?”
“It’s not bad,” Mush said. “You stopped him?” His southern accent was gone.
“Yes. You’re Treasury, aren’t you?”
Mush nodded, his face screwed up in pain. “Narcotics Bureau.”
“How’d you make me in Baltimore?”
“There were just two of you supposed to be on that boat. They gave me a print-out on both of you. You weren’t five-foot, three-inches tall and fifty years old.”
“They thought I might have the acid?”
“One of you did.”
“What are you going to do with it?” Padillo said.
Mush grimaced again. “You saw it?”
Padillo nodded. “Those two who jumped you. One of them was carrying something. He dropped it. It must have been something you wanted.”
“You’ll have to teach me that Juarez judo again. I didn’t seem to learn too well.”
“You didn’t turn it in, did you?”
“The acid?”
“That’s right.”
Mush stared at Padillo. “Not yet. You want a cut?”
“Hardman said it would make a million dollars’ worth of sugar cubes.”
“He was low.”
“And that’s why there aren’t any Federal cops up here.”
“That’s why,” Mush said.
“O.K.,” Padillo said. “Now you’re a rich man and a hero, too. You keep the acid.”
Mush opened his mouth wide and squeezed his eyes shut. The cut seemed to hurt. “I’m not keeping it,” he said. “I thought about it, but—” He shrugged and even the shrug hurt.
“One thing,” Padillo said. “Are you really a Muslim?”
“Maybe,” Mush said. “That acid would finance a hell of a lot of trips.”
“What kind?” Padillo said.
“To Mecca.”
“But you’re going to turn it in?”
Mush nodded. “I’m going to turn it in.”
“O.K. You won’t be a rich man, but you’ll be a hero. Your story is that you found out about the assassination attempt through Hardman at the last moment. Then you shot him and took care of Dymec. McCorkle and I weren’t even near the place. Price helped you. All right?”
Mush tried to stand and Padillo helped him up. “If I told it any differently, they’d start asking questions. I haven’t got much choice, have I?”
“Not much,” Padillo said. “Some perhaps, but not enough to bother with.”
“How about him?” Mush said, nodding towards Price.
“He’ll be a hero, too, but quietly.”
I took the .38 out of my pocket and put it in Mush’s hand. “This is what you shot Hardman with.”
Mush looked down at the revolver. “I liked Hardman,” he said. Then he looked at his watch. “The man’s about due.”
“Can you make it over to look?” Padillo said.
“It’s not that bad,” Mush said.
I helped Mush over to the east edge of the building. We looked down to the corner of Seventeenth and Pennsylvania. Traffic was light and the bright October sun made the Executive Office Building look a little less like an old grey ogre. On a new building at the southwest corner of the intersection, two men practiced putting on a roof-top green. Van Zandt’s party was only three minutes late. Two motorcycle policemen turned the corner at Seventeenth on to Pennsylvania. Behind them was a closed, black limousine followed by an open car with three men sitting in the rear seat. No crowds lined the sidewalk although a few people stopped to glance at the procession. Two other black cars followed the open convertible. Two more motorcycle policemen brought up the rear.
We stared down at the small parade. “Right about now would be perfect,” Padillo said.
“Not much wind,” Price agreed.
Mush said something in Arabic.
“What was that?” I said.
“From the Koran again,” Padillo said. “‘Wheresoever you be, death will overtake you, although you be in lofty towers.’”
I could see Van Zandt clearly now, even from eleven stories up. Darragh was next to him. I didn’t recognize the man on the other side. Boggs was driving. Van Zandt wore no hat and his long white hair floated around his head in the breeze created by the open car. He turned his face up to the building where we stood. The car slowed. I waved at him. Darragh was looking up now and I waved at him, too.
Neither of them waved back.
Twenty-Seven
We left Mush to take credit for spoiling the assassination and brought Price with us to the parking lot where we got Hard-man’s Cadillac out.
“Which way?” I said.
“Where does the British Resident live, Price?”
“That’s not part of it,” he said.
“It is now.”
“You’ll ruin it.”
“Not when he sees the letter.”
“I’ll get the letter to him.”
“I’d feel better if I did it.”
“You don’t seem to trust Price,” I said.