“That's all?”
“Andrew Rice was in the Oval Office when I told the President,” McAlister said. “Do you think either one of them would spread the word?”
“You know both of them better than I do.”
McAlister was silent a moment. Then he sighed and said “One of them might have told a second-level aide.”
“And the aide might have told his assistant.”
“And the assistant might have told his secretary.”
“And somewhere along the line it got to someone who's bent.”
“Christ!” McAlister said.
“Spilled milk.”
“How does all of this put you in Hawaii?”
Canning outlined the games that he and the taxi driver had played in Los Angeles.
“Then they still think you're in one of the rooms in this Holiday Inn?” McAlister asked.
“Quality Inn. I suppose that's just what they think.”
“How many rooms does this motel have?”
“Maybe — three hundred.”
“Too many for them to go knocking on doors.”
“Exactly.”
“So… They'll put the motel under surveillance and wait for you to come out.” The director laughed softly.
Canning said, “Don't underestimate them. They won't wait there forever. Before long they're going to find I conned them.”
“But they won't know you're in Honolulu.”
“No. But they'll pick me up again when I get to Tokyo. There's no question about that. They have to know about my Otley identity by this time.”
“You're right, of course,” McAlister said resignedly. His pipe-stem rattled against his teeth. Then: “When are you leaving Honolulu?”
Picking up the airline-ticket folder that was lying on the nightstand, next to the telephone, Canning said, “There's a flight to Tokyo leaving here at noon, just about eleven hours from now.”
“And when they get on your tail in Tokyo?”
“That's not your worry,” Canning said. “It's mine. And I can handle them. But there are three things you're going to have to handle yourself.”
“Name them.”
“You've got to get hold of my backup man, the interpreter who's waiting for me in Tokyo. Tell him how things have changed and give him my new estimated time of arrival.”
“No problem.”
“Tell him that he and I are going to have to double up in his room, since any room rented to Otley or Canning is bound to be hit by a Committeeman during the night.”
After a brief hesitation, McAlister said, “You're right.”
“Number two. We're scheduled to go to Peking aboard that French corporate jet. Will it wait an extra day, now that I'm one day behind schedule?”
“The French are extremely cooperative, especially this company,” McAlister said. “I don't foresee any trouble there.”
“Make sure they give the plane a thorough search. There might be a bomb aboard it.”
“They'll search it. But that probably won't be necessary. I didn't mention the French connection to the President. If there's been a leak to The Committee from someone on the White House staff, it can't have included anything about the French jet.” His teeth rattled on his pipestem again. “You said there were three things you wanted me to do.”
“Number three: I've got to know who my backup man is. Now that The Committee knows I'm your man, I've got to be sure they don't bring in an imposter when I get to Tokyo.”
“The interpreter's name is Tanaka,” McAlister said.
“Any identifying marks?”
“Scar toward the left corner of the upper lip. I believe I heard that it was caused by a sliver of broken glass. Perhaps a cut in a bottle fight.”
“Anything besides the scar?”
“Mole on the left cheek. Long, thick black hair. Kind of a high-pitched voice, soft-spoken. But don't let that fool you. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, Tanaka's stronger than you would think.”
“From the tone of your voice, I gather that you still think Tanaka's going to surprise me.”
“Oh, yes.”
'"How?”
“David, I've told you all that I'm going to tell you. You know enough about Tanaka to keep from falling for some Committeeman trying to pass himself off as your contact. But you don't yet know so much that you'd be a danger to Tanaka if they got their hands on you. Let's keep it that way, okay? Let's keep it on that need-to-know basis.”
Reluctantly, Canning said, “All right.”
“Good.”
“Do you think Tanaka's cover has been blown as thoroughly as mine?” Canning asked.
“Until I told you the name a minute ago, I was the only man who knew Tanaka was involved.”
“You didn't tell the President?”
“He didn't ask.”
Canning smiled and shook his head. The brief glow of anger he had felt toward the director faded away. “The next worst moment is going to be at the airport in Tokyo. They're bound to be watching for me.”
“Do you want me to have the Tokyo police—”
“The last thing we need is a shoot-out,” Canning said. “I'll take care of myself at the airport. But once I get out of there, how do I make contact with Tanaka?”
“Go to the Imperial Hotel and check into the room that's been reserved for you in Otley's name. Tanaka will call you there. Don't worry. Even if the other side knows you're staying at the Imperial, they aren't going to try to hit you in the first few minutes after you arrive. They saw what panic bought them when they tried to get to you in Washington. This time they'll be careful, slow, thorough. By the time they're ready to come after you, you'll be hidden away with Tanaka.”
Canning thought about it for a moment, stood up, rubbed the back of his neck, and said, “You're probably right.”
“You'll be in Peking late Saturday.”
And the job wrapped up by Monday morning at the latest, Canning thought hopefully.
“Anything more?” McAlister asked.
“No. That's all.”
“Cable me from Peking.”
“I will. Upon arrival.”
“Goodnight, David.”
“Goodnight.”
Ten minutes later, having been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, Canning was in bed, curled fetally, fast asleep.
EIGHT
“This is the house.”
“Number checks.”
Lights were on downstairs.
The driver pulled to the curb, parked behind a yellow Corvette, and switched off the engine. “How do we operate?”
“As if we're on a case.”
“Seems best,” said the man in the back seat.
“Neighbors are close here. Can't be much noise.”
“There won't be if we use our credentials to get inside,” said the man in the back seat.
The driver doused the lights. “Let's go.”
At seven-thirty Wednesday evening, Washington time — when David Canning was still high over the Midwest in an airliner on his way to Los Angeles— three men got out of a Ford LTD on a quiet residential street in Capitol Heights, just outside the Washington city limits. In the new autumn darkness, with a fight rain drizzling down their raincoats, they went up the walk to the front door of a small, tidy two-story Colonial saltbox-type house. The tallest of the three rang the bell.
In the house a stereo set was playing theme music from a current hit motion picture.
Half a minute passed.
The tall man rang the bell again.
“It's chilly out here,” said the man who wore eyeglasses. “I'm sure as hell going to catch pneumonia.”
“We'll visit you in the hospital,” said the tall one.
“And when I get chilly,” said the man in the eyeglasses, “I always have to go to the bathroom.”
“Shut the fuck up,” said the smallest of the three. He had a thin, nasty voice.