“Clovis?”
She recognized that voice: the Chief himself! For the love of all that was holy, the Chief calling here!
“Clovis here,” she said, her mouth dry.
“Do you know who this is?”
“Yes.”
“I have you identified from a voiceprint being played this instant. I want you to listen very carefully and do exactly what I tell you to do.”
“Yes, sir. What is it?” Something in the tone told her it was big trouble.
“Can that deputy hear this?” the Chief asked.
“I doubt it.”
“We’ll have to chance it. Now get this: that light aircraft with the FBI men and the Alcohol Tax team crashed somewhere in the Sisters. That’s a mountain north of you. All dead. It could have been an accident, but we are acting on the assumption that it was not. I’ve just been on to the director, and he is taking that same position, especially in view of what I could tell him about the situation. A new FBI team is on its way from Seattle, but it will be some time before they arrive.”
She gulped, glanced worriedly at Kraft. The deputy was leaning back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“I’ve been in radio contact with the other members of your team, all except Janvert. Is he still at the farm?”
“As far as I know, sir.”
“All right; no help for that. It might even be a plus. The others are coming down from the mountain to pick you up. You are to take the deputy with you. Use force if necessary. Take him with you, got that?”
“I’ve got it.” Her exploring fingers felt the outline of the revolver in her purse. She slipped her hand into the bag, took a firm grip on the gun. Involuntarily, her glance went to the big pistol in a holster at Kraft’s waist. The son of a bitch probably called that thing a hog leg.
“I’ve instructed DT on what I want done,” the Chief said. “You are to move onto that farm and take over there, subdue any opposition. The director concurs. Responsibility will be ours, however. We have been promised extraordinary cooperation by the FBI. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“I hope you do. You are not to take chances. You are to kill that deputy if he interferes. And anyone else who tries to block you. We will work out a sufficient justification later. I want that farm in our hands within the hour.”
“Yes, sir. Is DT to be in charge?”
“No. Until you get to the farm, you are in charge.”
“Me?”
“You. When you contact Janvert, he is to take over.”
Her mouth was dry as dust. God! She needed a drink and comforting, but she sensed why the Chief was putting her in charge until they reached Eddie. The Chief knew about her and Eddie. The Chief had a snake’s mind. He’d say to himself: She’s the one with the best motivation. She’ll want to rescue her boyfriend. Give her the reins.
She sensed there might be something else on the Chief’s mind, but she didn’t know how to ask. Was it something to do with Kraft? She pressed the phone tightly against her ear, pushed her chair back toward the window.
“Is that all?” she asked.
“No, you’d better know the worst. We stumbled onto something while talking to the sheriff. He gave it to us himself, very casual and unconcerned. It seems your deputy, whenever he gets sick, is in the habit of convalescing at Hellstrom’s farm. In our hunt for Hellstrom’s Washington connections, we found a congressman about whom we can say the same thing, and we have our suspicions about at least one senator. Got that?”
She nodded. “I see.”
“I think you do. This thing spreads wider every time you pry up another layer. Take no chances with that deputy whatsoever.”
“I won’t,” she said. “How bad was it—I mean, at the Sisters?”
“The plane burned. It was a twin Beech, chartered and recently checked out by the FAA. No reason for it to go down. We haven’t been able to examine the wreckage yet, but it was the fire that gave it away: it started a forest fire on the east slope, they say. Forest Service boys are there now, local police, and FAA. We’ll have a report as soon as possible.”
“What a mess,” she said and noted that Kraft was staring at her intently now, trying to listen. “Is there any chance at all that it was an accident?”
“Possible, but not likely. The pilot was former Air America from Vietnam, six thousand hours. Draw your own conclusions. Oh, tell Shorty he has Class-G authorization. Do you know what that is?”
“Yes—yes, sir.” My God! Kill and burn if necessary!
“I’ll get back to you by radio after you’ve taken over that farm,” the Chief said. “Within the hour. Good-bye and be thorough.”
She heard the receiver click, moved her chair closer to the desk, replaced the phone in its cradle. Using the edge of the desk as a cover, she slipped her revolver from the purse.
Kraft watched her, trying to piece together a version of that conversation from the only end he’d heard. His first inkling that things had changed for the worse came when he saw the silencer of Clovis Carr’s pistol raise itself like a steel snake over the far edge of the desk.
Clovis’s “working personality” was in full charge now and she put aside thoughts of Janvert’s arms around her or other desirable things.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” she said. “I will kill you at the slightest provocation. Do not make any sudden movements for any reason. Get to your feet carefully, keeping your hands on the desk. Use extreme caution in everything you do, Mr. Kraft. I don’t want to shoot you in this office. It would be messy and difficult to explain, but I will do it if you force me.”
From the preliminary oral report on the autopsy of Dzule Peruge.
The bruised area on the arm gave indications of an inept injection with a hypodermic. We cannot say at this time what may have been injected, but the biopsies are not yet completed. Other indications on the cadaver indicate what we call among ourselves a “motel death.” The syndrome is rather common with males past the age of thirty-five where death occurs under the circumstances described here. The immediate cause of death was what you would call a massive heart failure. We’ll send along the technical details later. Whether this remains the proximate cause depends on the biopsies. From the other indications, we can say the subject had engaged in sexual intercourse at a time very close to the time of death—perhaps no more than four hours earlier. Yes, that’s what we mean. It’s a very clear pattern: older man, younger woman (presumed from your account), and too much sex. All the evidence is consistent with this diagnosis. Bluntly, he fucked himself to death.
“Mr. Janvert, we have some things to discuss,” Hellstrom said. He leaned toward Janvert across the table.
Janvert, having finished his lunch, sat with his right elbow on the table, chin resting on his hand. He felt lost in thought, bemused by the whole situation: the present company, the Agency, the call from the Chief, this assignment, his former fears . . . Vaguely, he felt that he still ought to be alert and perhaps concerned about Hellstrom and the woman, but this did not seem worth the effort.
“It’s time we discussed our mutual problems,” Hellstrom said.
Janvert nodded on his supporting hand, chuckled as his chin started to slip from the hand. Discuss problems. Certainly.
Something about this rustic farm setting, the excellent meal, something about these people at table with him—somewhere in all this was good and sufficient reason for the transformed mood he now felt. He had fought long enough against liking Hellstrom. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to place complete trust in Hellstrom yet, but it was all right to like him. There was a difference between trust and liking. Hellstrom could not be held responsible for the trapped life of a nobody named Eddie Janvert.