“Don’t report the loss. We’ll be in touch with you and you’ll be reimbursed in cash.”
“Fair enough.”
I couldn’t think of anything else. I cleared out the Bourke-O’Gara Ford, took the suitcases from the trunk and the radio from the front seat, grabbed up some papers from the glove compartment. Sprague pulled the van over to the side of the road to make room for the convoy. Then he got in the Ford, and the rest of the men climbed into the cabs of the trucks and got the engines going.
George called me over. His captives seemed completely at ease. He took out a tube of pills and gave it to me. “For the drivers,” he said. “One apiece, now. To prevent fatigue.”
“Bennies?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “Make sure they take ’em.”
I went from the truck to truck passing out the pills. “Take it now,” I told each man. “Swallow it down. It’s a guarantee against tiring for the next twelve hours. Even if you’re not tired, take it. You might be interrogated, and they might use some truth serum on you. This makes you immune to it, with no harmful side effects.”
They all took their pills. One of them had trouble getting his down without water, but he made it. Another, the one with the sideburns, wanted to know if I had anything to help him withstand torture. I told him the pill would also raise his pain threshold. This reassured him, and he swallowed it.
Sprague gave me some last-minute instructions on operating the truck. How to handle weigh-in stations, where to tank up, that sort of thing. I thanked him again for his cooperation. He quoted me the fair market value of the truck. I don’t recall the figure, but it seemed like an honest estimate, I told him he’d be reimbursed for the same truck in new condition. He said that wasn’t necessary, and I told him it was standard. “The way the Government gives away money, some of it might as well go to the right kind of people.” He allowed as how he couldn’t argue with that.
I gave the sign, and the first truck dropped into gear and took off. I remembered something and called the driver down. “Don’t forget the road block up ahead,” I said. “Take it down, then have the last man put it up again when you’re through.”
I suppose he would have figured this out for himself. But he just nodded and said he would, and I waved him on again, and off they went, four khaki trucks in a row, with Sprague bringing up the rear.
The noise of their engines faded. Then the wind died down and I heard them again. I went over to George. He had a strange look on his face and he avoided my eyes. “Something I want to check,” he said. “Hold onto this for me.”
He handed me the Thompson. I told the men to remain seated and walked off after him. “It’s silly to argue about it,” he said levelly. “I could do it, sure, but it’s not my kind of thing. We’re running late, Paul. Now if you want to make a case out of it—”
He saw my face and he shut up.
I said, “Wait for the question before you come up with the answer. I want the M-14, that’s all.”
“Oh.”
“I never used one of these. I want something I’m checked out on, like an M-14.”
I picked one off the pile and left the Thompson in its place. George said, “I’ll never figure you. Never.”
“Then why try?”
I went back to the eight soldiers. Their line had been reshaped into a flat semicircle and they were talking about women. They barely raised their eyes at my approach. I wondered if any of them had laid Col. Carr’s wife and if they had enjoyed it more than I did.
Sometimes in Cambodia we went out on three and four man patrols. Sometimes we took prisoners, and on patrols like that you can’t take prisoners. They wouldn’t approve in Geneva. So we don’t tell them.
The M-14 was an old friend. Ratatatatatatatat. It was all over before the barrel was more than slightly warm to the touch.
I turned and saw George. You prick, I thought. He couldn’t do it, but he had to watch.
Fourteen
At 12:04 George said. “It’s official, old buddy. We’re criminals.”
I was dozing, a shapeless half dream that fled from memory when I opened my eyes. The truck radio was playing country music. I thought he must have heard a news flash and asked him what it was all about.
“Not that,” he said. “No, there hasn’t been anything. We just crossed a state line, that’s all.”
“Oh.”
“We’re in Minnesota. That makes us federal offenders. They can put the FBI on our tail, and then there’ll be no way out.”
“Funny.”
He looked at me. “Something wrong? I don’t expect big laughs, but you don’t have to get surly.”
“I’m half asleep, that’s all. Give me a minute.”
“Sure.”
I rubbed my eyes, straightened up in the seat beside him. I checked my watch and announced the time. “They must be in Omaha by now,” I said.
“Maybe.”
“Or close to it. Where are we?”
He pointed to a map. I picked it up. “The next town we hit is Canby,” he said. “Can you find it?”
I found it, a dot on the map just east of the South Dakota state line and almost due west of Minneapolis and St. Paul.
“Where do we stop?”
“I told you.”
“Tell me again.”
“The closest town is Good Thunder. I don’t know if it’s on that map. Middle of the state, southern tier. Look for Mankato and then—”
“Got it.”
“It’s south of Mankato and—”
“I found Good Thunder. Where do they get these names?”
“It’s an Indian word, it means Lakanookee. You know, it’s just about impossible to get a laugh out of you, Paul. The barn’s on a county road southwest of Good Thunder. One of our agents grew up on the farm, inherited it a couple of years ago when his mother died. Ever since I met him he talked about retiring there some day.”
“I hope he waits a few days.”
“I think he’s dead, matter of fact. He was in Barcelona and he disappeared. When they disappear in friendly countries we don’t usually see them again.”
“Maybe he’s on his farm, waiting for us.”
“Maybe the whole farm disappeared in a flash flood.”
That’s one thing we never prepared for.”
“Flash floods?”
“Mmmm.”
“May that be our greatest worry.”
I sat back and watched the road. I asked him if he wanted me to drive. He said he was doing fine, and I didn’t press it. The road was narrow and curvy, the snow was heavy, and the rig would have been a pain to drive on a turnpike in July as far as I was concerned.
A few miles down the line I said, “George?” He grunted. “What were those pills?”
“What pills?”
“The pep tonic for Paul Revere and the Raiders.”
“Who?”
“Sprague.”
“Oh,” he said. He chuckled, and he didn’t say anything, so neither did I. Then he asked me what I thought they were.
“I didn’t think about it at the time. If they were really bennies I suppose you would have had me tell them they were Spanish Fly. What do they do, induce amnesia?”
“In a sense.”
“Oh.”
He had that smile on his face. He said, “Time-delay capsules. The coating dissolves in two to three hours, depending upon the acidity of the stomach and the amount of change in your pocket. Then instant bliss.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Little black pills.” He glanced at me. “I told you I had a few surprises. You must have guessed.”
“I suppose so.”
“The usual diagnosis is heart failure. A good autopsy within forty-eight hours will show more, but in this case it doesn’t really matter, does it?”