A hand-radio clipped to Furst's belt buzzed. He acknowledged the call, listened for a moment. "Be there in a minute, over. Schwarz, I want you to start near the windows. The creep could have planted something there. Then cover the entire room. When you come up to install the new equipment, I'll have you look over the rest of the house for bugs also."
"You think someone could have slipped mikes inside the house?"
"Why not? Report to my office tomorrow when you're ready to go. If you find anything, I'll be down at the base. Later."
As soon as the door closed behind Furst, Gadgets planted his first miniature microphone-transmitter. In another minute, he would have the room wired for stereo transmission.
* * *
The Mercedes drifted through the mountain road's curves. Pardee stared out the passenger window as if still searching for the intruder who had violated the security of the Monroe estate. Ahead of them, the taillights of the truck that carried the two burned men flashed from time to time. The hand-radio buzzed, snapping Pardee out of his thoughts.
"Captain Pardee here."
"One of the men died. The one that was burned real bad."
"Get the survivor to the clinic. Pick up the other set of dogs, take them to the men at the bottom of the hill. Mucho pronto." He put down the radio and turned to Furst. "You heard?"
"Two dead. And a spy on the loose."
"When I get that Fed, I'll burn him alive, I'll..."
Furst cut him off. "Right. That's your specialty. But we still have a security problem out there somewhere."
"We'll find him. Come daylight, he's dead."
"But he's the third agent. Maybe this one hiked in overland. Senor Rojo should get his act together quick, because I don't think the Feds are thinking of waiting."
"Getting shaky, Commander Furst? Don't you worry, we have a constitutional right to free assembly and the right to bear arms. Until we make the hit, the worst they can indict us for is the automatic weapons Class Three violation. Monroe would have us out before the fingerprint ink was dry."
"What about murder?"
"What murder?" Pardee responded, grinning.
The Mercedes pulled up behind the truck at the gate to the base. In the glare of the headlights, they saw a soldier standing on the tailgate of the truck. Pardee slipped his Colt automatic from its holster, told Furst: "Hit the high beams. That man wasn't there when the truck left the house."
Pardee leaned out the passenger window and called out to the man: "Who are you? You! ON THE TRUCK!"
The man turned to face them. Pardee eased down the hammer of his automatic, called out again.
"What're you doing out here, Morgan? Can't stay away from the action, can you?"
"I got bored!" Morgan called back.
Pardee reholstered his pistol, rolled up the window. "That's Carl Morgan, a good soldier. You met him..."
He saw Furst staring at Morgan. The handsome man's face was white. On the steering wheel, his hands were knots of tendons and white knuckles. Pardee whipped out the Colt again, jumped from the Mercedes. He pointed the .45 at Carl Lyons' face.
"Drop the rifle! And get off the truck, Morgan. Or whatever your name is, Mr. Federal Agent."
14
Squinting into the headlights, Lyons saw the Colt .45 ACP pointed at his chest. The M-16 he held had a round in the chamber. Could he flick up the safety and raise the rifle before Pardee put a .45 slug through his chest? No.
But neither would he surrender to be tortured to death. Furst had identified Lyons, his luck had run out, time to die.
"Drop the rifle, Morgan!" Pardee shouted again, the pistol steady on Lyons' chest. "Sentries! Disarm this man on the truck."
Lyons pushed up the safety. He flexed his knees, tensing his muscles to throw himself backward as the sentries reached for his rifle. He would try to spray Pardee and Furst before the sentries killed him.
A sentry started toward him, his hand reaching out to take the rifle...
"At ease, Pardee!" Furst shouted, leaving the Mercedes. "At ease! Why the hell you pointing that pistol at that man?"
"I thought..." Pardee looked from Lyons to Furst. The pistol pointed at Lyons did not waver. "When you saw him, you looked like you recognized him!"
"At ease! Lower that pistol, Pardee," Furst ordered. "You can't shoot a man simply on suspicion. Get back in the car." Easing down the hammer, Pardee jammed the Auto-Colt into its holster. Not taking his eyes from Lyons, Pardee got inside the Mercedes and slammed the door.
"Thanks, commander," shouted Lyons. "I thought I was going to get shot."
"Don't go joyriding around during a security alert! Captain Pardee has every reason to be jumpy."
* * *
In the Mercedes, Pardee watched the truck lurch over the speed bumps, Lyons clinging to the back. Pardee turned to Furst.
"Your face went white when you saw him. Why?"
"When I saw that man Morgan? I wasn't worried about Morgan. I've got my mind on something else entirely. And I can't shake it."
"What?" Pardee demanded.
The Mercedes went over the speed bumps, Furst snapping a salute to the sentries. Inside the camp, he followed the truck and saw Morgan jump from its bumper and start up the barrack steps.
"What was it, commander? What did you suddenly think of like that?"
"Did Monroe's doctor talk to you? That Dr. Nathan character asked me if Mrs. Monroe had been seen outside the house tonight. Or near the garage."
"Her? Why would he... Oh, yeah. I joked about someone playing with gasoline."
"It could have been her. It could have been her."
"Mrs. Monroe? Why would she pull a trick like..."
"Because that woman is sick. She's twisted in the head. Tonight she was so doped she couldn't stand straight. It could have been an accident, she could have done it for a thrill..."
"That doesn't explain the dead man. And when the men reported to me, they didn't mention anything about the woman being anywhere near there."
Furst stopped the car in front of the barracks where Pardee and the other officers had private rooms. Furst, as Force Commander, rated a prefab cottage with an office as well.
"Did they say how the man died? A knife? Wire or what?"
"Before I got out there, the garage exploded. They didn't..."
"Tomorrow, we question the man that lived. We might not have a spy. It might be that crazy Availa Monroe."
* * *
Still wearing his uniform and boots, Lyons sprawled on his bunk, his Colt Python near his hand. The M-16 lay on the floor, cocked and locked. He stared into the dark, every minute an eternity, waiting for Pardee to return with a group of soldiers.
He had gambled and lost. Pardee spotted him on the truck. And in the bright-as-day glare of the headlights, Furst surely recognized him as the LAPD detective who had sent the failed bank robber to prison.
But then why was he still free? Why hadn't they taken him on the spot? Did they know he would have gone down shooting rather than face torture and certain death later?
Were they watching the barrack now, waiting to grab him at an off-guard moment?
Lyons relived the scene outside the gate over and over again. A hundred yards from the gate, he had jumped on the troop truck. He was sure neither the driver nor the sentries had seen him. And the Mercedes had been on the far side of a hill. Furst and Pardee could not have seen him dash from the roadside to the bumper.
Thirty seconds after the truck stopped at the camp gate, the headlights of the Mercedes had appeared behind him. Pardee's first reaction was suspicion. Leaning out the car window, pistol in hand, he'd demanded that Lyons identify himself. But when Pardee saw it was "Morgan," Pardee joked with him, then slid back into the Mercedes and started to roll up the window.
A moment later, Pardee had jumped from the car, aiming his Colt at Lyons' chest, calling him a federal agent.
What had Furst said? One moment, Pardee joked with Lyons. The next, Pardee threatened to kill him.