"Call him," Washington said flatly. "If he has any questions about what I'm doing here, tell him to call Chief Inspector Lowenstein."
Bernie looked at Washington for a moment.
"Okay. So go on. Marion's got a house in Jersey that burned down?"
"Do you have any idea where we could find Mr. Wheatley?"
"He works somewhere downtown. In a bank, I think."
"And Mrs. Wheatley?"
"There is no Mrs. Wheatley," the woman said.
Bernie held his hand at the level of his neck and made a waving motion with it, and then let his wrist fall limp.
"You don'tknow that, Bernie," the woman said.
"If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, right, Sergeant?"
"Most of the time," Washington agreed.
"Say," the woman said suddenly, triumphantly, pointing at Matt. "I thought you looked familiar. I know who you are! You're the detective who shot the Liberation Army,Islamic Liberation Army guy in the alley, aren't you?"
"Actually," Matt said, "the ILA guy shot me."
"Yeah," Bernie said. "Butthen you shothim, and killed the bastard. My brother, the lieutenant, thinks you're all right. You know Lieutenant Harry Crowne?"
"I'm afraid not," Matt said.
"Harry and I are old pals," Jason Washington said. "But can we talk about Mr. Wheatley now?"
"Well, I'll tell you this," the woman said. "The one thing Marion isn't is some Islamic nut. He's Mr. Goody Two Shoes. I don't know if he's what Bernie thinks he is, but he's not some revolutionary. He wouldn't hurt a fly."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that," Washington said. "Is there anything else you can tell us about him?"
"I hardly ever see him to talk to," Bernie said. "He mostly keeps to himself."
"You wouldn't happen to know," Jason asked, "if he was in the Army?"
"Yeah, that I know. He was. We were both in 'Nam at the same time. He told me, it could be bullshit, excuse the language, Doris, he told me he was a lieutenant in EOD. That means Explosive Ordnance Disposal."
"Yes, I know," Washington said. "Give me the radio, Matt."
Matt opened his briefcase and handed Washington the radio.
"William One, William Seven."
"Mr. Wheatley is a bachelor who has told his neighbor he served as a lieutenant in EOD in Vietnam," Washington said.
"Bingo!" Wohl said. "Stay where you are, Jason."
Marion Claude Wheatley was wakened at half past seven by the sound of screeching brakes and tearing metal. He got out of bed, went to the window, and looked down at the intersection of Ridge Avenue and North Broad Street.
Even though he looked carefully up and down both streets as far as he could, he could see no sign of an auto accident.
He turned from the window, took off his pajamas and carefully hung them on a hanger in the closet, then took a shower and shaved and got dressed.
He went down to the restaurant and had two poached eggs on toast, pineapple juice, and a glass of milk for breakfast. He ate slowly, for he had at least half an hour to kill; he hadn't planned to get up until eight, and had carefully set his travel alarm clock to do that. The wreck, or whatever it was, had upset his schedule.
But there really wasn't much that one can do to stretch out two poached eggs on toast, so when he checked his watch when he went back to his room, he saw that he was still running twenty minutes ahead of schedule.
And, of course, into the schedule, he had built in extra time to take care of unforeseen contingencies. With that it mind, he was probably forty-five minutes ahead of what the real time schedule would turn out to be.
He decided he would do everything that had to be done but actually leave the room, and then wait until the real time schedule had time to catch up with the projected schedule.
That didn't burn up much time, either. AWOL bag #1 (one of those withSouvenir of Asbury Park, N.J. on it) was already prepared, and it took just a moment to open it and make sure that the explosive device and the receiver were in place, and that the soiled linen in which it was wrapped was not likely to come free.
He sighed. All he could do now was keep looking at his watch until it was time to go.
And then he saw the Bible on the bed. He picked it up and carried it to the desk, and sat down.
"Dear God," he prayed aloud. "I pray that you will give me insight as I prepare to go about your business."
He read, "17. I smote you with blasting and with mildew and with hail in all the labours of your hands; yet ye turned not to me, saith the Lord," and then he read it aloud.
Haggai 2:17 made no more sense to him now than it ever had.
He wondered if he had made some kind of mistake, if the Lord really intended for him to read Haggai 2:17, but decided that couldn't be. If the Lord didn't want him to read it, the Lord would not have attracted his attention to it.
It was obviously his failing, not the Lord's.
Supervisory Special Agent H. Charles Larkin of the Secret Service walked across the intersection of Kingsessing Avenue and Farragut and looked down the 1200 block.
He was honestly impressed with the efficiency with which Peter Wohl's men were evacuating the residents of the houses surrounding the residence of M. C. Wheatley. There was no panic, no excitement.
Obviously, Larkin decided, because the people being evacuated were being handled by cops who were both smiling and confident, and seemed to know exactly what they were doing. If the man in the blue suit, the figure of authority, looks as if he is about to become hysterical, that's contagious.
And since Wohl was really a nice guy, Charley Larkin decided it wouldn't hurt a thing to offer his genuine approval out loud, in the hearing of the Honorable Jerry Carlucci, mayor of the City of Brotherly Love, who had shown up five minutes after he had heard that Wohl intended to take M. C. Wheatley's door.
Larkin turned around, crossed Farragut Street again, and returned to where Carlucci and Wohl were standing by Wohl's car, just out of sight of the residence of M. C. Wheatley.
"I think they're about done," Larkin said. "I'm impressed with the way they're doing that, Peter," he said.
The mayor looked first at Larkin and then at Wohl.
"So am I," Wohl said. "Jack Malone set it up. He put them through a couple of dry runs in the dark at the Schoolhouse."
I suppose that proves, Larkin thought, that while you can't cheat an honest man, you can't get him to take somebody else's credit, either.
"Peter does a hell of a job with Special Operations, Charley," His Honor said. "I think we can now all say that it was an idea that worked. It. And Peter going in to command it."
"'The Mayor said,'" Wohl replied, "'just before the 1200 block of Farragut Street disappeared in a mushroom cloud.'"
"You think he's got it wired, Peter?" Mayor Carlucci asked.
"I believe he's crazy," Wohl said. "Crazy people scare me."
"William One, William Eleven," the radio in Wohl's car went on. William Eleven was Lieutenant Jack Malone.
Officer Paul O'Mara, sitting behind the wheel, handed Wohl the microphone.
"William One," Wohl said.
"All done here."
"Seven?" Wohl said.
"Seven," Jason Washington's voice came back.
"Have you seen any signs of life in there?"
"Nothing. I don't think anybody's in there."
"Your call, Jason. How do you want to take the door?"
"You did say, 'my call'?"
"Right."
"I'll get back to you," Washington said.
"Jason?"
There was no answer.
"Jason?"
"Jason. William Seven, William One."