He typed M and the ENTER key.
Instantly the directory was replaced by a list of four names, a brief bit of information on each, and instructions for bringing up other files that contained more detailed information.
Four names.
Reaching over he turned on the printer and touched the PRINT key; immediately the machine started to whine as the computer spit out a hard copy of what had come up on the screen.
“Gun or no gun, I won’t stand for this,” Tom Watson shouted, jumping up and lunging over the desk. McAllister had barely enough time to rear backward out of Watson’s grasp, and grab for his gun lying on the desk, when the telephone rang. Watson lashed out at him, then reached the telephone and snatched it off its hook.
“It’s McAllister!” Watson cried.
The other guard had jumped up. McAllister had no choice. He smashed the butt of his heavy pistol down onto the base of Watson’s skull, and the man cried out and crashed off the desk to the floor. The second guard reached the door when McAllister aimed the pistol at him. “Stop,” he shouted.
The man, his hands fumbling with the door lock, looked over his shoulder, his eyes wide with fear, and he froze.
The printer stopped and in the sudden silence McAllister could hear a thin, shrill voice calling his name as from a great distance. It took him a moment to realize it was Stephanie on the telephone. He jumped up and came around the desk. Watson, out cold, had dragged the receiver off the desk with him. McAllister picked up the phone.
“It’s me,” he said, keeping his eye on the guard at the door. “Kingman and the others just left in a big hurry,” she shouted in a rush. “When?” McAllister demanded. There was no time to wonder how she had known he was here.
“No more than two minutes ago. Get out of there, Mac.”
“On my way,” McAllister said, and he yanked the telephone cord out of the wall.
He bent down over Watson and felt for a pulse in the man’s neck.
It was strong and regular. The man was out, but not dead, and McAllister gave silent thanks for that much at least.
Back behind the desk, he tore the computer readout from the printer and shut down the terminal.
“All right, Frank, we’re getting out of here now.”
“What about Tom?” the guard asked fearfully. “He’ll be all right, and so will you if you do as I say,” McAllister said. “Where is your pickup truck parked?”
“In the back, by the elevator.”
“Let’s go,” McAllister said. The guard unlocked the door. The corridor was still deserted. No one had come up from the computer mainframe yet to check on the restricted access-code violation, but someone would be showing up at any minute. They hurried down the corridor and back through the bulkhead door into the new building.
McAllister was just relocking the padlock when the walkie-talkie
in his pocket came to life. “Security Four, Control.” The guard stiffened. “Is it you?” McAllister asked. The man hesitated, but then nodded.
McAllister pulled out the walkie-talkie and handed it to him with one hand, while raising his pistol to the man’s head with his other. “Everything is fine here,” he said.
The guard keyed the walkie-talkie. “Security four,” he said. His hands shook.
“What’s your situation up there?”
“Normal,” the guard said.
“Keep on your toes, you might have some trouble coming your way. We’ve got an intruder alert.”
“Ask them who it is and how they knew about it,” McAllister said. The guard keyed the walkie-talkie. “Who is it, Control, and how did we find out?”
“It’s McAllister, somebody apparently phoned it in a couple of minutes ago. He’s armed, so watch yourself.”
McAllister nodded, his gut tight. Who had phoned? How in God’s name had they known?
“Roger,” the guard said, and McAllister grabbed the walkie-talkie from his hand and pocketed it.
“Who else is guarding this building?”
“No one else in this wing except for Tom and me.”
“Earlier I saw a pickup truck outside in the parking lot.”
“Unit five. One of the outside patrols.”
“I hope for your sake that you’re not lying,” McAllister said. “I’m not, sir.”
The elevator was located at the end of the corridor. They took it down to the ground floor where they hurried across the mostly completedentry hall and then outside. It was still snowing. In the distance they heard the sounds of a lot of sirens. McAllister ordered the guard behind the wheel of the light-gray pickup truck, then he got in on the passenger side.
“Drive,” he said. “Where?”
“West.”
“But there’s no exit…
“Do it,” McAllister ordered, and the guard hastily complied, heading across the parking lot toward the back road that McAllister had used.
He had to have time to think. Stephanie was an intelligent woman. She knew what he had gone looking for, and she could have guessed where he would have to go to get the information. It explained her telephone call to Adam French’s office warning him that Kingman and his people had deserted the rendezvous. But she was the only one who knew that he would not be at that meeting. If she had tipped off Kingman, why had she called French’s office? None of it made any sense. It was madness.
Four names he had gotten from the computer. It was the information he had been seeking, if only he could keep alive long enough to find out what they knew.
McAllister cranked down his window. They had left the sirens far behind, back toward the headquarters building. He figured they had come nearly a mile.
“Stop here,” he said to the guard.
“Jesus, Mr. McAllister, I’ll do whatever you want,” the man said in alarm. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just stop here and I’ll let you out. You can walk back.”
The guard wanted to believe him, but it was obvious he thought he was about to be shot to death. He pulled up to a halt. “I’ve got a family…
“Get out of here, and don’t look back,” McAllister said. The guard hesitated a second or two longer, then shoved open the door, jumped out and started running down the snow-covered road, disappearing into the darkness. McAllister slid over behind the wheel, slammed the truck into gear and drove another quarter mile before pulling up, dousing the lights and shutting off the engine.
He jumped out of the truck, stepped off the road, and plunged into the forest, heading in the general direction of the place where he had come through the fence.
Twice he heard sirens in the distance, and somewhere to the north, he thought he could hear a horn honking, but for the most part the woods were silent as before.
He came to the fence five minutes later, and followed it back to the northwest for another hundred yards before he found the hole he had cut. His were the only footprints in the snow, already partially filled in. No one had discovered how he had gained entrance. Once again his luck seemed to be holding.
In another five minutes he had reached the crest of the hill overlooking the street. The Thunderbird was still parked where he had left it, no one around, though once again he could hear sirens in the distance.
He scrambled down the hill, climbed into the car, and drove off.
McAllister parked the car in front of the J. Edgar Hoover Building which houses the FBI’s headquarters on Pennsylvania at Tenth Street, leaving the walkie-talkie and the guards’ weapons under the front seat.
Sow confusion where you can; it will help mask your movements in a difficult situation. The car would create a lot of interest when it was discovered what it contained. But whom to trust?
If Stephanie had been able to guess where he had gone, others could have done the same. It wasn’t much of a hope, but it was something.