«I don’t. Not yet… But I’ll reach him. I’ll drive over to Barnegat in an hour or so; Vicarson expects my call at ten. He’ll have everything he can get on Green, and between us we’ll figure something out… You know, Phyl, I’ve discovered a very interesting fact of life during the past week.»
«I can’t wait.»
«No, it’s true.» Andy lifted the glass of wine to his lips. His look was bemused. «All this nonsense about so-called undercover work—intelligence gathering, whatever name you want to give it. It’s really very simple; I mean, it’s childish. It’s like a game.» He drank the wine and put the glass back on the table-cart. He looked over at his wife—his so goddamned lovely, understanding wife—and added sadly, «If only the people playing it were children.»
Mario de Spadante was in bed watching the seven-o’clock news. He’d called his wife into his bedroom twice. The first time to bring him an ice-cold Coca-Cola, the second to wheel the portable color set several feet to the left so the reflection of the gold crucifix above his pillow wouldn’t interfere with the picture.
Then he told her he was going to sleep soon. She shrugged; she and Mario had had separate bedrooms for years. Separate worlds, really. They barely spoke except at weddings and funerals and when their infant grandchildren were over. But she had a big, beautiful house now. And a big garden and a big kitchen; even a big car and someone to drive her.
She would go back down to the big kitchen and cook something and watch her own television. Maybe call a friend on the fancy French telephone on the marble counter.
There was nothing of consequence within the first three minutes of the news program, and Mario knew the rest would be twenty-five minutes of «fill» interspersed with commercials. He reached for the remote control and turned the set off. He was tired, but not for the reasons he gave his brother. He had stopped off in Las Vegas, but his whoring had been confined to one quick ball, and even then he had to tell the girl to leave immediately; there were too many phone calls coming in. He hadn’t gone near the tables, because one of the phone calls had been from the White House contact, Webster. He had to leave Vegas Wednesday, midnight flight.
For Washington.
Even the cool Webster was beginning to lose his grip. Mario realized that everybody was sitting around making plans. Contingency this, contingency that.
Crap!
There was a time for talk and a time to carve flesh. He was finished bugging the electrical system at Barnegat.
Trevayne was for cutting. Now.
A quiet report from another wound-down subcommittee, quietly, respectfully received by those requesting it—buried and forgotten.
That’s the way it was going to be.
The telephone rang, and De Spadante was annoyed. Then his annoyance left him; he saw that the lighted button was his private line, not the house phone. Everyone understood that his private line was used only for important business.
«Yes?»
«Mario? Augie.» It was his brother. «He’s here.»
«Where?»
«In the hospital.»
«You sure?»
«Positive. There’s a rented car in the parking lot with a Westchester Airport sticker. We checked. It was taken out at three-thirty this afternoon. In his own name, too.»
«Where are you calling from?»
De Spadante’s brother told him. «I’ve got Joey watching the lot.»
«Stay where you are. Tell Joey to follow him if he leaves; don’t lose him! Give Joey the number there. I’ll meet you as soon as I can.»
«Listen, Mario. There’re two guys at the hospital. One’s outside the front entrance, the other’s inside somewhere. He comes out every now and then—»
«I know. I know who they are. They’ll be out of there in a half-hour. Tell Joey to stay out of sight.»
De Spadante held his finger down on the telephone button, then released it. He dialed Robert Webster’s private number at the White House. Webster was about to leave for home and was upset that De Spadante had used that number.
«I told you, Mario—»
«I’m doing the telling now. Unless you want a couple of unexplained sacks in your files!»
And with unsubtle, barely coded phrases, De Spadante gave his orders. He didn’t care how Bobby Webster did it, but he wanted the 1600 Patrol removed immediately.
Mario replaced the telephone and got out of bed. He dressed quickly and after combing his sparse hair opened the top drawer of his bureau. He removed two items.
One was a .38-caliber magazine-clip pistol. The other, an ominous-looking object of black metal with four rings attached to one another above a flat base of ridged iron.
With a clenched fist it would break off a man’s jaw from the neck joints. With an open hand it would rip a man’s flesh to the bone.
The F-40 jet was given a priority clearance from its holding pattern and landed on runway five at Andrews Air Force Base. At the end of the strip the aircraft made its turn and stopped. The Major climbed out, waved to the pilot, and walked rapidly to a waiting jeep.
Paul Bonner ordered the driver to take him immediately to Operations. The driver pressed the accelerator without greeting or comment. The Major looked like a tight-ass; you didn’t try to be friendly with that type.
Bonner walked rapidly into Operations and requested a private office for ten or fifteen minutes. The Operations duty officer, a lieutenant colonel who only minutes ago had called Defense to find out «What kind of frigging priority this clown Bonner had,» offered the Major his own office. The Lieutenant Colonel had been told what kind of priority was due Major Bonner. By an aide to Brigadier General Lester Cooper.
Paul thanked the Lieutenant Colonel as the latter closed his office door, leaving Bonner alone. The Major instantly reached for the telephone and dialed Cooper’s private number. He looked at his watch. It read two-forty, which meant that it was twenty to six, eastern time. He cupped the telephone under his chin and began to set the correct time on his watch, but before he was able to do so, Cooper answered.
The General was furious; the Pentagon’s Young Turk had no right making decisions that transported him three-quarters across the country without prior consultation, without permission, really.
«Major, I think we deserve an explanation,» said the General tersely, knowing Bonner would expect the reprimand.
«I’m not sure there’s time, General—»
«I’m sure there is! We’ve covered your request from Billings to Andrews. Now, I think you’d better explain… Has it occurred to you that even I might have to explain?»
«No, it hadn’t,» lied Bonner. «I don’t want to argue, General; I’m trying to help, help all of us. I think I can, if I’m able to reach Trevayne.»
«Why? What happened?»
«He’s being fed information by a psychopath.»
«What? Who?»
«One of Goddard’s men. The same one who dealt with us.»
«Oh, Christ!»
«Which means whatever we’ve learned could be all fouled-up crap… He’s a sick one, General. He’s not after money; I should have spotted that when he negotiated so low. If what he gave us was on target, he could have asked three times the amount and we wouldn’t have blinked.»
«What he gave you, Major. Not us.» What Cooper implied put Paul Bonner on notice. The first of its kind he’d ever received.
«All right, General. What he gave me… And whatever he gave me I passed on to you, and you acted on it. I don’t move in those circles.»
Lester Cooper controlled his anger. The Young Turk was actually threatening him. There’d been too many threats; the General was wearying of them. He wasn’t capable of dealing with these constant assaults of subtlety. «There’s no cause for insubordination, Major. I’m merely defining lines of intelligence. We’re in this together.»