“Let’s go back to your ‘eleven o’clock and noon’ statement,” I cut in. “I still want to know how you learned what time Castro’s plane is scheduled to land.”
He smiled. “I’m glad you mentioned that, Lieutenant. Because, when I think about it, I realize that you’re right. I didn’t read it in the newspapers. Perhaps someone told me about it. Except that I can’t remember who, right now. Maybe it’ll come to me.”
As he spoke, I glanced at my watch. In an hour and ten minutes, Castro’s plane would land. I looked at Friedman, wondering what strange game of brinksmanship he was playing. Because if he intended to meet Castro’s plane, he’d have to leave within a half hour.
I watched Friedman rise to his feet. His eyes were cold, his voice harsh: “If you leave this office before one P.M.,” he said, “you’ll be arrested, and taken downtown and booked — and that, Leo, is a solemn promise, from me to you. The same applies if you try to leave town without notifying the police.”
Friedman turned on his heel and walked out of the office, gesturing for me to follow him. I had no choice but to obey.
23
I followed Friedman through the receptionist’s office and into the hallway outside, where Friedman walked quickly around the nearest corner, at the same time pulling his miniature walkie-talkie from inside his coat.
“What the hell’re you doing?” I demanded. “Christ, he probably phoned an accomplice, the first time we left him. You’re letting him—”
“Shhh.” He spoke urgently into the walkie-talkie. “Are you receiving it all right, Canelli?”
“Yessir. Everything came in fine. And a tape recorder finally got here, just this minute. So I can talk to you, no sweat.”
“Are you sure the recorder works? Did you check it?”
“Yessir, I checked. It works fine.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“I think he left the office. Anyhow, I think I heard a door open, after you left. But I don’t think it closed. So… oh, oh. Now it closed. I’m getting footsteps, coming closer. I guess the bug’s a little ways from the door, eh?”
“It’s under the front edge of the desk. Maybe twenty feet from the door.”
“Well, it sure works good, Lieutenant. Those new bugs, they’re really something, you know? Honest to God, I heard every little sound you guys made. It’s too bad I didn’t have the recorder, then.”
“Don’t worry about it, Canelli.” As he spoke, Friedman gestured for me to check Leo’s door. I stepped to the corner of the hallway, and peeped around.
“Stay there,” Friedman said to me. “Keep looking.” And to Canelli he said, “What’s he doing now?”
“He seems to be walking around his office, I’d say.”
“He hasn’t touched the phone? Hasn’t dialed?”
“Not that I heard, Lieutenant. Of course, the recorder probably got more than I got, especially since we’re talking. Want me to play it back? I can—”
“No,” Friedman barked. “Don’t fool with the goddamn recorder.”
“Well, jeeze, Lieutenant—” Canelli’s voice trailed off into reproachful silence. His feelings were hurt.
Friedman sighed. “Sorry, Canelli. I—”
“Hey. He’s doing it now. Dialing.”
“All right—” Relieved, Friedman exhaled. “Just make sure the recorder’s getting the clicks. That’s the whole purpose of this.”
“Yessir.”
It seemed as if interminable minutes passed, but I knew less than thirty seconds had elapsed before Canelli’s voice crackled:
“I got it, Lieutenant. But it isn’t much. All he said was, ‘Are you ready?’ Then, after a second or so, he said, ‘I’m out of it now. It’s all up to you.’ Something like that. Then he hung up.”
We were already breaking for the elevator as Friedman spoke sharply to Canelli: “Play back the tape and get the clicks. Call the phone company and ask for Supervisor Diane Sobel. Tell her the number’s for me. Tell her we need the location in seconds, not minutes. Got it?”
As I pushed the elevator’s “down” button, I heard Canelli say, “Yessir. Got it.”
“What the hell’s keeping Canelli?” Friedman scanned the parking lot, then glanced at his watch. “Christ, it’s five minutes after ten.” He looked anxiously in the direction Canelli had gone searching for a phone.
“You want to go look for him?” I asked. “I’ll stay here until we get some support.”
“If the phone company’s diddling him for a warrant—” Frustrated, Friedman tapped the roof of his cruisier with a clenched fist.
“Listen,” I said, “you should be on your way to the airport, right now.”
“I’m not so sure,” he answered. “It might be better if I—”
Canelli came trotting around the corner of the massive brick building. Cheerfully smiling, he was waving his notebook at us.
“I got it,” he called. “Sorry it took so long.” He drew up in front of us, panting heavily and shaking his head. “Jeeze, I must be out of shape, or something.” As he gulped for breath, he handed his notebook to Friedman. “That’s it, Lieutenant. 501 McAllister. It’s a pay phone on the first floor. In the lobby.”
Friedman swore. “501 McAllister. That’s on the corner of Polk Street.” As he spoke, two black and white cars pulled into the parking lot, stopping bumper-to-bumper beside us. I nodded to the uniformed officers, gesturing for them to stay in their cars. Friedman was still earnestly swearing. He was, I knew, trying to make up his mind, struggling with a no-win decision. It was the only time he ever seriously swore. Finally he turned abruptly to me.
“I’d better go to the airport. That’s my best shot. If I can do anything, it’ll have to be on the scene — with the goddamn motorcade. I’ll give a direct order to our men, and screw the goddamn bureaucrats, if they haven’t made up their minds.” He opened the door of his car.
“All you’ve got to do is route Castro away from that building,” I said. “What’s the problem?”
He was already in the car, starting the engine.
“The problem,” he said, “Is that I think 501 McAllister is across the Civic Center Plaza from the City Hall steps, in easy rifle range. That’s the problem. I can change the motorcade route, probably. I’ll catch some flack, but I can do it. But I don’t know whether I can do anything about changing what happens on the steps.” As he spoke, he thrust his hand into a pocket. “Here — take these.” He handed me a dozen small lapel badges. “That’s your security identification. They work for the FBI and the State Department security team.” He put his cruiser in gear. “You get down there, Frank. Collar the triggerman, and tell me when you’ve got him. I’ll be on channel twelve.”
Tires squealing, he pulled away.
“Park over there,” I ordered. “Around the corner, on Polk.” As I spoke, I checked the time: ten twenty-five.
Canelli started his turn, muttered when a woman in a bright orange Ford repeatedly blew her horn, and finally pulled to a stop in a loading zone. I reached for the microphone and got Halliday, in Communications.
“This is Inspectors Eleven,” I said. “We’re positioned at Polk and Golden Gate, on the northwest corner. Do you have our backup units under way?”
“That’s affirmative, sir. Three units. Six inspectors.”
“Give them our position. And tell them to hurry. Not code three. But hurry.”