Yocke lost his temper. “Okay, go ahead and snicker like a retarded hyena. I’m telling you we’ve got a rattlesnake in our pocket and the pocket is cloth. Dammit, Aldana scared the hell out of me!”
“He scared the hell out of me too,” Ott admitted.
The telephone rang. Yocke reached for it without looking.
It was his editor. “Jack, the feds just closed a savings and loan over in Maryland. Please go up there and interview everyone you can lay hands on. Try to find some depositors this time.”
“You want some brain surgeon who’ll miss his ski Christmas in Aspen?”
“I was hoping that with some diligent effort you might find some little old white-haired lady who’s got five bucks in her purse and no access to her checking account.”
“What’s the name of this place?”
“Second Potomac Savings and Loan.”
Where had he heard that name before? Yocke asked himself as he pocketed his notebook and checked his pocket pencil supply. Oh yes, that Harrington guy who was killed on the beltway — he’d worked there, hadn’t he?
The wind made the bare tree limbs wave somberly back and forth under the gray sky. Sitting under an ancient oak just inside the tree line, Henry Charon listened intently to the gentle rattling and tapping as the limbs high above him softly impacted those of other trees. The noise of traffic speeding by on the interstate eighty yards away muffled all the lesser forest noises, the rustle of the leaves, the sound of a chipmunk searching the leaf carpet for its dinner, the chirping of the birds.
The hunter tried to ignore the drone of the cars and trucks. He paid close attention to the gusts and swirls of the wind, subconsciously calculating the direction and velocity.
The rest area in front of him was almost empty. At the far end sat a ten-year-old pickup with Pennsylvania plates and sporting a camper on the back. The driver was apparently asleep inside. Closer, facing the highway, sat the rental car that Charon had driven to this rest stop halfway between Baltimore and Philadelphia. He had rented it using one of his fake driver’s licenses and a real Visa card in that name.
A station wagon chock-full of kids and pillows and suitcases came off the highway and pulled to a stop in front of the rest rooms. Youngsters piled out and ran for the little brick building. New Jersey tags. Three minutes later the station wagon accelerated past the pickup toward the on-ramp.
Henry Charon adjusted the collar and fastened the top button on his coat. The wind had a chill to it, no doubt due to its moisture content. Yet it didn’t smell of snow.
What if snow came while he were still in Washington? How would that affect his plans?
Charon was still considering it when another car came off the interstate and proceeded slowly through the parking area. One man at the wheel. Tassone. He drove slowly through the lot, looked over the rental car, and braked to a stop beside the pickup. After a moment Tassone’s car, a sedan, backed the hundred feet to the rest room building, where he turned off the ignition and got out.
Tassone glanced around as he walked toward the rest rooms. In a few moments he came out and strolled over to where Charon was sitting.
“Hey.” Tassone lowered himself to the ground and leaned back against a tree trunk six feet or so from Charon. “How’s everything?”
“Fine,” Charon said.
“Gonna snow,” Tassone said as he pulled his coat collar higher and jabbed his hands into his pockets.
“I doubt it.”
Tassone wiggled around, trying to find a soft spot for his bottom. “Wanta sit in the car?”
“This is fine.”
“What d’ya think about the job?”
“You’ll have to make a list.”
Tassone fumbled inside his coat for a pencil. From an inside jacket pocket he produced a small spiral notepad. “Shoot.”
Charon began to recite. He had not committed the items to paper since the possession of such a list would inevitably be incriminating. Tassone could write it down in his own handwriting and take the risk of the list being discovered on his person. Charon could still deny everything.
It took five minutes for Tassone to list all the items. Charon had him read the list back, then gave him two more items, with careful descriptions.
Tassone looked over the list carefully and asked a few questions, then stored the notebook in his pocket.
“So it’s feasible?” he asked the hunter.
“It can be done.”
“When?”
“When could you deliver everything on the list?”
“Take about a week, I think. Some of these things will take some work and some serious money. I’ll call you.”
“No, I’ll call you. A week from today, at precisely this time.” Both men glanced at their watches.
“Okay.”
“No names.”
“Of course. You’ll do it then?”
“How many people know about me, counting yourself as one?”
“Two.”
“Only two?”
“That’s right.”
Something was stirring in the leaves behind them. Henry Charon came erect in one easy motion and, with a tree for cover, stood looking carefully in that direction. Then he saw it, a flash of brown. A red squirrel.
“Ten million, cash, in advance.”
Tassone whistled. “I—”
“That’s for the first name on your list. One million for each of the others, if and when. No guarantees on any of them. You pay a million for each one I get. Take it or leave it.”
“You want the bread sent to Switzerland or what?”
“Cash. In my hands. Used twenties and fifties. No sequential numbers.”
“Okay.”
“You have the authority to make this commitment?”
Now Tassone stood. “You ain’t going to pop anybody until you get paid, are you?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m telling you you’ll get paid. How long before you get started?”
“A week or ten days after I get the stuff on that list. Two or three weeks would be better.”
“Better for you. Not for me. We want you started as soon as possible.”
“Let’s see how you do getting the equipment I requested.”
“Okay,” said Tassone, and dusted off his trousers. “Okay. I’ll call you in a week.”
When Jake Grafton returned to his office in the Pentagon, there was a message waiting. The chairman wanted to see him. He called the chairman’s office and reached an aide. They agreed he could probably get in to see the general in fifteen minutes or so.
This would be only the fourth occasion on which Jake had met General Hayden Land. For most of the thousand officers on the Joint Staff, a meeting with the senior officer in the American military, even with all the Joint Chiefs present, was a rare occurrence. As he walked out of the office this morning the other six officers in the antidrug section appeared and formed a line of sideboys at the door that Jake would have to walk through. They did some pushing and shoving, then came to rigid attention and saluted with mighty flourishes as Jake walked between the rows.
“You guys!”
The other naval officer in the antidrug section whistled, imitating a boatswain’s pipe.
“Carry on,” said Jake Grafton with a wide grin and headed for the corridor.
Grafton was the senior officer in the group, which spent its time doing the staff work required to allow the Joint Chiefs to make informed decisions about military cooperation with antidrug law-enforcement efforts. When Jake reported to the Joint Staff a year ago he came to this billet for the simple reason that the O-6 who held it was completing his tour and leaving. Grafton had no special training for the job — indeed, he spent the first two months simply trying to understand what it was the military was doing to assist the various law-enforcement agencies — but no matter. Learning on the job went with the uniform. And this past year the job had grown by leaps and bounds as an increasingly alarmed public demanded every federal resource be harnessed to combat the narco-terrorists, and the reluctant Joint Chiefs had finally turned to face the pressure. So Jake Grafton had been busy.