Marc took a deep breath and came into the room. He had considered bringing flowers or a gift, then under the circumstances, settled only for the tape recorder and cassette.
“Before you say anything, Alex,” he said quietly. “There’s something I want all of you to hear.”
“What?” Alex demanded with heavy sarcasm. “More evidence from the Israelis?”
Marc ignored that, just plugged the tape recorder in and set it on the stand in front of Alex. “You’ll recognize Gerritt’s voice and also Derek’s. The third man is Andrew Hadlow. This tape was made last Friday night, approximately eight hours before you had your heart attack.”
Five minutes later, when Marc reached up and pushed the stop button, Ardith had gone white. Jackie was staring at him in horror. Marc turned to Alex and saw that he was deeply shaken too.
“Did you know this Monday when you talked to Derek and me?” Jackie’s voice was hollow and filled with loathing.
He nodded.
“Have you told the police?” Ardith whispered. Her fingernails were digging into the palms of her hands.
“The FBI. But the tape was gotten illegally by the Israelis. It cannot be used in court.”
Alex raised up weakly on one elbow. “Maybe the Israelis made the tape. They’d do anything to stop this sale from—”
“Right, Alex.” It was a gentle reproof. “And it was nice of you to have your heart attack to coincide with it.”
He fell back on the pillow. “All right, all right. But it still doesn’t change anything.”
That brought both Ardith and Jackie up sharply.
“We’ll deal with Gerritt when the time is right. But you are not to break off the deal, Marc. Do you understand me?” He clutched at Marc’s jacket. “You are not to break off the deal under any circumstances.”
“Alex!” Ardith was staring at him in wide-mouthed disbelief. “Quinn Gerritt tried to kill you.”
“No,” he said, breathing heavily. “No, he just tried to squeeze me out. And I won’t squeeze.” He turned back to Marc. “Don’t you see, Marc. This is exactly what the Israelis want.”
Marc took Alex’s hand and laid it back across his chest gently. “Alex, listen. I’ve talked to the Saudis. They won’t automatically cut us off if we break with Gerritt. They’re willing to listen. I can put another deal together without Gerritt.”
“No! You’ll lose everything if you start tampering with things at this point.”
“That’s right, Alex,” Marc said with soft bitterness. “The deal is everything, isn’t it. Hang the principles. Stuff the ideals. Just keep the deal together.”
“Yes!” He had tried to shout it, but it had come out weakly, pathetically impotent.
Ardith stepped to his side quickly, shooting Marc a warning glance. Marc touched her arm. “Ardith, I didn’t want to go through this until he was stronger, but now that he knows, it’s got to be resolved.” He turned back to Alex. “You know I’ll try everything I can to make it work. But I will not work with Quinn Gerritt.”
“You fanatic!” Alex cried hoarsely. “Don’t try to jam your lofty ideals down my throat! Just do what I say!”
Jackie’s sharp intake of breath behind him registered only peripherally in Marc’s mind, as did Ardith, who was trying in alarm to calm her husband. The only thing that was vivid in Marc’s perception was Alex, lying on the pillow, breathing in quick, shallow breaths, eyes burning into Marc’s flesh like pokers drawn from a fire.
“You really mean that?”
“This is my deal. Don’t you mess with it!”
When Marc spoke it was with a deep calm and soft sadness. “Alex, you once told me that my commitment to values was what you admired most about me. Now that commitment has become inconvenient for you, and you want me to change. Well, fanatic or not, I am what I am. If you don’t like it, then take me out. Because if you leave me in, you take me as I am.”
The door burst open, and a nurse rushed in. “What’s going on in here?” She darted to Alex’s side where Ardith was stroking his face, trying to soothe him.
Marc glanced at Jackie. Tears were streaming down her face. “I’m sorry,” she said in an agonized whisper, “I shouldn’t have told him.”
“He had to know sooner or later,” he said simply. He laid his hand briefly on Ardith’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ardith.” And he turned and walked to the door.
“Marc?”
It was a hoarse whisper, but it jerked Marc around like a rifle shot. Alex had turned his head, one hand raised in supplication, and Marc stepped back quickly and gripped it.
“I’m sorry, Alex. I didn’t want to make you go through this now.”
There was an attempt to shake his head, but it failed. He took a breath, then another, then his eyes raised to meet Marc’s. “I want you in,” he whispered. “As you are.”
“Please!” the nurse exclaimed. “He must be left alone now.” She put one hand on Marc’s arm and started to turn him away, very firmly, but Alex held Marc’s with a sudden fierce determination.
“Will you stay?” Alex whispered.
Marc grasped the trembling hand with both of his, looked deep into the haggard eyes, then finally nodded. “Yes, Alex. I’ll stay.”
Willard, Utah, is a small farming community in northern Utah, known for its fruit orchards and nearby Willard Bay on the Great Salt Lake. Since Interstate Fifteen was completed several years ago, the old highway that ran through the town had lost ninety percent of its traffic.
It was on the same morning Marc was visiting Alex that two men left the bank in Willard and drove along the old highway to the nearest phone booth. Both were in their early thirties, dressed in suits and ties and neatly groomed. That, coupled with their badges and I.D. cards, made it easy for the people of Willard to accept them for what they claimed to be, two special investigative detectives from the Los Angeles Police Department.
The shorter of the two dialed a number and waited for several seconds while the private phone in Andrew Hadlow’s office rang. Hadlow himself answered.
“Mr. Hadlow?”
“Yes.” There was no need for further identification. Hadlow recognized the voice instantly.
“We’ve come up short here.”
“Nothing?”
“No. There’s no question that Jeppson brought them here. His car is in the garage. A couple of the neighbors saw him drive up with the women and the boys. They left a few minutes later in his parents’ van. From there they just disappear. They left a note for one son to take care of the dog and the yard, but he has no idea where they are.”
For one moment Hadlow nearly pushed them on that. Maybe the son or some of the neighbors were lying, but then he shook his head. These men were the best, and they would have known.
“We even checked the bank for cancelled checks or some kind of clue, but there’s nothing. Maybe in time…” He left it hanging, making it clear how much chance he thought there was of that.
“No.” Hadlow’s mind was racing. They had underestimated Jeppson’s ingenuity. The Taggarts had also disappeared without a trace, and time was running out. “How soon can you get back?”
“We can be back to the airport in an hour. We’ll take the first flight.”
“Okay, but not to L. A. Go to the house in San Diego. Wait there.”
“Yes, sir. We should be there by late afternoon or tonight.”
“Good. We’ll have need of you by then.”
He hung up the phone and stared out the window onto the towering buildings of downtown Los Angeles. His fingers drummed silently on his desk; the dark eyes were sulfurous. Then he made up his mind, grabbed his briefcase, and walked out to his secretary.
“Call Mr. Gerritt, please. Tell him I’m on my way over to see him.”
“But they’ve got to be somewhere!” Gerritt blurted. “They can’t have just disappeared.”
“Of course they’re somewhere!” Hadlow snapped, deeply irritated by Gerritt’s growing intransigence. �
��If we had another week or two, my men would find out where. But we don’t. Jeppson leaves tomorrow for Saudi Arabia. If he makes that trip, you’re out.” His voice dropped to a soft menace, like the soft snick of a pistol’s breech being pulled into place. “And if you’re out, Mr. Gerritt, you have real trouble.”
Gerritt paled. “Then what do we do?”
Hadlow came to the desk, took a pad, and wrote quickly. “Here’s an address in San Diego. I want you to bring Jeppson there tonight.”
“San Diego? How do I get him there?”
Hadlow just watched him steadily. Gerritt swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay, then what?”
“You just get him there.”
Marc hung up the phone and turned to look at Jackie and Lynn Braithwaite, sitting in front of him in his office at Barclay Enterprises. “Surprise. Gerritt wants me to meet him in San Diego.”
Jackie’s eyes widened. One of Braithwaite’s men had already called to appraise them of the conversation between Hadlow and Gerritt taped moments before in Gerritt’s office.
“You played it just right,” Braithwaite praised him. “If you had given in too easily, they might have suspected something.”
“Marc,” Jackie said, “I don’t think you ought to do this. What if something goes wrong?”
He gave her a wan smile. “That’s it. Fire me with enthusiasm before I hit the beach.”
“I mean it!” she cried. “They plan to kill you!”
“Which means all that money I spent on that assertive leadership course was for nothing.”
Braithwaite sighed. “She’s right, Marc. Even I’m starting to have second thoughts.”
“Come on, Lynn!” Marc exclaimed. “Don’t you start! I’m already scared spitless. I’m counting on you and your people to make sure this whole thing comes off.”
Braithwaite merely nodded, thinking of how many things could go wrong in an operation like this. When he spoke, it was with more confidence than he felt. “We’re just going to have to make sure we leave nothing to chance.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Marc paused for a moment before the hotel door, keenly aware of the dryness in his throat, took a deep breath, then rapped on the door. Gerritt answered almost immediately.
“Ah, Marc. Thank you for coming. Let me get my jacket.” He stepped back into the room, then reappeared, putting on a suit coat. He shut the door and steered Marc down the hall.
“Did you drive down?”
“No, I came down on the company plane. I’m anxious to get back as soon as possible. I leave first thing in the morning.”
“I have my car.” He put his hand on Marc’s arm. “I know this is a terrible time to ask you to break away, what with your trip overseas tomorrow, but I think you’ll find it worth the time. If it proves to be as good as it sounds, you should know that before you see the Saudis.”
“And who are these men again?”
“General Dynamics, aircraft division. They’re biggies.”
“So they know about the VSM-430?”
He punched the elevator button, then shrugged. “Word’s out all over the place. But if they can combine their system with ours, we could really have something.”
Marc nodded, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart. “Well, let’s hope they can. Where is it we’re going?”
“They have a house out by Mission Bay. It’s not far.”
It had rained earlier in the evening, and the walks were still damp. A heavy gray mist had moved in from the ocean and left little rainbow halos around the street lamps. As they got out of the car and walked to the door of the home in the Mission Bay area, Marc had to fight the temptation to peer out into the night for some sign of Lynn Braithwaite and his men.
This must be what weightlessness feels like, he thought. A curious lightheadedness, perpetual queasiness in the pit of the stomach, surrealistic detachment from reality. He was vaguely aware that Gerritt had made some comment to him, and forced himself to smile and nod, hoping it was an appropriate response.
A pleasant-looking man in a business suit opened the door and smiled briefly. “Mr. Gerritt?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Mr. Hadlow said you would have some form of identification from him.”
“Yes.” Gerritt already had it out and handed it to the man.
He looked at it carefully, grunted in satisfaction, then stepped back. “Come in.”
Marc felt a sudden prickling sensation as they walked into the entryway. “This is Marc Jeppson, president of Barclay Enterprises.”
Marc smiled grimly to himself. Gerritt’s last official act had been to promote him from acting president to the full title.
The man grunted and ushered them into the living room where a second man of approximately the same age stood near the couch. His suit jacket was off, and he wore a shoulder holster. A thirty-eight Smith and Wesson hung heavily beneath his armpit.
Marc stopped short at the sight of it, but the man behind him was instantly at his back, and there was a jab of steel against the base of his neck, so sharp it made him gasp.
“Come in, Mr. Jeppson.”
“What!” Marc blurted. “What is this? Who are you?”
The other man grabbed his coat from the couch and put it on. He took out the pistol, then got a short stubby cylindrical object from his pocket. He began to screw the silencer onto the barrel, all the time his eyes never leaving Marc’s face.
“All right,” the first man said. “We’re going out the back. I suggest that resistance would be very foolish, Mr. Jeppson. Gerritt, you lead the way.”
Gerritt blanched. “Me! I’m not going.”
The second man nodded. “Hadlow said you’re to see it all the way through so you’re up to your neck in this as much as he is.”
“I’ve got to get back,” he stammered, “I can’t—”
The man behind Marc fixed Gerritt with a hard stare. Gerritt swallowed hard, then nodded. “All right.”
Marc swung his head around. There was no need to fake the fright. The hard pressure of the steel was an effective prompter. “Gerritt?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Move!” the man behind him said, giving him a shove. Gerritt didn’t look at Marc, just stumbled out ahead of him in his own daze of confusion.
There was a dark maroon Ford LTD in the garage in the alley. Gerritt and the man with the silencer got in the front. Marc was shoved in the back, the pressure against his neck never lightening for a moment. As they drove out and onto the street, Marc risked a glance out the side window. Come on, Braithwaite, he urged fervently. Don’t lose me now.
They stayed to the back streets, and the traffic was light until they turned onto the main street leading to Interstate Five.
The driver looked up at the rearview mirror for the fifth or sixth time in a minute. “We’re being followed.”
Marc’s heart plummeted as both Gerritt and the man at his side whirled to peer out the back window.
“It’s a blue Chevy sedan, about eight cars back, and he’s been with us since the house.”
The man next to him swore softly. “You’re sure?”
The driver nodded.
“It could be Israelis,” Gerritt said. “They’ve been following him trying to stop this deal we’re working on.”
“I don’t care who it is,” Marc’s companion answered bluntly. “Get rid of them.”
Again the driver just nodded, concentrating on his driving.
When they stopped at a red light just west of the freeway, Marc considered jumping out for one wild moment but fought it down. The one thing you’ve got to fight is panic, Braithwaite had said in his final instructions. You’re going to be in a tense, risky situation. Just keep your head.
They turned south on 1-5 and drove steadily for almost ten minutes. They passed downtown San Diego, then entered National City. Signs were indicating they were headed for Tijuana, and there was a sudden clutch in Marc’s chest. Could the FBI cross the border and follow them
into Mexico?
But they didn’t go that far. The driver kept the Ford at an even speed until they reached Chula Vista, then took the E Street exit and turned east. Once again they went off the main thoroughfare and into quiet residential streets.
“All right, hang on.” The driver hunched lower in the seat, and the others tensed. He came to an intersection, signaled for a right turn, and took it slowly. Marc caught a quick glimpse of some headlights about two blocks behind. But the instant they were around the corner and out of sight, the driver jammed the accelerator to the floor. The car shot forward, engine howling. They covered that block and half of the next in a matter of seconds, then were slammed forward as he hit the brakes. The tires screamed in protest as he laid the car into a hard slide, then shot into a narrow alleyway that ran through the center of the block.
The headlights went off instantly, and the speed dropped to a sedate twenty miles an hour. But it was enough. Marc jerked around along with his guard and peered back down the alley the way they came. There were no street lights here, and with the heavy overcast and mist, the darkness was total. A moment later, a pair of headlights flashed by, and they could hear the howl of an engine under hard acceleration. It was at that moment Marc Jeppson’s last flicker of hope was blown out.
“All right,” the man next to him growled to the driver. “Let’s head for the reservoir.”
“Out!” his captor commanded, giving him a hard shove with the muzzle of the pistol.
Marc stumbled out of the car, the man hard on his heels. In the nearly total darkness, Marc saw the faint gleam of water and heard the soft sounds of waves lapping at the shore. Crickets and night birds could be heard in the distance.
“Just stand there by the car, Mr. Gerritt,” Marc heard the driver say as the other two car doors opened and shut.
The driver walked around to face him, the pistol and silencer in his hand. He raised it until it was pointing at Marc’s chest. At that point the pistol held against the back of his neck was removed. The man behind him jerked his arms behind his back, and there was the sudden burn of rope against his wrists. Then he was led roughly to the edge of a sharp incline. He could hear the soft lapping of water below.
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