Game Bet

by Forrest, Richard;

  “They’re going to kill him.”

  “He’s well guarded. People have been trying to kill the President for a long time. Most of the time they don’t succeed.”

  “That’s because most of the time they are single malcontents involved in a single irrational act. What’s involved here is a well-integrated and complex conspiracy.”

  “Even if you were able to get to him and warn him, what good would it do?”

  “It might make him aware of what’s happening. It would point out that he had to take extreme care in everything he did, and surround himself with trustworthy people.”

  “I don’t see how you’re going to do that even if you could talk to him.”

  “I have to, Gin. He’s got to be made aware of what’s going on and how dangerous the Committee is.”

  “Okay, then.” She shuffled through the notes and began to giggle. “Hey, you know. The answer’s simple. All you have to do is take the place of one of her professors. You can lecture to ol’ Liz.”

  “Sure.” Cory imitated a pompous professorial tone. “And now, class, your guest lecturer today is Cory Williams, would-be assassin. Will all Secret Service agents remain in their seats while we proceed with today’s lecture on the danger to the Republic?”

  “Can I have your autograph?”

  “As soon as they take off the handcuffs.”

  “We’re getting silly.”

  “Or punch drunk.”

  “Which class do you wish to teach, sir?”

  “Why not intermediate Russian, since I know less about that than anything else?”

  “Eight in the morning on Tuesdays and Thursdays at the College of Liberal Arts.”

  “Why not?” Cory began to mix a drink from the bottle on the dresser. He clunked ice from the refrigerator’s small freezer into a glass. His movements slowed and stopped. He slowly turned to look at Ginny. “That Russian course has a language lab.”

  “And a lecture on …”

  He waved his hand. “I’m not concerned with the lecture. You passed the room where the lab was held?”

  “I even peeked inside.”

  “It’s filled with little cubicles. There are soundproof boards on three sides of the cubicle?”

  “You’ve been there.”

  “I had a Spanish lab when I was in school. Everyone puts on earphones.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “The instructor sits at the far end of the room.”

  “In sort of a booth like the DJs have at a disco place. There’s a problem, Cory. The agent goes in there with her and sits next to her.”

  “In the next cubicle?”

  “Yep. And he can see over the top partition if he wants to. The guy that went in with her the other day was a big one. In fact, they’re all big. They don’t look like they have much of a sense of humor.”

  Cory enveloped her in his arms. “Gin, honey, I think we’ve got it.”

  She ran her hand over the nape of his neck. “Terrific. Tell me about it sometime.”

  They fell back on the bed. If the burns on her legs hurt, she didn’t notice.

  CHAPTER 19

  Cory lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The service revolver he had taken from Wilton James lay on the bed, inches from his fingers. His palms were moist with tension. Ginny had been gone for two hours. It was a rotten thing to ask her to do, but there was no other choice. It had to be this way.

  The phone rang, and he snatched it from the cradle before the completion of the ring.

  “Exactly what is tenure?” Ginny asked without preamble. There was a great deal of conversational hum in the background.

  “You’re supposed to be talking sex—not tenure, for God’s sake!”

  “That’s all he wants to talk about. You better give me a quick lesson if I’m going to appear anything but a dunce.”

  Cory explained. “After a probationary period at a school, a teacher is either offered tenure or not. If he isn’t, it’s time to move on and try another college.”

  “So what is it?”

  “It’s almost like a job guarantee that protects teachers from arbitrary dismissal.”

  “A union deal?”

  “Sort of. It’s rather important to a young teacher, particularly nowadays, when the country seems to grow Ph.D.s like mushrooms.”

  “Over and out,” she said, and the phone was dead in his hand. He hung up and lay back to wait.

  He felt like a pimp.

  Two hours later, a key clicked in the lock. Cory hurled himself from the bed, clutching the revolver, and stood against the wall by the side of the door.

  The door swung open and allowed a stream of hall light to make a path across the worn carpeting. They stepped into the room, and she elbowed the door closed.

  “Baby, you are something else again,” a beer-drunk voice rasped.

  “Uh huh,” she replied huskily.

  “I can’t unsnap this damn bra.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Ginny stepped away from the man near the door. Her hand brushed along the wall and flipped on the overhead light. The man was standing four feet from Cory and was looking directly into the barrel of the pistol pointed at his forehead.

  “This some kind of badger game?”

  “No.”

  “Listen, mister. I don’t know what’s with you two, but I picked her up at the Pirate Den. Hell, she picked me up. If she’s your old lady, sorry, I’ll leave.” Without waiting for an answer he reached for the door.

  “If you try to leave I will shoot you,” Cory said in a low voice.

  In a quick movement of contempt, the man reached into his pocket and flipped his wallet on the bed. “There it is. All right?”

  He was a tall, slender man of thirty. Cory liked his beard. It was a neat Vandyke, far different from his own bushy style, but his would trim out nicely.

  Without letting the gun waver from its position, Cory reached over to the wallet on the bed and flipped it open. He searched through the compartments until he found the university ID card that identified Thomas Alexander as a member of the foreign-language-department faculty.

  “Tie him up.”

  “If you two are into some kinky sex, I don’t want to play.”

  “Where are your keys?” Cory began to pat the man’s clothing. He found the key ring in a side pocket and twirled it around his finger. The man on the bed stared up at him with wide fearful eyes. “Which key fits the language lab?”

  “Is that why you got me here?”

  “Answer, please.”

  “I’m not going to tell you. I don’t know what in hell you’re up to, but I won’t be a part of it.”

  “I think you will.” Cory placed the barrel of the revolver against the man’s forehead. “You should know that I am quite serious.”

  Thomas Alexander’s eyes widened further. Beads of perspiration speckled his face. The room was very quiet. “Does this have something to do with the President’s daughter?”

  “Which key?” Cory insisted.

  “The long silver one.”

  Cary held out the indicated key. “This one?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll see. Now, at what time do you usually unlock the language room for the eight A.M. class?”

  “Different times.”

  “Everyone follows a pattern, Alexander. I want yours. You are going to teach one of the most important classes of your life, and I am your one and only pupil. We are going to go over it and over it until we’re both convinced that I have it down correctly. Shall we begin?”

  “If I don’t cooperate?”

  “Need I bother to answer that?”

  “I drank a lot of beer tonight,” Alexander said, “I wonder if I could …”

  Cory nodded, and Ginny began to loosen the ropes. Cory retreated across the room and stood holding the revolver ready. “I wouldn’t try anything.”

  Alexander looked at Cory’s tight face. “I don’t think I will.”

&nbs
p; The session continued until dawn. Cory asked for minute details about Alexander’s morning routine and the usual procedures in the language lab. When they had completed the routine he would go back and start at midpoint, constantly probing and repeating in order to pick up any inconsistencies in the teacher’s version of his routine.

  “You’re going to take my place?” Alexander said.

  “Yes. And if there are any foul-ups, my friend here—” he nodded to Ginny, “will kill you.”

  “And if it goes okay?”

  “We will release you unharmed.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “You’re going to have to trust us. Now let’s go over it again. What should I do if someone asks me for the proper pronunciation?”

  “Tell them you have laryngitis,” Ginny suggested.

  “That might work,” Alexander agreed.

  As time wore on, that special relationship between hostage and captors, guard and prisoner was born. By 3 A.M. Alexander was helpfully suggesting alternative actions for Cory and added details left out at the beginning of the evening. He had entered into a symbiotic relationship with Cory, and in the dim darkness of near dawn, seemed eager for the successful completion of the mission.

  They let him sleep at dawn. In exhaustion, Ginny curled up on the easy chair.

  “Now, remember,” Cory said to her. “Have him make the call to the university at ten-thirty, and not a second before. He must call in sick, but not before I’ve held that first class.”

  She nodded understanding as her eyes closed.

  Cory went into the bathroom and took razor and scissors from the medicine chest. He looked at their sleeping prisoner and paid close attention to the cut of the teacher’s beard. He would not pass for Thomas Alexander, their body frames and facial features were too different, but to a casual and distant observer there would be a certain similarity.

  He began to trim his beard into a neat Vandyke.

  Cory arrived at the liberal-arts building at 7:45. He wore a sport coat over a loose-fitting cotton shirt and chinos. Swinging the thin attaché case at his side, he walked resolutely to the language lab and slipped the key into the lock.

  The key fit and turned. Alexander had been truthful. Cory entered the cool room and closed the door. The instructor’s dais was a foot off the floor—a wooden platform. There was a console, turntable, microphone, and headphones on the desk. He sat down.

  The cubicles stretched before him. Each booth had a small number near the top of the partition that faced him. He glanced down at the console and ran his finger across the numbered switches.

  Cory turned to the record case and slipped the day’s assignment from its jacket. He held it by the edge and gently slipped it on the turntable.

  It was nearly time for class to begin.

  Ron Sawyer walked alongside Elizabeth Crescatt as they mounted the steps into the liberal-arts building. She seemed distant this morning. He knew she resented the agent’s constant presence but had finally accepted it as a necessary hindrance. As she once said to him, it played havoc with her sex life.

  He constantly swiveled his head from side to side as they passed by hurrying groups of sleepy students on their way to early class.

  At the beginning of the year there had been stares from the rest of the student body, but as the semester progressed the Secret Service agents had become accepted as only two more among the many hurrying to class.

  When they approached the door to the language lab, Ron was about to tell Rackman that he was taking corridor duty again, but then he glanced in the classroom.

  The man behind the console was obviously the instructor, but something about him ticked a nerve. Gone were thoughts of corridor duty. He was senior agent. It was his job. He followed Liz into the class and let her sit in cubicle twelve before he walked toward the teacher.

  The man behind the turntable looked up as he approached.

  “You the regular instructor?”

  “I’m subbing.”

  “You know who is in this class?”

  “You must be from the Secret Service.”

  “Right.” Ron quickly patted the man down. He was clean. He glanced down at the attaché case by the side of the desk. “May I look in that, please?”

  “Of course.” The instructor’s voice was raspy. Ron opened the thin case to reveal some paperback books and a few file folders. He quickly flipped through the case and then closed it. He nodded at the teacher and retreated across the room to take his place in a cubicle next to Liz.

  Something bothered him. It was a sense of danger he could not define.

  The last student into the lab closed the door and took her seat. The instructor stood up and pointed to his throat. “I can’t help you very much today, but any questions can be answered in Thursday’s session. Let us begin.”

  Cory set the turntable in motion. The record was now being broadcast to every student in the room. Sequestered in their soundproof cubicles, each student had earphones on and was studiously or in boredom listening to and repeating Russian phrases and sentences.

  In cubicle twelve Cory could see the top of Elizabeth Crescatt’s head, which was now enveloped under large earphones.

  He bent low over the microphone and switched the broadcast lever for cubicle twelve.

  “Miss Crescatt, it is very important that you listen to me. Your father’s life may depend on it. I am Cory Williams, and I want to tell you what happened to me and how it affects you.”

  There was no way for her to respond to him; however, it would be all too easy for her to push her chair back two feet, pluck the sleeve of the agent in the next booth, and point an accusing finger toward Cory.

  The agent, with drawn gun, would be at Cory’s side in seconds.

  Cory kept talking. He kept to the facts as to what had befallen him in the past weeks. He knew that in all probability he was merely amplifying what she had read in the newspapers and heard on television.

  She had to believe him. He could only hope from what he knew of this young woman—she was a slightly impetuous romantic, and very interested in her father’s well-being—that she would let her natural curiosity in Cory’s story reach her.

  He talked and watched her head over the partition. She rarely moved. She was listening intently.

  He continued. He told her of the last conversation with Norm Lewis and the few bits of information he had concerning the Committee of One Thousand.

  “I have reason to believe that the Vice-President may be a part of or a dupe of this organization.”

  He saw her head nod in agreement.

  “I do not know who can be trusted. Although their membership is not large, it is obviously extensive. I must see your father.”

  She sat erect. Her eyes looked over the top edge of the partition.

  “Can you help me arrange a meeting?” he asked.

  She slowly took off her earphones. Her eyes were very blue. Liz Crescatt pushed her chair back.

  Cory’s abdominal muscles tensed. All she had to do was to turn to her right, toward the Secret Service agent at her side.

  She stood and started around the perimeter of the classroom toward where he sat.

  Ron Sawyer looked up with interest as Liz walked to the front of the class. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Cory. He automatically flipped open the single button of his sport coat. His fingers flexed. It would be an easy shot. He would brace the revolver along the edge of the partition. The target was only twenty feet away and was a large man with a wide expanse of chest.

  What in hell was the crazy broad doing now?

  Cory stepped down from the low platform as Liz Crescatt approached him. Her head was cocked slightly to one side as she watched him closely. He leaned forward and she whispered in his ear.

  “You’re taking a terrible risk doing this.”

  “I had to. Can you arrange a meeting?”

  “I must think about it.”

  “There’s little time.”

/>   “I have to think.”

  “I will be outside your apartment at seven-thirty tomorrow morning.”

  “I will give you my answer then.”

  She returned to her cubicle. Ron Sawyer relaxed when she sat down.

  Cory felt a thin line of perspiration stream from his armpits and course down his body. His hands shook.

  The triumvirate of purple-rinsed old women pensioners loaned their small dogs to Cory once again. He had grown actively to dislike the pampered beasts. They seemed to bark excessively, a characteristic which increased in direct proportion to their lack of bulk. The Pekingese was the worst.

  He glanced at an outdoor clock far up the avenue that flashed the time in minute intervals. It was nearly time. He began to walk slowly down the street toward Elizabeth Crescatt’s apartment.

  He arrived at 7:28 and led the animals to a small tree that had somehow managed to survive numerous indignities by thousands of dogs. He slouched against the thin tree while the animals continued their interminable sniffing.

  The brownstone’s door opened as Liz Crescatt hurried down the steps in front of the ever-present Secret Service agent. She quickly ran to Cory and threw her arms around him.

  “Good morning, darling.”

  He managed to mumble a forlorn, “Hi,” and fought for control of the three dogs.

  And then she was gone. The agent caught up with her and whisked her into the rear of a limousine. The car immediately left the curb and turned into the Heavy morning traffic.

  Cory turned back to the hotel. The recalcitrant dogs tumbled after him as he pulled their leashes. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of their brief encounter. He dispensed the animals to their owners and returned to their room, where a trussed Thomas Alexander glared at him.

  “Well?” Ginny asked from the window sill, where she sat with a cup of coffee in one hand and the pistol in the other. “At least she didn’t turn you in.”

  “No, but not much else either.” He slouched against the wall and jammed his hands in his pockets. He felt a crumpled wad of paper in his right pocket and slowly withdrew it. As he unraveled the paper he wondered if the President’s daughter was passing on her used chewing gum. He read the short message: