by Ross Thomas
“Shall we talk about money first?” Dymec asked.
“You talk about money with Padillo,” I said.
Dymec nodded. “Very well.”
“I have a map here of Washington,” Boggs said. “Are you familiar with the city?” He spread the map on the desk.
“With the northwest section and Capitol Hill,” Dymec said.
“Good. On Tuesday we are to be given an official tour. We start at the State Department, go up to the Washington Monument, then to the Jefferson Memorial, then to the Capitol, down Independence past the Rayburn Building, and we turn left on Seventh Street—this street, isn’t it? but farther up—and down to Constitution Avenue. We continue up Constitution Avenue and follow it to Seventeenth where we turn north toward Pennsylvania Avenue. At Eighteenth and Pennsylvania—just across the street from the USIA—we turn up north on Eighteenth and proceed to Connecticut Avenue and Dupont Circle.” He paused and looked at Dymec.
“We must never make that turn up Eighteenth.”
Dymec nodded. “It’s to take place here then,” and he jabbed a forefinger at the block between Seventeenth and Eighteenth on Pennsylvania.”
“Yes.”
“What time of day will it be?”
“The tour starts at two from the State Department. We should be here between two-forty-five and three.”
“How many cars will there be in the tour?”
“Four.”
“Your man will be in an open car?”
“We have specified that.”
“If it rains?”
“We have the long-range forecast. It says that it won’t.”
“If it does?” Dymec asked again.
Boggs shrugged. “It’s off.”
“How much security will there be?”
“The minimum.”
“How much is that? Do you know?”
“There will be four motorcycle riders. Two in front; two in the rear.”
“Have there been any threats on his life? Anything that would cause them to add security personnel?”
“None that they have revealed to us. Your countrymen, McCorkle, are seemingly indifferent to what happens in Africa.”
“Most of them don’t care about what happens here, as long as it happens in the next block.”
“This building on the northeast corner of Eighteenth and Pennsylvania. It’s the Roger Smith Hotel,” Dymec said.
“Right.”
“Why choose it?”
“Because of the roof garden. It’s deserted this time of year. You won’t need to reserve a room.”
“I’ll have to take a look at it.”
“Of course.”
“Where will your man be seated?” Dymec asked.
“There will be three in the back. He will be in the center.”
“Who will be driving?”
“My colleague.”
“He will go slowly?”
“He’ll probably go around the block if you miss the first time,” I said.
Boggs didn’t find that amusing; neither did Dymec. He was all business.
Boggs had another question: “What kind of weapon do you plan to use?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“My Prime Minister has expressed a preference.”
“What is it?”
“He prefers not to be shot with a gun of English manufacture.”
SIXTEEN
When Boggs was at the door he turned to me and said: “I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow.”
“All right.”
“You’ll continue with the planning?”
“Yes.”
“There must be no mistakes.”
“We can’t control the weather.”
He nodded slightly. “True. But if you’re a religious man, you should pray. If not, you should hope very hard.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He looked at Dymec and the Pole stared back at him with his expressionless slate-colored eyes.
“We may not meet again.”
Dymec just nodded; he said nothing.
“Your reputation is encouraging. I advise you to do nothing to diminish it.”
“I know my job,” Dymec said. “If the other arrangements are properly made, my performance will be satisfactory.”
Boggs looked as if he wanted to say something else, but changed his mind, and opened the door. “Good night,” he said and left.
I waited until I could no longer hear his footsteps on the stairs.
“What kind of rifle do you want?” I asked.
Dymec shrugged. “Since I won’t be using it, anything will do.”
“Suppose you were going to use it, what would you want?”
“A Winchester Model 70, the target rifle with a 4X scope and two rounds of .30-06.”
“You need two rounds?”
“No. I only need one. But there’s always the chance of a misfire.”
“We’ll try to find it, but you may have to settle for something less sporting.”
Dymec yawned and stretched. He seemed bored by the whole thing. “How far will this farce be carried?”
“As far as necessary.”
“Have you learned where they’re holding your wife?”
“No.”
“It would seem to me that your entire scheme depends on that. If you don’t find her, you may wish me to carry out the actual assignment. I’ll be glad to, of course, but it will cost you a little more.”
“We hope to avoid that.”
He yawned again. He was either bored or it was far past his bedtime. “Of course. But if you do change your mind, I’ll cooperate—for a slight additional fee.”
“To satisfy an idle curiosity, just what do you consider a slight additional fee?”
“In the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars.”
“That’s a high-class neighborhood.”
“There would be no shares to the other two, either.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I told him. “When do you plan to look the hotel over?”
“Tomorrow. Early tomorrow morning I think would be best. It should be quiet then.”
“We’ll meet with Padillo tomorrow.”
“He knows how to reach me.”
He stood up and moved towards the door. “Your friend from Africa seemed a bit edgy.”
“I suppose he doesn’t do this every day.”
“Probably not.” He yawned once more, but this time he remembered to cover it with his hand. “Well, good night.”
“Good night,” I said. “Pleasant dreams.”
Dymec left and I listened to his footsteps clatter down the stairs. I got up and walked over to the window and peeked out around the edge of the shade. A dark blue or black car was parked across the street and down some seventy-five feet. It turned on its lights as Dymec came out of the building. He looked up at the window, then hurried across the street and got into the car. It started up and sped by the window. I didn’t get the license number. There was really no need. Boggs was the driver. I assumed Dymec was no longer yawning.
I crossed over to the desk and dialed Padillo’s number. There was no answer. I turned off the lights, made sure the door was locked, and walked down the stairs. I looked for a cab, but there was none. A man shuffled out of the shadows and touched me on the arm.
“Friend, I won’t lie to you,” he said. “I need a drink bad.”
“So do I,” I said, and gave him fifty cents and he God-blessed me and moved on down the street. There seemed to be a little more spring to his step. I wondered where he bought his drinks after the bars were closed. A cab came by and the driver looked me over carefully before he stopped.
“Can’t be too careful down here,” he said. “You can get all sorts of loonies.”
He chattered away some more about the hardships of a cab driver’s life, but I didn’t listen. I was brooding about my own troubles. He let me out at my apartment building and I pretended not to notice the car with t
he two men that was parked across the street.
I got off the elevator and opened my door. Padillo and Sylvia Underhill were sitting on the couch. She looked a little flustered, but Padillo seemed calm enough as he wiped away the lipstick.
“I’ll knock next time,” I said and crossed over to the bar. When I had the drink I moved over to my favorite chair and sat down. “You kiddies have a good evening? Your chaperones are across the street.”
“The teeny-boppers on M Street seemed to enjoy themselves,” Padillo said. “How do we avoid them?”
“I keep raising the prices,” I said. “They think they’re being exploited.”
“How’d your session go?” he asked.
“Fine. Just fine,” I said. “Dymec’s crossing us. Boggs left first. Dymec stayed for five or ten minutes. When he left I peeked and saw him get into Boggs’s car.”
Padillo nodded. “I thought he would. The other question is whether Magda or Price will cross with him.”
“You expected him to go over?”
“Five minutes after I made him the proposition, he was on the phone.”
“With whom?”
“With whoever’s running him for the Poles and then with the Africans.”
“I thought you’d doubled him.”
Padillo smiled. “I did. But this is too good. He can’t pass it up. They’ll tell him to go ahead and get rid of the old man. The propaganda value to them is as much or more than it would be to Boggs and Darragh. He wouldn’t tell his Resident about me. He can’t or he’d expose his moonlighting for the U.S. He probably said that he was indirectly approached and wanted instructions. The information alone will keep them smiling in Warsaw for days. If it comes off, they’ll be even happier.”
“Sometimes,” I said, “not every day, of course, but sometimes you might just give me an idea of what you’re up to.”
“I did,” he said. “I told you to keep Dymec there for ten minutes or so after Boggs left. If you’d let them leave together, they’d have thought you were setting them up. This way it’s their own idea.”
“What if I hadn’t looked out the window?”
“I’d have been disappointed in you.”
“But it wouldn’t have mattered?”
“Not really. Of the three of them, I figured Dymec for the cross although Magda is also a likely candidate. He’ll probably swing her over to make sure we don’t get to Fredl.”
I put my drink down carefully on a coaster and lighted a cigarette. “So of the three people you brought in, two of them are going to cross us.”
“I told you we couldn’t do it alone. If I couldn’t have counted on at least one of them crossing, I wouldn’t have brought them in.”
“Perhaps you’d better tell him?” Sylvia said to Padillo.
He turned and smiled at her. “You think so?”
“Don’t bother,” I said. “It’s pleasant here in the dark.”
“They have a saying in my country,” she said. “When the lion is coming at you, you make a plan. We made one tonight.”
“I made it,” Padillo said. “Like most of my plans, it involves someone else’s neck being risked.”
“Whose?”
“Sylvia’s”
“For what purpose?”
“So we can find out where they’re keeping Fredl.”
“It’s a wonderful plan,” Sylvia said. Her face seemed to glow with excitement. With most of her lipstick on Padillo’s collar, she looked younger than twenty-one. She looked about fifteen.
“You conned her,” I said to him.
He nodded. “That’s right.”
“What does she have to do that might get her killed?” I turned to the girl. “Don’t let him kid you with that casual understated manner of his. If he says there may be slight danger, you can bet on the roof falling in. If he says you’ll risk your neck, it means that you’ll actually have to stick it into the noose, let them spring the trap, and hope somebody will catch you before you drop. He doesn’t have any safe plans. He thinks everyone carries the same rabbit’s foot he does.”
“I know,” she said softly. “But it’s a good plan.”
“It’s not that good,” Padillo said. “It’s just the only one we’ve got.”
“And it puts us on to Fredl?”
“It should.”
“All right,” I said. “Let’s hear it.”
“Sylvia goes to the trade mission and tells them that she knows all about the deal to kill Van Zandt.”
“And then they kill her. That’s not bad.”
“They won’t kill her.”
“They killed her father.”
“I’m not saying they’re not hard enough to kill her; they’re just not smart enough.”
“What if one of them has an inspiration?”
“That’s the chance she’ll take.”
“Right through the noose, kid. Just like I told you.”
“I know them,” she said. “I know what they are. But they won’t kill me while Van Zandt’s around.”
“He didn’t seem too particular about my wife.”
“But they wouldn’t do it at the trade mission,” she said. “They don’t butcher their pigs in their homes.”
“So they take you someplace else,” I said. “They take you to where they’re holding Fredl.”
“That’s it,” Padillo said.
“And we follow along in the Stingray with the top down.”
“Hardman.”
I ran a hand through my hair and felt how thin it was getting, but who wants fat hair? “I haven’t got anything better. When does it all happen?”
“Tuesday morning,” Padillo said.
“Hardman can’t do it alone.”
“No.”
“Who’ll be with him—Mush?”
“We’ll need Mush.”
“I want to meet whoever’s with Hardman.”
“So do I,” Padillo said.
“How many do you think he’ll need?”
“Three.”
“He can get them, but this is going to cost.”
“It’s my tab,” Padillo said. “If that’s important.”
“It isn’t.”
“Why Tuesday morning?”
“One, because they won’t have time to kill Sylvia. They’ll have to get rid of her and they’ll probably take her straight over to where Fredl’s being held and leave her. Two, because you’ll have to figure out some way to tip Fredl off the next time you talk to her.”
“I’ll think of something.”
Padillo got up and crossed over to the bar. “Scotch?”
“Fine.”
“Sylvia?”
“Nothing, thank you. Could I make some coffee?”
“It’s instant.”
“It was fine this afternoon.”
She went into the kitchen and ran some water into the kettle. Padillo crossed the room and handed me my drink.
“Can you think of anything better?” he asked in a low voice.
I shook my head no. “How much charm did you have to turn on?”
“She’s a nice kid. I don’t want anything to happen to her. Or to Fredl.”
“But there’s a damned good chance.”
“Yes.”
“What did you have in mind if she hadn’t turned up?”
He smiled, but there was nothing bright or warm in it. “Magda,” he said.
“The same thing?”
“Very similar, but with one difference.”
“What?”
“Magda would get killed.”
“I don’t think I need the details.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
Sylvia came in with her cup of coffee. She sat beside Padillo on the couch.
“If either of you think that you’re using me, I want you to forget it,” she said. “I’ve known these people all my life and I suppose I was brought up to hold them in contempt, but never to underestimate their viciousness. I’ve seen them do h
orrible things to people in my country—really shocking, awful things, and I’ve heard descriptions of worse.” She turned to Padillo and her eyes looked directly into his. “I may be naive about many things, about you in particular, but I am not naive about them. I know them and I know the risk I’m taking. I was sent here by people who are the last chance that my country has, to do what I could. This seems to be the best I can do and I plan to do it.”
“All right,” Padillo said. “We’ll go ahead. The first thing is to get in touch with Hardman. Where do you think he’d be?”
“God knows,” I said. “Let me try that Cadillac of his.” I picked up the phone and called the mobile operator and gave her the number. There were a few beeps and buzzes and then his voice came on.
“Hard-man here,” he said.
“This is McCorkle.”
“How you, baby?”
“Fine.”
“What you hear bout Fredl?”
“That’s why I called. Where are you?”
“Cruisin around on upper Fourteenth. You home?”
“Yes.”
“Want me to come over?”
“I think it would be a good idea.”
“Be there in fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“You alone?”
“Betty’s with me. Be okay? She’ll keep her mouth shut.”
“Okay.”
I hung up and turned to Padillo and Sylvia. “He’ll be here in fifteen or twenty minutes. He’s bringing Betty.”
Padillo nodded. “She probably knows all about it by now anyway.”
“Is there anybody in town who doesn’t?” I asked.
SEVENTEEN
Hardman was wearing a double-breasted camel’s hair coat and alligator shoes. When he took off the coat you could admire his dark green cashmere jacket, his fawn-colored slacks, and the yellow ascot that he wore at the throat of a pale green velour shirt. He was everything the well-dressed numbers man should be and I asked him how Trueblue Sue had done in the fourth at Shenandoah.
“Out of the money, baby, I’m sorry to say.”
I introduced Hardman and Betty to Sylvia Underhill. I took Betty’s mink and hung it up carefully, the way five thousand dollars should be hung up. Padillo mixed them a drink and they sat in two easy chairs. Betty was wearing some kind of black-and-white-striped bellbottomed lounging pajamas that either were going to be the rage that year, or the year after.
